Chapter Fifteen

The drizzle had eased earlier, and weak winter sunshine had brought a surprising number of people out promenading in Hyde Park when Zo? and Izzy arrived. They had Izzy’s driver drop them off at the gate so they could join the walkers. Zo? had told her sister about having asked Lord Foxton to take her up in an open carriage because he wanted to talk. “But I didn’t mean you to have to stand about waiting for me,” she said.

“Don’t worry about me,” Izzy said. “I won’t lack for company. There are plenty of people here that I know, and they’ll all be eager to discuss the events of last night.”

“Oh. Of course. The kick.” Zo? felt herself blushing. Perhaps it hadn’t been the cleverest idea to meet him in the park.

Izzy gave a peal of laughter. “Goose. The whole point of last night was to introduce you to all our friends, and really, your little contretemps with Lord Foxton is all to the good. People will be so intrigued by that, it won’t even occur to them to wonder whether you really are our cousin.”

“Glad to provide further fuel for gossip,” Zo? said dryly, and Izzy laughed again.

“Come on, let’s promenade.” Izzy linked arms with her, and they joined the crush of smartly dressed people moving slowly along.

Izzy did seem to know a lot of people, including quite a few strangers who she introduced to Zo?. Those who’d been at the reception the previous night were full of praise for the evening. Not a soul mentioned Zo?’s little brangle with Lord Foxton, but she was aware of their sidelong, speculative glances from time to time.

Oh, where was the wretched man? Had he given up on her? They’d arrived well after five, which was late, but not that late. So she nodded and smiled and chatted and made polite small talk and was just about to give up on him when there was an outbreak of screeches and screams up ahead.

“Good grief, what on earth can that be about?” Izzy exclaimed. They couldn’t see anything—the crowd at that point was too dense. But then the knot of people scattered in panic as a large, scruffy dog bounded through them. It hurtled up to Zo? and leapt at her. More ladies screamed as he raised himself on two rear paws, placed his front ones on Zo?’s shoulders and gave her a joyous swipe on the chin with his tongue.

“Oh, Hamish,” she exclaimed, laughing and pushing his paws off her. “You muddy, adorable, ridiculous creature.” She crouched down and embraced him delightedly, scruffling him around the neck and ears and trying without success to avoid further enthusiastic doggy kisses.

Izzy stood by, chuckling and assuring the appalled onlookers that it was quite all right, the animal wasn’t savage.

“I knew he couldn’t have drowned you,” Zo? crooned to the dog.

“No? You seemed to believe it at the time,” a deep voice above her said.

She stiffened and rose, keeping a hand on Hamish’s head. “I should have known better, but why did you tell me such a horrid thing in the first place?”

“I was angry.”

“Well that makes two of us.” They stood glaring at each other.

Izzy, trying hard to keep a straight face, interjected. “As I understand it, you arranged this meeting in order to have a private talk. May I just point out that you couldn’t actually have ensured a more public one? Causing a minor riot with your dog was not exactly a master strategy, Lord Foxton.”

He said stiffly, “I didn’t plan it this way. I had him perfectly under control, but then he must have seen or smelled Vita—Miss Beno?t, I mean—and before I knew it, he leapt out of the curricle and took off.”

“Well, perhaps you’d better get back to your horses,” Izzy suggested. “I presume you didn’t leave them unattended.”

“Of course I didn’t,” he said, irritated. “I got a fellow to hold them for me. But yes, I’d better get back to them. Shall we, Miss Beno?t?” He held out his arm.

“I’ll mind the dog, shall I?” Izzy said brightly. “You wouldn’t want him climbing all over you and Zo? while you’re trying to talk, would you?”

“I brought him so she would see he was alive,” Lord Foxton admitted. “But yes, if you could mind him, Lady Salcott, I’d be most grateful.”

“Does he have a lead?” Izzy asked.

“No,” Zo? exclaimed, but at the same time, Reynard said, “Yes,” and drew a leather lead from his pocket. He glanced at Zo? and said, “It’s all right, he doesn’t mind it now. I’ve been training him.” He clipped the lead to Hamish’s collar, handed the end to Izzy and said, “Stay.”

“Yes, I intend to,” Izzy said affably. She was enjoying this, Zo? could tell.

“I meant the dog,” he said stiffly. “Miss Beno?t?” He offered his arm again, and this time she took it.

They didn’t speak until Julian had thanked the young man who’d held his horses for him, helped her into the curricle and driven a sufficient distance to ensure nobody would overhear them.

“Rocinante?” Zo? said when he slowed the horses to a walk.

“With the LeBlancs,” he said gruffly. “She’s boarding with them. I’m paying for her food and for the eldest boy to care for her. The family is very grateful—they were unable to drive anywhere before.”

She turned and thumped him. Hard. “It was horrid of you to tell me they were both dead.”

“I know, and I’m sorry about that. But I was angry at the time.” He glanced at her. “And hurt.”

“Hurt?” She stared at him. “Why were you hurt?” Suggesting she was the one who’d been hurt. A trickle of hope ran through him.

He stared back at her. “You left me without a word. And after the night we spent together…”

She shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t think it would matter to you.”

“Not matter?” He shook his head. How could she think it didn’t matter to him? “I thought you didn’t care,” he told her.

She snorted. “I didn’t care? Why do you think I invited you into the caravan in the first place?”

“I thought I knew that night. But then, when you left without a word, taking a valuable painting with you…”

She rolled her eyes. “That again. I explained that when you called me a thief last night.” She bared her teeth at him. “When you were the real thief.”

“That nonsense again!” He swiveled in his seat so he could see her face to face. “Tell me, to whom do you think those old paintings rightfully belong?”

“Not you!”

“Agreed.” His response was immediate.

Her brow wrinkled. “Agreed? But you took them.”

“I did. But not to keep.”

“No, to sell.”

“Not that, either.” She stared doubtfully at him, so he explained. “I have no need of extra funds, no gambling debts, in fact no debts at all—not even a mortgage on my estate. That was all paid off years ago.”

The doubt remained on her face.

“My income supports me very well, and even without the income from the estates, I have a private income of my own from investments I made when I was young and which have grown since then. Which all goes to explain that I have no need to go abroad and cheat rural farmers.”

She eyed him doubtfully, those glorious green eyes still unconvinced. “I don’t understand. If you have no need of the money, why do you go to so much trouble to get those old paintings from people?”

“Apart from enjoying painting the replacements, you mean? And make no doubt about it, I do enjoy that, even though I’m better at pigs and horses and dogs than people, as you know. As for those old paintings, I take them to a gallery in Paris, the Galerie du Temps, where Gaston, who runs it—” He broke off as large drops of rain started to fall. “Oh, damn this blasted climate,” he muttered. “Here, I have an umbrella somewhere.” He pulled it out and got it open just in time to protect her—mostly—as it turned into a sudden downpour. He held it over her, but in the meantime he and the horses and the curricle were getting drenched. And the rain was setting in.

“I’ll take you back to your cousin.” He turned the curricle around and headed back to where they’d left Lady Salcott. But she was nowhere in sight. Nor was Hamish. Most people had scattered when the rain started, and only a few were left, all sheltering under umbrellas.

He looked around. Where had she gone?

“Over there.” Zo? pointed. “In the carriage.”

A smart carriage sat stationary not far away with a coachman hunched gloomily at the front, an oilskin cape pulled over him. A slim gloved hand waved at them from a window, and a hairy face pushed past it to observe the view.

It took a moment to transfer Hamish from the carriage—or rather, let him leap ungratefully out to gambol and frolic in the mud and the rain—while Zo? climbed down from the curricle, handed Julian back his umbrella and joined her cousin in the dry, comfortable carriage.

“We barely began our talk,” he told her. “Could we meet again?”

She nodded. “Yes. You can’t call on me—Lady Scattergood won’t allow it—but I’ll think of something and let you know.”

Her carriage drove off, leaving him wet, frustrated and torn. The whole meeting had been a debacle, but at least he’d made a start. Besides, when he’d first arrived in England he’d never expected to see her again. So just seeing her and knowing where she was had to be an improvement. And at least she was still speaking to him. It was the barest shred of hope, but he clung to it.

“Now, Milly, this letter,” Zo? said, “needs to make everything very clear to your mother.”

The fuss had already begun. Clarissa’s maid, Betty, had reported that Milly’s mother’s servants had been combing the gardens, shouting and calling and beating the bushes in case she was lying beneath them, murdered.

She’d also sent them to inquire at every house surrounding the garden whether her daughter, Millicent Harrington, happened to be visiting. Without success.

Treadwell had been magnificently crushing in his denial of any Young Person of that name being Within.

Betty, relaying gossip from the Harrington servants, said that despite the note Milly had sent saying that she was safe and staying with a friend, Milly’s mother, Mrs. Harrington, was inside, lying distraught on the sofa, alternately swooning and throwing hysterical fits, shrieking and weeping and claiming her daughter had been kidnapped or gone mad and was an ungrateful snake in the bosom.

“And it’s quite a bosom, as I recall,” Izzy said when Betty had finished reporting. She’d arrived with a bundle of Clarissa’s clothing for Milly. “Which is something we should keep in mind for this letter.”

“You can’t discuss Mama’s bosom in the letter,” Milly said. “It’s indelicate.”

“We won’t, not in so many words,” Clarissa assured her. “But it won’t hurt to drop a hint. If we’re to turn the spider’s attention from you to your mother, her lush bosom will be a factor.”

“I suppose so,” Milly said. “But I don’t see how.”

“Leave it to us,” Zo? said briskly. She had other things to worry about, and while she was sympathetic to Milly’s situation, the way Milly was whining and dragging her feet was irritating. If understandable.

The three sisters sat down and put their heads together to compose the letter. There was much rewriting and rephrasing and many tearful objections from Milly at the bluntness of the missive. But as Zo? pointed out, “Your mama does not understand subtlety, Milly.”

And when her objections became too much, Zo? turned to her in frustration, saying, “So you want to marry the spider now, do you? Fine. We’ll throw this letter into the fire and you can write to your Thaddeus and tell him to go back to Sheffield, forget about you and find some braver girl to marry.”

Which stopped the objections, if not the tears, in mid-flow.

The final letter read:

Dear Mama

I am sorry to Distress you, but I cannot and will not marry the Marquess of Blenkinsop. I am very Grateful for all you have done on my behalf, but I cannot be happy with that man.

I have met Another, and he has offered me Marriage. He is a most respectable young man, with a Handsome Fortune, but no Title. Most importantly, he Loves me and I love him. When you see me next I will be married. I am sorry that you will miss my wedding, but you have given me No Choice.

Mama, whenever we have met with the marquess, he has talked more to you than to me. I believe he Likes you Very Much. And, Mama, you are still a Young and very Attractive woman.

Lady Tarrant was almost Forty when she gave birth to Lord Tarrant’s dear little son and heir, and she’s now expecting a second child. You are several years younger than she. You could give the marquess the child he wants. And you would be a Marchioness, which surely is Better than being the Mother of one.

Don’t bother to look for me. I am safe, staying with sympathetic friends.

I am sorry to part like this. I love you, Mama, but forcing me to marry the marquess against my will has driven me to this Desperate and Unhappy Course.

Your loving daughter,

Milly

They all heaved a sigh of relief when Milly copied the final version out in a fair hand—albeit with numerous tearstained blotches—but as Clarissa pointed out, “Her mother should know she hasn’t made this decision easily.”

Once sealed and addressed, Izzy took it to hand to Matteo, who would arrange to have it delivered to Mrs. Harrington by some anonymous and untraceable person.

Once that was done, Zo?’s thoughts returned to the question of Reynard. Or, as she supposed she should learn to call him, Lord Foxton.

“You’d better invite the poor man to call on you at my place,” Izzy told Zo? later that evening.

“What do you mean, ‘poor man’?” Zo? began, but Izzy just laughed.

“I think half drowning him will give him enough pause for thought. Whatever he did, I suspect you’ve punished him enough. He clearly wants to talk with you, and is obviously anxious to make amends. And if you don’t mind me saying so, little sister, you don’t seem exactly indifferent to him, either, so hadn’t you better get it over and done with?”

Zo? sighed. She was right. She’d been thinking about what Reynard—Lord Foxton—had told her about the paintings so far. She still had doubts, but she should at least let him finish. “Very well. What about tomorrow at two?”

“Perfect. Now write him a note—no, I shall write him a note inviting him to call at two tomorrow. I shan’t mention your name at all. If he can’t work it out, he doesn’t deserve you.”

“Deserve me?” Zo? was inclined to be indignant. “What makes you think this is anything to do with…with whatever it is you think it is?” She couldn’t bring herself to name it. Her sisters were making too many assumptions as it was. They practically had her walking down the aisle already, and she hadn’t yet made up her mind whether she believed a word he said, let alone any feelings she might have for him. Or not.

Izzy just smiled and patted her cheek. “We shall see, won’t we?”

“I started doing it after I left the army,” Reynard told her. He’d arrived at Izzy and Leo’s house promptly at two and was shown into the smaller of the sitting rooms, where a fire was crackling cozily. Zo? had awaited his arrival, pacing back and forth until she heard the front doorbell ring, upon which she threw herself into an armchair, snatched up a magazine and was languidly turning pages when he entered.

“A friend of mine had the idea of trying to retrieve the collection of a family he knew, one of the grand families whose home was destroyed in the Revolution. They’d escaped with their lives, but not much else, and many years later when they found one of their paintings for sale in a French gallery, it occurred to my friend that there might be more remaining. The looting was mostly done by the local peasantry. So he suggested the plan to me.

“I thought it a worthy pursuit. I had planned to just wander through Italy, going where the breeze took me, painting whatever I felt like—Italy is a glorious source of artistic inspiration—but he talked me into joining him in France. He’s the fellow I mentioned who got married recently, whose bride wasn’t interested in becoming a vagabond with him.”

She nodded.

“And it worked. We were able to retrieve several of the paintings that the family of my friend had owned. They were delighted. And the people who owned them were only too pleased to have their own portraits instead. And since then, we’ve done it in several places and retrieved a number of valuable paintings.”

She nodded slowly. It made sense. And she knew how she’d felt seeing that painting with her mother and uncle and grandparents. It wasn’t just about money; it was about feelings.

He continued. “So for several years I lived the life of a vagabond artist, doing something I enjoyed and felt was worthwhile. Nothing suited me better. Then, when I inherited my father’s title and responsibilities, I was most disheartened.”

“Well, of course, grief is natural.”

“I’m not talking about grief—I meant the position, the expectations and responsibilities. I wanted none of that.”

“Not even the income?” she said cynically.

He snorted. “I told you I have private means, enough for my needs anyway. No, it was the loss of my freedom that upset me most. Inheriting the title and estates tied me down.”

“But surely you could do what you want anyway?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ve known enough fellows who shrugged off their responsibilities and lived a life of ease and pleasure—at the expense of their tenants and those who depended on them. I couldn’t do that. When I was living as a vagabond painter I could do as I pleased and hurt nobody, but when I became the earl, it all changed.”

“I see.” It all sounded very noble, and yet when she’d met him he’d been exactly that—a carefree vagabond artist. She pointed that out, and he gave a rueful chuckle.

“And there my grandmother comes into the story.” He settled back in his chair, crossing one long leg over the other. “Grandmama has been ruling the Foxton roost ever since her only daughter married my father. He was deep in debt, you see, and Mama brought a fortune with her. But Grandmama holds the real moneybags and soon had my father, and later my brother, firmly under her thumb. And dancing to her tune—and for that mangling of metaphors, I apologize.”

“But she doesn’t hold you under her thumb?”

“No, as I said, I have a private income.” He looked at her as if to gauge her interest, then continued. “It started with a bequest from a spinster great-aunt on my father’s side. She loved to paint and wished to encourage me in my ambitions. A school friend with whom I used to stay during school holidays came from a business background—which meant our schoolfellows gave him hell. His father, appreciative of our friendship and quite appalled that no provision had been made for me as a younger son, heard about my small legacy and taught me how to invest my money. It was a whole new world to me, and that modest sum has grown and grown. I’ve been investing in various endeavors ever since. He still advises me occasionally, and it’s given me the independence I never would have had otherwise.” He broke off, frowning. “How did we get onto this? I’m sorry for rambling on, Vita. You’re too good a listener. Now, where were we?”

These snippets about his life were fascinating. He was supposed to be explaining about the paintings, but she wanted to know more about him. “You were explaining that your title and responsibilities oppressed you.”

“Oh yes. Well, Grandmama, having ruled the roost all those years, is determined to rule me as well. She’s quite a forceful lady. And despite coming from a mercantile background herself, she has very firm ideas on how members of the aristocracy should behave. Very firm ideas.” He shot her a grin. “And traveling from place to place in a Romany caravan, painting portraits of the lower orders is not her idea of proper earlish behavior.”

She laughed. “I can imagine.”

“But though she drives me to distraction at times, I am fond of the old tartar, so I made a deal with her. For nine months of the year I’d be a proper earl, and for the other three months I’d do what I want. I didn’t explain exactly what I was doing. If she knew, she’d probably have a fit. But as long as whatever it is I am doing is done abroad, she can turn a blind eye.”

Zo? pondered his tale. “I can see why you’d prefer to escape your responsibilities for part of the year, but where does the trading of valuable old paintings come into it? You haven’t explained that, just that you don’t need the money from that.”

“Oh yes, we were interrupted by the rain, weren’t we? Well, simply told, I retrieve paintings that were looted from grand houses and chateaux during the Revolution and take them to a gallery in Paris. Gaston, who runs the gallery, keeps a ledger into which he lists the artworks retrieved and also the artworks that various families have reported missing. When he finds a match, he gets in touch with the family concerned—or the closest surviving relatives he can find. They can then purchase the paintings at a reasonable cost—sometimes merely a nominal cost, depending on their situation. Gaston takes a small commission, and the rest goes to support a charitable orphanage.”

He chuckled. “Poor Gaston, it breaks his heart contemplating what some of those paintings could fetch if sold on the open market.”

Zo? was stunned. “Is that really what you do?”

“Yes.”

She thought about it. It made sense. “You mean all those paintings I saw, they would have belonged to my family, the de Chantonney family?”

“Undoubtedly. Every year we target the villages closest to some great house or chateau that was attacked and looted during the Troubles. It is surprising how many of the paintings—statues, too—remain in the district, even so many years afterward. As I told you back then, farmers don’t have any idea how to sell them. And knowing they were stolen in the first place, they’re probably reluctant to take them to Paris, where they might be brought to the attention of the authorities. But swapping them with a vagabond painter who lives in an old caravan? There’s no danger in that.”

She was silent a long time. It fitted with everything she knew about him. All those people she’d met—and liked. The paintings they’d traded had been looted from her family home, if not by the actual people she knew, probably by their parents or grandparents. It was a hard truth to swallow.

She recalled how Madame LeBlanc had said that her father-in-law had given her the painting as a wedding gift, and how she didn’t want it in her house and was glad to get rid of it. She obviously knew where the painting had come from in the first place and felt guilty about it.

“If you contact Gaston, I’m sure he’ll send you a list of the paintings that are rightfully yours. And the price for you would be very nominal,” he said gently.

She shook her head. “No, they won’t be considered rightfully mine. My mother’s, yes, but not mine.”

He gave her a puzzled look. “I don’t understand.”

She took a deep breath. “Can I rely on your discretion?”

“Of course.”

Not that it would make much difference. He had it in his power to ruin her anyway—all he needed to do was reveal that she’d spent more than a week in his company, day and night, unchaperoned. But this also affected her sisters.

“Your word of honor?”

He looked slightly offended, but said, “My word of honor.”

“My mother was a true de Chantonney, the legitimate daughter of the Comte and Comtesse de Chantonney.” She took another deep breath. “But I am her illegitimate daughter. And as such I would never be considered the rightful heir of anything of the de Chantonneys.” She lifted her chin and looked him right in the eye. “So in that sense, I suppose you were right: I did steal that painting. But I’m not giving it back.”

“I see.” He gave her a thoughtful look. “Do your cousins know you are illegitimate?”

She didn’t answer, just shrugged and looked away. Let him think what he wanted. She’d probably said too much as it was.

“You’ve explained the painting swaps,” she said, “and I suppose I must accept it.” And thinking back over all he’d told her in the past, he hadn’t actually lied to her, just hadn’t told her the whole story. She’d even accused him of profiting from them, and he hadn’t denied it. Still, they weren’t outright lies, and they’d both been keeping secrets from each other.

“Gracious of you,” he said dryly.

“There’s just one more thing I want to kn—” she began.

“In here, ladies.” The door opened, and Izzy breezed in, followed by Clarissa and her husband’s cousin, Lady Frobisher. She stopped in well-staged surprise. “Oh. You still here, Lord Foxton? I suppose you’ve forgotten the time.” She sent a pointed glance at the clock in the corner and turned back to Clarissa and Lady Frobisher. “Come in, come in, Lord Foxton was just leaving. He obviously forgot that morning calls generally only last twenty minutes.” She gave a trilling laugh. “And here I’ve been a shocking chaperone leaving these two alone together for such a time. I beg of you not to tell a soul. It would be so awkward otherwise.”

She winked at Zo?, then turned a bright, expectant look on Lord Foxton. “Matteo will show you out. So nice to see you again.”

Lord Foxton rose to his feet. From his expression he knew exactly what Izzy was up to, but with two other ladies looking on, he had no choice but to take his leave with as much grace as he could.

“I did forget the time, for which I apologize.” He bowed over Zo?’s hand. “Perhaps we can continue this conversation another time, Miss Beno?t.”

“Oh, perhaps, perhaps,” Izzy trilled, waving him toward the door. “You never can tell what the future will bring. Ah, there is Matteo. See this gentleman out, Matteo, please.”

Lord Foxton left. As the door closed behind him, Izzy fell, laughing, into a chair. “Oh, that was fun. The poor man. He would have liked to wring my neck, did you see?” She turned to Zo?. “You were in with him for a long time. I told you to ring for tea if you needed rescuing.”

“But I didn’t need rescuing.” Truth to tell, Zo? was a bit annoyed at the interruption. They’d really been getting somewhere, and she still had questions for him. He was such a twisty person, but he’d claimed he hadn’t lied to her. So what did that mean?

Izzy laughed. “No, I gathered that, but I thought he’d had long enough.”

“But we didn’t.” There was more, so much more that she needed to know.

“No, my love, but a gentleman who’s courting needs to be deprived of his intended’s company from time to time. It keeps them keen.”

“It keeps them cross,” Zo? said, and all three ladies laughed. “And he’s not courting me,” she added. Especially now that he knew she was illegitimate, she was sure.

“We’ll see,” Izzy said blithely. “Now we need to set up another meeting. Perhaps at your house this time, Clarissa?”

“Yes, of course,” Clarissa said. “But don’t expect me to come barging in on them like you did. I wouldn’t have the audacity. You were quite brazen, Izzy.”

Izzy waved her hand airily. “It pays to keep men on their toes and guessing.”

“I’ve never seen you treat Leo that way,” Clarissa said.

Izzy’s face softened. “Well, no, but my Leo is special. Now, shall I ring for tea?”

Over tea and cakes, they discussed Zo?’s next appointment with Lord Foxton. “Not tomorrow,” Izzy declared. “Make it the following day. Keep him waiting a little, sharpen his appetite.”

For what? Zo? wondered. She was the one eager to see him, to know what exactly was the truth. And where she stood.

In France she and Reynard had been able to talk as much and whenever they wanted. But now, when she really needed to talk to him, they were back in London where decorum ruled.