Chapter Thirty-Five

In the fortnight that followed, the plan took shape. They were able to sort out any pitfalls on the stage. And in the evenings,

Oscar came to dine with them and didn't suspect a thing.

It was all moving along swimmingly.

The entire hamlet of Addlewick was in on the ruse. Well, mostly .

It was actually her father who suggested that the villagers wouldn't truly immerse themselves in their rolls unless they imagined

they had a stake in the outcome. For that reason, they were told that the stranger coming to town was an important playwright,

who'd sent the very script they were portraying to several villages as a sort of audition to discover the next sensation for

the London stage.

A harmless little fib. At least, Honoria hoped it would be. After all, if all went as expected, no one would need to know

that Ladrón was a bloodthirsty villain.

Then her mother suggested enlisting the help of the newspaper for authenticity. She was convinced it would create the impetus

to compel Ladrón to suspend disbelief, should any other aspect of the play go awry. Since they were working with amateurs,

as Father had pointed out, things had a tendency to go that way so it was important to make everything appear as genuine as

possible.

And thus, the article about a "Titian Masterpiece Discovered in Local Woman's Attic" had been printed in the Addlewick Gazette twelve days ago, leaving time to send copies to several port cities, in which a ship sailing to Spain might encounter it.

Truman had not been happy with this plan at all.

Regrettably, Honoria had accidentally informed him after there wasn't anything he could do to stop it. Such a thoughtless mistake, on her part. Tsk, tsk. Therefore, he had no choice but to agree to send word whenever his former seafaring acquaintances heard news of Ladrón returning

to England.

That news had arrived yesterday. And just this morning, the Spanish ship Venus arrived at Port Grimsby.

The time had come. Everyone took their places.

Honoria—playing the part of Woman with a Breadbasket — surveyed the stage through the bakery's shopfront window.

Behind her, Mrs. Brown bustled from kitchen to counter. "'Tis all so thrilling, Miss Hartley. Do you think the playwright

will stop in here? I've a fresh tray of Dunnelocke honey buns cooling. Oh, dear. Should I change my apron, do you think? This

one has flour all over it from the morning."

"I'm sure the flour makes it all the more authentic. As if you've truly embodied your role," Honoria assured her and received

a nod and sigh of relief.

As for herself, she swallowed down a rise of nerves. But quashed them just as quickly. This would work. It had to. She'd choreographed

each scene herself. And, most importantly, this play of theirs would keep Oscar from having to look over his shoulder for

the rest of his life...

As long as he didn't find out.

The last thing she wanted was for him to show his face in the village and ruin everything.

Thankfully, Mother and Mr. Lawson had volunteered to keep Oscar distracted at the abbey.

But here on High Street, the supposed Titian masterpiece was on display in the haberdashery. Then it would be whisked away at the perfect moment to incite Ladrón to chase after it.

From that point, Cardew—who refused to let anyone else manhandle his painting—would play his part as a curator for the National

Gallery. While disguised, he would take the painting with him. And just as Ladrón arrived, his carriage would pull away.

Then, at a designated spot outside of the village, his carriage supposedly would hit a rut in the road, delaying him and thus

allowing Ladrón to catch up with him.

That was when the great reveal would commence.

They'd practiced this part endlessly.

Cardew would strip away his mask, while handing over the leather pouch containing the two thousand pounds to pay his debt.

However, as Cardew had explained to her, the money wouldn't satisfy Ladrón any longer. Which was where the painting came in.

However, after being double-crossed by Cardew once before, Ladrón was bound to suspect the painting was another forgery. The

next lines he would say were absolutely crucial to the success of their plan.

As they'd practiced, Cardew would tell the truth. He'd claim to have painted the masterpiece, boasting with a healthy measure

of uncertainty laced in his tone. This would pique Ladrón's interest, giving him reason to suspect that Cardew wasn't being

entirely truthful, and he would want to investigate the painting for himself. Cardew would then shield the painting, as if

trying to protect the great masterpiece from harm.

Suspecting that it was the genuine article, Ladrón would accuse Cardew of trying to hoodwink him. Cardew, in turn, would confess

to having concocted a scheme to take possession of it, in the hopes of recreating Titian's work.

And finally, when Ladrón was thoroughly convinced and demanded the painting, Cardew would employ a King Solomon tactic by holding a knife to the work and threatening to slice it in half because he couldn't bear to part with it. Knowing that Ladrón would sooner throw his own mother off a cliff than see a Titian destroyed should guarantee his safety and allow him to form a new deal where both he and Oscar would be free of him for good. No blood spilled.

It was the perfect plan.

The only problem was there were things that she'd learned about Ladrón that she hadn't shared with her family or else they

never would have allowed her to do this in the first place. So she and Cardew had come up with an alternate plan, just in

case the first one fell to pieces.

And if she were being honest, she hadn't been entirely convinced until she had seen the painting. It was remarkable. Even

knowing the Venus depicted was actually Babette Fairfax, she still had trouble believing it. The oil and canvas even appeared

timeworn as if it had spent centuries in someone's attic. Forgotten and shoved aside. What made it all the more convincing

was using an actual sixteenth-century frame from the abbey.

Honoria held her breath as a coach and six rumbled onto High Street.

It was time.

A shiver rolled over her, and she chafed hands over her arms to ward away the chill of foreboding. But she refused to give

in to any doubts. This would work. It had to.

And as long as Mr. Lawson kept Oscar occupied and Mother did the same with the widows, it would.

***

With the day's first order of business concluded, Oscar headed toward the door. It was time for his morning ride, and he planned

to take a direct path to Hartley Hall.

Hermes should know the way by rote. After all, they had just been there the last fourteen evenings without fail. Though, leaving after dinner and without Honoria by his side, was getting more and more difficult.

He spent entirely too much time wondering which window might be hers so that he could scale the walls and steal inside. But

he was done with stealing, he told himself. He wanted more than a collection of stolen moments. Even if some of those moments

had been scorching—like the one against the tree, another beneath the rose arbor, twice on the bench behind the hedgerow...

and when he'd borrowed the Culpeppers' phaeton, drove her down an empty lane, perched her on the springboard so that her hips

were level with his shoulders, lifted her hems and proceeded to pleasure her most wickedly in the broad light of day—he still

wanted more.

He wanted a life with her.

This morning, he planned to broach the subject. And considering the fact that she'd absently curled her hand around the ring

and locket when they'd bid an all-too-chaste farewell at the door the night before, he hoped that meant she was longing for

more, as well.

But whatever plans he had for the morning changed when he stepped down into the hall just as Algernon opened the door to Lady

Hartley and Ben Lawson.

"Ah. Good morning, Oscar," Roxana said as she swept inside, the skirts of her emerald-green riding habit shushing over the

floor as she pressed a kiss to his cheek in greeting. "You're just the man I wanted to see. Oh, dear, you weren't going out,

were you?"

When her expression transformed seamlessly into one of embarrassment, he had no choice other than denial. It would have been

rude, not to mention inauspicious, to make his potential future mother-in-law feel unwelcome.

So he returned the smile, bowing over her hand, and said, "I always have time for you."

"Splendid." Slipping her arm through his, she pro ceeded to steer him toward the back of the house. "Now then, where are your aunts? I should like to have tea while you and Mr. Lawson make a thorough sweep of the manor. You don't mind, do you? It would ease my mind greatly to know that there aren't any more potential hazards waiting to strike."

Oscar and Lord Hartley had already seen to the matter, along with every footman beneath this roof. However, understanding

that Roxana would naturally be wary, he agreed. There was no harm in being exceptionally cautious.

"Of course I don't mind," he said genially.

After all, the matter shouldn't take too long.

***

Standing in the bakery, Honoria felt the rumble of horses underfoot as the coach and six thundered onto High Street. A rise

of nerves pinpricked her skin while nausea churned her stomach.

As someone who had never suffered an instant of stage fright in her life, she refused to start now. So she drew in a deep

breath and exhaled her vocal warm-up on a whisper. Percival, Peter and Carlton Culpepper.

After saying it thrice more, it was time.

Picking up her basket of bread, she strolled through the door. At her cue—the tinkling of the bell overhead—she paused to

issue a cheery wave and say her line over her shoulder. "Good day to you, Mrs. Brown."

Mrs. Brown, flustered and fidgeting with her apron, forgot her line. "Um..."

Honoria stepped out onto the pavement, greeted by a cooler breeze, tinged with the first sunbaked hints of autumn. But the fact that she could hear the chatter of cicadas in the distance told her that the villagers were being far too quiet. The half dozen who were selected to stand on the pavement were supposed to be engaging in conversation, not simply smiling nervously, heads bobbing like hobbyhorses.

However, she was relieved that the tall, swarthy man emerging from the carriage across the street didn't seem to notice. Dressed

in impeccably tailored black superfine, he adjusted his high brushed beaver hat and read the spavined wooden sign on the pavement

outside the haberdashery.

ENTER TO BE AWESTRUCK

BY ELMIRA HORNCASTLE'S

AMAZING DISCOVERY

Then, in smaller letters at the bottom:

Forgotten Titian Masterpiece

The wording was supposed to have been the other way around. However, Honoria had made the mistake of leaving the task to Mr.

Horncastle, who had obviously deferred to his wife's preferences. Or more likely, her browbeating.

Turning away from the breeze, she stilled her hat ribbons and prepared to cross the street just as a man approached on horseback.

She'd never seen him before. Even so, the stranger was handsome with aristocratic features and wavy blond hair. So when he

tipped his hat, she smiled in return.

But that was a mistake. She knew it the instant he goggled at her, eyes glazed with a sappy grin plastered on his face. The

poor man nearly fell off his horse.

She glanced at Thea, who was standing in front of the milliner's, and they both rolled their eyes. Men , such helpless creatures. It was a wonder they were able to button their own waistcoats.

The moment he passed by, Honoria put him completely from her mind. She crossed the street as Elmira Horncastle bustled out

of the haberdashery.

Elmira regally strolled to her mark, her chins held high above a daringly cut plum-colored gown, displaying a wealth of matronly décolletage that proved her corset was surely fashioned of iron. As the breeze stirred, one of the long ostrich plumes sprouting from her broad-brimmed hat fell against her face.

Blowing out a pfft, she batted it away and smiled as she delivered her line. "Good morrow, sir. Have you come to see the picture?"

Miguel Ladrón doffed his hat as he sketched a bow. " Buenos días, se?ora. I have, indeed, come to see the picture , as you say." His words were spoken in thickly accented English, his tone as silken and seductive as a snake. "I recently

read in your— cómo se dice ‘periódico' ... Ah, yes —newspaper about a woman who'd made an interesting discovery in her attic. A lost Titian, I believe."

Eavesdropping, Honoria thought that he was also quite skilled at playing a part. If she didn't know better, she could easily

believe him nothing more than a refined gentleman with an interest in art.

"Why, that story was about me," Elmira said, splaying a hand over her bosom.

"Surely not," he said, all charm and ease. "For the article mentioned a mature woman and all I see before me is a flower in

full bloom."

Keep to the script , Honoria thought when she saw Elmira blush and begin to fan herself at the compliment. All she had to do was make her apologies

that the gentleman had arrived a moment too late, then explain about the gentleman from the National Gallery.

When Elmira finally managed to utter a semblance of her lines, Honoria issued a sigh of relief. Then, with a glance down to

the milliner's shop, she gave a nod to her sister.

Thea—playing the part of Pedestrian on the Pavement No. 1, as well as stage director—signaled Cardew's carriage into motion

with a twirl of her parasol.

"In fact," Elmira concluded with a wave toward the passing carriage, "I do believe that is Mr. Clarence now. Fear not, you'll see it again soon, hanging in London."

The scene wasn't perfect. But it did the trick.

Ladrón bid a hasty farewell and returned to his carriage, barking commands to his driver.

Yes, Honoria thought, all was going to plan.

***

"Won't take a moment of your time," Lawson had said before the hours on the hall clock slipped from morning to afternoon.

Oscar wondered if he should have the servants prepare a room for him.

Lady Hartley, on the other hand, had left after he received a missive telling him not to worry and that all was well...

in a way that made him decidedly worried. But she'd declined his offer to accompany her home.

It left him on edge. In fact, this entire day just seemed... off. He couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Leaving Lawson to investigate the plaster ceiling in the ballroom, Oscar decided to ask Algernon about the note and who'd

sent it. Yet, as he reached the gallery railing, he looked down and noticed that Algernon was not at his post.

Heading downstairs, he heard a gaggle of raised female voices drifting in from the garden, the argument indiscernible from

this distance. But it sounded as though the widows were having a row. An ingrained sense of self-preservation advised him

to stay clear of it.

He'd just planted a foot on the bottom tread when a knock fell on the door.

No need to stand upon ceremony, he thought and strode to answer it himself.

On the other side of the threshold stood a blond man around his own age. He arched one eyebrow as he cast a swift, superior glance over him, condescension dripping from the epaulets of his military coat.

Oscar had seen such a look far too many times in his life, and he knew in an instant that he didn't like the man. "State your

business."

The stranger blinked. Then, as if assessing the situation, his entire demeanor altered as he smiled and doffed his high hat,

his brow lowering. "Is this Dunnelocke Abbey?"

"It is."

"I am relieved, indeed. I've been traveling on horseback for a number of days, ever since I arrived in England. You see, I've

spent the majority of my life on the Cape in Africa," he supplied with a measure of expectation in his expression.

But Oscar had no time or inclination to inquire about it. He had other plans.

However, the unduly loquacious stranger continued. "I actually rode through the small hamlet's high street not a few minutes

ago. I might have asked for directions, but I'm afraid that I became so thoroughly dumbstruck at the sight of the single most

beautiful woman I've ever beheld. Nearly drove my horse into a grand coach and six," he said with a self-deprecating laugh.

"Good job I didn't. Wouldn't have wanted to upset the swarthy fellow inside it."

A chill slithered down Oscar's spine. Ladrón, he thought. In Addlewick.

Panic clawed at his throat as his first thought was Honoria. Swallowing, he held up a finger. "Would you mind staying here

for just one moment?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Pivoting on his heel, he strode toward the back garden in search of Algernon.

Oscar found him in the nave, carrying an empty platter from the widows' tea. "Could you send one of the footmen to find Cardew?

It's a matter of urgency."

"I'm afraid Mr. Cardew stepped out early this morning, my lord."

Bloody hell. This was not the time for Cardew to go off on a another one of his strolls through the countryside for inspiration.

He raked a hand through his hair. "Very well. Have Raglan ready the carriage."

"I believe Mr. Raglan is driving Mr. Cardew."

"Driving Cardew? Why the devil would—"

He stopped as the pieces started to fall into place. The most beautiful woman. Cardew gone with the carriage. A swarthy man

in town...

This was no coincidence. Especially since he'd seen Honoria talking to Cardew before she'd left a fortnight ago. And hadn't

she been wearing a perfectly innocent expression when he'd found her? Oh, yes, she had. Which should have been his first clue

that she was up to something.

But he'd been so distracted by his constant craving for her that he hadn't given it a second thought.

He should have known better! The little idiot had likely talked Cardew into some sort of scheme to pay off Ladrón without

his interference. She thought she knew all about men from masquerading as one in society. And while society had its own dangers,

she had no idea what monsters lurked in his world.

Cursing, he returned to the door. He had to get into town before she followed through with whatever harebrained scheme she'd

concocted.

"I'm afraid this isn't the best time to pay a call," he said to the stranger, taking him by the elbow and escorting him to

his horse.

"I'm not here to pay a call," he said. "This is where I live. At least, now it is."

Oscar closed the door behind them. Distracted, he shook his head. "I believe you've made a mistake."

Then, without another word, he turned on the gravel and headed toward the stables.

"I'm Manford Fairfax," the man called after him.

Oscar stopped. " What did you say?"

"I'm Manford Fairfax, Viscount Vandemere."

The ground seemed to dissolve from under his feet. His legs shook from the force of keeping himself upright as he looked over

his shoulder. "Vandemere?"

"Correct. And you are?"

"Out of time, apparently," Oscar said and took off toward the stables.