Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

"Art?" Tommie made the word sound like some arcane turn of law Latin. "Portraits, landscapes, miniatures. That sort of thing?"

"Those all qualify," Lucien said, schooling himself to patience. He'd asked to meet Tommie in the man's own sitting room, a small space, but tidy, comfortable, and, above all, private . "I tended to buy what caught my eye, so if an epergne struck me as particularly graceful or a collection of fans impressed me, I picked those up too."

"Fine art and decorative art, both?" Tommie poured himself a second cup of tea, the tray apparently sparing him the need to appear at breakfast.

Lucien wandered the room, looking for clues to the occupant's personality out of habit. "Yes, both. A few snuffboxes and the occasional ornate watch made it into the trunks. Some ivory carvings, candlesticks, standishes, a fair amount of jewelry, though I avoided the finest gemstones."

Tommie sipped placidly. "You indulged your aesthetic whims."

Offered as a theory, rather than an accusation. "I did. Beauty was a comfort at the time. "

"Beauty is always a comfort. I'm not in love with Penelope, by the by, lovely though she may be."

Lucien left off studying the titles on Tommie's bookshelf. "I beg your pardon?"

"She's not in love with me either, though she does enjoy ordering me about. I indulge her because heaven knows the woman gets ordered about enough herself. Then too, Penelope's orders are never foolish."

For an impecunious fribble, Tommie had an impressive collection of poetry. "What are you going on about, Thomas?"

"Penelope is fond of me, and I am very fond of her, but only as cousins, or what passes for cousins at Lynnfield. I'm not... You don't have to send me to Town to clear the field of competition."

Lucien chose a volume at random and opened it to the middle. Years of practice kept his tone merely curious when he was in truth utterly flummoxed. "Clear the field?"

"Do have a seat, my lord, and you might ask permission before you handle a fellow's personal effects." Tommie plucked the volume from Lucien's grasp without rising. "An example of my earliest efforts. One appreciates the hard work it embodies, though the results want polish."

Lucien sank into the second wing chair. "You are a published poet?"

Tommie tucked the volume aside, beyond Lucien's reach. "The satirical verse pays more. The crown is cracking down on the best of the political cartoonists, locking them up to hold without charges, that sort of thing. Any illiterate drudge can grasp the humor in an image. Satirical poetry is the safer expression of the same notions. Not as likely to inflame the masses."

Lucien would not have been surprised to see purple parakeets flying out of the wardrobe. "You write political satire?"

Tommie's ears turned a hot pink. "In verse, which makes it poetry. I have written other metrical compositions, all bucolic and symbolic. I'm not from the Lake District, but I can appreciate the countryside as well as the next ruralizing gent."

Lucien took down another volume from the shelf behind him. "Thomas Lynn?" Not exactly subtle, but still a pseudonym.

"Malcolm is my editor. I grew up speaking both English and Welsh, but Malcolm came to his English cicio and melltithio . His eye for the details of English, spelling, and punctuation is faultless."

Kicking and cursing. "Have you ever heard Malcolm speak?"

Tommie's blush was fading, leaving a pleasant if unremarkable countenance in its wake. "Our Malcolm talks in his sleep. English, French, Welsh. Sings in his sleep, too—the old psalms. The first time I heard him, I thought Lynnfield was haunted. Theo swore me to secrecy, but I think it's one of those secrets everybody knows."

Everybody except me. The sensation was old and familiar. "His secret is safe with me. Malcolm himself might be unaware of it." And Lucien didn't like holding even so harmless a confidence. "If you are a poet, perhaps you might enjoy taking on my art gallery."

"You have—own—a gallery?"

"I think the polite term is ‘sponsor,' and yes. I have also commissioned His Grace of Huntleigh to send me inventory from Italy—I own a number of his smaller pieces—and I have contacts in the German states and France who also provide me stock."

Tommie took an inordinate time to select a cherry tart from the offerings on the tray. "A marquess in trade isn't quite the done thing, Lucien. I hope you know that?" A gentle, even kind question. "Granted, you are the mysterious marquess now, gone for years, popping up unexpectedly, and all the hostesses are saying they knew the instant you returned to London. How droll that you passed incognito as your ducal friend's butler, but still. One can overdo the aristocratic eccentricity."

Lucien was dimly aware that Tommie was being protective of him. Avuncular, though Tommie was barely a few years his senior.

"I am wealthy enough that I will be permitted a few crotchets, I hope, and I truly do enjoy trading in art. I cannot be in London to see to the commercial minutiae, and I'd expect you to hire a gallery manager or two for the actual day-to-day business, but somebody must be my eyes and ears about the place. Somebody must ensure that clients are treated as honored guests rather than customers ."

This time, Tommie chose an apple tart, though his ears were pink again, and the cherry tart sat uneaten on his plate. "I do miss Town, but one cannot maintain a proper address on a poet's earnings."

"Of course not. The post is salaried, Thomas. As long as you've pretended to kick your heels at Lynnfield while humoring the elders, doing the pretty with the neighbors, and guarding Penelope's flank, I don't expect you to also manage a gallery gratis."

Tommie looked up, the apple tart in his hand. "I'd do it again, Lucien. I'm bored, true enough, but these people have been family to me when I had no other family to claim. Lynnfield has been home. That matters, and I had my poetry. My correspondence is vast and lively, and many of my connections bide in London this time of year."

Tommie wanted to take the job, in other words, which meant...

Lucien named a figure. "Plus, let's say, a ten percent commission on goods sold and the understanding that whatever you personally add to the gallery's collection is your business, save for a ten percent contribution into the operating funds."

Tommie stared at him. "Lucien, that's very generous. One hesitates to offer insult to oneself or present company, but perhaps it's too generous?"

Lucien rose. "I would rather you feel you have to live up to expectations, than think yourself justified in living down to miserly remuneration. If you head to London soon, the marchioness can put the word out that after years of collecting and advising me on my own purchases, you are making a few select pieces available to discerning parties for sums appropriate to their quality."

Tommie stood as well. "Right, quality on both sides of the bargain. But if I'm to go up to London, I might also serve as escort to her ladyship and Miss Tabitha in a fortnight or so, mightn't I?"

The question was posed with exquisite diffidence.

Well, well, well. "I shall rely on you to see the ladies to the town house itself, and you can serve as their escort of choice until other parties come forward to claim the honor."

Tommie grabbed Lucien's hand and wrung it. "And so I shall. Miss Tabitha will be new to Town, and squiring her about will be my dearest delight. She's really quite clever, you know. She's had to be, putting up with that brother of hers."

Lucien retrieved his hand. "Sir Dashiel?"

"Sir Dunderhead. Tabby keeps all the household books, and she intimates that our brave baronet is quite pockets to let. He puts on airs, and he certainly can't afford those hunters, but then, he thinks himself all but assured of Penelope's hand. I have no doubt he's been trading on those expectations with the village shops, if not the London merchants. Puts poor Tabby in quite a bind."

To say nothing of the creditors and staff. Then too, a magistrate deeply in debt could become a nasty situation all too easily.

"Does Penelope know this?"

Tommie made a face. "I expect not. She's our grand lady, more or less, after the marchioness. She doesn't hear nearly as much of the gossip as Theo and I do. Cousin Lark gets all the best village news, provided she leaves Purdy at home when she goes calling. Nobody is exactly thrilled to welcome poor Purdy into their formal parlor."

"Calpurnia steals from neighbors ?"

"We refer to it as borrowing—when we refer to Aunt's little habit at all. Pen goes through Purdy's reticule of a night and has the purloined articles delivered to the owner by messenger with apologies. Purdy is much better than she used to be. Watches seem to be her only remaining weakness, and everybody knows not to wear a watch to the assemblies. We keep a very close eye on her in situations like that."

We meaning the whole household, from Malcolm to Cousin Lark and likely all of the servants too. We had not included Lucien for a long, long time.

"If you go to London..." he said slowly, "when you go to London, we will miss you. You must not be a stranger, and if you bide at the town house while you settle into London life, you must anticipate a lot of Lynnfield company."

That hail-and-farewell was not the best Lucian could do. He considered what he would say if Penelope were standing there, giving him the sort of encouraging look that was half dare, half warning.

"What I mean to convey, Thomas, is my sincere thanks. Thank you for taking the art business off my hands and for keeping such a careful eye on the elders and Penelope. Your patience and loyalty are appreciated."

Lucien departed on that meager effort rather than watch Tommie endure another blush, but Tommie called after him.

"Something else you should know, Lucien," Tommie said, coming down the corridor to close the distance between them. "Old MacGuinness looks after my wardrobe, and he does for Malcolm and Theo too."

Lucien vaguely recalled a venerable figure with snow-white hair and ferocious eyebrows. "Wears a kilt on St. Andrew's Day?"

"The very one. He claims somebody beat the stuffing out of Malcolm. Striped him all over his shoulders, neck, and back. Malcolm offers no explanation, and when MacGuinness advised salve, Malcolm ordered him from the room."

"One suspected something untoward," Lucien muttered. "But not this. I thought Uncle was well liked."

Tommie glanced up and down the corridor. "Malcolm is not merely well liked, Lucien, he is damn near treasured in these surrounds. Part precious fool, part Merlin, and entirely our own. He hears secrets the widows and orphans can't tell Vicar. He looks after the small children who oughtn't to be wandering alone, and he can fashion a splint for a lame puppy that will soon have it bounding about again. He rescues kittens from trees and dries as many juvenile tears as any granny ever has. He is well loved, and somebody beat him soundly. "

Lucien said the only thing he could. "Thank you for telling me. The malefactor will be punished."

"Good." Tommie clapped him on the shoulder, the first person to ever do so, and jaunted back to his rooms.

Lucien had no more appointments until after luncheon, and thus a quarter hour later, he was in the orchard, watching blossoms drift down to carpet the grass in pink and white.

"I thought they all depended on me," he said to nobody in particular. "They have learned to depend on one another." That should have been a relief—it was certainly a revelation—but to realize that one's standing and resources had been of secondary import was also a trifle lowering.

A trifle bewildering.

Even more bewildering was the notion that Malcolm had made an enemy, one who had waited to attack until Lucien had returned to Lynnfield.

"Avoid the military types lurking among Mayfair's potted palms," Dashiel said, eyeing Tabitha's mare. When had the horse grown so long in the tooth? "They pretend to means they will never enjoy. Half pay is less than half enough to live on."

"No half-pay officers, even for an allemande. I understand, Dash." Tabitha was the meekest of creatures, and yet, Dashiel heard a note of condescension in her reply.

"An alle-what?"

"A boring dance of German origin. It's said to be the grandmother to the waltz, so fashionable hostesses sometimes include it for the sake of the old people."

Where had she come across that bit of arcana? The lending library no doubt. Too many periodicals graced its humble shelves, to say nothing of all the lurid novels Mrs. Dinkle insisted on stocking .

"And do you consider me among the relics and antiques, young lady?"

Tabitha turned a glorious smile on him, and Dashiel was momentarily dumbstruck. That smile was going to London, to Mayfair , where it would be noticed. While part of him understood that an advantageous match could well be the outcome of this journey—the marchioness was no fool, and Dashiel was to be congratulated for arranging such a feat, and the war was quite in the past and thoroughly won—another part of him fretted that a smiling, darling Tabitha would stir up talk.

"I think," she said, "that you are the best of brothers and that I will miss you terribly and will write you long, boring letters every day, gushing with wonderment over all the delights of Town. You are a very dear fellow to make this possible for me, Dash."

"Indeed, I am, and very generous, but you may limit your dispatches to weekly summaries. I want the names of all the bachelors, Tabby, and whether their families have means, land, and decent lineages. You are not to fall in love with any Scotsmen or with any impoverished poets."

Her smile dimmed. "Poets are witty. Byron is a poet and a lord, and everybody dotes on him."

"Until he offends them or breaks their hearts. Have a care for your good name, miss, or you will soon see the last of London."

The groom checked the mare's girth and led her to the ladies' mounting block, where both man and beast waited with comparably blank expressions.

"You will come over to Lynnfield to see me off?" Tabitha asked, gathering up the skirt of her riding habit. "Promise you will, Dash."

"I promise, and you shall see me at the assembly as well." The same assembly where his engagement to Lady Penelope Richard would doubtless be announced. That connection—to an earl's daughter and her fortune—all but assured Tabitha of a successful Season.

Very well and cleverly done of him indeed .

"Another quarterly assembly," Tabitha said. "I am so glad to be going to Town at last, Dash. I very much feared... Well, no matter. Will you miss me?"

A second horse, also venerable, stood at a hitching post, hip cocked, head down. The animal swished its tail at an imaginary fly.

"I will muddle on without you somehow, my dear, though you are merely going up to Town for a few weeks."

"I left a month's worth of menus with Mrs. Brook, and we should have some peas and cucumbers soon to liven things up at supper."

Dashiel, feeling old and unaccountably sentimental, escorted his baby sister up the mounting block's steps. "You will come back from Town, spouting off about this peer or that grand ball, and garden vegetables will have flown completely from your mind." As well they should at her age.

Tabitha pulled on her gloves and gave him a serious look. "We rely on that garden for survival, Dash. No grand ball matters more than a good crop of peas."

He grabbed her by the nape, kissed her forehead, and stepped back. "You have always been my most sensible sibling. Away with you, and keep your eyes and ears open at Lynnfield. Penelope is an estimable woman, but the rest of the household leaves much to be desired."

A younger Tabitha might have protested for form's sake. This one settled on her sway-backed mare with considerable dignity and nodded graciously to her brother.

"Good day, Dash. Mind you behave in my absence." She punctuated that startling admonition by grinning again and trotting off in great good spirits.

Ah, youth.

The groom swung up onto the cob and, without so much as looking at Dashiel, plodded after the mare.

"No half-pay officers!" Dash called. "And none of the full-pay variety either. They're even worse."

Tabitha waved without turning back, and Dashiel watched her go until the horses had disappeared around a bend in the bridle path. Tabby would manage. She had the basic pragmatism common to all the Ingrahams, and what a relief to see the fourth and final sister off Dashiel's hands and on her way to holy matrimony.

"They beggar a man," he muttered, taking the path back to the manor house. "Sisters. Most diabolically expensive arrangement ever conceived of." The late baronet had consoled his only son with assurances that land and honors would befall him, but dowering the girls had nearly bankrupted poor Papa. Enough had remained to buy Dashiel a captain's commission, and from there, Dash had had to rely on his own native wit and initiative.

"Unlike certain marquesses, off buying art for years at a time."

Lord Lynnfield had been involved in more than a wartime grand tour, though Dashiel was vague on the details. Lynnfield himself likely was too. The whole lot of them were barmy, in Dashiel's estimation. The marchioness, not a Pritchard by birth, could at least be sensible on occasion, though the poor dear was prone to tippling.

"You have a caller, sir," Jenkins, the butler said, taking Dash's hat from him upon his return to the manor house. "Mrs. Domenica de Plessis. I put her in the formal parlor."

A buxom widow and tiresomely friendly, poor dear. As if Dash would settle for one farm, however prosperous, and a broodmare going matronly about the middle. Still, she had influence in the village, and she could prove useful.

"I suppose we'd better offer the woman tea, though thank goodness it's too early for a luncheon invitation. Have you inventoried the cellars yet this month, Jenkins?"

"I have, sir. You shall have my report within the hour."

"Very good." Dashiel moved off before Jenkins could cough discreetly and murmur something about wages not yet paid. As the head of the domestic staff, Jenkins took his role seriously, but he was also getting on. Thanks to dear Papa, a modest pension was available to get rid of the man at the moment of Dash's choosing.

Today was not that day. Dash ducked into the music room to check his appearance in a full-length mirror going speckled in the corners, found himself as attractive as ever, and sailed across the corridor into the formal parlor. He adopted the air of a fellow with much on his mind and little time for socializing, but the look in Dommie de Plessis's eyes suggested she hadn't much interest in socializing either.

"Sir Dashiel." She rose and curtseyed, giving him an eyeful of an impressive decolletage, despite the early hour. The good widow de Plessis had been born Domenica Bottledorf. Her family was solid gentry with a baron a few branches up the family tree.

She was also well formed, if a bit generously proportioned. She styled her brown hair in a coronet of braids that tended toward fashionable rather than staid and regarded the world out of tolerant brown eyes. Not a diamond, but easy to look on. Tended to freckles across her lower back, of all the peculiarities.

"Mrs. de Plessis, a pleasure. Jenkins will bring along a tray shortly. You find me without custom for my parlor sessions this week by happy coincidence, and might I say, you are looking well."

It never hurt to compliment a widow, though Dash was careful to keep to the polite side of flattery. Dommie and he had had their fun years ago, and he had no interest in renewing relations, as it were.

Well, little interest. Dommie was still attractive, in a mature way.

"You appear in quite good looks yourself," she said, "but I have sought you out in your capacity as magistrate, rather than that of congenial neighbor. I'd like to lay information against Calpurnia Richard and bring a charge of theft. My late husband's watch has gone missing, and we have searched the entire house for it. He loved that watch, and it's worth a pretty penny. The sentimental value to me is incalculable."

Jenkins arrived with the tray, and Dommie busied herself pouring out while Dashiel considered the advantages and disadvantages of various tactics. He could put Dommie off—the easiest course—or he could charge Aunt Purdy on the strength of facts alleged .

"You do know Lord Lynnfield is back in residence?" Dashiel said as he accepted a cup of acceptably strong gunpowder.

"Of course I know it. You have always been slow to see brains in others, Dash. Now that Lynnfield is back, we can do something about that thieving old woman. She's awful, a local joke. Nobody wears a watch to church because of her."

One wasn't supposed to consult a timepiece at divine services in the general case, which was beside the point.

"Have you seen her with the watch?"

"No, but she and Miss Lark called upon me on Tuesday, which is when I'm at home, and I noticed the watch missing on Wednesday. Purdy Richard took it. I know she did. I leave that watch out on the escritoire in my parlor. It stopped at 3:17 precisely, and Harold was born on March seventeenth. Said his Irish mother planned it that way. I want that watch back, Dash, and I want Purdy held accountable."

Aunt Purdy—Aunt Purloiner—had been a fixture in the village for decades, and her thievery had been viewed with amused exasperation. She was good at slipping a bauble into her reticule even when closely watched.

"Theft is a serious matter," Sir Dashiel said. "A very serious matter. Do you want to see Calpurnia, a neighbor of long standing, hanged for taking that watch? I would have to bind her over to the assizes if I arrested her."

Dommie sat up very tall, which had the effect of thrusting her bosom forward. "No, you wouldn't. A magistrate has latitude. I want my husband's watch back, and I want Calpurnia to stop her nonsense. Everybody says she's not as bad as she used to be, but watches are valuable, and she cannot be trusted around them."

The sooner Penelope was free of the Lynnfield lunatics, the better—after Tabitha had been properly launched, of course.

"I will take the matter under advisement, Dommie, and make some inquiries, but I am loath to send an old woman to her death over a missing watch. The situation wants witnesses, and ideally, I would find the watch in Calpurnia's possession."

"I want my watch back, Dash. Do what you must to sort the matter out. Now, tell me about Tabitha. Is it true Lady Lynnfield is taking her up to Town? However did you manage that?"

The call descended into small talk and flirtation, and when Dashiel had established that Tabitha was already a visitor at Lynnfield and the Roost all but deserted, he admitted to himself that having his sister gone might offer a handsome bachelor a few advantages.

"I've been thinking of having Tabitha's rooms made over in her absence," Dashiel said. "Perhaps you'd be willing to give me a woman's opinion on the matter? Tabby's apartment is toward the back of the house, with a nice view of the pastures and kitchen garden."

A nice rural view.

Dommie gave him a look that suggested she was just at that moment making up her mind to tryst with him, and the decision took some thought. The ladies did cling to their little games.

"If I decline to assist you, you will hang the walls in yellow silk because it can be had for less," she said, rising. "Yellow flatters practically nobody. Let's have a look, though I can't stay long."

"Of course not," Dashiel said, offering his arm. "What colors do you recommend?" Not that he'd be buying any silk this side of his own nuptials.

Thirty minutes later, the color most in evidence was that of pink and white flesh. Dommie was snoring gently beside Dash in the best guest room, and Dash was considering the dark ceiling beams above the bed.

To leave a watch in plain sight all but guaranteed that Calpurnia would steal it, suggesting Dommie had merely sought a socially credible excuse to pay her call. The watch itself—if, in fact, it was missing—had apparently been an acceptable token to exchange for a morning's pleasure .

Dashiel idly stroked the lady's muscular thigh and considered possibilities. A competent officer always had contingency plans ready in the event the accursed French—or his own accursed superiors— disobliged his initial strategy. The London connections were slow to pay of late, the creditors howling, and Tabitha's prospects uncertain.

Then too, Lord Lynnfield was home, and he'd apparently supported the entire collection of misfits through all his years of travel.

Dashiel would take the matter of the missing watch under very discreet advisement, because fate was for once apparently taking his side, and at a very opportune time too.