Greaves himself arrived in answer to the bell, and Ben was struck by the realization that the butler seemed to have a soft spot for Sophia.
It wasn’t all that unusual for a butler to respond to a bell from a member of the family, but it did seem that Greaves was, more often than not, the one who came running when Sophia called.
“Miss Hastings,” the older man said, offering her a slight bow. Then, turning to offer another to Ben. “How may I be of assistance?”
He seemed to take the presence of Ben in the room as unexceptional, though as an upper servant, Greaves was skilled at keeping his opinions to himself.
“Mr. Greaves,” Sophia said from her perch on a high-backed chair near the cabinet they’d been searching, “is there something you’d like to tell me? Perhaps something relating to a note Lady Celeste left with express instructions for me?”
Ben watched fascinated as the man’s upright posture sagged a little. Folding his arms over his chest, he leaned back against the cabinet to watch the interaction between Sophia and the major-domo.
“Miss Hastings,” Greaves began with a tight-lipped frown, “you must understand it was for your own protection. I cannot imagine Lady Celeste would have wished you to put yourself in the sort of danger both Miss Ivy—that is, the Marchioness of Kerr—and the Duchess of Maitland found themselves in when they followed my late mistress’s directives. I know it was not my place, but I … that is to say, my affection…”
Before he could say more, Sophia stopped him, raising a hand. “Mr. Greaves, how could you?” she asked, looking both disappointed and touched. “You know it’s not your place to make decisions like that. Not only has your decision to hold back Lady Celeste’s letter or note, or whatever it was, put me in more danger, but it may very well have got Mr. Framingham killed.”
At that, the butler flinched. “Of course I never intended to do anything that would harm anyone, Miss Hastings. I was only trying to keep you safe.”
“I know that,” she said with a sigh. “And I know you have a soft spot for me. But you must always know that more information is better in these situations than less. If I don’t know all the facts then how am I to make a rational decision about how to approach this situation? Lady Celeste’s letter might contain information that would keep both me and Lord Benedick safe from harm rather than endangering us.”
Looking abashed, Greaves nodded. “I only thought to do what would keep you out of danger, Miss Hastings. I knew at the time I was breaking every tenet of my profession. But after what happened to the others, I couldn’t stomach the idea of such a thing happening to you.” He looked up, his eyes bright with emotion. “I will submit my letter of resignation to Lady Serena in the morning. I only hope you’ll give me time to gather my things and search for a new position.”
Sophia, Ben could see, was moved by the butler’s confession. It was obvious that she held him in just as much affection as he held her. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said briskly. “You were acting out of concern—rather like a father—and as my own father is not here, I cannot help but think that he would heartily approve of your actions. I must warn you, however, that you must, in future, resist the impulse to hide things from the ladies of this house. You are perhaps of a generation that sees ladies as less capable of handling danger or difficulties. But I cannot stress enough that such a notion is wrong-headed.”
Greaves closed his eyes for the barest second, letting relief show in the set of his shoulders. Then, before Ben’s eyes he pulled himself together and stood up straight and proud. “You are far more generous than I deserve, Miss Hastings,” he said stiffly. “I will not make this mistake again. My apologies for allowing my emotions to cloud what I knew to be my duty as a servant.”
“And now,” Sophia said firmly, “you must bring me the letter or note, or whatever it was, that Lady Celeste left for me. It is imperative that Lord Benedick and I are able to find out just who it is we are looking for. And who killed Mr. Framingham.”
With a nod, Greaves bowed again and excused himself to go get the note.
When he was gone, Ben turned to Sophia, who was looking a bit rueful. “I suppose it was obvious the man thinks of you as his special charge,” he said gently. “But how did you know he’d taken the letter?”
Shaking her head, Sophia said, “I wasn’t positive. But it suddenly occurred to me that there was one person in the house who would wish more than anyone else to keep me from harm’s way. And when I recalled his response to my ankle, I realized that it could be no one else.”
“He’d have been sacked in any other household in England,” Ben pointed out. He tried to imagine what he’d have done if he learned Jennings was hiding things from him. But the situation was different, he supposed. He was a grown man, and though Sophia was a strong, capable woman, society hadn’t yet come to the realization that ladies were able to make their own decisions. Greaves was a product of his upbringing and despite serving as butler to Lady Celeste—who was most certainly not a conventional lady—he must have made the mistake of seeing Sophia as one. Not to mention that his affection for her had made him fearful on her behalf. As Ben well knew—thinking back to his reacting to seeing Ryder’s arm raised to her—fear of seeing Sophia harmed could inspire all sorts of rash behavior.
“But this is not any other household in England,” Sophia said firmly. “And for all that he’s made our task of finding who’s behind the forgery and Framingham’s murder more difficult, I cannot be angry with him. He’s a dear man and has taken excellent care of us all. I believe much of the time there’s a tendency to see servants as cold and emotionless. Interchangeable. And I know well enough that there’s nothing farther from the truth.”
Ben moved to stroke her arm. “You are extraordinary.”
As he watched, a blush crept up from her neck and into her cheeks. “I’m nothing special,” she responded with a slight smile.
He was calculating whether he had enough time to kiss her before the butler came back when the man himself returned.
Presenting a sealed letter to Sophia, Greaves bowed. “Again, I apologize, Miss Hastings. It won’t happen again. You have my word.”
Taking the proffered missive, Sophia nodded. “I know it won’t, Mr. Greaves. Thank you for doing the right thing.”
With another bow, the butler began to walk back to the door. He was almost there when Sophia called after him. “Mr. Greaves?”
He turned, “Yes, Miss Hastings?”
“Thank you for looking out for me.” She gave him a smile guaranteed to melt the sternest heart. “I don’t believe my own father could have done a better job of it.”
Ben wasn’t certain, but he thought the old man blushed before he gave a brisk nod and slipped from the room.
* * *
Once Greaves was gone and the door closed behind him, Sophia slipped her thumb beneath the wax seal bearing the imprint of Lady Celeste’s ring.
She was frustrated by Greaves’ actions, of course. But she couldn’t help but feel that his impulses had come from a desire to protect her. She didn’t approve of his decision to keep the letter from her, but she couldn’t condemn the man or order him dismissed because he’d acted out of affection and loyalty. It simply wasn’t something she could do and remain content with herself.
Ben watched her closely as she unfolded the parchment and began to read aloud.
My dear Sophia,
I cannot tell you how pleased I am that an artist of your talent and vision has agreed to come to Beauchamp House. You are likely unaware of it, but I attended the exhibition of your work in York two summers ago, and that is what convinced me that I could choose no other painter to join the group of ladies to whom I intended to leave my home. (That your sister is a celebrated naturalist in her own right, and therefore was perfect to round out my quartet of scholars, was a happy coincidence.) Welcome to your new home. I hope that you will find my studio—where I have spent many happy hours engrossed in my own, far less impressive, work—is congenial to your artistic eye and that you will produce more of your wonderful work here.
As with your fellow scholars, I have a task which I believe you in particular are best suited for. In no way am I insisting that you undertake this investigation, but I do believe that if you choose not to, the very artistic world which you cherish so much will suffer. The decision, however, is yours.
Now, the facts. For some time now I’ve been aware that one of the galleries in the village has been selling forgeries of some very valuable paintings to buyers who are either unaware that the paintings are fake, or don’t particularly care. I stumbled upon the matter when I visited Mr. Framingham’s gallery one afternoon and came upon the man himself wrapping a painting that looked familiar, while a Mr. Richard Nettles, as he was introduced to me, waited. I had come to pick up one of my own pieces which I’d asked Framingham to frame for me. It was only a quick glimpse, but I was certain I’d either seen the work Framingham was wrapping before—or I’d seen it described. It was Italian, that much I knew. And after consulting one of my collections of art books in the library, I realized that the painting was by Tintoretto. The Temptation of Eve, which dated to 1578. But I knew one other detail about the painting that my books didn’t. This particular work had been part of a collection of some thirty valuable works of art that were purchased from a French Nobleman who was desperate to buy passage for his family out of France as the revolution raged around them. The purchaser was none other than my father, the fifth Duke of Beauchamp, who was in France on business at the time. You will find enclosed with this note a list of those paintings, which were lost in a shipwreck while crossing the English Channel. My father, was, of course, unharmed as he’d returned to England a month before. He was quite upset over the loss, however, and would often lament it when in his cups.
The realization that this Mr. Nettles had purchased what was surely a forgery was troubling to me, and I approached a friend with ties to the Home Office with the information. That avenue, however, was not productive. So, I endeavored to learn more from Framingham. After a few pointed questions, wherein I hinted that I would like to buy a painting similar to that of Mr. Nettles, I learned the man had been recommended to Framingham by a newcomer to the area, Mr. Peter Morgan. I’d met the man before and found him to be just the sort of bombastic fellow I abhorred, who had no real love for art, but instead saw it as a means of elevating his own stature. I also learned that several more of Morgan’s friends had also purchased paintings at his behest. The identity of these paintings confirmed my suspicions. Someone had a list of the paintings that were lost in the Channel and was painting them to order for the unsuspecting amongst Morgan’s set, who doubtless didn’t know Michelangelo from Vermeer, much less were able to tell a forgery from the real thing.
I sent my man of business to each of the homes where the forged paintings were now on display, and one by one, he purchased six of them. These six you will find here in the studio cupboard where I put them for safe-keeping. I did not tell the authorities about the scheme because there was one particular detail that my man learned upon his visits to these middle class homes which made that impossible.
Framingham had told all of the buyers that the paintings in question had come from the collection of an unconventional member of the aristocracy: one Lady Celeste Beauchamp.
That someone has been forging works that my father lost at sea is one thing. That they would attribute the previous ownership of said paintings to his daughter was outrageous. Not only did it make my father look like an insurance cheat, but it also made me out to be complicit in the matter. I could no more report that to the authorities than I could turn myself in to them. Besides, I’d already gone to them with the news and they’d chosen to either ignore me, or conduct their own investigation without informing me of the details.
On top of this, my illness has made it difficult, if not impossible, for me to handle the details and day-to-day investigation into this matter. Which is why, my dear Sophia, I leave it in your capable hands. As a fellow artist, I know you will find the notion of these valuable works of art being reproduced as bold as you please, without concern for the harm it does to the wider world, as abhorrent as I do. And as one of my four heirs, I hope you will see the insult to my good name as an insult that must be answered. I am unable to do so, but I hope that with some assistance, you will.
Feel free to ask my nephews and Serena for assistance should you need it. And please, be careful. I fear that whoever is behind this will not like being exposed for the charlatan he is. I have my suspicions that Morgan may have something to do with it, but right now it is only a suspicion. I hope that you will find some bit of truth that will prove it one way or another. And if it turns out he is innocent, well, I suppose even one wolf cannot be responsible for all the lost sheep in the world.
Be well, my dear girl, and be safe.
Yours in love for the arts,
Lady Celeste Beauchamp