The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne Read online

  She looked up at him directly. So directly that her gaze seemed to touch his mind. For a moment that lasted longer than time would count, his thoughts scattered under that gaze.

  He found himself noticing things in detail that his perceptions had absorbed in only a fleeting way before. How the light from the window made her skin appear like matte porcelain, and how very flawless that skin actually was. How there were layers to the color of her eyes, so many that one felt as if eventually one could see right into her soul. How that black dress, so simple in design, managed with its high waist and broad ribbon under her breasts to suggest a form that was womanly in the best ways and—

  “I thought it made no sense to hand all those consignments back when it was only a matter of opening the doors and letting Obediah do what he does so well,” she said.

  “Of course,” he heard himself muttering. “That is understandable.”

  “I am so relieved to hear you say that, Lord Southwaite. You appeared angry when you walked in here. I was afraid that you were most displeased by something.”

  “No, not so much. Not angry at all. Not really.”

  “Oh, that is so good to know.”

  He exerted some effort to piece together his normal self. As his thoughts collected, he took his leave of Miss Fairbourne. “I am going out of town,” he said. “When I return, I will call on you to discuss…that other matter.” He had some difficulty remembering still just what that other matter had been.

  “Certainly, sir.”

  He returned to the exhibition hall. Ambury fell into step beside him.

  “Are we finally ready to ride?” Ambury asked. “We will be at least an hour late meeting up with Kendale, and you know how he can be.”

  “Yes, let us go.” Hell, yes.

  “Did you come to a right understanding with the lady, the way you said you must?”

  Darius vaguely remembered blustering something of the sort before he barged into that storage chamber. His mind, all his own again, sorted through what had actually happened after that.

  “Of course I did, Ambury. If one is firm, right understandings can always be achieved, especially with women.”

  While he mounted his horse, however, Darius admitted the truth of it to himself. Somehow Miss Fairbourne had turned the tables on him in there. He had roared in like a lion and bleated out like a lamb.

  He hated to say it, but that woman may have made a fool of him today.

  Chapter 3

  “We will not be lying, Obediah. We will merely allow people to assume that which they will be inclined to assume anyway. It isn’t as if I can do it without you. You have an auctioneer’s license, and the authorities will never give one to me.”

  Obediah appeared substantial and competent only when on the rostrum. Once that hammer left his hand he became a pale, small man possessing an unassuming manner and large eyes that made him look perpetually astonished. Right now those eyes also communicated discomfort about the small deception that Emma had just explained to him.

  The silence stretched. While Obediah accommodated his shock at her unusual request, Emma lifted a small, framed oil painting from where it rested against the wall of the storage chamber.

  “The owner claims this is a study by Angelica Kauffman,” she mused, tipping the painting to get better light on its surface. “I am inclined to accept that, as was my father. It is good enough, and in her style. Do you agree with the attribution to her?”

  “I’ve not the eye to agree or not, Miss Fairbourne. That is why your idea will not work. I could not tell the difference between a Titian and a Rembrandt if you held a pistol to my temple, let alone recognize a painting by that woman.”

  “But I can. As for these paintings already in storage, Papa documented them, so they are all secure.”

  Alarm now. Utter bewilderment. “Do you intend to put these in a new auction? I assumed you had only pulled out the better paintings so that the weaker ones would not bring down their value. I was preparing to return them to their owners.”

  “I pulled them because I intend to build a magnificent auction around them. If we must close, I want to do so brilliantly, not with third-rate works such as yesterday’s sale contained.”

  Trailed by Obediah, Emma walked out to the exhibition hall. The walls were empty now. Those paintings were on their ways to their new owners.

  “This will be most odd. Everyone thought yesterday was the final auction. Now there is to be another final auction,” Obediah muttered.

  “It will not be another. It will really be the second half of yesterday’s, since so many works that it will include came in around the same time as those sold yesterday.”

  “So this will be the final part of the final auction?” Obediah was not a complicated man, and he puzzled hard over the knot of not-quite-final finalities.

  Actually, if she could pull this off, there might be no final auction at all, for years to come. She had resolved that Fairbourne’s would survive for her brother, and also for her father’s memory. Considering Obediah’s confusion, she decided not to burden him with those details now.

  “Miss Fairbourne, I know how to call an auction, whether it be for paintings or pigs, but that is all. Your father brought in the consignments, and authenticated them. He also managed the finances and records. I cannot take his place in those things the way you request.”

  “I can, Obediah. I aided my father more than you know. I learned at his side. I apprenticed as surely as Robert did.” She experienced a small panic, because Obediah was sounding stubborn for the first time in her memory. “I can see this through, but only if you let people think that you lead the house now. A small ruse is all I propose, because no one will trust a woman’s management.” She heard her voice assume a pleading note. “I am sure that my father would have wanted Fairbourne’s to continue at least awhile longer.”

  She gestured to the ceiling and walls, and to all that her father had built. It would be horrible to have it end in a blink. The very thought made her heart sick. She dreaded the idea of her brother, Robert, returning home, only to find the most important part of his legacy gone. She also could not bear the thought of losing the business that had been Papa’s great achievement.

  With the purchase of this property three years ago, her father had announced that Fairbourne’s had arrived. The location right off Piccadilly Street made it easy for society to attend the grand previews and sales, and the great exhibition hall displayed dignified grandeur in its proportions, decoration, and tall, big, north-facing windows. The move here had led to better consignments, higher bids, and notable prestige.

  She remembered the excitement she and her brother had shared while they watched the building have a second floor removed so the ceiling soared so high. Robert would bring her over in the carriage almost every evening, to see what progress had occurred. On those rides he regaled her with his dreams for Fairbourne’s. Papa sometimes still held minor auctions, such as she had presented yesterday, or those of libraries or inexpensive objects. Robert’s plans aimed higher, and he saw Fairbourne’s competing with Christie’s in all ways and all things.

  They soon were well on their way to that status. That first year here, prior to Robert’s disappearance, had been the best year in her memory, full of optimism, good news, and a stream of impressive consignments.

  Her mind’s eye saw her father and brother within the great room as clearly as if they had materialized. She realized suddenly that this must have been why her father sold Southwaite that partnership. This was how he had used that money. She had not seen the connection before.

  She had been angry with Papa since she learned about that partnership from the solicitor. Now, with the memories of that glorious year filling her heart with sweet, aching emotion, she understood better.

  She faced Obediah. “What say you, old friend? Either we go forward together, or Fairbourne’s dies with yesterday’s whimper.”

  Obediah’s moist eyes suggested he had been dwel
ling in the past just as she had. “Seems we could try, at least, if you are determined,” he said. “Your father paid for my license, didn’t he? Seems right that I should call the final part of the final sale.” He smiled softly. “I’ll do my best to appear a man who knows more than I do, but I’m sure to be found out if anyone wants to unmask me.”

  “No one will try to do that, Obediah. Why would they bother?”

  He did not appear convinced, but he did not argue. “I suppose I should unpack that silver that you put aside, so it can be listed.” He walked away, back to the storage chamber.

  Emma prepared to return home. She was relieved that Obediah would stay on, and that he would accept the new role she had devised for him. Nor should anyone question his abilities. He had called the auctions, after all. No one really knew how Fairbourne’s operated, and who possessed what expertise in which area, when you got down to it.

  Well, one person might know, she admitted ruefully. Southwaite might be aware of who knew what among the staff. He also possessed sufficient expertise of his own to spot a charlatan posing as a connoisseur.

  She would have to prevent his visiting Fairbourne’s again, if she could. With any luck he would remain too busy with whatever he did in Kent to much bother with them.

  * * *

  “He proposed,” Emma said that afternoon, concluding her description of her unpleasant meeting with Mr. Nightingale after the auction.

  Cassandra’s blue eyes grew wide. The very dark lashes that rimmed those eyes gave additional drama to her surprise. So did the small parting of her full red lips.

  Emma had seen the effect Cassandra’s expressions of astonishment had on men. She wondered if they responded because it made her appear like an innocent, bewildered girl, when in fact she had not been anything of the sort for some years now.

  “Did he profess love?” Cassandra angled closer, very interested in the story now.

  “He tried. Imagine a voice droning like a fly’s buzz, speaking the predictable words with the enthusiasm reserved for memorized school lessons. I stopped him and insisted we not pretend more sentiment than either of us has ever felt.”

  Emma lifted one of the necklaces laid out on velvet cloths on her dining room table and inspected it while she finished her tale. “All that was left after that was the most dreary and practical of offers. He finally threatened to leave his situation at Fairbourne’s if I did not marry him.”

  Sympathy softened Cassandra’s gaze. “Mr. Nightingale is very handsome. He cuts a good figure, and has an ease of manner with society. He probably thought his proposal would be welcomed.”

  “Welcomed? You underestimate his conceit. He assumed that I would swoon at such a catch, and count myself a lucky spinster, although I never gave him cause to think I favored him at all.”

  “You speak as if none of this mattered, yet your color is rising,” Cassandra said. “I think his proposal annoyed you for reasons beyond his presumptions.”

  Emma rolled the tiny links of the delicate chain between her fingers. “He also assumed that I would claim my father’s estate,” she admitted. “He thought that he proposed to a wealthy heiress. When I disabused him of that notion, he tried to convince me of my brother’s death, and spoke cruelly and harshly on the matter.”

  Cassandra’s lips pursed the way mouths do when their owners are swallowing words. Since Cassandra did not have a small, bowed mouth, the effect could not be missed.

  “Is there something you want to say? Do not hold back on my account,” Emma said.

  “I have nothing to say. Although, if I did, it might be a little scold that it is not fair to hold it against a man if he thinks someone who was on a sinking ship did not survive. There is an undeniable logic to that point of view.”

  “I explained to him—and to you, many times—that in this case the person in question did survive.”

  “Calm yourself, Emma. Pray, continue with the denouement of this proposal.”

  “It ended with merciful speed after that. He left with no employment and no wealthy fiancée, and I was left with no future husband and no exhibition room manager. I will sorely feel the latter loss.”

  Cassandra did not appear nearly sympathetic enough. “Emma, could you not have arranged to have him remain, at least until after the next auction? Could you not have put off your decision on his offer, for example?”

  “Could I not have left him dangling, you mean.”

  “Could you not have left him hopeful, while you assessed your emotions, I mean.”

  “I knew my emotions already. It would be dishonest to allow him to think there might be a marriage.”

  “I suspect Mr. Nightingale would have settled for less. Even the possibility of winning your affection, if not your hand, might have induced him to stay.”

  “I hope that you are not suggesting that I should have flirted with him.”

  Cassandra laughed. “You say that like it is a crime. I know that you believe plain speaking is best, but a little flirting is harmless. You should try it sometime. Really, you should. It would do you good. Actually, Mr. Nightingale is reputed to flatter in the best ways at the right times, and some of his flattery might have done you good too.”

  Emma had not yet mastered how to decipher some of Cassandra’s subtle meanings and entendres, and she interpreted them wrong at times. “You are not speaking of his verbal flatteries, are you?”

  “As long as his lovers are left believing in his admiration, I doubt they care how it is communicated.”

  Emma felt her face warming. Cassandra now referred to things Emma knew little about. She was of an age when she found her own lack of experience annoying sometimes.

  “I have no interest in that man’s flatteries, of any kind. As for admiration, he made it clear that he had none. Please spare me the humiliation of describing just how clear.”

  Impish lights sparkled in Cassandra’s eyes. “We must find you another man, then, one who knows better than to insult you when trying to win your favor.”

  “You will do nothing of the kind, Cassandra. I will be much too busy for such silly diversions. Now, enough of that. Let us talk about your exceptional jewels.”

  “If you insist. However, I look forward to the day when you learn there is never truly enough of that.”

  “Cassandra!”

  “Oh, dear. I have shocked you. Yes, let us move on to a boring discussion of my financial misery, and my only hope to rectify the disaster.” Cassandra gazed down on the collection that she had brought with her. The jewelry covered the table like a bed of deeply hued, glittering flowers. “I will cry when they are sold, but I have no choice unless I want to return to my brother’s house and live the most dreary of lives.”

  “I know some of these were given to you by your aunt. Will she not be angry when she learns that you sold them?”

  “I told her my plans, and she advised me on which items it would be best to consign. I hope that you can still get the two thousand that your father predicted.”

  “Since you allowed me to hold them back for the next sale, I think we will. They would have been wasted yesterday, but will be one of the notable glories of the next auction and should bring that amount at least.”

  Cassandra appeared skeptical. “You are very sure that you are going to do another one, then? Even without Mr. Nightingale?”

  “Absolutely. Obediah has agreed to remain with Fairbourne’s. I will begin preparing the other items for display and also solicit more consignments. I will do everything I can not to disappoint you.”

  Emma spoke honestly, but the situation only reminded her of how much she had to do in the next few weeks. She needed to fatten the auction with more consignments, and find some rarities to pique the interest of the best people. She needed it all ready before the Season ended too, so society would still be in London when the auction was held.

  “Do you want to take these home with you, and keep them until we are closer to the sale?” Emma asked while she roll
ed up the cloths that protected each item.

  “It was hard enough bringing them today. I may lose my resolve if I must do so again.”

  “Then come with me. I will show you how they will be safe.”

  Carrying the little rolls in a box, Emma led the way upstairs to her father’s chambers. Her steps slowed as she drew near the door. She did not like being in Papa’s apartment now. Each brief visit sent grief slicing through her like a newly honed sword.

  As soon as she entered, she paused to collect herself.

  She had rarely seen her father in his bedchamber, but she had often visited him in this little anteroom. The wall of bookcases made it a tiny private library, and Papa often used the floor to spread out the large folios that held engraved reproductions of paintings.

  She had come upon him many times on his hands and knees, hovering over several books opened thus, flipping back and forth while he sought some tidbit of information on an artist whose works had been consigned. More often he would be at the small writing table on the opposite wall from the bookcases, his feather pen scratching on correspondence to his collectors.

  It was in this small chamber that he had told her about Robert’s ship going down, and promised her that despite that tragedy, Robert would one day return.

  Softly and gently, Cassandra’s arms came around her, reminding her too much of her father’s embrace that day. Emma accepted the comfort but it made her more vulnerable to the memories, and for a while grief touched her deeply. Then she composed herself and carried the jewelry into the bedchamber.

  The bedchamber was paneled in an old-fashioned style, and there was a good reason why new tastes in decoration would never change that. Going to one of the panels, she found the hidden latch behind a molding, and swung the wood away to reveal a locked case set in the wall.