Mad for Love (8 page)

“Me.” He doffed his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Blois. I almost didn’t recognize ye with yer clothes on. How interesting that we keep meeting under the most artistic of circumstances.”

“No,” she countered in a fierce whisper. “We are not meeting. We are not acquainted. I do not associate with thieves.”

“But we are already associating with each other, and are chatting in this charming, amicable manner, so I’m afraid there’s no hope for it now. Which piece do ye like best? Oh, aye.” He answered for her, before she could so much as close her gorgeous, astonished mouth. “The Diana. Excellent choice.” He turned to survey the statue himself. “Exquisite. Priceless.”

He could see the moment she took his teasing bait—her eyes widened in horror at the idea that he might have come to Somerset House to steal the priceless statue. “You wouldn’t dare!”

It was a rather novel thing, being thought such a dangerous character. He liked it very much. It felt rather dashing. “Fear not. I’m abstaining this week. Clipped my wings, with yer pike, ye ken.”

“It was a halberd.” She corrected in that low whisper, resisting all his efforts at charm, and raising one acute eyebrow to give him a pert perusal. “But I can see that you are none the worse for wear. More’s the pity.”

And that was the moment that the President of the Royal Academy, Sir Joshua Reynolds—a man well known to Rory—noticed his reluctant companion. “Ah, my dear Miss Blois.” He bowed to her and extended his hand. “How good of you to come to see the exhibition.”

Rory decided that discretion was always the better part of valor, and discretely withdrew himself, so he might not be recognized. But not so far that he could not overhear their conversation.

“Oh, Sir Joshua.” She curtsied very quickly and shook the man’s hand, but she clearly had not wanted to be recognized by anyone, either. She stepped back from Sir Joshua, as if she might make a bolt for the door.

But there would be no hope for it—Rory placed himself squarely in her way.

“My dear Miss Blois.” Sir Joshua turned to reveal another man who had accompanied him. “His Grace, the Duke of Bridgewater has expressed a wish to become acquainted with you.”

“How kind.” Miss Blois’s cheeks flushed an unhelpfully becoming shade of pink, as she sank into a graceful curtsey. “Your Grace.”
   

“Miss Blois.” The duke bowed graciously over his food-stained waistcoat. “Are you enjoying this marvelous exhibition?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Quite so.”

“Excellent. It seems more important than ever that such masterpieces be shown publicly in England, with such tragedies as we hear in the news coming daily from France.”

Miss Blois ducked her head, all shy discretion at such a clumsy attempt at sympathy. “Yes. Such news has been most difficult to bear.”

“Ah, but you are here, safely amongst us. And more importantly, your Verrocchio is here, safe and very sound, as well.”

Miss Blois appeared not to be insulted by being judged less important than a sculpture—she managed a quick smile beneath her raised eyebrows. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Call me Bridgewater, please,” the older man was saying. “I must say, I was quite pleased to see you here. Your father, is he also pleased with the exhibition?”

“Yes. Yes, he is. Very much so.” She glanced toward the door, as if once again contemplating escape, but Rory still stood between her and freedom, so she reluctantly chose the devil she didn’t know, and returned to her conversation with the duke.

“You know, I’ve loaned a number of masterpieces as well. The Titian, of course”—the duke gestured vaguely to a large canvas depicting “Diana and Callisto” that took pride of place on the central wall—“as well as a Raphael, and my Rembrandt.”
 

“Oh, yes.” Miss Blois managed to look suitably impressed enough to make Bridgewater feel he had done all he needed to do.

“Well, then.” He nodded at Sir Joshua and Miss Blois. “That’s done then. I’ll bid you good day.” And away he went.

“Well, indeed.” Miss Blois was clearly nonplussed.

“Well, my dear.” Sir Joshua patted her hand. “I do believe you’ve made a conquest.”

“Oh, gracious.” Miss Blois put her hands to her pink cheeks. “I do hope not.”

Rory decided it was relatively safe for him to re-enter the conversation. So long as he took control of it. “There is no hope for it, Miss Blois. Hello, Sir Joshua.” He put out his hand, then turned to Miss Blois. “Sir Joshua and I are well acquainted, as I was once his humble student.”
 

“Ah, yes.” Sir Joshua smiled and took his hand. “I thought I saw a smashing pair of chestnut goers outside. Good to see you, as always, Mr.—”

“Ye did indeed see my magnificent pair,” Rory broke in. But he was inordinately proud of his horses. Apart from art, they were his only major indulgence. “Miss Blois does not care for my team. She and I are old friends as well, ye see,” he offered in explanation for his presence at her side. “We used to hunt together.”

The lass made a strangled sound of outrage at what she no doubt thought was his infernal cheek, but Sir Joshua was oblivious to the unspoken conversation between them. “Ah, mademoiselle shoots, does she?”

“Oh, aye,” Rory confirmed, with a deeply serious nod. “Amongst other weaponry.”

Miss Blois tried manfully to turn the conversation. “Such a lovely exhibition the Royal Academy has put on, Sir Joshua. So many lovely paintings.”

“Aye.” Rory agreed. “So many pieces. And so valuable.” He waggled an eyebrow at her. Provoking her was turning out to be rather fun—Mignon Blois’s eyes grew even wider at his sheer audacity.

“Yes, but we have taken great security precautions,” Sir Joshua assured them. “Tildesley Patent Alarm Locks, you know, on all the doors and windows. And Bow Street Runners hired as guards to watch the doors, as well.”

“Oh, goodness.” She seemed almost apologetic. “Such an expense.”

“Oh, the Royal Academy has spared no expense for such treasures.” Sir Joshua was clearly quite pleased with his precautions. “We must protect what is ours, even if it is only ours for a short while. I know that your family has had to endure a great deal in leaving your country, but we shall do everything possible to protect your magnificent collection.”

“Thank you, Sir Joshua. You are everything kind. However…”

Sir Joshua had turned his eye to Rory. “I know you’re interested in art, Mr.—”

“Yes, yes very much,” Rory cut in before he could be identified as the Honorable Mr. Cathcart. “And in your security. This Tiddley, ye mention? I don’t think I’ve heard of him,” he lied.

“Tildesley locks,” Sir Joshua clarified. “Patent alarmed locks used in many of the finer homes now. Let me show you.”
 

Poor Miss Blois tried to prevent Rory from following the older gentleman by taking Rory’s arm in the most wonderfully proprietary manner. “I am so sorry, Sir Joshua, but I have another appointment that requires me—”

“But I am very interested in Mr. Tildesley’s invention,” Rory broke in again. “Ye go on. I, myself, find the security of one’s home and collections to be such an important matter.”

Poor Miss Blois was utterly scandalized at Rory’s apparent enthusiasm, and tugged at his elbow, as if she were trying to rein in a horse.

But Sir Joshua, who knew Rory’s very real interest in the subject, proceeded with his information, oblivious to her discomfort. “Each of the doors and windows has its own alarmed lock that can only be turned off with its own key. And I’ll tell you another secret, Miss Blois. We have adapted a Tildesley lock to sit under the statue. And in this instance, when the statue is lifted, and the weight removed from the spring lock, the bell within that lock will go off, and the runners will come running to seize the perpetrator.”

“I say, that is clever.”
 

Sir Joshua was pleased by the praise. “Quite ingenious, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Blois?”

“Very much. Very, very clever. Bravo, Sir Joshua.” Miss Blois was determined to turn the conversation yet again. “But we must not take up any more of your most valuable time. As I said, I have an appointment that I must rush off to—”

“Oh, too bad, Miss Blois.” Rory disengaged his arm, and bowed to her before he turned back to Sir Joshua, knowing exactly how it would appear to her. “However, I should be delighted to stay and listen.”

But deceptively dainty Mignon Blois was not so easily thwarted—she stiffened that secretly steely spine. “Oh, but you are promised at Lady Arbuthnot’s as well. The dear lady cannot do without you. Thank you, dear sir.” She curtseyed again to Sir Joshua. “But am afraid we both must go,” she insisted, and took Rory’s elbow in a grip that would have done a gunner proud. “
Au revoir,
Sir Joshua. Good day.”

“Well,” Rory commented as she whisked him out of the exhibition, “that was neatly accomplished. Well done, ye.”

“You impossible man.” She dropped his arm as soon as they were out in the courtyard. “Have you no shame? Have you no scruples at all?”

“The only ones I have, I’m sure I stole.”

“Oh,
Bon Dieu
. You’re utterly mad—quite irredeemable.” She backed away a step or two before she tried to shoo him off like a stray dog. “Go away before I am obliged to call the watch.”

He gave her one of his most charming smiles. “There is no watch in the daytime.”

Frustration was written all over her very pretty face. But Miss Blois had reserves of character she had not yet tapped.
 
“A pity.” She crossed her arms over her chest in that delightfully uplifting manner that made his brain roll over on its belly, wanting to be scratched like the stray dog he in fact was. “Perhaps one of those runners inside would be vastly obliged to make your acquaintance? I understand that a good many runners are also thief takers.”

“So they say.” He’d used the Runners’ services himself a time or two. But not today—today he had already done all he needed to do. “I concede the point to ye, Miss Blois.”

“Well,” she muttered under her breath as she strode off through Somerset House’s stone portal. “It is a relief to find I am not the only one conceding.”

“Never fear, my dear Miss Blois.” He tipped his hat to her retreating back. “I am an old hand at all sorts of delicate concessions.”

Chapter Eight

Mignon came down the stairs in her best lavender watered silk evening
robe à l’anglaise,
and found her father admiring the huge floral bouquet that had been delivered a few hours earlier. “Are they not extravagantly beautiful?”

“The flowers? They are nothing to your beauty, my dear. But are they from an admirer?” Papa had a rather hopeful glint in his eye.

She was too flattered not to share at least a tiny bit of that hopefulness—no one in London had ever sent her flowers before. “According to the card, they are from a gentleman that I have just met—the Duke of Bridgewater.”
 

“Bridgewater?” Her papa was open-mouthed with astonishment.

“Yes, I met him at the exhibition at Somerset House. Why?”

Papa was diverted by the mention of the exhibition. “Ah, you went. Very good. Did the Verrocchio not look stupendous in the center of the hall?”

“Yes, Papa, it certainly did, catching every eye, which is exactly what I am afraid of.”

“Ah,
je m’en fiche
!” Papa waved off her concern. “You worry too much. But Bridgewater, he sent flowers like a young swain? Though he is rich, he is far too old for you. He’s fifty if he’s a day.”

“You know him?”

“But of course. He is one of the last great open-handed collectors of the day. It is he who tried to purchase the entirely of the Orléans collection, and in so doing convinced me to create the Blois collection. He has been, how shall I say, acquisitive about our collection’s as-yet-unseen treasures.”

“Oh, no, Papa. He did not mention that when we met.” Mignon was suddenly feeling a great deal less flattered.

“No? But he could not know that he is the one who inspired me, or rather his fortune did. Yet, I find it strange he did not mention that he has a Pontormo, the
Portrait of a Halberdier
, from the Blois Collection.”

That sinking feeling that always accompanied her father’s casual talk of the Blois Collection was like a stone in her shoe, tripping her up and weighing her down. “Pontormo’s
Portrait of a Halberdier
, or your Pontormo?”