After a little conversation, he said, “But I’m keeping you from your work. I’d best be off. I came for a word with Penfel, but it seems the lazy hound is still abed. Nice to be rich, eh?”
“Very nice, I should think.”
“Teaching’s a hard game. You cannot have been at it long, Miss Fairchild. You haven’t the hagged look of the professional scold.”
“This is my second year.”
“Could you not make a living at that?”
he asked, indicating her canvas.
“Hardly. Being a lady makes it difficult to be taken seriously.”
He hesitated a moment, then seemed to make his decision. He leaned a little closer to her and said, “What do you do with your pictures when you’ve finished with them?”
“When I am lucky, I sell them. More usually, I keep them. I have quite a collection in the attic at home.”
“I could find a buyer for that one, if you’re interested. We split the profit, fifty-fifty.”
“That would hardly be worth your while, Mr. O’Leary.”
He looked surprised. “I wager I could get you a couple of hundred for that Chardin. I know a fellow who collects French pictures.”
She was surprised that he recognized the artist, but then his conversation had suggested he came from a good background. “But this is not a Chardin. It’s just a copy.”
His easy smile assumed a wolfish look. “I know that, you know it, but my friend don’t know it.”
Then he gave a knowing little laugh. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him or us, eh? The risk would be mine. I’d not involve you at all.”
“Are you suggesting to sell it as a Chardin?”
she asked, hardly believing her ears.
“Why not? How much would you get for a Fairchild?”
“But that’s against the law!”
He laughed at her naiveté. “I didn’t make the
law,
nor did you. ‘Twas made by the fine lords to keep the likes of you and me down.”
She pokered up. “I don’t believe we have anything more to say to each other, Mr. O’Leary,”
she said, and picked up her brush.
“Suit yourself, my dear,”
he said, and sauntered off down the long corridor as if he owned the place.
Really, the man was incorrigible! Whatever made him think she was a crook? She had let him think her circumstances were a little worse than they were, and from there he had leapt to the conclusion she would sell forgeries to better it. It is what happens when you let circus people onto your property. She ought to warn Lord Penfel. The man was as likely as not to stuff some valuable small item into his pocket. When she tried to continue her work, she found her concentration was broken and decided to see if Lord Penfel was about. She would warn him of O’Leary’s criminal tendency—and hopefully get the key to the da Vinci cartoons as well.
She passed an open door on her way back to the main hallway. From it issued O’Leary’s lilting voice.
“I’ve come about tonight, Penfel. We have a little game on after the show. ‘Twill give you a chance to win back the blunt you lost last time.”
“Excellent!”
Penfel said, in the accents of an old friend.
The door closed, and Abbie stood, wondering what she ought to do. Very likely O’Leary was a Captain Sharp along with the rest. He had spoken of Penfel winning back the blunt, so clearly Penfel had already lost money to the rogue. When the conversation behind the door settled down to a friendly, conversational hum that suggested it might go on for some time, Abbie went up to her room. She would return a little later, after O’Leary had left, and caution Lord Penfel to be on his guard.
After stowing away her painting equipment, Abbie glanced from her window and saw Mr. O’Leary striding toward the fairgrounds. His broad shoulders and swaggering gait suggested he was the lord of the manor. Lord John, Singleton, and the young ladies, their tour of the estate having ended up at the circus, were strolling toward him in the sunlit meadow. O’Leary stopped to chat with them. Abbie watched as he lifted his hat and bowed all around. After a moment, the two young couples continued their walk. Lady Susan remained behind, talking to O’Leary.
Of course it was impossible to know what words were exchanged, but O’Leary’s gestures suggested flirtation. He cocked his head aside playfully, he inclined his upper body toward Lady Susan’s in the posture of romance. At one point, he reached out his hand and touched her arm. And Susan seemed less stiff than usual, too. It was unlike her to waste time on a commoner, but she stayed with O’Leary for two or three minutes. Abbie was just beginning to worry when O’Leary bowed, and Lady Susan hurried on to catch up to the others.
Selling a forged painting was bad enough, but setting up a flirtation with the Duke of Wycliffe’s daughter could lead to something a good deal more serious. Lady Susan had a good notion of her own worth, but she was only sixteen years old. She would never have met anyone like O’Leary before. Such a practiced flirt might manage to turn her head, to compromise her in some manner. Abbie, who was considerably older than Susan, had fallen under his spell for a few minutes in the gallery. She must warn Lady Susan—and she must have that word with Penfel at once.
She immediately went belowstairs, where she found him in his oak-lined study, poring over a stack of journals at a handsome desk the size of a dining-room table. In this impressive setting and at this unexceptionable pastime, with a frown pleating his brow, Penfel seemed a more serious gentleman than she had been imagining. For the first time since she had met him, he appeared to be engaged in work. He looked as the lord of such a fine estate as Penfel Hall should look.
He glanced up when she entered, and the little frown eased to a smile. His eyes brightened perceptibly.
“Miss Fairchild,”
he said, rising and making a modest bow. “I need not ask to what I owe the honor of this visit,”
he said playfully. “It is not eagerness to see my poor self, but the Leonardos that has brought you knocking on my door. Come in, come in—as the spider said to the fly.”
She was a little vexed that his seriousness had dissipated at the first sign of a female. “I am eager to see the cartoons, but in fact, I have come on another matter. A more serious matter altogether.”
He waved a graceful hand toward the chair by his desk. She perched on its edge and leaned toward him as he resumed his seat. “I have come about Mr. O’Leary,”
she said.
His eyes opened wider. Again that frown grew between his eyebrows, “He hasn’t been harassing you?” he asked sharply.
“In a manner of speaking, he has.”
“‘What happened?”
“I was in the long gallery, copying the Chardin. O’Leary stopped for a chat.”
Penfel’s jaw tightened. He gave a tsk of annoyance and said, “Next time, you must have a footman with you. The gallery is not within shouting distance of the butler.”
“You misunderstand, milord. He was not harassing me in a—a physical way.”
“He didn’t try to molest you?”
“No, I would not have minded that. That is—”
She colored up as she realized her words were capable of misinterpretation. “I could have handled that,”
she modified. “My meaning is that the man is a crook. He offered to sell the copy I was making, try to pass it off as an original Chardin to what he called a friend of his. Some friend! He wanted to sell the man a forgery, for a couple of hundred pounds!”
Penfel considered this a moment, then said, unexpectedly, “It must have been an excellent copy.”
“That is not the point! The man is a crook.”
“And a rash one, to suggest chicanery to a young lady of impeccable morals.”
“He was at pains to cozen me first. He was sympathizing with my hard life, to sound me out. He learned how eager I am to go to Italy to view the famous masterpieces there.”
“You never mentioned that to me!”
“That is neither here nor there. We discussed how expensive travel is. Impossible really, and how those who have fine art don’t appreciate it.”
“I wonder what name arose in that respect?”
“We didn’t mention names. I had no idea what he was up to, but I wager it was my complaints that made him think I could be corrupted. And this wretch is running tame at Penfel. I would not be a bit surprised if he picked up an expensive trinket or two before he left.”
“He called to see me on business. I would hardly call it running tame.”
“What was he doing in the gallery? He had no business there. You said yourself it is well separated from the part of the house where the servants are working. As he seems to be interested in art, he might very well be looking around with a view to robbing you.”
His lips clenched together. “Thank you for notifying me. Is there anything else?”
Penfel made a show of concern, but some sixth sense told Abbie she had made no impression whatsoever. She trusted her next statement would open up his eyes.
“Yes. I saw him from my window just now. He was walking back to the fair. He stopped Lady Susan and talked to her for quite two or three minutes.”
“Was she not with John and Singleton?”
“They walked on with the other girls. Lady Susan was alone with him. He was flirting with her.”
Penfel shrugged his broad shoulders, like a man who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—take responsibility for grave matters. “No accounting for taste. I hardly see what harm could come to her during a few moments’
chat, on my property, with John a few feet away.”
“Lady Susan—all the girls—are just at that vulnerable age where their minds are full of men, yet they have no real experience of them. Lady Susan might very well find a rogue like O’Leary attractive. She has already been singing his praises.”
The only emotion she could read was impatience. “The girls are in your charge. You must keep an eye on them,”
he said.
“You should not allow him to run tame about the estate when you are entertaining schoolgirls.”
“The arrangement with O’Leary was made some time ago. I could not break the contract without being liable for his lost revenue.”
Abbie’s patience was growing quite as short as Penfel’s. “Then, why on earth did you agree to let the girls come here?”
she demanded.
“The question is why Mama let any of you come!”
he shot back. “If it was an attempt to see me shackled to a stiff-rumped lady, it will not fadge.”
Abbie emitted a gasp of astonishment. As Lord Penfel’s fiery gaze was aimed at her, she felt for a fleeting moment it was herself he meant by the stiff-rumped lady. Their eyes locked in combat, then a slow smile crept across his face. When he spoke, his voice was burred with innuendo. “Lady Susan is not to my taste. If she were a charming artist, it might be quite a different matter.”
Abbie felt the full force of that devastating smile. It was the eyes that were so disarming. They seemed to see through her skull to her mind, to her heart. She was thrown into confusion, and answered gruffly, “I’m sure the Earl of Penfel, Baron Rutcliffe, and quasi-Viscount Worley would be eager to catch such a prize as a penniless schoolmistress.”
His eyebrows rose, giving him a quizzical air. “You are well-informed of my honors!”
“I certainly know more about you now than when I left Miss Slatkin’s, or I would not have agreed to come.”
He refused to acknowledge this set-down. “The redoubtable Miss Fairchild bested by a circus manager? I am disappointed in you, ma’am. I made sure any lady who rode herd on a school of excitable young ladies, their heads full of romance, could tame a whole pride of lions if she set her mind to it. I shall misquote Plato and say, ‘Of all the animals, the young lady is the most unmanageable.’
”
“I would have to disagree with you, milord. Plato was right. The other sex takes the palm in unmanageability, especially when the gentleman has been reared to think himself accountable to no one.”
The corners of his lips quirked, and his dark eyes stared commandingly into hers. “You are speaking of Mr. O’Leary, of course—if you hope to see those cartoons.”
She managed to reply in a tone of gentle irony that concealed her agitation, but made her meaning perfectly clear. “Of course. About the key—”
Penfel assumed a face of mock chagrin. “Do you know, I cannot seem to find it? It is not on my key ring.”
He drew out his heavy key ring and shook it, as if that proved anything. “I have asked Sifton to check his keys, and the housekeeper. No doubt it will turn up soon—”
His eyes gazed deeply into hers, “If Miss Fairchild behaves herself.”
Abbie’s nostrils thinned in disgust. It was his petty revenge for her having dared to upbraid him.
She rose stiffly and said in her most severe voice, “Miss Fairchild has only been doing her job. If it amuses you to keep your little treasures horded away from the eyes of those who would appreciate them more than you do yourself, that is your concern.”
He rose and accompanied her to the doorway. With his hand on the knob, he allowed his bold eyes to make a perusal of her high-necked gown. “Well put, ma’am. I have often said the same thing—to prudish ladies.”
As his meaning sunk in, Abbie uttered a little gasp of shock at his gall. “I trust you do not speak in this lascivious manner to the girls,”
she said.
His dark eyes gazed unblinkingly into hers, until she felt mesmerized. “In case you have failed to observe it, I am not a boy; I am a man. I am not attracted to girls, but to women—like you.”
As he spoke, he put one arm around her waist and pulled her against him. His head came down, and before she knew what he was about, his hot lips had seized hers in a scorching kiss.
It happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, that she hadn’t time to escape. When she pushed at his shoulders, his other arm went around her and she was locked against him. Her immediate reaction was outrage, tinged with disbelief. This couldn’t be happening! But it was—that rock-hard chest, those strong arms, were all too real. She struggled, then before the embrace degenerated into a wrestling match, he released her. Without thinking of the consequences, she raised her hand and slapped his cheek with all the force she could muster in a confined corner. The echo of it reverberated in the closed room.
He didn’t look shocked, or even offended, but only sheepish. “What, no ‘how dare you?’
” he said.