One More Kiss

CHAPTER Seven





“SO YOU BELIEVE that the false Rembrandts are not a deliberate fraud, but rather artists of Rembrandt’s school who were attempting to emulate him?”

“Yes, exactly, Lord Belmont.” Miss Brent sat back in her seat, smiling at his quick grasp of her idea.

“But how can you tell the true old masters from the fakes?” Jess asked before he recalled that he was not part of the conversation, just an eavesdropper. She had drawn him in with her scent, the intensity in her voice, the way her enthusiasm radiated from her body. He felt like a hapless player ensnared by a game of luck.

Belmont did no more than raise his eyebrows at the interruption. Beatrice Brent did not seem to take offense, but that may have been because she was so enthusiastic about art.

“As I explained to Lord Belmont, my lord, there is a certain style that only Rembrandt maintains. He has a way of seeing the world that is only his and cannot be duplicated.” She picked up her fork, then put it down again without sampling the beef on her plate.

“But is that not only a matter of opinion?” Lord Jess went on. “There is a Rembrandt at Pennford Castle and I wonder if it would meet your criteria.”

“It is not my criteria only, my lord. This has been a discussion among true experts, not just students of the subject like me.”

“But could a supposed expert not tell the owner it is a forgery and then buy it at a reduced price and resell it as an original?”

“You suppose everyone has as devious an imagination as you do, Jess.” Belmont signaled for more wine even as the footman came forward with the decanter.

Beatrice tilted her head to one side. “I’ve thought of that myself,” she said to Belmont with a mischievous smile. She leaned back to include Lord Jess. “I prefer to think of it as a clever construct and not devious at all.”

“And I meant no offense, Miss Brent.” Belmont returned her smile with one of his own. “To you or to Jess.”

“None taken, Belmont,” Jess acknowledged. Belmont was hardly the only one who thought his actions were motivated by ill will. His brother the duke had once asked him if gaming was his way of defaming the Pennistan name.

“It would be fun, though, would it not?” Miss Brent went on. “I mean to see if one could carry off the idea of claiming a true Rembrandt was a forgery.” She had such a charming way of leaning toward him as she spoke, as if confiding a secret. He stayed where he was, close enough to count the gold flecks in her brown eyes, enjoying the exquisite torture. He nodded in answer to her question.

He might have considered flirting with her as a way of distracting her from Crenshaw’s possible suit, but at the moment he was doing it solely because she was irresistible. Later, he told himself, later he would come to his senses, but for now discussing Rembrandt and forgery was far more innocent than it sounded and the dinner table was a perfectly safe place to allow himself to be captivated.

“The problem is,” Belmont spoke, ending the reverie, “one would have to be an expert on Rembrandt and willing to jeopardize one’s own reputation if the trick did not work.”

“Only if you were caught, my lord.” Beatrice looked from one of them to the other. “I would think that the risk would be part of the fun.”

Belmont raised his eyebrows yet again, which Jess read as an unwillingness to commit himself one way or the other.

Jess nodded slowly as it occurred to him that this gently reared young woman may have a good bit of her brother’s wildness in her, very carefully tamped down, which made him think of any number of things it would be “fun” to do with her.

“Exactly how would you undertake the fraud?” Lord Belmont asked. Jess feared that a question like that was similar to lighting a fuse.

This time Beatrice ate some of the pâté before speaking, though Jess was willing to wager she had no idea what she was chewing so thoroughly. He watched her expression as her clever brain worked out the perfect crime. From puzzlement to idea to wicked certainty.

He glanced at Belmont, who was watching her too, but with a smile that could only be called avuncular.

“I would choose someone who is not well schooled in art, someone who only bought the Rembrandt painting to impress others.”

She must know many who fit that description among the circle of newly rich mill owners in Birmingham, Jess thought.

“Then I would hire a competent forger to create a copy. I would confront the owner of the original about its authenticity, using my knowledge, which would certainly be far superior to his. I suppose that is prideful to say, but do you not think that someone who has spent years pursuing an interest is naturally more informed than a newcomer?”

“Yes, I do,” Jess agreed, thinking of his passion for gaming and the way he was torn between educating newcomers or taking all their money.

“That’s true for many of us at this very table,” Lord Belmont said with a serious face. “Your father when it comes to business, the baron and fisticuffs, Lord Destry and riding, the countess and entertaining. I do not know your sister well enough to guess what her expertise is, but it is the rare person who does not excel in some area.”

“Thank you, my lord. Somehow that is very reassuring to me. Lord Jess, what is your area of expertise?”

“Gaming,” he said, and waited to see how she would react.

“Yes, you and Ellis shared that interest for a while, but you did bring my brother back to us. For that I am grateful.” She searched his eyes as if she was trying to find that goodness. Generosity and guilt she might find, but very little goodness.

“So you are now confronting the owner of the Rembrandt and are about to convince him it is a fake,” Lord Belmont reminded her. Jess was grateful to have her vivid imagination focused on her “clever construct,” as she phrased it, and away from his virtue or lack thereof.

“I will not bore you with the technical details but I could easily convince him that someone had duped him. His pride would be savaged by the thought and he would willingly let me take it away for further study.” She paused and gave them a look. “Does this work so far?”

Jess pretended offense, matching her mood. “Theft is not one of my areas of expertise. Belmont would know better.” His inference was quite deliberate and Miss Brent gave all her attention to the earl.

Belmont shook his head. “What Jess means is that I have helped several friends find lost items. As I told you, I can never resist a puzzle.” Belmont finished off his wine before adding, “It sounds plausible so far, Miss Brent. Pray, continue.”

She closed her eyes as though that would fortify her as much as the wine was fortifying Belmont. “I would replace the real painting with the forgery and return it to the owner with the sad news that it is not truly a Rembrandt—the advantage being that when I am able to sell it, the buyer could announce the discovery of the original from which my owner’s forgery was copied. Is that too complicated?”

“Not at all complicated, my dear,” said the earl and then waited for the footman to step back after refilling his glass.

Despite the amazing amounts of wine the man imbibed, he was never foxed. The only sign that Jess could find was when he began to call the ladies “my dear.” Was it because he drank only wine, never brandy or other spirits?

“Not too complicated,” Belmont repeated, “but it does involve at least one other person who could attempt blackmail at some later point.”

“Do you think so?” Beatrice said with some disappointment, but after a brief pause she shook her head. “But I would know that he is an art forger, which is an equally valid basis for blackmail. It would be quid pro quo.”

Her naïveté was showing here, Jess thought. “Yes, but that would end the moment either one of you admitted the forgery and theft to someone else,” he said.

“I am sure neither one of us would be foolish enough to do that,” she insisted with a firm shake of her head, as if she knew the forger as well as she knew herself.

“So you think you could keep your own counsel. Never speak of it to anyone, not even your sister, your twin?” Or your lover? He kept that one to himself.

“Yes, I am sure I could keep the secret. There are many things I never tell Ceci. She does worry so much. About everything.”

“I can see why, if constructing clever ways to steal art is one of your hobbies.” He smiled.

“The earl did ask, my lord.”

“You mean all one must do is ask in order to lead you into a life of crime?” Or sin?

Belmont’s bark of laughter drew both their attention. “Jess, you deserve to be in her black books to even hint that Miss Brent would so easily stray from the right path.”

“Belmont, you are a devil. How do I answer that? It would be rude of me to say that Miss Brent is too sensitive or that I was not teasing at all.”

“Which was it, my lord?” Miss Brent asked, without a smile now. She moved in her seat so that even her skirt was not touching him.

“Neither,” he insisted, feeling trapped.

Miss Brent turned to Lord Belmont. “So here is another mystery for you to solve, my lord.”

Belmont smiled. “Lord Jess’s behavior is no mystery at all, my dear Miss Brent. But I will leave you to decipher it from the clues you have.”

Miss Brent looked from one to the other, clearly wondering what Belmont knew that she did not.

“In the meantime,” Lord Belmont went on, “do tell me how you can tell a real Rembrandt from his lesser imitators. I find I am fascinated and want details, if you please, my dear.”

Jess turned to Mrs. Kendrick, reminding himself that Miss Beatrice Brent was a woman he had no business trying to charm.


LORD DESTRY FINISHED his opening conversation with the countess and, before he turned to her, Cecilia watched him take the salt and sprinkle some into his wineglass. Puzzled, she wondered exactly what that would do to the wine. Anxious to fit in, she took some salt from the cellar nearest her and did the same thing.

“Miss Brent, do tell Miss Wilson that I speak the truth when I say that Birmingham is a far lovelier town than Manchester.”

The question from Lord Crenshaw made Cecilia start, but before she answered, she realized why his questions were always worded like an instruction with only one possible answer. Still, it was an easy enough subject and she was grateful for the escape.

Cecilia leaned forward and spoke to Miss Wilson, who was seated just beyond Lord Crenshaw. “Oh, indeed it is. At least, I think so. Birmingham has such lovely gardens, and a river runs through the middle of the city. There are walking paths and the shops. While it is not at all equal to London, it is far superior to any other city in the Midlands.”

Lord Crenshaw turned to Miss Wilson, who smoothed her hair before answering. “I do believe you show some prejudice, Miss Brent, as Birmingham is your home.”

“We cannot all live in London,” Lord Crenshaw teased. “And Mr. Brent must remain close to his interests in Birmingham.”

All gentlemen had “interests” to attend to. What a nice way of not saying that her father ran mills.

Cecilia sipped her wine while trying to think of a topic of conversation and almost choked at the hideous element the salt flavoring added. She glanced at Lord Destry, who shrugged a shoulder, before returning her attention to Lord Crenshaw.

Miss Wilson was now speaking with the earl, and Lord Crenshaw was watching the girl with an intensity that made Cecilia question his recent interest in Beatrice. He sensed Cecilia’s study of him and turned to her.

“What holds you close to London these days, my lord? We miss you at home.” That was a neutral enough question.

“London has amusements that cannot be duplicated anywhere.” He showed his teeth in a smile that was more suggestive than flirtatious.

“You mean the theater and opera?”

“Indeed, as you will find when you have your Season. London knows no bounds when it comes to entertainments.”

Cecilia had no idea why the image of a bordello should pop into her head but was much relieved when Lord Crenshaw went on.

“Gaming is how I spend most of my evenings when I am not in the Midlands.”

Now she felt silly. His expression was filled with an apologetic demeanor as he admitted his weakness.

“Indeed,” Cecilia said. “Do you prefer cards, games of chance, or horse racing?”

“All of them,” Crenshaw said with an encompassing sweep of his hands. “In fact, I wager a quid we will have trout for the fish course.”

Lord Destry leaned forward. “I wager a quid that we are served trout and turbot.”

“You’re on!” Crenshaw nodded.

“And you, Miss Brent?” Destry asked. “What do you think we will be served? Would you care to join our little wager?”

Knowing exactly what her father thought of gambling, Cecilia smiled demurely and looked down so they could not see the lie. “It would not be fair, as I already know what is going to be served.”

They were interrupted by a footman serving soup and when the server moved on Lord Destry picked up his fork and began to eat. His fork, Cecilia thought. Why his fork?

The others were talking over their soup so she once again followed his behavior. One could hardly enjoy the soup with a fork but if it was the way it was eaten in fashionable society then she would not be caught out. Perhaps it was a new trend. She watched as Lord Destry speared a small piece of asparagus from the bowl and ate it.

The marquis looked directly at her and smiled. It was not a comfortable smile, but the kind one used when teasing or testing.

“Tell me, Miss Brent, if I took my serviette and tied it around my neck would you do the same?”

“That is ridiculous,” she said with more sharpness than was polite. “I mean …,” she corrected herself, trying for a less severe voice, “of course not.” She hoped he could not tell how strained her smile was.

“Then why do something as silly as try to eat your soup with a fork?”

“Because you did,” she said, feeling her smile die. “And was that a test to see exactly how gullible I am?”

Cecilia was proud of the fact that she had a mild temperament, but at the moment she had to fight the urge to pour her soup in the man’s lap.

“Miss Brent, just between us, if you please.” Lord Destry leaned closer and lowered his voice as he spoke.

Cecilia nodded, though she was not sure she wanted to share a confidence with the man.

He looked away, clearing his throat before he spoke. “I put salt in my wine so that I am not tempted to drink too much. I love the juice of the grape, but have learned that I have a lower tolerance than most.”

“I see.” Horrified that she had mimicked him, she wanted to shrivel into a little ball of mortification and die.

“Please believe me,” he said, “those who make up the ton are no more than men and women born in lucky circumstances with just enough wit to pretend that they are better than the rest of the citizenry.”

“I suppose,” Cecilia said with a slight nod.

“If there is one thing I know, Miss Brent, it is that anyone taken in by the way they act, no matter if it is salting their wine or something more egregious, like shunning someone, that person is as much a fool as they are.”

Cecilia was struck silent by the snub and looked away lest he see the tears filling her eyes.