The Surrender of Miss Fairbourne (2 page)

“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 Fairboune 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.”

Slowly the crowd found seats and the sounds dimmed. Riggles stepped up on a stool so he showed tall behind the rostrum’s podium. Mr. Nightingale moved to where the first lot hung on the wall. His perfect features probably garnered more attention from some of the patrons than the obscure oil painting that he pointed to.

Emma Fairbourne remained discreetly away from the action but very visible to everyone.
Bid high and bid often,
her mere presence seemed to plead.
For his memory and my future, make it a better total than it has any right to be.

E
mma kept her gaze on Obediah, but she felt people looking at her. In particular she felt one person looking at her.

Southwaite was here. It had been too much to hope that he might be out of town. She had prayed for it, however. He went down to his property in Kent often, her friend Cassandra had reported. It would have been ideal had he done so this week.

He stood behind all the chairs, dressed for riding, as if he had been heading down to the country after all, but had seen the newspaper and diverted his path here. He towered back there and could not be missed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him watching her. His harshly handsome face held a vague scowl at the doings here. His companion appeared much more friendly, with remarkable blue eyes
that held a light of merriment in contrast with the earl’s dark intensity.

He thought he should have been told, she guessed. He thought it was his business to know what Fairbourne’s was doing. He was going to want to become a nuisance, it appeared. Well, she would be damned before she allowed that.

Obediah began the sale of the first lot. The bidding was not enthusiastic, but that did not worry her. Auctions always opened slowly, and she had given considerable thought to which consignment should be sacrificed like this, to give the patrons time to settle in and warm up.

Obediah called the bids in his smooth, quiet fashion. He smiled kindly at the older women who raised their fans, and added a “Quite good, sir” when a young lord pushed the bid up two increments. The impression was that of a tasteful conversation, not a raucous competition.

There were no histrionics at Fairbourne’s auctions. No cajoling for more bids, and no sly implications of hidden values. Obediah was the least dramatic auctioneer in England, but the lots went for more than they should when he brought down his hammer. Bidders trusted him and forgot their natural caution. Emma’s father had once remarked that Obediah reminded men of their first valet, and women of their dear uncle Bertie.

She did not leave her spot near the wall, not even when Mr. Nightingale directed the crowd’s attention to the paintings and objets d’art near her. Some of the people in the room would remember that her father stood here during the sales. Right in this spot where she now was.

As the final lots approached, Mr. Nightingale retreated from his position to stand beside her. She thought that odd, but he had been most solicitous today in every way. One might think his own father had taken that fatal fall, from the way he accepted the condolences of the patrons during the preview, almost losing his composure several times.

As soon as the hammer came down on the last lot, Emma exhaled a sigh of relief. It had gone much better than she had dared hope. She had succeeded in buying some time.

Noise filled the high-ceilinged chamber as conversation broke out and chairs scraped the wooden floor. From his place beside her, Mr. Nightingale spoke farewells to the society matrons who favored him with flirtatious smiles and to a few gentlemen who condescended to show him familiarity.

“Miss Fairbourne,” he said while he bestowed his charming smile on the people passing by. “If the day has not tired you too much, I would like a few words with you in private after they have all gone.”

Her heart sank. He was going to leave his situation. Mr. Nightingale was an ambitious young man and he would see no future here now. He no doubt assumed they would just close the doors after today. Even if they did not, he would not want to remain at the auction house without the connections her father had provided him.

Her gaze shifted to the rostrum, where Obediah was stepping down. It would be a blow to lose Mr. Nightingale. If Obediah Riggles left, however, Fairbourne’s would definitely cease to exist.

“Of course, Mr. Nightingale. Why don’t we go to the storage now, if that will suffice.”

She walked in that direction with Mr. Nightingale beside her. She paused to praise Obediah, who blushed in his self-effacing way.

“Perhaps you will be good enough to meet me here tomorrow, Obediah? I would like your advice on some matters of great importance,” she added.

Obediah’s face fell. He assumed she wanted advice on how to close Fairbourne’s, she guessed. “Of course, Miss Fairbourne. Would eleven o’clock be a good time?”

“A perfect time. I will see you then.” As she spoke she noticed that two men had not yet left the exhibition hall. Southwaite and his companion still stood back there, watching
the staff remove the paintings from the walls in order to deliver them to the winning bidders.

Southwaite caught her eye. His expression commanded her to remain where she was. He began walking toward her. She pretended she had not noticed. She urged Mr. Nightingale forward, so she could escape to the storage chamber.

“W
ith your father’s tragic passing, things are much changed, I think you will agree,” Mr. Nightingale said. He stood before her in his impeccable frock coat and cravat. He always looked like this. Tall, slender, dark, and perfect. Emma imagined the hours it must take him each day to put himself together with such precision.

She had never liked him much. Mr. Nightingale was one of the many people who showed a false face to the world. Everything about him was calculated, and too smooth, too polished, and too practiced. While imitating his betters, he had assumed their worst characteristics.

They were in the large back chamber where items consigned for auction were stored for cataloguing and study. It held bins for paintings at one end, and shelves and large tables for other objects. There was also a desk where she now sat. Mr. Nightingale had positioned himself to her side, so she did not have the distance of the desktop between them, the way she would prefer.

Emma of course agreed with his assessment that things were much changed. It was one of those statements that was
so true as to need no articulation. She disliked when people spoke this way, explaining the obvious to her. Men in particular had this habit, she had noticed.

She merely nodded and waited for the rest. She wished he would hurry up with it too. These preliminaries were all beside the main point, which was that he was leaving, and some plain speaking would be welcomed.

Worse, she was having difficulty even paying attention to him. Her mind was back in the exhibition hall, wondering what Southwaite was doing and whether he would still be there when she exited this room.

“You are alone now. Unprotected. Fairbourne’s has lost its master, and while our patrons were kind today, they will quickly lose confidence in the sales if you think to continue them.”

That got her attention. Mr. Nightingale had always struck her as a walking fashion plate. All surface and artifice. Not at all deep.

Now he had revealed unexpected capacities for insight, if he had surmised that she considered continuing the auctions at Fairbourne’s.

“I am well-known to the patrons,” he forged on. “Respected by them. My eye for art has been demonstrated time and again during the previews.”

“It is not an eye such as my father possessed, however.” Nor that she possessed, she wanted to add.

“No doubt. But it is good enough.”

Good enough was not, in this situation, truly good enough, unfortunately.

“I have always admired you, Miss Fairbourne.” He flashed that charming smile. He had never used it on her before. She did not find it nearly as winning when directed her way as she did when he cajoled a society matron to consider a painting that had been overlooked.

He was a very handsome man, however. Almost unnaturally so. He knew it, of course. A man could not look like this and not know just how perfect his face appeared. Too perfect, as if a portrait painter had taken a normally
handsome face and prettied it up too much, to the point it lost human distinction and character.

“We have much in common,” he went on. “Fairbourne’s. Your father. Our births and stations are not dissimilar. I believe we would make a good match. I hope that you will look favorably on my proposal that we marry.”

She just stared at him. This was not what she had expected. She found herself at a loss for how to respond.

He took a deep breath, as if fortifying himself for an unpleasant task. “You are surprised, I see. Did you think I had not noticed your beauty these last years? Perhaps I have been too subtle in communicating my interest. Credit that to my respect for both you and your father. You have quite stolen my heart, however, and I have dreamed for many months that one day you might be mine. I have always believed that you and I had a special sympathy, and under the circumstances I now am free to—”