The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife (57 page)

She really wasn’t
looking forward to this outing. Especially after refusing Mr. Dubuc’s
proposal the other day and then the studio burning down, but it
wasn’t a matter of preference. If she could find out what happened
to Monsieur then, naturally, she had to go. There was still the
question of fraud to clear up.

“Sounds like he’s
arrived.” Foster wasn’t hiding his disapproval of this excursion.

She picked up her
reticule and took one last look in the mirror, while waiting for the
knock on the door. This would be her last London outing. There was no
reason for her to stay, now that her paintings had been reduced to
ashes. She’d had enough of the big city. Tomorrow, or maybe the
next day, after they had packed everything, she was going home to
Evesham.

* * *

It took mere minutes
for Reed to get inside Victor Dubuc’s flat and ascertain that no
servant remained on the premises. Jace followed him in, took a long
look at the main sitting room, and declared, “I’ve always
mistrusted men who are this clean.”

“He does appear to
have a thing about neatness.” Reed nodded toward the sofa and
sideboard, “Surprisingly good quality for a young man on a limited
income, wouldn’t you say?” Having done their research, they knew
the nephew had nothing to his name, and was living on a modest
quarterly stipend the uncle gave him.

Jace nodded and went
over to the sideboard to open a drawer and rifle through the
contents.

“Looks like you’ve
chosen your room. I’ll take the bedroom.” There, too, Reed
observed the solid mahogany bed and noted signs of where a smaller
bed had stood until recently.

Oh
Perfidious Albion!
The French knew whereof they spoke,
only in this case it was one of their own who was responsible for the
treachery. Had Dubuc disposed of the man who had nurtured him? Reed
feared for the uncle’s good health. If indeed Moreau was still
alive at this moment.

He combed through the
bedroom from end to end, went through every sheet of paper in the
roll-top desk by the window, looked under every knick-knack, went
through the pockets of each piece of clothing hanging up or folded in
his diminutive dressing room.

One thing in their
favor, Dubuc was passionate about neatness, which should make it
easier to find something… anything... to help them figure out what
the jackanapes was up to and what he had done with his uncle. For
Reed was becoming more and more convinced something sinister had
happened to Monsieur and that Dubuc was in it up to his neck.

“Nothing in the
sitting room,” Jace affirmed, coming into the bedroom. “What can
I do in here?”

“I’ve just spotted
that,” Reed pointed to the vaulted ceiling. A huge, flat,
rectangular wooden box had been hoisted up there by pulley. It
resembled a coffin, but there was no odor, so Reed discounted it as
Moreau’s resting place. Jace went to the wall to locate the cord
and cleat and, using the winch, began to lower it carefully.

Reed put his arms up to
hold the heavy box straight and direct it to the floor. He lifted the
unlocked, hinged top of the box, and opened it completely until it
leaned back against the bed. There, painstakingly wrapped and
stacked, one on top of the other — with a buffer cloth in between
each — lay a substantial cache of unframed paintings.

“Your instincts were
right,” Jace said with approval.

Tally’s
paintings!
Tremendous relief swept through Reed. She would
be so happy!

He couldn’t say he
was surprised to see that the paintings were in perfect condition.
Not even singed. “What is this fellow’s scheme?” He couldn’t
understand what Dubuc hoped to gain. The paintings were very good,
but she was a complete unknown.

“Are they forgeries?”
Jace interrupted Reed’s ponderings. “Maybe he wants to sell them
and pretend they’re the genuine article.”

“They’re not
forgeries, but they are unsigned.” Reed was systematically
scrutinizing the canvases one by one.

“That’s odd,”
Jace said, peering over Reed’s shoulder. “They look like they’re
all by the same artist, yet none are signed. Why would an artist not
want to ensure their work was well marked?”

He didn’t respond.
His thoughts were preoccupied with how overjoyed Tally was going to
be that her paintings were intact. He recognized her unique style.
These were good. Make that, damn good. But, like Jace, he wondered
why she hadn’t signed them.

“I like this artist’s
work,” Jace said. “D’you know who the painter is? Do you think
he’d sell me one of these?” He pointed to one of a large dog
tugging a toy from a little boy’s hand. The rendering radiated
humor and affection. “That one reminds me of Bear.”

“That it does!” He
agreed. “After we’ve settled this mess, I’ll ask. You can claim
part of it as your fee for helping me find them.”

“Great idea!” Jace
gave Reed a friendly whack on the shoulder.

He winced. He had yet
to tell his friend about his gunshot wound.

“Wait! Go back.”

Reed flipped back to
the previous canvas.

“That one has a
signature,” Jace said.

Reed bent down to read
the name. “Wendal Lawton?” So that was the weasel’s ploy! He
was forging her father’s signature on her paintings. “What does
he think Lawton’s going to say when he finds out his name is on
someone else’s paintings?”

Jace shrugged. “You’re
that sure these aren’t Lawton’s?”

“No question.”

“Lawton will bring
Dubuc up on fraud charges, that’s for certain.” Jace spoke
little, as Reed went through the rest of the pieces. “Art’s not
my thing. But…” He indicated one of a fisherman on a peaceful
summer day in the countryside and was gazing at it with such
yearning, Reed knew his friend was wishing he was by that brook with
his fishing rod right now. “I do like this man’s work.”

That her paintings
could inspire such a look of longing on Jace’s face — he who
purported to be an art philistine — spoke reams about the power of
Tally’s talent. He suddenly recalled the two paintings they had
viewed at the Academy that had been marked “Sold”.

The
bastard!

She had looked dazed as
they left the exhibit, but he’d been so distracted by Morley and
Fitz’s arrival, he’d forgotten that. She had just seen two of her
own paintings sold with her father’s name on them. He couldn’t
imagine how shocked and hurt she must have been. She had to have
suspected her beloved Monsieur of betraying her, and she was probably
worried she’d be accused of fraud too!

He couldn’t think
about that now. He had to concentrate on what he was going to do
about this situation.

She certainly had a
talented brush! To think, she was being compared to her father at
this stage in her career! Reed had always admired the man’s work,
but he knew these paintings were not Lawton’s, despite his
signature at the bottom. Reed would recognize her work anywhere. He’d
seen enough of it in
the
studio the night she went to the party.

Did Dubuc know these
were–?

Of course, he knew!
That was why he was suddenly pursuing her. If they were to wed, he’d
be assured an endless supply of paintings to falsify and defraud
buyers. Though he must know you couldn’t compel a reluctant artist
to paint well....

He’ll
wed her over my dead body!

Jace had pulled out a
portfolio from a bookcase against a wall in the bedroom. “Hellfire!
Will you look at this.” He handed some of the papers he found in it
to Reed. “Being so fastidious has disadvantages if you’re doing
something illegal! Look at how carefully itemized everything is.”

“His obsession is to
our advantage.” A complete list of the paintings in the box! Could
they have gotten any luckier? “When we catch up with Dubuc, we’ll
have to thank him for his diligence. It will make following the trail
of his crimes a whole lot easier. He’s even noted the ones already
sold, to whom, and for how much.” Reed continued counting the
paintings, until Jace whistled and handed him something else.

“Found this too.”
He’d taken a book out of the portfolio, which he handed over.

“A journal?”
Leafing through it, Reed saw it contained a log of Dubuc’s life.
This was ridiculous. Who ever
heard of a crook leaving detailed evidence of his misdeeds?
He answered his own question. A crook who is so sure he’s smarter
than everyone else, he can’t imagine being caught.

The journal provided a
chronological list of Dubuc’s life on a day-to-day basis. Reed went
back about a month before Tally had come to London. She told him she
had decided to come to Town suddenly, once her brothers had been
summoned to Italy by her parents.

“What are you looking
for?”

He didn’t want to
reveal her secret, so he said, “Mrs. Leighton wrote to Moreau,
asking him to arrange for her to come to Town without her family’s
involvement.” Jace’s attentive silence prompted him to add.
“She’s independent like that.”

Idiot!
If he wasn’t defending her, he was bragging about her.

“I’m looking for
the days around that time that might mention her imminent arrival or
something about her family.” He continued thumbing through the
journal. “Here. This is it.” He slowly perused the entries from
that point until yesterday.

“He doesn’t miss a
day, does he?” Jace sounded amazed that someone could be so
disciplined, so meticulous about their daily schedule. He moved away
to continue searching the bookcase.

“Listen to this.”
The page Reed was perusing was for a day about six weeks earlier. “‘
A
collection of paintings was delivered to mon oncle’s studio while I
was there trying to get the old bugger to increase my allowance.
’”
Reed’s finger traced a path down the page. To keep Tally’s
secret, he edited it a bit as he was reading aloud. “‘Oncle
Antoine was very secretive about it, which piqued my interest. They
must be Lawton’s newest, experimental works Antoine told us about,
which is why they aren’t signed, I suppose.’ he says. If so,
they’re worth a lot of money.’” Reed skimmed down the page.
“But it’s this notation at the end here that bothers me. He talks
of looking for an isolated place and hiring men to help him. I fear
he has taken his uncle and either murdered him or is holding him
prisoner.”

Reed closed the journal
and stuffed it into the bag of tools they’d brought along in case
they needed them. “His entries taper off after that, which is even
more alarming. Why has he changed a life time’s habit?”

“There are far too
many paintings to carry, so I’m assuming they can wait until we’ve
had Dubuc arrested?” Jace said.

“Yes. Or perhaps we
can ask some of the Spares to collect them? Trying to save Moreau has
to be our priority.” Reed finished closing the box and nodded to
Jace, indicating he was ready to raise it up.

Jace moved to the
pulley on the wall, grabbed hold of the rope and signaled Reed to
begin lifting the box. “How are we going to find out where he took
Moreau? If, by some miracle, his uncle isn’t dead yet, Dubuc will
ensure the deed is done soon. He’s in too deep. It would be too
dangerous not to dispose of his relative. His uncle is the only one
who can point an accusing finger at him.”

Reed hastened to the
back door. “I need to make Mrs. Leighton aware that the man is
dangerous.” He wished he could tell Jace who Tally really was, but
it felt like betraying her. “Though I don’t believe she is in any
imminent danger. From what our man told us, Dubuc appears to be on
his way out of London. Nevertheless, I’m relieved we’ve left her
well protected with your men watching the house.” Indeed, if they
hadn’t, even if he thought Dubuc was no danger to Tally right now,
he might have dropped everything and raced over there sooner, just to
be sure she was safe.

“We’ll keep
McCracken watching this flat. It worked well for us today and if
Dubuc should return before the paintings have been removed, we
wouldn’t want him to abscond with them.” He turned to survey the
room to ensure it was left as orderly as it was. “Though, if, as
McCracken said, he headed off with his valise and pistol case, I fear
we may already be too late to save his uncle.”

They left the way they
came. Reed reset the lock on the back door and followed Jace out into
the back lane. They were about to leave when they were confronted by
a stocky, older man at the back of the house.

“What were you
looking for? Did you find anything?” he demanded in a gruff voice.

“Why do you want to
know?” Reed returned warily.

“I am Gaston
Beauclaire, Antoine Moreau’s good friend, and you are…?”

“Reed Gordon Eames,
Viscount Selwich.” It was always wise to throw around one’s title
when caught red-handed. “And this is…,” at Jace’s abrupt
shake of the head, Reed said, “Mr. Manfred.” His own disguise’s
name would do.

“Why were you in
Victor’s rooms?” Wariness roughened the art agent’s words.

Not that Reed blamed
him. The man had caught them sneaking out of Dubuc’s home like
common thieves. “We have reason to believe he has stolen some
paintings.”

“Stolen paintings!
From where? From whom?”

“From his uncle’s
studio.”

Beauclaire closed his
eyes. He looked frightened. “Antoine has been gone for almost a
month, his neighbors told me. He’s disappeared without a trace.”
His distress was clear in his trembling voice. “I’ve been trying
to keep an eye on Victor ever since I returned from Paris ten days
ago. Something bad is going on and I think he is involved.”

“Have you any idea
why Moreau has vanished?” Jace asked.

“
Non.
Mais
… I might know where he has been taken.” The
heavyset French man gave them a pleading look.