Mad for Love (4 page)

The rich wine seared its way down her dry throat as Papa went on. And on. “Be proud that your own grandfather had the cunning and eye to sculpt it, and your own grandmother the beauty and poise and scandalous nature to pose for it. For months she stood naked, without moving a muscle. My uncle and cousin were scandalized, of course—they had not the true Blois sensibility. But my cousin is gone now—they are all gone. And we will do what we must to see the name of Blois restored, and celebrated.” He smiled at her in his scoundrel way. “You must put on your prettiest French frock, and come to the exhibition’s opening.” He sighed with anticipatory contentment. “I do so like a party.”
 

Chapter Four

Mignon did not put on a
robe à la française
, nor did she go with papa to the soirée at Somerset House—he might have taken her presence for approval, or worse, encouragement. Instead, she took the opportunity to give Henri and Madame Henri, who was their cook, the evening free for themselves, while she curled up in front of a bright cozy fire with the latest novel.
 

All was quiet and bliss until something, somewhere in the house, went bump forcefully enough to make Mignon jump. Pricks of fear needled under her skin—this is how it had started in Paris—a thump at the door, then a brick through the window.
 

Mignon held her breath, listening intently, trying to sort out the normal background sounds of the city outside the window from the product of her frantic imagination. She had almost convinced herself that there was nothing when she heard the second unmistakable sound of furniture crashing onto the parquet floor of the salon.

Fear chilled her skin like a rime of ice, but still she tried to rationalize away the spreading dread—Papa must have gotten back early, and without Henri to light all the lamps, might have stumbled into the furniture. That’s all it was. Surely.
 

Still, her heart rattled in her chest like an ice-covered shutter.

But she could not sit in her warm room quaking in cowardly terror—Papa might be hurt. He might need her. Perhaps he had imbibed too much champagne, and needed assistance coming up the stairs. It wasn’t like him to become cup-shot, but stranger things had happened.

And stranger things were at that moment happening, because half way down the darkened stair the draft from a wide open window chilled her to the bone, filling her with more than dread. Because she knew she had not left a window open so wide that the curtains fluttered and danced like nervous ghosts, or made the single taper Henri had left at the bottom of the stair waver and shake like her knees, knocking together in abject terror.
 

Because in that wavering light, she saw the long spectral shadow of a man wielding a small beam of light, searching the walls of the salon. For art. Forged art.

Mignon’s legs collapsed under her, and the old staircase creaked under her weight.

The light in the salon abruptly went out.
 

She clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from the moan of fear forming in the back of her throat from escaping. She froze, cowering on the stair with her chest squeezed tight from trying not to breathe.

After a long moment the light was unshuttered, and the tall shadow began to pry a painting off the wall. And not just any painting, but the Hals
Cavalier
her father had just finished and hung.

Of all the pieces he might have chosen.
 

What was she to do? It was a long run past the open salon to the front door, and once out in Soho Square she might not be able to raise the watch. But she had to do
something
.

The cold palm she had clamped across her mouth reminded her that her hands were empty—she was unarmed against the intruder. But above her head was a large red baize decorative display of arms—Papa had arranged it adorning the stairwell to remind himself of the armorial displays exhibited at the Blois family chateau of his youth.
 

It might be a display, but the weapons were actual guns and swords, even if they were ancient. And a weapon in the hand was better than none at all. And if she were very clever, and very quiet, she might just be able to prise one of the small arms—

The first gun would not come away, nor would the second above it. But the long wooden handle of a halberd, with its sharp pike and gleaming axe blade, came off its pegs, sliding silently down to fill her hands.

Thus armed, she drew in a deep breath to steady herself, and to gather enough courage to move. To get up off the stair, and creep nearer to the salon, where the low glow from the fireplace embers revealed the thief closely examining the Hals with the light from his shuttered lantern.

“
Arettez
.
Do not move,” she said, her voice over-loud and cracked with the fear that gripped her as tightly as she gripped the heavy medieval weapon.
 

The thief of course moved—whirling around, wielding his lamp to try to find her in the darkness, finally training the thin beam of the lantern on her. “Well damn my eyes,” he said in the most pleasant of English tones. “Look at ye.”

It was not exactly the sort of response she had been seeking. She moved the head of the weapon to shield her eyes from the light. “Put down that painting.” She made her voice firmer. “Put it down. And the lantern as well.”

Astonishingly, he did as she bade. Which emboldened her to step sideways, nearer to the bell pull just inside the wide door to the salon—Henri might be out of the house, but the thief might not know that.

Despite the dim lighting, the thief had clearly followed her gaze, and deduced her intent. “Miss Blois, please.” The thief smiled as he took two steps toward her. “I can expla—”

“Stay where you are. How do you know my name?” Her voice was high and frightened, but she brandished the halberd with such erratic force that he stopped, and put his hands in the air for good measure.

Yet his voice was everything calm and unruffled. “It’s my business to know.”

The words themselves chilled her, but his manner—so civil, so helpful, so
English
—took away a great deal of their ice.

From its place against the table, the
Cavalier
smirked up at her. Why the thief could not have set his eye to stealing any of the other paintings—one of the few originals in the premises, for instance—was beyond her. Because this one, she had to defend. She couldn’t possibly let it out of the house—the paint was probably not even properly dry. “Why did you choose that painting when you might have taken”—she pointed her pike around the room—“any of the others?”

The thief shrugged, and spread his long lean arms in a gesture of complete innocence. “It was the handiest,” he lied cheerfully, ignoring the six other paintings that were closer to the window. “But I’ll just go, shall I? No painting, no crime.” He smiled charmingly, making polite conversation as if he were at a tea room, and not being held at the business end of a pike. “I was only going to take the one painting, and ye’ve got so many,” he said, as if this justified his crime. “Chances were, ye might not even have missed it.”

Clearly he did not know her papa if he thought Charles Blois would not miss even one of his creations. But—
 

Another idea intruded. “Did my papa put you up to this?” It would be just like her papa to mastermind a theft of his own painting to increase the notoriety of the Blois Collection, as he called his mishmash of stolen family art and forgeries.

“Yer papa?” His eyes narrowed, as if he thought he might have mis-heard her.

Mignon didn’t answer his question, nor did she repeat hers. Mostly because she really had to concentrate to keep the long halberd steady in her shaking hands.

“I’ll just put the painting back, shall I?” The thief hefted the large frame, and replaced in onto its hooks in the wall. “There.” He stepped back to admire it, and then adjusted it, as if it actually mattered to him that it was hung evenly. “Oh, it is magnificent. Pity.”
 

“Pity? About what?”

“Nothing.” And then he smiled at her in a way that was meant to show her that he was a rather handsome man—tall and elegantly-formed in a rangy way, with a sweep of curling, sandy hair, and interesting, vivid blue eyes.
 

She would take it up with
le bon Dieu
at some time later—after God had graciously delivered her of this ruffian—that he should be so capricious as to make a terrible man so light and beautiful. So English, with his lean, intelligent face and long, aristocratic nose.
 

Which was a strange thing to say about a common housebreaker one was holding at the point of a pike. Which seemed not to be having quite the menacing effect she had intended. Perhaps she needed some show of strength.

Her eyes slid back to the bell pull.

“Ye needn’t bother.” He had followed her glance. “There’s no one there, is there? The house is empty. Except for ye, of course. But it was supposed to be empty while ye were all at the opening of the exhibition.”

His casual frankness—not to mention his cheek—was astonishing. “How did you know this?”

“It is my business to know,” he repeated. “But I clearly didn’t know enough—I didn’t know ye’d be here.” He cocked his head to the side as if he were trying to see her better. “I’m sorry if I frightened ye out of bed.”

Mignon suddenly felt the stupidity of standing there in her thin white night gown, talking to a housebreaker—it was dashed difficult to look intimidating in linen so old it was worn to a transparent softness that was far too revealing.
 

She felt entirely exposed—the air of the salon prickled against her flesh despite the warmth from the fireplace, and she had to swallow over her dry mouth to say something, anything that would help her feel less vulnerable.

But it was her gentlemanly thief who filled in the conversational gap. “I thought ye’d be at the opening with your father, ye see. Such a big event like that.” He chatted on, as if they were having a pleasant coze over tea, and not over a medieval bladed weapon. “Ye frightened me, too, ye ken. So we’re even.”

Good Lord, but for an Englishman, he had altogether too much
sang froid
.
 

Mignon forced herself to find her voice. “I am not frightened. I am angry.” She firmed her hands on the handle. “How dare you break into our house.”

“I am sorry,” he said again. But he didn’t look sorry at all—he was smiling at her in a way that made her think that she amused him far more than she intimidated. “But there’s really no need for threats of violence. Though ye don’t really look as if ye could stab me anyway.”

“Of course I could. If I wanted to.”
 

Which she did not want. Not at all. She only wanted to defend herself, and the painting, and be left in peace.
 

But that brought up another consideration. “Oh, dear God. Are you armed?” she cried. She backed up a few paces herself, because her arms were quivering like the thin birch trees out in the square.

“Heavens, no. I’m a gentleman.” He held open the lapels of his well-tailored coat—these English tailors had a way with cutting—to prove he had no weapon.

“A gentleman?” She let her disbelief and disdain color her tone.

“Of sorts—a gentleman thief.” He gave her that disarming smile again—the one that was clearly meant to make her go weak at the knees. “But still a gentleman. So as a gentleman, I’d like to ask ye if perhaps ye might put that thing down, or at least aim it a bit less directly as me.” His glance slid to the tip of the weapon. “It makes me a trifle nervous.”

“Good.” She brandished the halberd more firmly. “You are supposed to be more than a trifle nervous.”

“Well, that’s the criminal class for ye—no proper feelings,” he said with breezy insouciance as he gave her another smile, all dazzling apology and glossy charm.
 

So charming, so English.

She needed to end this episode before she found herself
serving him tea and biscuits. “Well, since you have acted almost like a gentleman, then I suppose I might let you go.” She favored him with what she hoped was a haughty, superior look to hurry him along. Because the halberd was growing intolerably heavy—her wrists ached.

“Thank ye.” He almost bowed, all gracious acceptance of her generosity. “I’ll just go the way I came, shall I?”