CHAPTER 8
Eva peered into her looking glass. Besides her face, its reflection showed the chaos in her chamber.
Most of her garments lay on her bed, waiting for her to choose the ones she would take to Birmingham.
She had been too agitated the past two days to complete the task, and now she would be up half the night getting prepared.
She opened the drawer of her dressing table a crack and eyed the crisp white letter within.
It had arrived this morning, delivered by Erasmus.
Before she read it, she took the opportunity to ask Erasmus to keep an eye on the house while she and Rebecca were gone.
Not that there was anything to steal. She felt better knowing someone would check on occasion, however.
With Erasmus working for Mr. Fitzallen, stopping by here would not be inconvenient.
Mr. Fitzallen. She had forced herself to think of him that way ever since she ran from his house. It had been a mistake to allow the informality of first names. One of many mistakes.
He also had retreated into formalities in that letter.
Dear Miss Russell,
Business affairs take me away again for several days. When I return, I will call on you, to speak words that our last meeting demands.
Your servant,
Gareth Fitzallen
She assumed he would call on her to apologize.
If that notion produced a foolish pang of disappointment, she could not be blamed.
He had disrobed more than her body. He had uncovered yearnings and needs she did not even know existed in her.
She rather wished he had not, so she would know some peace again.
She had only to think of that hour with him to shock herself anew. Yet, the long, strict scold she gave herself as she hurried home needed repeating over and over. Left to her own mind’s memories, the wonders and pleasures would have their way and send her into a most inappropriate reverie.
“What are you staring at?” Rebecca now loomed in the reflection, too, right behind her.
“My eyes.” His flatteries needed to be remembered. She must force herself to keep the evidence that he was a lying seducer fresh in her thoughts. Humiliation lay buried in the truth beneath those lies. Was it enough to keep her from believing him in order to be swayed?
Rebecca pulled pins out of Eva’s hair, so her locks fell free.
Rebecca picked up the brush. “They are unusual. Changeable. Sometimes green, sometimes blue, other times almost gray. I think it depends on the lighting. And your mood, of course. When you are angry they are definitely green, with golden sparks all but flying out of them.” She worked the brush down Eva’s back. “I have always envied you your eyes.”
“That is ridiculous. You could never want to trade these for yours.”
“A lot you know. Mine are blue in an ordinary way. When yours are blue, they are the color of a perfectly clear pale jewel. But it is the way they change that I envy.”
Eva looked again. Right now in the candlelight, she could not tell what color they were. All she saw were the tiny reflections of the candle’s flames.
“You have not packed,” Rebecca said, while still tending to her hair. “That means you can make room for my gift.”
“Gift? What gift?”
Rebecca set down the brush. “I will be right back.”
A few minutes later Rebecca’s steps sounded on the floorboards. She entered Eva’s room, only nothing of Rebecca could be seen except her feet. The rest of her hid behind a dress that she held high by the shoulders.
A woman would wear such a dress to a dinner party or the theater. Constructed of satin more silver than gray, it bore embellishments of tiny white beads and lace on the neckline and sleeves. A tasteful band of lace decorated the lower skirt.
“Where did you get this?” Eva cried. “It must have cost a fortune.”
“It cost nothing but time.” Rebecca laid it down on the bed. “I used one of Mother’s old dresses and redid it, took another dress for the underskirt, then took the lace off yet another garment. We must fit it once we are in town, but I think it will be close enough.”
“The laces and fabric in that trunk were for your wardrobe, not mine. You were supposed to—”
“I have not slighted myself, Eva. I just used some of what was left for this. If we have a chance to attend an assembly, you cannot go otherwise.”
Eva had not intended to attend such events at all. Rebecca would do better with their cousin at her side, anyway.
She fondled the satin. She embraced Rebecca and gave her a kiss. “It is a wonderful gift.”
“I am glad you like it.” Rebecca smiled impishly. “You will turn every head when you wear it. Why, we will probably find you a suitor before we come home.”
Eva watched her sister leave, then turned to her packing, shaking her head. Sweet Rebecca had it all backward.
* * *
Go to Chatsworth. The steward Montley will speak with you.
That had been all Ives’s letter had said. It needed no further explanation. If such an introduction had been obtained, the chance should not be lost. So Gareth had ridden up to Derbyshire, and the main estate of the Duke of Devonshire.
Gareth approached Chatsworth’s manor house in late morning.
He had already ridden through extensive grounds almost as large as some counties.
One of the most famous houses in the world now beckoned beyond the river.
He stopped his horse on a rise of land to admire the building and its placement, and the evidence of improvements being showered on the estate by the current duke.
He could not guess what his reception would be. Presumably this steward would not pretend a higher station. The man would have had some experience dealing with bastard children of dukes, as the last Duke of Devonshire had sired two.
Grooms took his horse at the house. The butler took his card. Shortly he was escorted to a back office where the steward, Mr. Montley, sat at a high secretaire of incalculable value. A library table beside the desk carried stacks of account books.
Greetings completed, they moved to two chairs that looked out over the back garden.
“I should explain that I am not actually the steward,” Montley said. “My position can best be described as a special secretary. With all of the properties, His Grace felt the need for someone to watch and coordinate all the estate stewards.”
“If you are the man who knows something about these pictures that have gone missing, then you are the man I need to speak with.”
Thinning dark hair and spectacles made Montley look older than his years, which Gareth estimated to be the late thirties.
Perhaps he had been a friend of the duke, and thus more trustworthy than those stewards.
He bore the air of gentility and education.
A younger son of some peer, most likely, for whom this position had more appeal than the church or the army.
“I know what little there is to know. I regret that the actual events that led to the misplacement of the pictures remain unknown.”
“Misplacement. That is a word not used before in the matter.”
“It is our belief that when the last duke died nine years ago, and the estate was in transition, that these pictures were inadvertently removed from their resting place and sent elsewhere due to some misunderstanding on the part of the household that held them.”
In other words, it was not our fault.
“Will you share with me the reason you believe this?” Gareth used all the charm he could muster to say it. There was no profit in challenging Montley.
“It is the only logical explanation, of course. In addition, the caretaker remembers the inventory made at that time, and a good many objects removed. The other properties have been searched in an attempt to see where the pictures were sent. During the last few years I have personally traveled to each one, because there is no point in sending a list of paintings to butlers who would not know a Raphael from a Rubens.”
Gareth pictured the many properties of Devonshire, all stuffed with art. He could believe it had taken years to go through it all. The duke owned eight major estates and many smaller ones.
“You visited each and every one? I envy you. You probably know more about the duke’s collections than he does.”
Montley gestured to the table. “I took the opportunity to make a complete catalogue. The inventory made at the last duke’s death, while lengthy, had some ambiguities and omissions.
Lest you wonder if those were not omissions, but instead the inadvertent incorporation of the missing paintings into the duke’s own collection, let me assure you that I do know Raphael from Rubens.
Unfortunately, none of the pictures belonging to his fellow peers could be located in those houses. ”
“Do you have a list of those paintings? My brother has sought to obtain one, but is meeting some resistance.”
“Perhaps someone fears the list will be published, to the embarrassment of all if it is released.” A meaningful gaze all but said that Devonshire did not want that list circulating.
“Without such a list, I can hardly help. You will be on your own in this mission.”
“That might be for the best.”
“The Prince Regent does not agree. He charged my brother with investigating. I am here instead, due to the death of my half brother. If Devonshire wants no one except you involved, he should tell the Crown that, and I can go about my other business.” He leaned forward companionably.
“No one thinks there has been negligence on your part. Yet after, what, four years, the mystery remains. A new pair of eyes and less fastidious methods might yield new facts.”
Montley laughed. “Less fastidious methods? What, do you intend to beat information out of the servants?”
Gareth just looked at him.
Montley frowned. “I am sure your brother would not approve.”
“You do not know my brother well, do you?”
Montley flustered. “I see.”
“Those paintings did not grow legs and walk out of storage.”
“No. Of course not.”