The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne Page 8

  How many of the consignments over the years described as “from the estate of a gentleman” had in fact arrived like this, anonymously and very quietly?

  She tied down the canvas so the wagon’s contents would be protected and also invisible. Then she returned to the house and sought out Maitland.

  “Maitland, that woman today—have there been others? Strangers like her, who came to the garden door and asked for my father, and who left wagons near the carriage house?”

  “There were some these last years. Not many.” He paused, then added with earnest apology in his voice, “Mr. Fairbourne seemed to know when they would come. I thought you must know too. If my actions have distressed you, I am abjectly sorry.”

  “Do not apologize. It was wise for me to see her.”

  She retreated to her chamber before she did something that revealed her shock and disappointment. If Maitland knew, all the servants probably did. She had been the only one in this house who had not guessed that Fairbourne’s had been successful in part because Maurice Fairbourne dealt in smuggled goods.

  Darius ran his finger down the row of figures, then glanced across the desk at Obediah Riggles. The older man tried to mask his discomfort at being subjected to this interrogation, but the way he kept blinking gave him away.

  “I have duties to attend to, Lord Southwaite, if you can spare me now.”

  “Not quite yet, Riggles.”

  It was not clear what Riggles thought his current duties might be. That he had resisted being dragged back to this office, and had tried repeatedly to get away, could not be denied, however.

  “There are consignments going back years for which there are no names,” Darius said. “Does discretion extend to the accounts, if an individual requests privacy?”

  Obediah’s face tinted with a flush. “Sometimes. That is, Mr. Fairbourne would make that decision, as you can imagine.”

  “Yet Miss Fairbourne said that you kept the accounts. So Maurice would instruct you to leave off the names?”

  Obediah’s head dipped in what appeared to be a nod.

  Darius found the last payment made to him as a partner. His name was not present either. He recognized it only from the amount.

  He sat back and gave Riggles a good examination. The fellow looked to be a man who would not know how to be deceptive even if he wanted to be. That probably explained why being confronted with the extensive ambiguities in these accounts caused him such ill ease. A smile kept forming and fading on that pale face, but even at its broadest it could not hide the caution in Riggles’s eyes.

  “How much do you anticipate the next auction bringing in?” Darius asked.

  Riggles sat straight, startled. “Next one, sir?”

  “Miss Fairbourne has told me there is to be another.”

  “She has?”

  “The paintings being hung on the walls today also gave me a clue.”

  “Oh. Yes, I see how that might make it obvious. I suppose since you know about it…We hope for many thousands, and should see it if the jewels remain with us.”

  “Jewels?”

  “Lady Cassandra Vernham’s jewels. Mr. Fairbourne estimated—that is, Mr. Fairbourne and I estimated—they would go for two thousand on their own.”

  Darius closed the account book and stood. Obediah jumped to his feet.

  “I trust that you have learned what you sought to know, Lord Southwaite,” he said earnestly.

  “Hardly.” Darius had learned what he feared learning, however. The accounts were vague enough, and possibly incomplete enough, that all manner of items could have passed through Fairbourne’s without much documentation. That the total take could have been understated, and his own share as a result, did not concern him. That the auction house might have been involved in illegal activities did.

  It would be a hell of a thing if a peer who complained publicly about an unprotected coast being vulnerable during this war with France were revealed to have profited from that vulnerability. The irony had not been far from his mind his last three days in Kent, during those meetings he, Ambury, and Kendale had held with the leaders of the volunteer units of citizens who had massed for drills near Dover.

  He had even visited that cliff walk from where Maurice Fairbourne had taken his fatal fall again. There was nothing to recommend that barren strip other than its exceptional views of the beaches and sea in all directions. From that spot a man could easily signal to smugglers that the “coast was clear” of the few Board of Customs sloops that had not been requisitioned by the naval service.

  Darius walked out to the exhibition hall with Obediah on his heels. He surveyed the paintings being hung in their long vertical rows on the tall, gray walls. One of the workers caught Obediah’s eye and made an odd gesture.

  Darius pointed to an oil painting that had garnered his attention when he entered Fairbourne’s. “Andrea del Sarto?”

  Riggles blinked. “Sir?”

  “The painting is by del Sarto, it appears to me. Is that the attribution?”

  “Uh…yes, quite so.”

  “The saints on the sides look a little weak compared to the Madonna.” He bent and peered closely. “Another hand at work, perhaps?”

  Riggles bent and peered too. “My thoughts exactly, sir.”

  Darius turned his attention to the rest of the wall. “It looks spare. Are you anticipating more?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, we are,” Obediah mumbled. “Quite soon. Quite soon.”

  “From whom, Mr. Riggles?”

  Obediah glanced at the front window before realizing another question had been asked. “Sir?”

  “If you are expecting more paintings soon, who will be consigning them?”

  Obediah paused. “Why, gentlemen, sir.”

  Darius doubted any more consignments would be forthcoming. Who would take such a chance with Maurice Fairbourne now gone? Miss Fairbourne said Obediah really managed this auction house, but even if it were true, no one knew that. The world assumed this ship had lost its captain.

  He should have moved to sell the business immediately, before another auction proved its diminished worth, or others voiced suspicions about Maurice Fairbourne’s purpose on that cliff walk.

  The name Fairbourne’s stood for something. Neither a lackluster auction nor rumors of smuggling would enhance its reputation or value.

  “What else do you have, besides these paintings, Riggles?”

  “For what, sir?”

  “The next auction. Surely there will be more than these paintings.”

  “The usual sorts of lots, sir. Objets d’art. Silver. Some drawings. And, of course, the jewels. The last are in safekeeping, and the rest is in storage here, being catalogued.”

  Darius walked toward a door at the back of the hall. Riggles scurried to catch up.

  “Sir! I do not think—That is, the storage room is arranged most carefully, and visitors are not allowed to—”

  “I am not a visitor, Riggles, and I have been in the storage before. I want to see just how sad a showing this second final auction will be.”

  The silver could not hold Emma’s attention. Try as she might to concentrate on the silversmiths’ marks and her notes, the arrival of that wagon yesterday kept interfering with her thoughts.

  She had chewed over the reference to a prize all night. She had risen before dawn and sat at her window to watch day break, and in that silver silence a notion had come to her. Now she could not get it out of her head.

  What if her father had accepted those wagons because he had no choice? It would explain behavior that she knew he abhorred in principle, and which he always believed would ruin Fairbourne’s if it became commonplace.

  If that had happened, what could coerce him to do it? She could think of only one thing. He would do it to protect that which was more valuable to him than Fairbourne’s, or even his own good name.

  He would do it to protect her.

  Or Robert.

  She gazed at her fluid reflection in
a polished silver tray lying in front of her on the desk. Papa had always spoken with great conviction that Robert would return. He had been so sure that she had not dared doubt it herself, although everyone else thought they were both mad to believe it. That ship had gone down in the middle of the sea, but Papa had always said with certainty that Robert was not dead.

  Was it possible that he spoke with such conviction because he actually knew it to be true?

  Could Robert be the prize that must be won?

  The notion had preoccupied her mind all morning. She had been relieved that Obediah was not in the exhibition hall when she arrived, because she wanted to be alone to sort it all out yet again. She kept trying to cast the idea away as a ridiculous speculation, but it fit what little she knew rather well.

  A frightening emotion filled her heart. It was hope, and it wanted to burst free. She dared not allow that, but even contained, it had her on the verge of joyful tears. She proved unable to ignore its demand that she acknowledge that this idea might be correct. Robert might be alive but held by people who demanded that Fairbourne’s pass their illicit goods.

  If so, how long had her father been trying to protect him? It could have been since the day she last saw Robert. The wreck of that ship might have been only a tragic convenience that allowed Papa to create a false story about a false journey to explain Robert’s absence to the world.

  She tried to rationalize the criminal part of it. Under the circumstances, what father would refuse to include a few lots of questionable origin in his auctions? It was not as if smuggling were new or unusual. The Kent coastline had been a smugglers’ lair for generations, and everyone knew it. Half that county’s population must be involved in either bringing goods in or moving them on to London and other cities.

  One might even say the wonder was that her father had not set up Fairbourne’s specifically to enrich himself thus.

  Only he had not, she knew. He prided himself on being a fair and honest man, and both qualities had distinguished his sales as well as his character. It must have sickened him to be required to debase himself, even if the reason was as good as they came. It would sicken her too, but if there were a chance she could see her brother again, if he might come home to her and Fairbourne’s, and take their father’s place, if she might laugh with him again, even one more time, she would do it too.

  She had gone out in the morning and taken a better look at the contents of that wagon. All of it, even the wine, could be sold as if it came from someone in England. It should fetch a good price. Only she had no idea to whom she was supposed to give the proceeds.

  She pondered whether to bring the wagon here, and what story to give Obediah. A plan was forming when abruptly the door opened, shattering her privacy.

  Suddenly Southwaite stood there, looking at her with surprise. Obediah’s head angled around from behind the earl’s shoulder.

  She managed a hooded glare at Obediah for failing to remove the Kauffman from the window. Then she greeted Southwaite with as bright an expression as she could muster.

  “How good of you to visit us, sir. Were you riding by and decided to pay a very brief social call?”

  “I have been here some hours and my purpose was not social.”

  “So you have chosen to interfere anyway, despite what I said at our last meeting.”

  “I have chosen to assess the situation here as I see fit, as I explained at our last meeting.” He strolled into the chamber and looked at the deep shelves that held urns and old porcelain. While he distracted himself, she slid her catalogue notes under the silver tray.

  “Lord Southwaite arrived early, and immediately went to your father’s office, Miss Fairbourne.” Obediah’s expressions, invisible to Southwaite, communicated warning and distress. “He insisted that I accompany him at once, to explain what matters he might need explained.”

  That clarified why the Kauffman had not been removed from the window, but left other unfortunate puzzles. “Matters?” she asked, tipping her head up to smile at the earl.

  Southwaite ignored her prompt. He gazed down at the table where she sat. “Do you have a fondness for silver?”

  “Yes, I do. I possess an unabated passion for it. I always come here before auctions to admire the silver.” It sounded stupid to her, but he had been the one to suggest such a possibility.

  His right hand swung out sideways in a lazy gesture. Obediah rightly understood that he had been dismissed, and backed out of the chamber.

  Southwaite sidled over to the table while his gaze examined its surface. “Some of it is handsome.” He lifted a heavy candelabra and turned it to check its mark. “Is there more, or is this all of it?”

  “For now, this is what has come in. Obediah told me that he anticipates another ten lots’ worth next week.”

  He set the piece down. To her surprise he then sat on the edge of her table, his doeskin-encased hip and thigh supported by its edge and the rest of him still braced by his other leg. The casual position brought him alarmingly close to her.

  “Ten lots will help, but the sale needs more than silver. It is not looking good, Miss Fairbourne. Better to retreat and be remembered as excellent rather than to let the world watch one’s fall.”

  “I am sure that more is coming, including more paintings. Also books, I believe. And cases of very fine, very old wine.” The lies trickled out with distressing ease. This auction had to be held now. More than pride and memories might be at stake.

  “Wine?”

  “So I hear. From the estate of a gentleman.” She hoped she appeared blasé. “A gentleman who needs to pay creditors.”

  He examined her face, as if searching to see whether she merely put him off. She kept her expression innocent, she hoped, but his attention alone sent a series of tremors through her. She prayed she would not blush at the physical evidence that her reactions during that last meeting had apparently left her vulnerable in new ways to this man.

  His gaze warmed and became even more direct. He saw the secret excitement in her. She just knew he did. His eyes carried a new intimacy that provoked alarming inner shudders. She worried that he did it deliberately, to distract her and make her pliable. To prove that he knew the Outrageous Misconception became less presumptuous with every contact that they had.

  “You are not in mourning today.” His examination moved down her body before finding her eyes again. His voice modulated in deep, quiet ways. He possessed a wonderful voice. Its sound affected her blood even when he vexed her. Right now she was helpless to its effects.

  She self-consciously touched the pale rose muslin near her shoulder. “I am not in public. I am not receiving. No one is going to see me today.”

  “I am seeing you.”

  He certainly was. His attention overwhelmed her. So did the way his resting on the table made him loom large, too close and too there.

  “Are you scolding me for inappropriate dress?” She wanted to sound haughty, but she spoke with breathless nervousness.

  A smile. The disarming one. That smile was very masculine. Oh, yes, he knew the effect he was having on her.

  “Far be it from me to scold you about wearing a hue that is so flattering to your complexion. As you said, no one will see you, except me. It is quite private here.”

  Very private. Obediah had left the door ajar a bit, but not by much. The workers sounded far away.

  “Are you staying in town now, Lord Southwaite? You often prefer your country estate, I have heard, even during the Season.” She spoke to fill the silence. Perhaps sound would help her evade the spell he was weaving.

  “I was just there, for several days. I will remain in town for a while, I think.”

  That was not good news. “All is well in Kent, I trust.”

  “All is normal, at least. The volunteer units don their colors and drill, just as they do here in London. The tides still come in and the smugglers still run free. With the navy deployed to stop the French if they come, there is little to halt free t
rade on the coast now.”

  It took great effort not to react to this inopportune turn in the conversation. “Well, they are no real threat, unlike the French.”

  “If all that crossed were wine and lace, that would be true. However, spies also enter and information leaves.” He sounded preoccupied, as if his mind did not really give much thought to his words.

  Her mind, on the other hand, grew increasingly alarmed. Wine and lace. One might think he knew about that wagon.

  She waited for him to say something else, or to move. Neither happened. He just sat there observing her with some private consideration apparent in his eyes.

  Excitement danced in her chest, the beat increasing with each moment their gazes remained locked. She told herself she was reacting like a fool, but that did not stop the sensation.

  She sensed him about to move. It was in the air more than his body, although the hand that rested on the table began to rise. Almost as quickly he halted the movement. One more look; then he broke the power he had been exerting over her as surely as if he had closed a door to his soul.

  She found she was free and in possession of herself again, but not truly glad for it. She sought the thread of a subject that would set aside what had just happened.

  “Obediah said you were asking about matters here,” she said, remembering the way Obediah’s face had contorted in wordless warning before he left.

  “I thought that I should examine the accounts. Have you seen them?”

  “Obediah deals with such things. What would I know about accounts?”

  “They are not difficult to comprehend, if well-done. These are not very detailed, I am sorry to say. There are few names attached to either income or outlays.”

  She knew of what he spoke. She had tried to understand the books, but had given up. There were a variety of possible explanations for such sketchy bookkeeping, and she suspected the earl contemplated them. Considering what she had recently learned about her father’s dealings, she did not want him doing that too much.