Chapter 9
Nine
Grey
“This is the outside of enough!” Wednesday morning, Grey stormed through the disorder of the trunk room, inspecting the damage.
Their boxes had been emptied. The twins’ old rubbish was scattered about and his own carefully packed attire had been tossed like so much flotsam.
His rage knew no bounds. “I want the culprits hanged!”
“Was anything stolen, my lord?” the innkeeper’s lady wife asked anxiously. “We always keep this room locked. I cannot imagine how this happened!”
Apparently the bailiff was already out and about in search of a killer. Or a goat thief. Who knew? Grey stalked the room, looking for clues to the intruder.
His ever-efficient assistant was apparently inventorying trunk contents. Most of the trunks belonged to the twins. It was just the idea of theft on top of murder on top of last night’s near-brawl. . .
This was one too many incidents to be ignored. He just could not fathom motive.
“Someone rummaged, but really, there is nothing of value to steal.” Eleanor sent Grey a speaking glance.
Message received. His manuscript was invaluable. But she had brilliantly secured that in her own—undisturbed—room.
“My room will be next,” he declared. “Without our own place, we will have no privacy in which to work and no safety. We must proceed to Bath.”
“We have a private library,” Verity Russell, the gracious innkeeper’s wife interjected, eager to appease. “We keep it locked. No one really knows it is there. Thieves are unlikely to look for books, are they?”
Grey feared that was exactly what they were after, but they had never done so.
. . until last week. Leaving Andrew behind to return the trunk contents to order, he and Leonard followed their landlady.
An inn with a library appealed to his curiosity.
She led them back down the inn’s lengthy upper hall to the central corridor.
“It is not large, but it provides a work table and a modicum of privacy. You might store your valuables here and no one would be the wiser. The room goes unused.” Mrs. Russell unlocked the door.
Grey studied the old library table and its padded chairs, trying to quell his irrational fear. His book was immensely important to him—and possibly the art world—but to a common thief? Unlikely.
If nothing was stolen. . . had someone actually followed him here, half a kingdom away from the school? Why? Normally, once he moved on, the odd incidents ended. To think he’d been followed. . . was disturbing. Most likely, a coincidence that a thief happened upon his trunks.
He had hoped that the ransacking of his desk at Harrowby was simple nosiness, but if not, he didn’t wish to see two years of hard work destroyed. Precautions should be taken.
The inn’s library bookshelves were reassuringly lined with substantial volumes on a variety of subjects. It was quiet. Good. Out of sight, even better. If he could protect his assistants as well. . . “This works,” he admitted grudgingly.
Their landlady sighed in relief. The inn obviously needed his patronage.
Miss Leonard set down her files. “This is a kindness, Mrs. Russell. If you will give us the key and put the room on Lord Greybourne’s tab, we shall work in here. We’d appreciate it if you did not reveal our presence.”
Reminded again that some vermin had dared invade his trunk, Grey bit back a growl. Perhaps driving him out of town was the only purpose of this useless mischief? If so, the vandals did not know him well. He wasn’t leaving until he’d explored all possibilities.
Grey had to assume Comfrey was not murdered in order to drive him away. He was not that consequential, surely. But his trunks. . .
He paced the shelves, plotting. No one got away with rummaging through his belongings—but he was aware that he could not strangle everyone crossing his path. This was an inn. Theft happened, the reason he never carried valuables.
“I do not know how anyone learned of your trunks,” Mrs. Russell said worriedly. “We have no other guests to see them. Rafe will warn the staff about mentioning the library. But word leaks, one way or another, sir. You have attracted interest, I fear. People will note your presence.”
“Bath,” he muttered as the lady swept out, leaving them the key. “No one would notice us in Bath.”
“Or London or Birmingham,” Miss Leonard said serenely, laying out her papers, pens, and ink. “Let us box up your completed pages and send them to your publisher for safekeeping.”
Grey sent her a look of horror. “I am not done with them. I cannot be done with the beginning until I have finished the ending. They are all related.”
She refrained from arguing, although the tight set of her rather expressive lips showed she’d like to. “Why are you so set on Bath as an alternative?”
“Townhouse there, on an abominably noisy street.” Studying the shelves, Grey worked his way through titles on architecture, while pondering yesterday’s encounters.
That one last night still grated. Unlike Comfrey, the intended brawl had been personal.
“You did not have to save me last night, y’know.
I am perfectly capable of fending off tosspots without your dramatics. ”
She made a dismissive noise. “I am certain you are, my lord, but Andrew is not. And while a brawl might have been amusing, I was in no humor to see Mr. Russell’s tidy pub damaged if you took to crushing heads with chairs.
Crude bullies need to be reminded that the world does not revolve around them. ”
“Right. I’m sure your vapors properly chastised the oafs.” He found a volume the size he wanted. “Place our critical notes in here while we work. I’ll store them later on a top shelf. No thief will have the time to search every book.”
“Will you sleep on the manuscript tonight to prevent them finding it?” she asked in a tone that offered her low opinion of his security. “You would think you are writing the Holy Bible from the original parchment.”
It was only because she’d stored the box of files under the bed of her lady’s maid that they hadn’t been found. His assistant had calculated rightly that no thief would so much as consider the existence of a lowly servant, much less believe a woman protected Grey’s valuables.
They couldn’t count on that ploy working again. “I have loyal servants in Bath. You would be safer there.”
“You would allow your enemies to keep you from your chosen course?” she countered, knowing him too well. She took a seat and sorted through papers. “Have you considered that Mr. Comfrey died because he told someone you were renting the house?”
If that was her argument for staying, it was a poor one.
Yes, he had considered it. He didn’t intend to admit such self-centeredness. “Making me feel guilty is a dirty ploy. Why do you want to stay? Any normal female would be glad of a visit to Bath. Just think of the gentlemen suitors you might collect.”
Huh, another good reason not to visit Bath. He might lose a most excellent assistant. He’d worry about that after the book was done.
“I am sure Bath is lovely and I should love to visit someday,” she replied placidly. “But Andrew will be far more helpful in a place where he can easily walk about to carry out his errands. It might be better to consider who wishes you harm before darting off in all directions.”
“Like Napoleon, my enemies are many, my equals are none. I have, upon occasion, reported reprobates for their more serious transgressions. I am not unknown. You have read my manuscript.” Grey reached for the most recent draft. “Do you really not recognize any of the names?”
Some of whom seemed to have followed him here—but how? He’d have to believe his book was what they wanted, except how could anyone know what was in it?
“Not immediately. I have not memorized them.” She whipped out several sheets of neatly inscribed lists and scanned them. “Ah, Percival, Gustav, and Jones, if I remember yesterday’s contretemps. What have you done to cause their animosity?”
“Nothing relevant, by all accounts.” Grey sat back and considered it.
How could the rag-mannered boors even know about his notes?
“Percival is the younger son of a younger son of a no-account title. He knows everyone but hasn’t a ha’ penny to his name.
He uses his acquaintances to write scurrilous gossip about society, theater, art, any scandal people are willing to pay to read about.
Or pay him not to sell. He's not beneath a little extortion. I have signed statements in those files by two artists who say he vilified them in the press at the request of another artist.”
She flipped through the pages, unconcerned that she was alone with him in a locked room. Because she still thought herself male? Fool woman. Now that he could see her properly, she had curves in all the right places, and Grey had to drag his gaze back to his papers.
“To what purpose? Spite?”
“Excellent question and one I have asked. The ones vilified were rivals of the artist who paid Percival. They claim to have lost several commissions because of that article. The art world is bitterly irrational at times.” One very good reason Grey preferred writing about dead artists—they didn’t retaliate.
But he was no longer able to ignore the contemporary undercurrents he’d uncovered over the years. Justice must be served.
Italy was taking on new meaning as a permanent destination.
She found the page she wanted. “Your notes claim an Archibald Jones benefitted from the slander. Is he the pleasant, russet-haired gentleman we met yesterday? Or is he a different Jones?”
“Same one. We are not speaking of top of the trees artists like Turner or Constable. These are bottom of the market sorts scrabbling for the most lucrative appointments. In general, the public knows little of art, so, sadly, it is often the artists who attract attention who succeed.” He threw another sheaf of papers in her direction.
“Rather like politicians who rattle sabers. Noise attracts notice.”
She read the top paper. “Antoine Gustav? That is the horrible man in the inn last night, the one Mr. Lavigne flung out for insulting Miss Talbot yesterday morning? You believe he copies the masters—and does what, sells them as original? How is that possible?”
Miss Leonard was a very quick study.
“The public is ignorant. Gustav is from the Continent and has seen far more art than your average duchess. Even an approximation of the masters will suit, if it’s dramatic enough.
” Or naked enough. Some of the ladies quite enjoyed Michelangelo’s works.
“And he presents that foreign cachet that convinces the public he is a genuine genius.”
“These artists fear what you may know about them?” She studied his notes with more interest than earlier. “Is it even reasonable to assume they know of your knowledge?”
“Our trunks were ransacked,” he said dryly.
“I doubt it was for my meager coin and nonexistent jewels. But you are correct. I have chastised various artists publicly over the years, and warned potential patrons, upon occasion, but they cannot know I am writing about them. I have ever been a historian, first and foremost.”
“They have reason to dislike and resent you,” she concluded, “But no reason to murder or hunt your notes.”
His conclusion also. “Very astute, Miss Leonard. Which leads us back to the mystery of Mr. Comfrey. We will need to know more of him. One hopes there will be a letter from the bank this evening. If they will not let the house, we have no reason to stay and investigate.”
“Perhaps we could stay in Stratford, if that’s where he’s from,” she said demurely, sharpening a pen nib. “Didn’t Machiavelli mention one should keep close watch over one’s enemies?”
The woman was possessed of the devil. Grey regarded her with interest.