CHAPTER 25
Eva sat in her library, trying to read. Three lamps burned, so anyone looking inside could see she was alone. They could also see ten paintings propped against the walls, their colors glowing like melted jewels.
The plan was simple and, she hoped, not at all dangerous.
She had carried her letter into the tavern all alone, and left it for the proprietor, with nothing untoward occurring.
In it she acknowledged she had the treasure, expressed relief someone had finally come for it, and declared she would, of course, trade it for her sister.
They were to come tonight and take the pictures that exceeded her brother’s share.
If they did not bring Rebecca with them, she had threatened to raise the hue and cry.
She tried to contain her fears, but they chewed away her confidence as time passed.
No matter how often she reminded herself she was in no danger, that three armed men roamed outside and would watch everything, she could not remain calm.
If Rebecca were not in the middle of this, it might be different.
If Rebecca had not taken the pistol, having it nearby might have helped too.
There was no telling how long she would have to wait. She tried reading again.
She had turned ten pages when she heard a gentle commotion outside. Soft voices and quiet footsteps approached the house. She bent forward so she could see the reception hall. The door opened and Rebecca’s yellow dress appeared. Three sets of boots followed her in.
She stood, and Rebecca ran to her. While they embraced, Rebecca whispered, “I’ve the pistol right here in my shawl. They don’t. Have pistols, that is.”
Eva looked past her to the three men. One might be thought a gentleman on a good day, but drink had turned his skin ruddy and eyes shallow, even though he was probably only thirty years old.
The other two were working men. She recognized the biggest one as one of the strangers she had noticed in the area the last couple of months.
The other, smaller one’s presence shocked her.
“Erasmus? How are you involved in this?” she demanded.
He gave her one of his grins. “Just making sure no one gets hurt, Miss Russell, least of all you or Miss Rebecca. Some of these sort forget their manners at times.”
“You can picture my surprise to see him upon being removed from the carriage that took me away,” Rebecca said. “I am very disappointed in you, Erasmus.”
“Life has a way of doing that, Miss. Disappointing one, that is,” he said.
The gentleman ignored them all while he peered at the pictures.
“They call him Crawley,” Rebecca whispered. “Appropriate, since he makes my skin crawl when he looks at me.”
Right now Mr. Crawley examined the pictures like someone who knew what he was about. These were originals, not her copies, in the event the thieves had very good eyes for art.
“Where are the others,” he asked. “There should be more. Twenty or so.”
“The others are my brother’s share. I was told I could keep them.”
“The shares are not a matter of number, but value. These here are the smallest, and not one third the value, so the rest is not all yours. Not that offering that was agreed to by me to start. I will need the others too.”
“My brother insisted the rest were ours. He was very clear on that when he told me the location of the art while on his deathbed. Therefore, I arranged for their sale.”
Crawley’s expression hardened. “You sold them? That was most unwise.”
“I said I arranged for their sale. This was recent, and they are not yet sold as I understand it.”
“Then I ask again, Miss Russell. Where are they?”
“I expect they are still in the possession of the agent who will facilitate the sale. Mr. Gareth Fitzallen.”
Crawley’s colorless eyes reflected astonishment, then humor. “Fitzallen! Aylesbury’s mongrel? Now that is delicious. I expect it is back to town for me to speak with him. I regret your sister must accompany me until the share you keep is indeed fair.”
He gestured to the large, rustic man who had stood silently through the entire exchange, and at Erasmus.
“Best if you come, Miss Rebecca,” Erasmus said.
“I do not think so. I will stay here.”
Crawley sighed with exasperation, and gestured toward her while glancing to the big man. Those heavy boots took two steps.
Eva dug into the bundled shawl and brought out the pistol.
“Neither my sister nor I will be kept as a hostage in this misunderstanding. Go and speak with Mr. Fitzallen if you must. You do not need to travel to London since he lives right up the road. The rest of my brother’s share is there, awaiting transport to the coast.”
The pistol stopped the big man, who appeared confused at seeing the weapon.
He scowled at Crawley, as if the rules in some game had unexpectedly changed without warning.
Crawley eyed Eva then the pistol. “I’ve yet to see a woman hit her aim with one of those.
Hell, women don’t even know how to load them. ”
“I practiced until I could, after your men tore my property to pieces. I can overlook that if our business is completed with fair dealing, sir, but I will not allow my sister to be at a stranger’s mercy, especially if I have concluded that stranger’s honor is dubious.”
An ugly aura poured off Crawley. One malevolent and dangerous. Eva pushed Rebecca behind herself and held the pistol as steady as she could.
“Fitzallen has a buyer on the Continent?” Crawley asked.
“He does. It took some time to arrange, but all is settled, he told me.”
He appeared to think that over. It was hard to tell. His slack face and vacant eyes made his thoughts and considerations impossible to know.
“Just up the road, you said he was.”
“Barely a half mile. You cannot miss it. Erasmus will take you there. He knows the house well.”
“You had better not be lying to me. I find that house empty or those pictures gone, I’ll not be worrying about anyone’s honor then, least of all mine.”
“You disappoint me, Mr. Crawley,” Rebecca said. “After all our conversations about moral philosophy, for you to make such a crude threat is most disheartening.”
Crawley rolled his eyes, then pointed at Eva. “You come with me, and leave her and her reforming notions here. I’ll be needing you to tell Fitzallen that you agree to what I want.” He turned to the big man. “You stay here with her, Wiggins.”
“Hell, I don’t want to listen to her either!”
“Then don’t listen. Just don’t let her or these pictures leave.”
Eva handed Rebecca the pistol. Rebecca smiled at the big man, and sat down. He sat down also, overwhelming the chair. He did not look happy.
As Eva left, she heard Rebecca speak. “Good and bad all come down to whether we have souls, Mr. Wiggins. Unless we do, the question of our goodness has no meaning. When I asked your opinion of that yesterday, you never answered. Allow me to elucidate what various philosophers have argued on that point.”
* * *
“She changed the damned plan,” Ives said as he and Gareth mounted their horses.
They had heard her conversation with Crawley while pressed against the house below a window.
“Hers is better,” Gareth said. “Brilliant. He will come right to us now. If I play the cards well, we will learn where the other pictures are. He is sure to want me to include them in this foreign sale if I can.”
Ives reached over and grabbed the bridle so he could not ride.
“Let us have a right understanding. Neither Crawley nor that scrawny one leaves. Lance will take that big one as soon as the way is clear, but I don’t trust the big fellow to know what we need.
Whatever game you play, it does not include any of them walking away tonight. ”
Gareth agreed, although it would limit his options. Left to his own choice, he would dangle a quick foreign sale of the entire cache of pictures in order to get hold of the rest. Ives, however, feared Crawley bolting. He assumed Ives believed that, if necessary, Crawley could be made to talk.
He was sure Erasmus could be.
He thanked the sound instincts that had kept Erasmus ignorant of this business and away from Albany Lodge most of the last fortnight.
They tore up the road at a gallop, knowing a carriage would follow soon. Crawley had left it at the end of the lane and walked up to the house. As he rode, Gareth paced out Eva’s way back to that carriage. He and Ives turned the bend just around the time he expected the equipage to roll.
“I’ll take the horses,” Ives said when they reined in at the lodge. “I’ll come in through the garden and make my way up so I am not far from the library. Leave the door open so I can hear.”
Gareth entered the library, lit two lamps, pulled out a book, and shed his frock coat. He placed his pistol in the drawer of a nearby table. He had just settled in to read when he heard the carriage arrive.
Hurried steps sounded on the stairs from below. Not Ives. Harold appeared, pulling on his coats and combing his hair with his fingers. He stuck his head in the library. “Your brothers, sir? Or visitors?”
Gareth cursed. He had clear forgotten that Harold had stayed tonight, the better to serve the duke and lord visiting by day.
“Visitors, I believe.” He had to decide fast whether to trust Harold, or send him back down, to be dealt with by Ives.
“I need you to show no surprise when you open that door. Just bring them here, then go below. Lord Ywain will be there. Do whatever he says.”
Good soldier that he was, Harold did not even express surprise at the odd command. He straightened and disappeared.
The door opened. Muffled sounds of conversation. Erasmus laughed. Footsteps, and Eva entered the library, followed by Erasmus and another man.
Eva introduced the stranger as Mr. Crawley.
“Crawley,” Gareth repeated. “Aren’t you the cousin of Viscount Demmiwood?”
“I am. I likewise know who you are. The lady says you are holding some art of hers. By an unfortunate misunderstanding a few of my own pictures got mixed in with them.”
“The hell you say.” He scowled at Eva. “This is most irregular, Miss Russell. Had Mr. Crawley become aware of this a fortnight hence, retrieving his property would have been difficult and expensive.”
“I cannot blame you for being vexed, Mr. Fitzallen. I also am relieved this was discovered in good time.”
Gareth smiled at Crawley. “The pictures are all crated for shipment, but if you tell me which ones are yours, I will—”
“Well, now, not so fast. You’ve a buyer for all of them, it sounds like. No need to change plans. Just when you receive payment, you can split off mine.”
“That would certainly simplify matters.” Gareth invited Eva and Crawley to sit, then returned to his chair. “Now, which ones are yours?”
Crawley’s gaze drifted to the decanters on one bookcase. He pulled his attention back. “The Annibale Carracci is one. Then the Claude landscape, and the Titian Danae.”
Gareth swallowed the urge to throttle the man. He had just identified three of the most valuable pictures. Along with the ten he already thought Eva was returning, he was probably not leaving her with anything resembling a fair share.
“Are you sure you agree to this, Miss Russell?” he asked.
“Of course. Mr. Crawley is better familiar with how the collection was divided than I am.” She looked over. Her eyes all but said, It doesn’t matter. Remember? Which it didn’t, he reminded himself.
“Then that is how it will be.”
Crawley chewed his upper lip for a moment. “Would this collector be interested in others? I’ve more, you see. Important works.”
“I am sure he would be. However, if you have other pictures of this quality, you can do better selling here in England. It was only the lack of sufficient provenance for her pictures, and the need for a fast conclusion, that led me to advise a foreign sale to Miss Russell.”
“I, too, would prefer a fast sale, all at once, much as she is doing.”
Gareth pretended to ponder that. “I had intended to transport these soon. There will not be time to write and confirm that he also wants yours. I think he will, but—”
“If you are going with them, I would send mine as well, and travel along. If this collector does not want them, another might.”
“Oh, certainly. If they are all you say, I am sure another would.”
“Mr. Fitzallen does not broker anything but the best,” Eva said. “He came highly recommended. Why, he would not even talk particulars with me until he had seen the pictures.”
“What Miss Russell says is true. I would have to see what you have. Is the collection nearby?” Gareth hoped Ives was listening carefully and appreciated how damned close they were to being led to the rest of the art.
“A day’s ride. Maybe two.” Crawley’s eyes narrowed rather longingly on the decanters again. “It would be better for me to bring several of the works here.”
Not close enough. Damn. “You do own all of them free and clear? No estate encumbrances, for example? I once wasted almost a year on a collection that it turned out required the death of the man’s father before it could be sold.”
“As it happens, all the required deaths have taken place.” Crawley found that very amusing.
Eva glared with dangerous eyes. “Are you speaking of my brother?”
Crawley’s mirth died. “No, dear lady, I am not.”
Eva did not believe him. Neither did Gareth. Crawley twitched nervously. He stood. “I will remain in touch, Fitzallen. I expect you to as well. Once the pictures are sold, we can settle up. If all goes well, we can see about the others.”
“I trust my household will be spared any more intrusions,” Eva said.
Crawley faced her fully and made a bow. “You have my word.” He turned to go, and froze. The way out was blocked. Ives stood there, pistol at the ready.
Crawley pivoted, his gaze desperately searching for another exit. Gareth shook his head, and brandished his own pistol.
Ives walked over, placed a firm hold on Crawley’s shoulder, and pressed him down into his chair. “There are many more questions about those pictures before you go anywhere.”
Through the doorway, Harold could be seen marching to the entrance with his own pistol in hand and an uncompromising look on his face.
“Gareth,” Eva said. “Erasmus remained in the carriage.”
Gareth reached the door just as Harold raised his aim at a figure darting into the dark.
“Don’t kill him, Harold.”
“If you so command, sir.”
The crack of a shot sounded, then a cry of shock and pain. Gareth and Harold walked the short distance to where Erasmus writhed on the ground, holding his leg. “You damned broke it,” he screamed.
“Be glad you have the life left to complain,” Harold said. “In the army we dealt with turncoats better. Why Mr. Fitzallen here wanted you spared is beyond me.”
Gareth reached down and dragged Erasmus up by his arm. “I wanted him alive because he likes to talk. Don’t you, Erasmus?”