Stolen Love (11 page)

"There, you see, Miss Willard? I had very little encouragement upon which to presume."

"Amelia," Elizabeth added, "is almost always occupied, though it's no fault of hers. 'None but the brave deserves the fair,' you know."

"Was I not brave to come here this morning?" he protested.

"Perhaps so," Elizabeth said.

"Perhaps?" He did his best to sound offended.

"It seems to me you might make any woman fall in love with you." She blushed, genuinely, as soon as the words were out.

"This is fascinating, Elizabeth, do go on. I should like to hear more about the power of my charms."

"He shall be vain as a peacock if you do, Beth," Amelia said.

The sound of someone hailing them interrupted Nicholas's response. Elizabeth first saw who was joining them. "Good morning, Mr. Rutherford."

"Good morning, Miss Elizabeth, Miss Willard."

"Good morning, Rip."

"Nick." By his expression it was clear that Ripton had expected to find Amelia and Elizabeth alone.

"Two surprises in one morning," Nicholas heard Elizabeth say. "It's quite overwhelming."

"What brings you to the Park so early?" he asked.

"The old boy needed some exercise." Ripton patted his horse on the neck. "And as Miss Willard was kind enough to invite me, here I am."

"Good morning, Mr. Rutherford." Amelia smiled fetchingly. "I'm so glad you could come. Will you ride next to me?"

Nicholas scowled. No doubt Amelia had also given Ripton the impression he would be meeting them alone. She obviously intended to make the two of them compete for her, and he did not like it in the least. If this was supposed to be a demonstration of her power to attract, he did not approve of her method.

There was a moment of silence before Amelia smiled and said, "Perhaps you might settle a dispute, Mr. Rutherford. Mr. Villines says I am too occupied with other gentlemen, and he dares not approach me for that reason. Do you think I am too occupied?"

"Miss Willard, the number of men who vie for your attentions is truly daunting."

"But, Mr. Rutherford," she cried, "that's hardly my fault."

"Be that as it may, it is daunting when a woman has so many admirers."

"Well then, what is the maximum number of admirers a lady ought to have, Mr. Rutherford?" asked Amelia.

"No more than a dozen or so," he answered.

"Only a dozen?" she said, pouting.

"How many admirers do
you
think a lady ' ought to have?" Ripton turned in his saddle to look at Elizabeth.

"No so many as a dozen, Mr. Rutherford. It would be too tiring. I don't know how Amelia stands it."

"You would prefer just six, perhaps?"

"I believe I should prefer to have a secret admirer. Then one might have all the excitement without any of the bother."

"Provided it isn't a secret from you as well," Nicholas added. He attributed his sudden vague anxiety to the fact that Elizabeth was young to be thinking seriously about having admirers.

"Do you really think having admirers is a bother, Miss Elizabeth?"

"It seems so to me, Mr. Rutherford. You were just now terribly abusing my cousin. And Nicholas was doing the same before you came."

"Beth is right, you two have been frightfully cruel. I shall have to think of some way for you to make it up to me."

"Perhaps a bit of unofficial news would suffice?" Ripton asked as the four of them continued riding through the Park.

"What news?" asked Amelia.

"It's all over London. Or it soon will be. Sir Jaspar's painting, you know, the one he was crowing over the other day. He claims someone's replaced it with a fake."

"A fake!" Elizabeth echoed.

"A forgery, Miss Elizabeth."

"Are you sure?" Amelia asked.

"Oh, yes. I had the news from my mother this morning. She's never wrong about such things. If she says it's so, then you may rest assured it's so. The morning after the party, he went to have a look at it before breakfast, and he discovered, so he says, that it wasn't the same painting at all."

"How unfortunate if Sir Jaspar spent all that money on a forgery," said Nicholas.

"Sir Jaspar swears he purchased the original."

"Clearly he did not," Nicholas said with a shrug.

"He's convinced someone switched paintings. Says he supervised the crating of it when it was sent over from Switzerland, and he knows the real painting went into the crate. He's called in the Metropolitan Police to investigate how his painting was stolen from under his very nose. The poor man's near to having apoplexy."

"Stolen? Could someone have stolen his painting while we were there?" Amelia's eyes widened.

"I don't consider it likely, Miss Willard," Nicholas said. "There's quite a market for old masters. Someone working for the company that shipped it could have changed the paintings quite easily."

"I think it was the Mayfair Thief," said Elizabeth.

"Do you suppose it was?" Amelia asked. "I thought he only stole jewels," said Nicholas.

"It isn't any great leap from diamonds to works of art," Ripton said with a shrug.

"It's only a matter of size and portability." Nicholas snorted. "If you want my honest opinion, I don't believe Sir Jaspar ever had the original. I think the painting we saw was already a fake, albeit a skillful one."

"I don't know about that, Nick. It looked real enough to me."

"Well, according to you, it's not the original now. How do you explain that?" Nicholas challenged him.

"Obviously, someone stole it."

Nicholas frowned. "Sir Jaspar never had the original, if you ask me."

"I think he did." Elizabeth surprised them with her emphatic statement. "The painting must have been changed after Sir Jaspar's party." The three were staring at her, but she continued. "The thief probably brought the forgery with him, hid it somewhere, then came back later to switch them."

"Oh, Beth, that's ridiculous."

"You've quite an imagination, Elizabeth," Nicholas said.

"What ever gave you such a fantastic idea?" asked Ripton, looking astonished.

"Because I—" She was blushing again, and she stared at the mane of her horse. "Just because."

"Because what?" Nicholas prompted. "A painting's a rather awkward thing to carry about," he said when she did not answer. "There were dozens of people there. I should think someone would have noticed a fellow carrying the thing into Sir Jaspar's house."

"Not if it wasn't in a frame, Nicholas."

"She's right about that," said Ripton.

"But there'd be a time of it getting the forgery into Sir Jaspar's frame," Nicholas pointed out. "It just isn't possible."

"But, Nicholas, don't you see? That's why it had to be the Mayfair Thief."

"Why? Because only a man who does not exist could steal a painting that was never really there?"

"No, because only the Mayfair Thief can do the impossible."

Nicholas stared at her, then broke into laughter. "Be careful, Elizabeth, you might wake up one day and find yourself in love with a myth."

"Well, perhaps I will, Nicholas," she retorted.

"I think you would be very unhappy if you discovered you were in love with someone cold-blooded enough to sneak into Sir Jaspar's home in the dead of night."

"He stole Lady Stinforth's tiara right off her head," Ripton said with a smile. "Sounds like a cold-blooded chap to me. Nicholas is right, Miss Elizabeth, you had better not fall in love with the May fair Thief."

"Ripton!" Nicholas scowled, but it did no good.

"Maybe Miss Elizabeth is right."

"I don't see why not," Elizabeth said. "Do you remember when I knocked over that umbrella stand, Nicholas? There was a package in it, and it was rolling away. You took it from me, don't you remember how heavy it was?"

"Could it have been a canvas?" Ripton asked.

"It might have been."

"And then again, it might not have," Nicholas said, glaring at Ripton. 'The two of you may believe whatever nonsense you like about this thief person. I don't even believe there's been a crime committed."

"I agree with Mr. Villines," said Amelia. "And I think it's time we changed the subject."

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P
ercy Johns was forty-seven years old, and he took pride in his appearance. His clothes were always clean and neatly mended by his wife, his shoes were always polished, and his collars always starched. His hair, a nondescript brown that was slowly receding, was always combed perfectly into place. He was of average height and of somewhat more than average weight. By no stretch of the imagination could he be called handsome, yet his awkward features stopped just short of being ugly. Ale was his drink, a pint with lunch, a pint with the boys when he was off work, and another when he got home to supper and his wife. Percy was a man of confirmed habits, or rather, entrenched ones. Most particularly when involved in a thought-provoking case, he was a compulsive list maker. It was almost an unconscious habit with him to take pen and paper in hand whenever he sat down. He did not feel at ease unless he could make a list of his thoughts. His entire life was organized by the making of lists, chiefly because once he wrote something down, he never forgot it. Had he been born a gentleman, he might have gone to school and become a mathematician or perhaps a barrister, since the law was his consuming interest.

A detective with the Bow Street Runners until their dissolution in 1829 Percy was now a member of the recently established Metropolitan Police. He was good at his job; indeed, Percy Johns was unofficially responsible for the training of the younger officers. It was his habit to take one or two of the more promising men under his wing and instruct them in his methods. His most promising protégé at the moment was Alfred Wells. Mr. Wells was twenty-four years old, highly intelligent, eager to learn, and ambitious. Percy was reminded of himself when he was younger.

Percy sat at his desk, staring at a variety of lists spread out before him. One of them consisted of some fifty names, thirty of which were neatly crossed out. Another contained a succession of dates, followed by a description of a theft that had occurred on that date. One or two of those entries was crossed out. The first date was as early as 1837, when a bracelet valued at nearly five hundred pounds had been stolen from a Mrs. Snowden. Percy entered the date of the supposed theft of Sir Jaspar Charles's Van Dyck at the bottom of the list. He consulted a third list and, using a straight edge to keep the lines neat and parallel, crossed another seven entries off his list of names.

The theft of Sir Jaspar's painting was puzzling, and while it was possible the baronet had never actually had the original, a careful consideration of both his lists and the facts as related to him by Sir Jaspar made Percy think the man's painting had in fact been stolen. The one thing every theft on his list had in common was the seeming impossibility of it having happened at all. There were only two things Percy Johns knew for certain about the Mayfair Thief: he was an extraordinary man, and one day he would make a mistake. Percy intended to take full advantage of the mistake when it finally happened.

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"C
ome in for a drink, Rip?" Nicholas asked when the two arrived at Cambridge Terrace after having supper at The Phoenix, a club just off St. James's Street. It was still early, just past eleven-thirty, so Ripton agreed.

Mr. Chester was waiting for Nicholas, and as soon as they walked into the entranceway, he helped the men off with their coats.

"Did you have a pleasant evening, gentlemen?"

"Yes, Chester, we did."

"The Phoenix has got a new cook," Ripton added. "A most pleasant evening. I wish I had more like it."

"You will be staying up, Mr. Villines?" Mr. Chester inquired.

"Yes."

"Port, sir?"

"Yes."

"In the parlor, then?"

Nicholas nodded.

"Very good, sir."

A few moments later, Mr. Chester brought two glasses and a bottle of port to the parlor. Nicholas accepted the glasses and waved a hand to indicate Mr. Chester would not be required to stay.

"I don't mind if I do," Ripton said when Nicholas passed him a glass and the bottle.

They were quiet while they held their glasses. Fine liquor such as the port Nicholas bought needed to be drunk in silence, and Nicholas knew him too well to break such a necessary period of reflection. Nicholas stared at his glass for some time before drinking from it, but when he did, the port slid down his throat like the fine wine it was. It has been a pleasant day from the very start, he thought, and the evening was turning out to equally pleasant. He stretched out his legs and sank back into his chair.

"Lately," he said, "I have been thinking a great deal about getting married."

Ripton considered the statement. "Are we at last at an age when we ought to consider getting wives?"

"I believe so, Rip." There was silence while he emptied his glass. He refilled it but left it untouched. "I have all the comforts a man could want. I live in a house arranged exactly to my taste, surrounded by beautiful things, and"—he picked up his drink and lifted it to the light—"I can well afford to consume the expensive port we are presently enjoying."

If everything went as planned, Nicholas thought, he would soon be able to lapse into the respectable idleness that would have been his long ago, had his father not squandered a fortune. He would be able to think about the seat in the House of Commons his grandfather kept urging him to seek. He would marry, have children, and one day pass on a fortune to his sons. He would have a family like Havoc Willard's.

"You don't think a wife would get in the way of your enjoyment of all this?"

"Not if she were the right woman." He sat up briefly to refill Ripton's glass. "I think it would please my aunt and uncle if I were to marry Amelia Willard. Even my grandfather would approve of her." A wife like Amelia Willard would be perfect for a Member of Parliament. She was exquisitely lovely, and she came from good family. She was soft-hearted, pliable, and utterly empty-headed, the sort of woman a man dreamed of marrying. It would be a good marriage to make.