Mad for Love (10 page)

“True,” she acknowledged. “And speaking of all that is calm, I must tell you all about his grace, the Duke of Bridgewater.”

“Yes?” Her papa was all eagerness to hear.

“The flowers were, as I suspected, a ruse to become acquainted with me, but it was all in the service of art, and his collection. He wanted nothing with the Pontormo—so you are all in the clear. He only wanted me to intercede to convince you to sell him the Verrocchio. Even though I told him it was not for sale.”

“Ah.
Bon Dieu
. These Englishmen are all mad as hatters. It must be something they put in the tea.”
 

“Yes, indeed.” Mignon was too happy to object on behalf of her new countrymen. Besides, the duke did seem a little mad. As did others who would not be mentioned in her conversation with her Papa.
 

Perhaps madness was going around, like an influenza.

“
Pardon, Monsieur le Comte
.” Henri, stood in the doorway of the breakfast room. “There is a man to see you, sir, from the Society of Lloyd’s Exchange in Cornhill Street.”

“A man? Not a gentleman?” Papa looked to Mignon. “Henri is too nice about such things.”

“He is a respectable man,” Henri clarified, “a clerk of some kind,
Monsieur le Comte
. A senior clerk, I should think.”

Papa shrugged. “No doubt a respectable, dull man, which will please you, my dear Mignon. Show him in to the salon, if you will, Henri.”

Mignon followed her papa to meet the elfin man who appeared every small inch a senior clerk, and came up to introduce himself with a short bow. “Mr. Arthur Ossier, sir, from the Society of Lloyd’s. My apologies for calling so early, sir,” the clerk said. “But it was deemed imperative to collect your signature on the policy on the artwork by Verr—” The little man consulted his notes to read out the unfamiliar name. “Sig-nor Veer-oh-chee-oh.”

“No, no.” Papa smiled serenely. “I have taken no insurance on such a work—it is beyond price.”

“Yes, exactly, sir. A special cover was taken by Sir Joshua Reynolds on behalf of the Royal Academy of Arts, that the artwork be insured against loss or damage in transportation and exhibition, as well as theft, by the Society of Lloyd’s.”

“Theft, you say?” Papa shot her a glance, perhaps thinking of their own recent encounter with theft, though she had not told him of her subsequent meetings with her gentleman thief.

The little man nodded ruefully. “There seem to have been rather more robberies of domiciles of late, sir.”

Papa gave Mignon what she could only call a speaking glance—a glance that told her not to speak. “So we hear,” he said noncommittally.

“Many of our wealthier citizens have taken to putting iron bars across their windows as a prevention against such thefts.”

Papa shuddered dramatically. “God forbid. Like living in a gaol.”

“As you say, sir.” Mr. Ossier was all sad agreement. “But the artwork in question is not housed here, but in the exhibition space of Somerset House, which is where the cover is taken. If I may?” He opened a leather folio. “I shall need to obtain your signature upon the document.”

“And the cost?” Papa was nothing if not frugal with his ill-gotten gains.

“At no expense to yourself, sir. All borne by Sir Joshua Reynolds of the Royal Academy, and His Grace the Duke of Bridgewater, patron.” He spread the foolscap on the empty central table. “Once you sign, sir, the work of art is covered until it is returned to this house in good order.”

“I just have to sign?”

“Yes, sir, and then it is insured against loss by flood, fire, accident, mischance, looting, sacking, pillaging, act of war, or theft.”

“How delightfully thorough you English are.”

At last Mr. Ossier smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

Papa took up the pen Mignon hastened to bring him from the
escritoire
, dipped it into the inkwell she also held for him, and signed with his usual careless flourish.
 

Mr. Ossier was pleased—his elfin cheeks turned pink. “I thank you, sir.” He sanded the signature, waved it dry and then carefully folded the policy, put it away in his case, and retrieved his hat from Henri. “By the by, sir.” The clerk paused in the doorway. “Would you like to be present at the examination of authenticity?”

Papa stopped stock still in the middle of the Aubusson rug. “Examination of …?”

“Authenticity, sir. Yes, Lloyd’s now require it for artwork, due to the current fluidity of the markets due to the bad business in France, if you’ll pardon my saying.”

“Of course.” Papa waved away the entirety of the Revolution—he had more pressing problems.

“And, of course, you have just authorized the examination with your signature, so your most valuable work will be protected in such troubled times.”

“Have I?” Poor papa’s voice cracked, as if he had a cat in his throat.

“Yes, thank you.” Mr. Ossier made another smart bow. “A mere formality. A specialist, the Honorable Mr. Cathcart, the Earl of Cathcart’s youngest son, is an authority, I’m told. He is a Scotsman, but also a connoisseur, so they say, in the Old Masters, and has been engaged to conduct the examination Monday next.”

Papa was too stunned to speak, and Mignon feared the two of them were gaping quite rudely at the poor clerk, who seemed to sense his visit was at an end. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time, sir. I’ll see myself out.”

Papa and Mignon said and did nothing until they heard Henri close the door behind the man. At which point Papa collapsed into a chair. “
Bon dieu
.”
 

Good God was only the beginning of the decidedly blue curse Mignon had been formulating. And even though she had warned her father of this exact sort of thing befalling him, she felt not even a smidgeon of satisfaction—only overwhelming worry. “This Mr. Cathcart, have you heard of him? Will he be able to tell?”

Papa passed his hand over his eyes, as if the thought pained him deeply. “He’ll know. He discovered that hack Lefevre, but that was to be expected—
he
didn’t even make his own paints, or use appropriate old canvas. And his technique! No
impasto
, no attempt at
sprezzatura
. Well…” Papa made a thoroughly Gallic sound of disapproval. “
Bon débarras
. Good riddance.”

“But Lefevre was a painter,” Mignon pointed out. “Could this Mr. Cathcart know sculpture so well?”

“Who knows?” Papa threw up his hands in despair. “But my dear, at even the first faint huff of suspicion, the entire myth of the Blois Collection goes up in smoke. Every thing I’ve sold, every single piece, will be examined to the last speck of ultramarine and vermillion, and we’ll be ruined. Ah.” He closed his eyes as if he might block out his vision of a bleak future. “We live in a crass, grubbing world with no
finesse
or
élan
. No faith or trust.”
 

Mignon refrained from pointing the ironies of such a statement, while Papa poured himself a medicinally large helping of cognac. But they could not just drink and despair—they had to do something.

She firmed her resolve as much for him as for herself. “Then we will simply keep this man, Mr. Cathcart, from examining the Verrocchio.” But how? “You could recall the Diana from the exhibition—we’ll go directly to Sir Joshua, and tell him you have changed your mind about loaning the statue.”

“No, no.” Papa waved her suggestion off. “I cannot do that. The effect would be the same—all suspicion. I have just put my head under their guillotine, and loosened my collar to make it all the more convenient.” He lapsed back into his chair with his head in his hands for a moment before he sprang back up, reaching for her. “I must keep you out of this. You must leave London.” He gripped her hands as if he would shake his urgency into her. “You must take the money from the sale of the Vermeer, and go to America. You are young and beautiful, and they are friends of the French.”

“Oh no, Papa.” As if she would leave him to face the wolves alone.

“You must. It will be easier for me to bear, if I know you will not be touched.”

“Papa.” She tried to speak calmly—far more calmly than she actually felt. “I’m not going to leave you in your hour of need. No, we
du Blois
stick together.”

In the hallway outside the salon, Mignon could hear the rapid advancement of feet, before Henri slipped through the door. “
Monsieur le Comte
, there is another man, a gentleman, Lord Carrington, come to call. About a painting by Hals, he says.”

“Papa!”

Papa glanced up at the painting in question, and managed to look both pained and guilty. “Such an erudite young man.”

“The Hals?” Mignon dropped her voice to a whisper. “But Papa, you only just finished—how does he even know?” And this new lord was not the first person to show interest in the Hals—her gentleman thief had been just as particular.

Her papa could only give her one of his deprecating shrugs. “I might have said something. He introduced himself at Mr. Christie’s auction of my Vermeer, when it fetched such a staggering sum, and I might have let slip that I was also in possession of the Hals.”

“Oh, Papa.” So by now all of London—both the criminal and aristocratic halves—knew of the painting. And the paint could not even possibly be dry. “You must send him away.”

“Yes, yes, I must.” Papa sighed with resignation. “Send him away, Henri. Send him away, though it pains me. Quickly, man”—he waved his hands at Henri—“before I change my mind.”

“Papa, you must realize this
charade
is finished.” Mignon didn’t care if she had to beg. “Please!”

“Why? Why not? Why should I not have my triumph over them all—over all of them, aristos and peasants alike. They stole everything we had, and if I have stolen it back, piece by piece, then I am not ashamed. Let them come. I will tell them all. I will shame them and their experts and their connoisseurs alike. I will triumph, I tell you.” But his voice gave away to despair.

“Papa.” She wrapped her arms about him. “We will find a way. We will triumph.” But they had to start by taking the Verrocchio back before it could be examined. If only she could sneak into Somerset House as effortlessly as her gentleman thief had snuck into their home—

The idea came to her just like the proverbial thief in the night. All of a sudden, it was there—and idea so outrageous, so daring, she felt a little bit mad.

Mignon raised her eyes to see the Hals portrait looking down at her with an encouraging twinkle in his eye. Encouraging her to be outrageous. Encouraging her to dare. “Papa? Where is Brooks’s Club?”

“St. James’s.” Papa’s tone was flat and disinterested with despair. “Next door to number sixty. It doesn’t have its own number. So eccentric, so English, that.”
 

“Yes, very English, Papa. Madly so.” She kissed his cheek. “I think I’ll go and join them in a fine piece of madness.” She stood and straightened her skirts. “You leave it all to me.”

Chapter Ten

Rory Cathcart was just turning up St. James Street toward Brooks’s from his cramped office at Mr. Christie’s Auction rooms on Pall Mall—employment was playing havoc with his self-importance—when he saw the improbable sight of the delightfully determined Miss Mignon Blois approach the steps of the impenetrable gentleman’s club, and try to catch the inscrutable doorman’s eye.

Today she was attempting to go about
incognito
, wearing a wide, black
bergère
hat draped with a fine black lace veil, over a dove grey silk
robe à l’anglaise,
dripping with more black lace at collar and cuffs. The effect was quite of the mode, and understatedly fashionable, as he had come to expect of her, but undeniably French.

Rory put his hand to his hat, and started up the street at a run.

“Mr. Andrews?” he could imagine the burly chap guarding the door—a former prizefighter—saying to her. “Don’t know any damn Andr—”
 

“Why,
Mademoiselle
.” Rory tipped his hat to her as if he had only just that moment doffed it. “Do come away from there.” He escorted her away before the doorman could get a good look at her fair face. Or call him Mr. Cathcart. “Ye’ll give Rudyard an apoplexy, asking to be admitted like that.”

“But I was not asking—” Beneath the veil, her fair face suffused with some combination of indignation and embarrassment. Whichever it was, the effect was utterly charming. “Oh, I see you take delight in acting the rogue.”