Chapter Four
Arthur swallowed the last of the tea down and set his cup down with a clatter.
He’d been mad to visit Madeline. She’d given him haughty looks, and then, when he’d finally asked her for help, she’d transformed into the sort of silly woman of the ton everyone told him she was.
Perhaps he’d really just been taken in all those years ago by her appearance.
He wanted to believe that she had more sense than she showed. She’d always been a paragon, a woman whom he contrasted favorably against other women.
Her passion for paintings and sculptures, jewels and architecture, had seemed so real. And unlike other women, she did not simply copy them, she actually analyzed their meaning. She was able to tell him why a particular piece had resonated with its audience.
When she spotted novel brush techniques or interesting perspectives, she’d seemed to grow so excited and he’d felt excited with her. When they’d strolled through a ballroom together, she was able to tell him when it had been constructed and if the hostess had taken any liberties in changing the style.
She been elegant, yes, but it was her observant nature and keen intelligence that had drawn in him. He didn’t want to believe that his memories had been false.
“I noted you recently found some books your late husband wrote,” Arthur said. “They were published posthumously.”
“Indeed.” She paused and tilted her head. Blonde, satiny locks fell against her slender neck. “What brings about this interest?”
“I like beauty,” he said.
For some horrible reason the words came out huskier than he intended. Heat seemed to fill the room, as if he’d conjured up Cairo or the Caribbean instead of just allowed his mind for a single second to linger on Madeline’s light locks, her blue eyes, and the exact shade of pink of her lips that made him remember—
He cleared his throat. “Art. I’ve developed an interest. Art is beautiful. Or at least that is its purpose and I meant—” He raked his hand through his hair.
“The critics have been enthusiastic about my late husband’s work. I shall have to see if he left any other documents. I was overwhelmed by the enthusiasm from critics. I’ve—I’ve never read them. They are rather dull.”
For the first time that day, a blissful smile appeared over Madeline’s face.
She was pretty without it, but the sheer force of her beam made him avert his gaze.
Madeline’s husband might be dead, but he still didn’t like Madeline’s obvious pride in his capabilities.
It had been a mistake to come here.
A mistake to see this obviously still grieving widow.
While Arthur had never read Lord Mulbourne’s much lauded work, he had met him before. The man had never impressed him, but it was natural his wife wouldn’t feel that way.
After all, she’d chosen Lord Mulbourne over him, all those years ago.
It had been foolish for him to believe she could help him. She might have rambled over various paintings’ beauty, but perhaps her interest was similar to the manner in which she might exclaim over a nicely cut pelisse in a Matchmaking for Wallflowers spread. He’d known so little about paintings and he’d likely given her words a greater significance than they’d deserved.
Perhaps he’d been searching for an excuse to see her again, grasping at a ridiculous reason. He had a jewel thief to find. He shouldn’t spend valuable time conversing over tea with a woman he’d courted nearly a decade ago.
He’d acted foolishly, just as when he’d rushed to defend his brother Percival once, perhaps intrigued by the possibility of seeing Madeline again and of appearing heroic before her.
He’d acted that way when she’d been married, and then he’d had to see her stand beside her husband. Despite the man’s gray speckled hair, they’d seemed like any other couple on good terms. They’d stood beside each other and laughed at each other’s jokes.
Thank goodness Percival had dragged him away.
He rose. “I should go.”
“Are you leaving London?”
He nodded. “The Côte d’Azur.”
“Oh! I do enjoy the French Riviera. Which town will you be visiting? Nice? Cannes?”
“Antibes.”
“How curious! What brings you there? I did not take you for a man who enjoyed his privacy.”
“There will be plenty of people there,” he assured her. “Comte Beaulieu invited me.”
There was no need to keep it a secret from her. She would likely discover it from Fiona.
“How splendid. You are very fortunate, Lord Bancroft.” Her voice was smooth, and she smiled.
Was it a genuine smile, or the kind developed as a hostess? He wasn’t certain, but as he bowed, and she lowered herself into a curtsy, he strove to avoid the temptation to stare. It was most frustrating that bows gave one such a splendid view of cleavage.
He didn’t like Madeline to think he was still pining for her. It was sufficiently humiliating that she’d forced him away, no matter her supposed sadness at losing his friendship.
“I wish you a pleasant crossing,” she said.
“Thank you.” He smiled tightly. Likely the only thing she was pleased about was that he would be out of the town and less prone to unannounced visits.
“And of course,” she glanced at the pale green tea set, “I hope the waters are still. Are you going via Calais or Le Havre?”
“Calais.”
“How wise. The crossing will be shorter.”
“I do not suffer from a weak stomach,” he reminded her sternly, and she smiled.
Perhaps Madeline had traveled somewhat. That didn’t mean she knew anything about jewel thieves. And from Madeline’s indications, she hadn’t even read her husband’s work.
Where was the clever woman he’d met all those years ago?
He tried to conjure excitement for the trip, but when he returned and found his trunks packed, he couldn’t stop thinking about Madeline.
Arthur took out his reading material as the carriage jostled over dirt lanes on its path to the coast. The images of jewels faded to curly blonde locks and bright blue eyes.
It was ridiculous.
Likely he just needed to bed a woman.
Not get married.
If he’d been certain about Madeline all those years ago, only to discover that the woman she’d become was nothing like the debutante he remembered, how could he hope to choose an actual wife whom he felt less strongly about even in the beginning?
*
Madeline didn’t wait to hear Arthur’s footsteps fade. She strode to her desk, opened it, and wrote down a name. Comte Beaulieu.
Arthur’s expression of a newfound delight in art was nonsense.
A man like him wouldn’t enter her house on an unplanned visit to chat about Venetian jewels.
No.
She’d always suspected Arthur of working for the Crown on some secret missions.
The man cared about his country. Some members of the ton spoke about him dismissively, contrasting him unfavorably with their own sons, and saying he’d run away from the war.
Madeline knew that war had also been waged in the Caribbean. France had had colonies there, and Britain had sought to limit the flow of goods to the continent.
Arthur might be opportunistic, but he certainly wasn’t someone who would abandon his countrymen in the hopes of increasing his personal revenue.
That was true now, and she expected it would also have been true before he became a marquess.
If Arthur was asking questions about Venetian jewels two days after she’d stolen one from the French ambassador’s townhome… Well, perhaps there was a connection.
And if he was going to the Côte d’Azur… She smiled.
Perhaps the owner of the fifth piece, an elaborate sapphire and diamond bracelet, was worried it might also be stolen. She hadn’t known where to find it, but she suspected Arthur might just have unintentionally saved her hours of careful investigation.
She’d always been partial to the Mediterranean and she rang a bell. “Grove? Will you please tell Abby to prepare my things? I am going to the Côte d’Azur.”
“When?”
“Once Gabriella returns this afternoon. I have a craving for sunshine.”
“Very well, my lady.”
She beamed. The Costantini family would be so happy when she arrived with all the jewels. Gabriella and she could go to Venice right after she stole the last piece.