The Conquest of Lady Cassandra (38 page)

A discreet cough interrupted their lazy bliss. A delicate knock sounded. Yates sat up and looked toward the dressing room. “What is it, Higgins?”

“A letter, sir. Special delivery for madam. Should it wait until breakfast?”

Yates threw aside the covers and walked to the dressing room. He returned with the letter. “It is from Anseln Abbey.” He handed it over and climbed back into bed.

She sat up and pulled a cocoon of warm bedclothes around her. “I hope Mama is not ill.” She opened it to find a lengthy missive from her brother.

It proved to be the last kind of letter she ever expected to
get from Gerald. Full of apologies, he begged her forgiveness for his past behavior and promised to reform. He went on and on about how mistaken he had been, and expressed his hope that she would find more time for Mama. He offered to arrange his own absence from any family property if she required it in order to visit. He even admitted that she had many fine qualities, and included a little list of them.

He thanked her for taking care of their dear Aunt Sophie.

She let the letter fall onto the bedclothes and stared at her brother’s scrawl. Her initial astonishment gave way to a deeper emotion. She almost wept. It was as if her brother had returned from wherever he had disappeared. Excitement built, and she pictured seeing Gerald and talking and laughing like other women did with their brothers. She imagined family gatherings to which she brought her children, and a closeness that filled the vacant spots the last years had left within their family.

She became almost giddy with happiness.

Then a very different reaction took over.

She picked up the letter. She looked at it closely. Not one correction could be found. It was as if Gerald had made multiple drafts and kept copying the final one until it was perfect, much like they did for their governess when young.

The more she reread the letter, the odder she found it. She could not believe Gerald had written this. All this effusive praise would not be like him on his kindest day. Gerald would never admit he had made all these mistakes, unless someone stood next to him and held a pistol to his temple.

She turned her head. Yates gazed up at the toile canopy. It looked like he counted the figures depicted on it. He displayed no interest in this special-delivery letter. None at all. He had not even asked if in fact Mama was ill.

She folded the letter and set it on a table near the bed. She turned and snuggled back down and looked at her husband.

“It was from Gerald. An attempt at rapprochement. He is very apologetic.”

“That is good, isn’t it?”

“Very good, although I do not think he really wants much to do with me. I am glad, because I do not want much to do with him. Too much has happened between us to ever have it right again. Seeing Mama more often, and more easily, is welcomed, however.”

“After all the hurt, his attempt at an apology should make you happy, I would think.”

“It makes me very happy. Did you not see how overwhelmed I was? I nearly wept.” She looked in his eyes. “It was unexpected, but a wonderful surprise on this glorious day.”

“It probably means that he will not create trouble for your aunt too. That is good news. Prebles said Gerald has removed his petition to Chancery. This must explain why.”

“It is a great relief that he has seen the light.” Other good things would come from this, even if she and Gerald would never be friends. She could visit the home of her youth without enduring scorn. She could reclaim memories lost, of her youth and of her family before Papa died.

She stretched and kissed Yates, and felt profound relief and gratitude for all of those things. She did not know how he had accomplished this. Whether he had bribed or threatened or talked reason, he had convinced Gerald to write that letter, however. She just knew it.

“Are you hungry for breakfast?” she asked. “I am thinking I could lie abed for quite a while still.” She kissed his chest once, twice, three times, tasting his skin. His hand went to her head, holding her there with her lips sealed to his warmth.

“I am hungry, but not for breakfast. For you. As I always am. For your beauty and your passion and your humor, but mostly for your love.”

“My love is always here for you, Yates. We will feast on love together.”

“An unending feast.” He rolled and rose above her, then dipped to kiss her deeply.

She savored that kiss, and all that came after. She relinquished herself to his heart and his body. She enjoyed the pleasure immeasurably, and with each touch acknowledged the truth they knew and shared—that love made it different, and better.

MAY 1798

T
he final sale at Fairbourne’s auction house proved to be a sad affair, and not only because the proprietor had recently fallen to his death while strolling along a cliff walk in Kent. It was also, from the viewpoint of collectors, comprised of very minor works, and hardly worthy of the reputation for selectivity that Maurice Fairbourne had built for his establishment.

Society came anyway, some of them out of sympathy and respect, some to distract themselves from the relentless worry about the expected French invasion for which the whole country had braced. A few flew in like crows, attracted to the carcass of what had once been a great business, hoping to peck a few morsels from the body now that Maurice did not stand guard.

The latter could be seen peering very closely at the paintings and prints, looking for the gem that had escaped the less experienced eyes of the staff. A bargain could be had if a work of art were incorrectly described to the seller’s
detriment. The victory would be all the more sweet because such oversights normally went the other way, with amazing consistency.

Darius Alfreton, Earl of Southwaite, peered closely too. Although a collector, he was not hoping to steal a Caravaggio that had been incorrectly called a Honthorst in the catalogue. Rather, he examined the art and the descriptions to see just how badly Fairbourne’s reputation might be compromised by the staff’s ineptitude.

He scanned the crowd that had gathered too, and watched the rostrum being prepared. A small raised platform holding a tall, narrow podium, it always reminded Darius of a preacher’s pulpit. Auction houses like Fairbourne’s often held a preview night to lure the bidders with a grand party, then conducted the actual sale a day or so later. The staff of Fairbourne’s had decided to do it all at once today, and soon the auctioneer would take his place on the rostrum to call the auction of each lot, and literally knock down his hammer when the bidding stopped.

Considering the paltry offerings, and the cost of a grand preview, Darius concluded that it had been wise to skip the party. Less explicable had been the staff’s failure to tell him of their plans. He learned about this auction only through the announcement in the newspapers.

The hub of the crowd was not near the paintings hung one above another on the high, gray walls. The bodies shifted and the true center of their attention became visible. Miss Emma Fairbourne, Maurice’s daughter, stood near the left wall, greeting the patrons and accepting their condolences.

The black of her garments contrasted starkly with her very fair skin, and a black, simple hat sat cockily on her brown hair. Her most notable feature, blue eyes that could gaze with disconcerting directness, focused on each visitor so completely that one would think no other patron stood nearby.

“A bit odd that she is here,” Yates Elliston, Viscount
Ambury, said. He stood at Darius’s side, impatient with the time they were spending here. They were both dressed for riding and were supposed to be on their way to the coast.

“She is the only Fairbourne left,” Darius said. “She probably hopes to reassure the patrons with her presence. No one will be fooled, however. The size and quality of this auction is symbolic of what happens when the eyes and personality that define such an establishment are lost.”

“You have met her, I expect, since you knew her father well. Not much of a future waiting for her, is there? She looks to be in her middle twenties already. Marriage is not likely to happen now if it didn’t happen when her father lived and this business flourished.”

“Yes, I have met her.” The first time had been about a year ago. Odd that he had known Maurice Fairbourne for years, and in all that time he had never been introduced to the daughter. Maurice’s son, Robert, might join them in their conversations, but never Robert’s sister.

He and Emma Fairbourne had not spoken again since that introduction, until very recently. His memory of her had been of an ordinary-looking woman, a bit timid and retiring, a small shadow within the broad illumination cast by her expansive, flamboyant father.

“Then again…” Ambury gazed in Miss Fairbourne’s direction with lowered eyelids. “Not a great beauty, but there is something about her…Hard to say what it is…”

Yes, there was something about her. Darius was impressed that Ambury had spotted it so quickly. But then, Ambury had a special sympathy with women, while Darius mostly found them necessary and often pleasurable, but ultimately bewildering.

“I recognize her,” Ambury said while he turned to look at a landscape hanging above their heads on the wall. “I have seen her about town, in the company of Barrowmore’s sister, Lady Cassandra. Perhaps Miss Fairbourne is unmarried because she prefers independence, like her friend.”

With Lady Cassandra? How interesting. Darius considered that there might be much more to Emma Fairbourne than he had assumed.

He did not miss how she now managed to avoid having that penetrating gaze of hers connect with his. Unless he greeted her directly, she would pretend he was not here. She surely would not acknowledge that he had as much interest in the results of this auction as she did.

Ambury perused the sheets of the sale catalogue that he had obtained from the exhibition hall manager. “I do not claim to know about art the way that you do, Southwaite, but there is a lot of ‘school of’ and ‘studio of’ among these paintings. It reminds me of the art offered by those picture sellers in Italy during my grand tour.”

“The staff does not have Maurice’s expertise, and to their credit have been conservative in their attributions when the provenance that documents the history of ownership and supports the authenticity is not clean.” Darius pointed to the landscape above Ambury’s head. “If he were still alive, that might have been sold as van Ruisdael, not as follower of van Ruisdael, and the world would have accepted his judgment. Penthurst was examining it most closely a while ago, and will possibly bid high in the hopes the ambiguity goes in van Ruisdael’s favor.”

“If it was Penthurst, I hope it was daubed by a forger a fortnight ago and he wastes a bundle.” Ambury returned his attention to Miss Fairbourne. “Not a bad memorial service, if you think about it. There are society luminaries here who probably did not attend the funeral.”

Darius
had
attended the funeral held a month ago. He had been the only peer there, despite Maurice Fairbourne’s role as advisor to many of them on their collections. Society did not attend the funeral of a tradesman, least of all at the start of the Season, so Ambury was correct. For the patrons of Fairbourne’s, this would serve as the memorial service, such as it was.

“I assume everyone will bid high,” Ambury said. Both his tone and small smile reflected his amiable manner, one that sometimes got him into trouble. “To help her out now that she is alone in the world.”

“Sympathy will play its role in encouraging high bids, but the real reason is standing next to the rostrum right now.”

“You mean that small white-haired fellow? He hardly looks to be the type to get me so excited I’d bid fifty when I had planned to pay twenty-five.”

“He is astoundingly unimpressive, isn’t he? Also unassuming, mild-mannered, and unfailingly polite,” Darius said. “Unaccountably it all works to his advantage. Once Maurice Fairbourne realized what he had in that little man, he never called an auction in this house again, but left it to Obediah Riggles.”

“And here I thought that fellow over there was the auctioneer. The one who gave me this paper listing the things for sale.”

Ambury referred to the young, handsome man now easing the guests toward the chairs.

“That is Mr. Nightingale. He manages the exhibition hall here. He greets visitors, seats them, ensures they are comfortable, and answers questions regarding the lots. You will see him stand near each work as it is auctioned as well, like a human signpost.”

Dark, tall, and exceedingly meticulous in his elegant dress, Mr. Nightingale slithered more than walked as he moved around the chamber, ushering and encouraging, charming and flirting. All the while he filled the chairs and ensured the women had broad fans with which to signal a bid.

“He seems to do whatever he does quite well,” Ambury observed.

“Yes.”

“The ladies appear to like him. I expect a bit of flattery goes far in helping the bids flow.”

“I expect so.”

Ambury watched Nightingale for a minute longer. “Some gentlemen seem to favor him too.”

“You
would
mention that.”

Ambury laughed. “I expect it causes some awkwardness for him. He is supposed to keep them coming back, isn’t he? How does one both encourage and discourage at the same time?”

Darius could not swear that the exhibition manager did discourage. Nightingale was nothing if not ambitious. “I will leave it to you to employ your renowned powers of observation and let me know how he manages it. It will give you something to do, and perhaps you will stop complaining that I dragged you here today.”

“It was not the where of it, but the how. You deceived me. When you said an auction, I just assumed it was a horse auction, and you knew I would. It is more fun to watch you spend a small fortune on a stallion than on a painting.”