A Perfect Scandal, page 9
“What in the world was that about?” she gasped.
“Stay away from Ralph Hodge.”
“You dislike each other. Why?”
“It’s complicated.”
They reached the front of the lobby, and Isabel panicked, thinking he was going to escort her out of the building, but instead of heading for the outside, Marcus swung right and opened a door she hadn’t noticed before. He led her into a small room lined with file cabinets and a desk littered with stacks of paper.
“We can talk privately here.”
“Where are we?”
“An antechamber the jobbers use as a temporary office.”
“Jobbers?”
“Jobbers buy and sell shares for the stockbrokers. They earn money for their services by inflating the price they offer the broker.” He leaned against the desk and folded his arms across his chest. “Educating you on the workings of the Exchange is not the reason you came today. So tell me what is.”
She took a deep breath and tried to relax. She had been certain of her bold actions earlier by coming here, but as was customary of late, she now doubted the wisdom of her impulsiveness.
“Things between us were not settled last night,” she said. “After the incident with Lord Walling, you left the Bennings’ ball.”
He shook his head. “No, Isabel. I was quite clear on the subject, and as I recall, you had agreed with me as well.”
“I most certainly did not. I never agreed to be the ‘passive wife’ you expect, and I fully intend to be involved in your investigation.”
“Why? I want to know why you are so adamant about this.”
“I told you last night,” she said matter-of-factly. “It does not take much for people to gossip, and if there is the slightest implication that you were the thief of the painting, then as your future wife, it will adversely affect my father and the twins. If my involvement can aid the situation, then it is impossible for me to sit back and do nothing. Now, when I tell you what I have learned, you will undoubtedly see that I am an indispensable ally and change your stubborn mind.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Oh, please enlighten me.”
She reached into her reticule and pulled out a piece of paper. “I have compiled a list of wealthy art collectors who have dealt with the auctioneer Dante Black within the last year. I have also learned who amongst the ton owns Thomas Gainsborough paintings and who collects portraits similar to Gainsborough’s style.”
Marcus pushed away from the desk, eyes blazing. “Dante Black has gone missing. He has not showed at his place of business or his private residence since the Westley auction. Have you perchance learned of his location?”
“No, but perhaps one of these collectors knows. Dante was a well-respected auctioneer who catered to his rich clients. I assume some of them would know how to reach him.”
“How did you learn all this?”
“I tried to tell you last night, but you wouldn’t listen. I have been attending society functions for years, and as an aspiring artist, I take an interest in the artwork I see. Plus, Charlotte Benning is my best friend, and her mother knows everyone.”
“I regret leaving the ball last night without meeting your friend. Perhaps I should have hired her rather than the investigator I obtained,” he said dryly.
“You hired an investigator?” She wanted to ask how he could afford such an expense, but held her tongue. No sense insulting the man when she was trying to get on his good side.
“There’s more,” she rushed. “A masque is being hosted this week by a couple who happen to be the only collectors that have both utilized Dante Black’s services and own several Thomas Gainsborough paintings. I have heard that they are avid collectors, have a private gallery in their mansion, and that they pay outrageous sums for quality works. We can attend the masque and discreetly search for the mysterious gallery to see if they have possession of the Seashore with Fishermen.”
“Who’s hosting the masque?”
He reached for the paper in her hand, but she pulled it out of his grasp.
“Not until you agree we are partners.”
His eyes narrowed. “Partners in an illegal search of a wealthy and powerful couple’s house? Do you have no fear for yourself? I’ll not be responsible for your neck.”
“We won’t get caught.” She waved the paper at him. “Partners then?”
“You are the most outrageous, stubborn woman I have ever met.”
She gifted him with a smile. “Thank you. I’ll take your compliment as a yes.”
“I seem to have no choice.”
She handed him the paper. “The masque is being hosted by Lord and Lady Gavinport.”
A low knock on the door echoed through the small room. They both whirled around when the door opened, and Ralph Hodge stood in the doorway.
A blond lock fell over Hodge’s forehead, and he flashed a pearly white smile. “The lady said she was looking for a broker. I came to see if she changed her mind as to which one.”
“Out. Now,” Marcus growled.
At the thunderous expression on Marcus’s face, Hodge grinned, then turned and shut the door.
Isabel reached for the paper in Marcus’s hand.
His mouth twisted wryly. “What are you doing?”
“It appears I need to add Mr. Hodge to my list of possible suspects.”
Chapter 13
“It must be on the second floor. I can’t imagine Gavinport housing his private gallery on the same floor as the ballroom,” Isabel whispered.
Charlotte gripped Isabel’s arm. “Don’t be foolish! You must wait for Marcus.”
Isabel gave Charlotte a sideways glance and adjusted her black velvet half-mask. She scanned the Gavinports’ ballroom, but was disappointed to find no signs of Marcus.
She had dressed with care, wearing an exquisite white satin evening gown with a low bodice trimmed with small lilies. Her dark hair fell in loose curls down the back of her neck, and a pearl necklace rested between the swell of her breasts. The black half-mask matched her ebony hair and contrasted with the white satin, inviting lustful looks from several gentlemen.
She knew she looked attractive, and the thought froze in her brain that she wanted Marcus to see her this way, wanted him to think she was beautiful.
Don’t flirt with danger, her inner voice warned.
But the truth was his dangerous, predatory nature was part of the attraction. He was his own man, and his air of isolation, his nonchalance, as if he hadn’t a care of what anyone in the world thought of him, drew her like a moth to a flame. After spending four years on the marriage mart overwhelmed by strutting peacocks, he was a breath of fresh air. The men she had known had never earned a shilling their entire lives, relying instead on their families’ fortunes. They were fat, lazy, and completely uninteresting.
But Hawksley…
“How will you ever find Marcus amongst all the masked guests?” Charlotte asked.
The guests would normally be announced by a Gavinport servant, but tonight was a masque, and the formalities were overlooked. A mysterious charge of excitement pervaded the room. Champagne flowed freely, and the masked guests mingled about—many with licentious anticipation—seeking fellow revelers who desired to indulge their own guilty pleasures without revealing their identities.
“Marcus is so much taller than most of the men present, I should be able to spot him in the crowd, masked or not,” Isabel said.
“Are you two lovely ladies looking for me?” a deep masculine voice asked.
Both Isabel and Charlotte jumped and whirled around.
Marcus grinned, standing behind them. He was dressed entirely in black from his mask to his formal evening wear. Tall and well-muscled, he looked devastatingly handsome, every inch the conquering pirate.
He held out two bubbling flutes of champagne. “For you both.”
“Marcus!” Isabel said. “You near scared us to death. I have been looking for you all evening. However did you sneak by?”
“My apologies for keeping you waiting, my dear.” His eyes roamed over her face then down her satin-clad figure, and he grinned again.
There was a spark of some indefinable emotion in his dark eyes, and her pulse quickened in response.
He turned his attention to Charlotte. “Miss Benning, I presume. I’ve heard wonderful things about you from Isabel.”
Charlotte looked up at Marcus with wide blue eyes and giggled. “No doubt, Mr. Hawksley, but please know Isabel has a gift for exaggeration.”
“Ah,” Marcus sighed, “I see you truly do know our Isabel then.”
Charlotte flushed prettily and smiled.
An unexpected spark of jealousy flared in Isabel’s chest. She bit down hard on her lower lip.
Ridiculous. Charlotte was her best friend, and she wasn’t flirting with Marcus.
Or was she?
“I thought you would have arrived earlier, Mr. Hawksley,” Isabel snapped.
At her sharp tone, both Charlotte’s and Marcus’s eyes turned to her.
One corner of his mouth twisted upward. “If you must know, I was exploring the layout of our host’s mansion.”
“Without me?” Again Isabel failed miserably to control her annoyance.
A gleam of mockery invaded his stare. “I did not know I needed permission.”
Charlotte coughed, breaking the tension. “I believe I shall leave you two to your business.” With a swish of her skirts, she walked away, leaving Marcus and Isabel alone.
The noise of the party dimmed to a low roar in her ears. She felt like a fool, standing before Marcus, unable to control her wayward tongue.
Marcus broke the awkward silence. “Gavinport approaches.”
Isabel turned to see Frederick Perrin, the Marquess of Gavinport, weave his way through the crowd. He was unmasked, greeting his guests as he passed by. Their host was slim, remarkably short, and had a full head of dark hair that was cropped tight to his scalp. His face was dominated by a round nose that resembled a ripe tomato.
Isabel smiled as Lord Gavinport came up to them.
“Good evening,” Gavinport said. “I dare not guess as to my guests’ identities tonight, but I trust you are enjoying yourselves?”
Marcus nodded and raised his glass. “Excellent champagne, Gavinport.”
Isabel blinked, surprised to see that up close Lord Gavinport was a solid inch shorter than she was. He had to crane his neck to look up at Marcus. Yet Gavinport had a military manner about him, a shrewdness to his gaze, and his cropped black hair and small stature reminded her of pictures she had seen of Napoleon.
“Your home is lovely,” Isabel said. “The new Lady Gavinport has exquisite taste.”
At the mention of his young wife, Gavinport’s sharp gaze scanned the ballroom. A cold, critical expression settled on his face, and a shiver ran down Isabel’s spine. “Excuse me then,” he said and ventured off.
“Meeting the marquess has not changed my impression,” Marcus said.
She knew he was referring to Lord Gavinport’s possible involvement in the theft of the painting. “Mine either.”
“From what I’ve seen,” Marcus said, “Gavinport’s private gallery is most likely on the second floor. I suggest we go up the back staircase separately so as not to draw untoward attention.”
“Yes, that sounds like a fine plan.”
“Can you meet me at the top of the servants’ stairs in ten minutes?” he asked.
She nodded without meeting his stare, still feeling foolish and awkward after her earlier jealous outburst.
He reached out and caught her gloved hand.
She raised her eyes to find him studying her with a curious intensity. Heat spread from his fingers through her satin glove, and her skin prickled pleasurably.
“Try to control your impulsiveness, my dear.” He flashed a devastating grin, then was gone.
She stood awkwardly, watching him walk through the crowd. He was so disturbing to her senses, and her feelings toward him were becoming confused. For the first time, she wondered as to the sanity of the bargain she had made with him. She had insisted he agree to a sterile engagement and marriage, and here she was unable to control her own wayward thoughts and jealousy.
Sipping her champagne, she smiled at acquaintances and depicted an ease she didn’t feel. She waited precisely nine minutes then headed for the servants’ staircase.
At the sight of Isabel sneaking up the stairs, Marcus’s breath hitched. From the top of the landing, he had a perfect view of the fat pearl resting between the swell of her breasts, and he imagined licking the jewel before burying his face between her enticing flesh. Then her foot landed on the top stair, and her clear blue eyes flashed through her mask like glittering sapphires. A surge of excitement passed through him.
Madness.
He was struck by the sudden thought that he was going to have to exercise a lion’s share of self-control over the next six months. The realization cooled his blood like an ice bath.
“The floor is empty, but we must hurry,” he said.
Taking her hand, he ushered her down the hall. Portraits of deceased male Gavinports mounted on their horses with hunting dogs beside them hung on the flocked walls. The second-floor corridor was long with many doors, but Marcus strode to the last one.
“I checked all the others. This is the only one that is locked,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “Locked? But how can we—”
He withdrew a black pouch from the inside pocket of his coat. Taking out the lock picks, he inserted the longest pick into the lock.
Her eyes widened. “Wherever did you learn this skill?”
“I once had a locksmith as a client. He taught me.”
She smiled up at him, and his heart pounded erratically in his chest.
He turned his attention back to the lock until he felt a slight click in the mechanism. Reaching for the handle, he opened the door a crack and pressed his ear to the doorjamb. When he heard nothing to suggest another’s presence, he ushered her inside and closed the door behind them.
Isabel took off her half-mask and whirled around. “Oh, my,” she whispered in awe. “This is what wealth can buy.”
She walked past him, her eyes feasting on the walls where oils, engravings, watercolors, frescos, and charcoals hung in splendid display.
Stopping in front of an engraving, her gaze was riveted. “Look here! It’s William Hogarth’s The Marriage Contract, the first of the three scenes comprising Marriage à la Mode. I love his work.”
Marcus walked up to the engraving. The artist showed a poor nobleman marrying his son to the daughter of a rich commoner. As the fathers negotiate the marriage contract, the engaged couple, obviously not a love match, ignore each other as the future bride flirts with the solicitor, her soon-to-be lover. It was common knowledge that Hogarth had made engraved copies of his paintings and had sold them cheaply in large quantities for money. But it appeared by the single digit in the corner of the piece, that the engraving in Gavinport’s collection was one of the first, and thus, quite valuable.
He turned to Isabel. “Do you admire it because Hogarth mocks marriage in the series?”
She looked at him in surprise. “You must admit Hogarth’s satire is refreshingly honest.”
He thought of his own parents’ disastrous union. “Yes, I suppose most marriages are far from blissful matches.”
She looked away and pointed to a painting. “Here’s a self-portrait of the Flemish master Peter Paul Rubens. His art is tremendously popular with the Regent, who owns several of his works.” Turning to a group of others, she said, “and there are oils from English portrait painters, Joshua Reynolds, John Hoppner, and Thomas Lawrence, all favorites of Prinny’s.”
She spotted another piece and took a quick sharp breath, her eyes brimming with excitement. “Oh! Just look at this breathtaking watercolor by Joseph Mallord William Turner!” She read the inscription on the frame, “Warkworth Castle, Northumberland—Thunder Storm Approaching at Sun-Set. What a stunning landscape, a vision of vapor and nimbus clouds. I can only dream to paint a watercolor with half the talent some—”
“Over here, Isabel.” Marcus strode to a large oil well hidden in the back of the room. “It’s a Gainsborough.”
Isabel rushed to his side. “The Mall in St. James’s Park,” she read the title out loud.
Close to four feet tall and nearly six feet wide, the 1783 painting was enormous, showing numerous well-dressed figures promenading through the park. The women’s shimmering dresses perfectly captured the light against the landscape that surrounded them. In the painting the artist had cleverly included himself poised behind a copse of trees, holding his palette. Marcus had read that Gainsborough had used dolls as models, but as he studied the painting closely, it was difficult for him to fathom what he’d read, as the figures in the painting looked very much like breathing models.
“It’s beautiful, but it’s not the Seashore with Fishermen,” Isabel stated the obvious.
“I know it’s not the stolen painting, but look at this.” He pointed to a small business card attached to the bottom-right-hand side of the frame. In bold block letter script it read: DANTE BLACK AUCTIONS.
Isabel gasped. “My sources said Lord Gavinport owned a Thomas Gainsborough painting and that he had dealt with Dante Black in the past, but I never suspected that he acquired a Gainsborough work through Dante Black.”
“Gavinport must have paid Dante Black a tidy sum for this picture. From what I see in this private gallery, Gavinport has expensive taste in art and is willing to pay a hefty price to acquire it. I would not be surprised if he has previously purchased work on the black market, or more importantly, that he would hire a crooked auctioneer like Dante Black to fake the theft of another Gainsborough painting to add to his collection. It would not matter to Gavinport if the painting was stolen since he would house it in his private gallery. No one would be the wiser.”
“But if that were true, where is the stolen painting?” Isabel asked.
“Perhaps Dante hasn’t had a chance to deliver it yet. Knowing Dante, he is probably keeping a low profile to avoid attention from Bow Street until he can turn over the painting.”
