The Deception

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The Deception 

Book 2 The Secret Tales

Chapter 1, 1818

 The Duke of Devonshire’s glittering ball was in full cry. Lord Patrick Lansdowne—naval captain, a marquess’ brother, and a newly minted viscount—had little use for it; his attendance for another purpose—to purchase a painting by the illustrious Reginald Pheland, the late Baron Halafair.

Patrick stood on the balcony, checking his watch every few minutes. The baron was long dead and paintings by his hand seldom came up for sale. They went for a hefty price. While Patrick admired the artist’s landscapes, his seascapes drew him like no other artist. The movement of the waves, the singular scent of the sea, the colors of dawn and sunset—Halafair’s work put Patrick back on deck, the sea beneath him, the place he always wished to be.

His purchase this evening had come about through a circuitous route via factor and letters exchanged, the factor sending a study and sketches by Pheland of the work in question.

He’d learned of the painting through word of mouth and found it odd the seller was not using an auction house, a far more typical venue.

Patrick was well acquainted with the late Pheland’s baroness, Beatrice, and their two daughters through his sister-in-law, Rose. He never mentioned his passion for the baron’s work, as the family was endlessly assaulted by Pheland’s admirers, some fanatical in their devotion.

The factor had planned to deliver the painting yesterday, but a late note said the seller would be standing in for him this evening, the ball the venue for the transfer, and the man’s insistence on wearing a mask. He had used the alias “Kauffmann.”

The whole procedure felt dodgy, the seller’s nom de plume referencing Angelica Kauffman, a famed artist and a founder of the Royal Academy of Arts. Which was why he had tucked a pocket pistol into his boot. Rain

Why choose a woman artist’s name? Perhaps the seller was a woman. Interesting.

He had used the name Signor Ricci, after an Italian friend, having no intention of revealing his true one, the price undoubtedly rising to staggering heights. Patrick had told the factor their meeting must be tonight, for he sailed on the morrow. He’d used strong words, for his purchase was no trifling business. Kaufmann indeed.

The reply to his missive had intrigued him. “Kauffmann” had written, “Life is a serious business, sir. This is commerce, and one should not give a transaction too much weight.”

The seller had a point.

Patrick played along by wearing a domino. Behind him, through the French doors, dancers pranced and whirled. The night was clear, stars spangling the sky, the same ones he charted at sea.

Patrick checked his pocket watch yet again. The meeting time neared. He made his way downstairs to the second floor and into Devonshire’s library, as noted in the missive. The vast room held stacks upon stacks of books, two sliding ladders, and a spiral staircase that wound upward to a second level.

Before him, a large hearth flickered, with two wing chairs placed at angles before its flames.

Patrick paced, early by fifteen minutes, as he intended to arrive before the seller. His nerves were aquiver, his adrenaline high, much as when he stood on deck facing an enemy’s brace of cannon.

The mantel clock chimed midnight and behind him, a rustle.

Patrick whirled to see a woman enveloped in a large cloak, the cobalt blue of her gown flashing beneath as she emerged from a wing chair. His shock yielded to an appreciation of her elegant form and carriage, her glittering owl-shaped mask shading her eyes, much of her face, and her bound hair.

“Have you brought the funds, sir?” the seller said.

Patrick froze, stunned, and then he chuckled softly.

That laugh, smokey and warm as velvet. Charlotte Pheland would recognize it anywhere—Lord Patrick Lansdowne, now Lord Hawthorne, if she recalled. Devil have it! Her nerves aquiver since the ball’s start, prickled.

Patrick wore a mask, as instructed, his tall form hinting at muscle beneath his elegant clothes. He carried himself like the military man he was, one who knew his place in the world.

Charlotte understood at some point she would sell a painting to a friend. So be it.

Though wary, she could not renege. Her mother and sister’s well-being, along with Halafair’s maintenance, depended upon it. As it was, they’d spent a small fortune on her dress to impress the buyer. While their dear papa had been a warm and cheerful man and an exceptional artist, he had been unwise when it came to funds. Upon her father’s death, they had been destitute until her mother married Earl Fielding, a man whose name was never voiced by Mama, herself, or Claire, not if they could help it. A despicable man, and with Fielding’s passing, their financial support suffered another shocking reversal.

“Good sir, I repeat, have you brought the funds?” she said.

The man nodded, bristling with energy as if mere flesh and bone could not contain him.

“Sir?” she repeated.

He reached into his tailcoat’s inner pocket and withdrew a pouch.

Charlotte crossed her arms. She might know Patrick Lansdowne, but she would not release the painting to a mute, his silence suggesting mischief.

The absurdity of their face-off nearly tickled her fancy. She lifted the wrapped painting from behind the chair. “I am afraid we shall not commence the sale, my good man, unless you speak.” Charlotte turned to leave.

He laughed again, soft and low, the sound always charming her. Charlotte stepped toward the door. “If you do not speak, you will neither see nor leave with the Pheland painting you desired so very much.”

She brushed a hand over the paperweight in her pocket—a clever addition courtesy of Rose—the glass bauble insurance against nefarious doings. Not that she would cosh Patrick on the head. Would she? Tension tightened her belly. “Well?”

“What do you wish me to say, Madame Kauffmann?”

“You can be an ass, Patrick.” She tossed her mask onto a chair and approached him.

He removed his domino, as well. “I see your hearing is in good order, Lady Charlotte,” he said with sarcasm. “It is obviously I.”

Unbelievable. She’d seen him only last week at Woodbine, a brother-in-law after her stepsister, Rose, had married Patrick’s brother, Rhys. The naval captain, a charmer, was also a nuisance who tweaked her and others with his sarcasm and quips.

“You admire my father’s work?” she said.

The man’s stiff posture relaxed a fraction. “Admire is too faint a word, Charlotte. His seascapes take me to the place I love most in this world.”

Patrick could not have surprised her more, having expected a set down, rather than enthusiasm. “That pleases me, for all this cloak-and-dagger wears on a person.”

He let out a chuckle. “I agree. Yet your factor insisted upon it.”

Charlotte’s cheeks heated. “I admit that was my doing. My agent contracted the influenza, and it is quite awkward selling one’s father’s paintings.”

“Why not use an auction house, for heaven’s sake?” He leaned against a wing chair’s back, crossing a leg, relaxed, devilishly handsome, and utterly proud, his black hair agleam in the candlelight.

Charlotte could not reveal she feared an auction house’s scrutiny. “I had an unpleasant issue with Sotheby’s, and Christie’s proved no better, thus I have taken the sales in hand myself.”

“Why sell them?” he said.

“Shall we get on with it?”

He moved closer and laid a hand on her shoulder, his brows drawn together with concern. “Charlotte, why sell your father’s work? You are part of our family now. If you need funds, we can help.”

“I appreciate your kindness, Patrick, very much. But—”

With a rattle, the double doors swung wide, to reveal the Duke of Devonshire leading a throng into the library, expounding, “And here we have our newest library, which is dedicated to…”

Devonshire spotted them and went silent.

That gossip Lady Ablethorp was with him, too. Curse it. Mama and Claire, Rose and Rhys, and his sisters. And there was Wellington, for all that was holy. Heavens!

Patrick dropped his hand from her shoulder, but not soon enough.

Lady Ablethorp plowed forward. “What do we have here? An assignation?”

Ruination crashed upon Charlotte like an avalanche.

The duke moved to Lady Ablethorp’s side, a frown wreathing his face.

“My lady,” he said to the viperous Ablethorp. “I fear you make much out of nothing. Lady Charlotte and Lord Hawthorne are related.”

“Vaguely,” she said.

The duke, Patrick’s good friend, eyed him with a pained expression. “My lord?”

It felt as if a thousand eyes peered at her. At least Mama and Claire knew what she was about, which mattered little, for all stared goggle-eyed at her and Patrick’s misstep.

Charlotte could find no words, for she was compromised in the eyes of the ton.

Patrick appeared confounded, too. As a man who commanded a Royal Navy ship, he must feel as if he had stepped into another’s life.

Patrick was confounded. True, he could reply to the duke, say nothing untoward had occurred. Charlotte’s name would still be blackened.

Which was the coward’s way.

As a man, he would escape unscathed—Lady Charlotte had no male relatives to defend her honor, unless he counted Rhys or himself. The irony did not escape him.

Charlotte would be brushed with scandal and called loose or wanton. Unconscionable epithets. The episode would be caricatured in cartoons, noted in The Morning Post, the gossip endless.

He imagined those faces multiplied by hundreds, rumors slithering through the ton, shaming Charlotte.

The clock on the mantle ticked.

Patrick did not wish to marry. Yet, as a gentleman, he could not abandon this woman to wolves like Ablethorp.

Charlotte peered at him, damming tears she obviously wished would vanish. Her back was straight, her chin high, but the fear and grief in her eyes touched him.

“An assignation, you say, Lady Ablethorp?” Patrick said. “That would paint our meeting in an unsavory light, given Lady Charlotte’s and my betrothal.”

Lady Ablethorp raised a haughty brow. “Is that so, my lord? And are you not to depart for your new command in the near future?”

“On the morrow.” He nodded. “Hence, my farewells to my fiancée in private.”

Ablethorp huffed. “And shall you leave Lady Charlotte dangling at the end of a string for years?”

Charlotte’s eyes widened, and she went to speak, opening that pretty mouth of hers.

Patrick forestalled her words. “I shall not be absent for years but for a few months. Lady Charlotte and I intend to marry upon my return.”

Charlotte closed her mouth, her face paling further, lips compressed tight.

Lady Ablethorp winked. “How fortuitous. And may I offer you both my heartfelt congratulations.” 

A hullabaloo of congratulations and back slaps ensued, along with their family’s speculative stares as the guests filtered out.

Alone once again, Charlotte rounded on Patrick. “And what are we supposed to do now?”

“I assumed that was obvious.”

“Become engaged? That is absurd.”

“Extended engagements are not uncommon, and in truth, I have no idea how long I shall be gone on my next assignment. We shall have ample time to wiggle out of this challenging situation. In fact, the longer I am away, the more believable it will be that you tire of waiting and cry off.”

“Ah.” Charlotte grinned. “Not a bad thought, my lord.”

Patrick winged out an arm. “Let us complete the sale after a dance, a waltz, to convince the Philistines that we are indeed a couple.”

“I fervently hope,” Charlotte said, taking his arm, “that our dance will not give you hives.”

Patrick’s soft laugh charmed her once again.

“I doubt that,” he said, lips twitching. “But one never knows.”

 His cheeky grin appeared. “What say you to gifting me your father’s painting? A token of our engagement.”

Charlotte tapped a finger to her lips, then offered a saucy smile. “Not a chance, my lord. The price stands.”