Chapter Thirteen

Part of the reason Fournier’s and his student’s work was so mesmerizing to Derek, beyond their incredible skill, was the mystery surrounding them. Much of what Jess was now telling him had never made it into a history book, and he had to resist the instinct to write it all down and press her for more details.

Had the queen mother been one of the painters? He glanced at the roiling ocean on the wall. Had she painted that? Were other royal family members part of The Six?

He could spend weeks, months, possibly even years digging into all the nuances of what had happened, taking what Jess knew of her family history and matching it to fragments of other known events, but right now, moving forward was possibly more important than understanding the past. Except understanding the past was the only way to move forward. It was rather a conundrum.

“When did your father give you the diary?” Derek wanted—needed—to understand more fully how Jess herself fit into this picture. Not for the sake of the hunt, obviously, since the long-dead diary writer would have no way of knowing which ancestor would be charged with interpreting her clues, but for his own peace of mind.

“Before he died.”

Derek gritted his teeth and counted to ten.

“If you’re going to dole out information at that rate,” the duke said with a shake of his head, “I’ll have rooms made up for you.”

“We have rooms,” Jess said, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring up at the duke. “At Chemsford’s.”

The duke grinned again, making Derek squirm at the way the man’s happiness seemed tinged with threat, as if knowing that he was about to win a battle was the only thing that made him giddy. “Chemsford doesn’t have your trunk.”

“He will once you send it to him,” Jess returned.

“You know me better than that.”

The duchess appeared next to her husband, looping her arm into his. Derek glanced to where she’d been earlier. How had she moved so quickly and silently?

The duke gave a small grunt and then turned to his wife, his face softening instantly. “Did you pinch me?”

“Why didn’t you tell me she was a princess?” the duchess hissed.

“Because she’s not,” the duke returned in a whisper that was anything but quiet. “She’s a duchess.”

“I wasn’t even that,” Jess said with a roll of her eyes. “My mother was a duchess. I was a lady, though I doubt I’m even that anymore.” She shrugged. “Whatever state the country is in now, it’s not the same one I left. I think, for now, I’ll stay the farm girl from France who spent a bit of time as your parlormaid.”

Normally, Derek did quite well with silence, retreating into his brain to think, but the quiet that filled the private parlor now was the sort that demanded one pay attention, even though it seemed nothing was happening.

With this group, something was probably always happening.

Even now as Jess and the duke did nothing but breathe in each other’s general direction, Derek suspected a silent war was raging between them. Jess broke eye contact first, so he had to assume she’d lost whatever argument they were having.

She turned to him, that golden gaze looking shuttered. “I understand if you want out. If you could leave whatever translation notes you’ve completed, I would appreciate it.”

“This bowl,” Derek said, ignoring her offer, “whoever has it becomes the king of Verbonne? A true king, ruling over a free nation? Everyone has agreed to that?”

“If Nicolas has convinced them to uphold the old laws from the country’s prior freedom, yes. Possession of the bowl and the stone would be strong argument in that person’s favor, particularly if they could prove a royal blood connection.”

“That could lure a lot of people,” Derek muttered.

Jess looked to the duke. “How many claims have been made?”

“Only two that carry any weight. Both are claiming they can produce proof, but Nicolas is the only one with known lineage.”

The nod Jess gave indicated she wasn’t surprised by such a thing. “For the past hundred years there have been grumblings of another heir, the rightful king. Proof was never given, but the line has been a continual problem for Verbonne’s royal family.”

There was more to what she was saying, Derek knew, because her mouth tightened at the corners just a bit. She didn’t volunteer it, though, and Derek didn’t know what question to ask to get her to share.

“No one has seen the bowl since the night of the Great Flight. If someone possesses it, they will be able to say it’s passed through their line—a claim that would be difficult to refute.” Jess’s face was grim.

This mattered. This hunt, the results, deciphering the clues, the pictures, all of it mattered. One day, there would be paintings made of the coronation of the new king of Verbonne. Assuming there was a new king, of course, and another country didn’t swallow the land at the end of a month’s time.

Derek could be a part of that. How often did a man get to do something that would have lasting, true historical significance?

And if it came to light that Jess and her brother were, in fact, the imposters and the other line was the rightful one? Having an uninvolved third party along to verify the validity of the clues would ensure everything turned out as it should, right?

In two hundred years, someone might be reading about him or seeing him in a painting. That was a seductive idea indeed.

That was also a great risk. History was filled with people who had been caught up in the idea of power and legacy only to have it go horribly wrong.

As long as he remained aware and alert, he could make sure any painting depicting him down the road wouldn’t tell a cautionary tale but a heroic one.

He took out his sketchbook and began to draw. “We don’t know yet how these paintings fit together or if there’s some sort of symbolism, so I’ll make a sketch for future reference.”

“What about the rest of the paintings?” the duchess asked.

“The earliest accounts of paintings by The Six had them, for the most part, in a single collection. They were meant to be looked at together.” Derek sighed and brushed the hair from his forehead with an impatient swipe before he resumed drawing. “That collection was auctioned off twenty-five years ago. Unfortunately, auction houses don’t give up their lists of clients easily.”

“Well then,” the duke said with another of those wily grins, “it’s a good thing people like doing favors for dukes.”

With most of the world’s precious art residing in the homes of the rich and powerful, Derek had been in many aristocratic homes. Certainly he’d been in enough to know that when said aristocrat wanted something done, it happened as quickly as possible.

The Duke of Marshington’s servants, however, were miracle workers. How else could they have retrieved Jess and Derek’s belongings from Lord Chemsford’s townhome before the duke and his unexpected company were able to finish their late breakfast? Derek didn’t even want to think about how the servants had managed to convince William to let them take everything.

After the meal, which was a combination of idle chatter that seemed to veil more serious statements and awkward silence, Derek was shown to a room, told to be dressed in his nicest day clothes and ready to go to the auction house at two, and then left to his own devices.

Any remaining wavering thoughts were silenced by the time he pulled on the only coat he’d had cut to truly fit his frame and left the room. The risk was worth it. If he didn’t take it, he’d always wonder. The chances of Jess succeeding in finding the bowl within a month without his assistance were slim. Derek couldn’t risk being the reason a country, a culture, ceased to exist. Jess didn’t have to know that he intended to discover who the rightful heir should be as they went along. She wasn’t the only one capable of keeping secrets.

She might have agreed to tell him everything, but Derek wasn’t foolish enough to believe she actually intended to do so.

The duke was waiting in the front hall, the classic, utilitarian lines of his earlier riding clothes exchanged for the fine tailoring and dashing impressiveness of a perfectly made suit of clothing. A diamond pin sparkled from the center of his cravat, and a jewel-encrusted cane rested against his leg as he pulled on a pair of pristine white gloves. Jeffreys draped a many-caped greatcoat across the duke’s shoulders, completing the transformation.

Beside him stood a young servant lad, dressed in neat, simple clothing very similar to the valet’s, if a bit loose. Likely, the clothing had been inherited from another servant and the boy hadn’t yet grown into it completely.

Derek narrowed his eyes as the servant handed the duke his hat. “Good afternoon, Jess.”

Her head tilted up immediately, revealing a face that was neither masculine nor adolescent but was heavily shaded by the brim of a cap set over some sort of dark-haired wig. Pale eyes narrowed at him, but she didn’t say anything.

The duke chuckled. “Perfect fit,” he said as he situated his hat upon his head before gesturing toward the door with his glittering cane. “Shall we?”

The three piled into a waiting carriage, Jess taking the seat facing backward, the way an actual servant would do if riding within the carriage. It was a wonder she hadn’t climbed atop the roof or held on to the back to extend the ruse.

At the auctioneer’s office, the duke breezed right past the servant attempting to welcome them and take their coats.

“I never trust my coat to a servant I don’t know,” the duke said in a snotty tone, followed by a short, sharp sniff of disapproval. “I brought my own coatrack.” With that, he plopped his hat onto Jess’s head, further obscuring anyone’s attempt at seeing her face, and draped his coat over her outstretched arms. “You may take my companion’s coat, though. He is less fastidious than I am.”

Derek shrugged out of his coat and gave it to the waiting servant, pretending he didn’t notice the fine trembling in the man’s hand and the furtive looks in the duke’s direction.

Mr. Ashley, the auctioneer, was more than happy to have a duke of wealth, power, and reputation in his office. “What a pleasant surprise, Your Grace,” he said, bowing a bit too low and smiling a bit too wide. “What can I do for you?”

The duke sniffed again and tilted his nose in the air. “I have decided I need a theme—I say, boy, you’re to stand within my sight at all times, but not at such proximity that I can smell the stench of your breath. Go over there.” He frowned and gestured for Jess to move deeper into the room, tucking herself into a corner beside a short plant.

With a dismissive sneer, the duke turned back to the auctioneer. “As I was saying, I require a theme to my private parlor. I like consistency in my life. I have one piece of art already that I wish to use. I want to find more paintings by the artist, and this man”—he gestured in Derek’s direction—“assures me that you know where they are.”

Derek was going to strangle both Jess and Marshington. He didn’t care if one of them was a duke. Once again he’d been plopped into a situation with no explanation, no warning, no clue of what part he was to play.

Derek smiled—not too big a smile, of course—and nodded at the auctioneer, whose returning smile looked considerably more genuine than Derek’s felt.

“Tell him what I require,” the duke said.

Derek blinked and maintained his fake smile until he realized Marshington had been talking to him.

Yes, Derek was definitely going to harm a duke. Hopefully there were a few nice paintings to look at in Australia.

He cleared his throat. “The painting currently in the space is by one of Fournier’s students. It was bought at an auction from this house twenty-five years ago. The duke wants more of the paintings that were auctioned then.”

“We don’t make it a practice to hand out our auction results,” Mr. Ashley said hesitantly. “I could perhaps contact them on your behalf.”

The duke sneered. “If that is what we must do. Retrieve the list. I will wait.”

The auctioneer’s mouth dropped open a bit, but he recovered quickly. In his line of work he’d probably seen many a demanding and selfish man and learned how much he needed to give in order to keep them placated. “I can hardly contact them while you’re here, Your Gra—”

“If you don’t get the list,” the duke bit out, revealing some of the hardness Derek had sensed in him that morning, “I won’t know which paintings I desire.” His lip curled into a sneer once more. “Unless you can list the items in question from memory.”

“Yes, of course, Your Grace,” Mr. Ashley mumbled, because really, what else was he going to do? “One moment.”

The auctioneer riffled through a file cabinet, triumphantly coming up with a list nearly ten minutes later. In all that time, Jess didn’t move from her position as a human coatrack. The duke moved only his head, looking about the room in disdain as he waited. It appeared to be only Derek who wanted the entire ordeal to just be over.

With the list produced, the auctioneer began to share the names of the paintings from the auction. Occasionally the duke would hold up a hand to stop the man and turn to Derek. “What do you think?”

What did he think? He thought Marshington and Jess needed to tell him his lines if they were going to shove him into the middle of their little play. They didn’t have time for the auctioneer to do the contacting for them. Besides, given the value of the paintings, one or two might be willing to sell, but the whole lot of them certainly wouldn’t.

He stumbled through, keeping his answers simple: “Yes, that one would go nicely” and “While every painting by The Six is incredible, that particular one wouldn’t go with the theme we’re creating.” It was utter nonsense, but Mr. Ashley didn’t seem to notice.

“That one,” the duke said suddenly, looking over Derek’s shoulder.

“What?” Derek said dumbly.

“That painting,” the duke said with a note of awe in his voice. “That is the look I want in my parlor. Tell me about this one.” He rose and walked across the room to get closer to the painting that seemed to have fascinated him.

Derek turned in complete bafflement. The auctioneer couldn’t possibly have a Verbonnian painting hanging in his office. Derek would have noticed immediately.

Looking at the painting in question didn’t reduce Derek’s confusion. If anything, it grew. On the wall was a painting that was not historic, important, or even all that good. Derek had to look at the corner to distinguish the artist because it was so similar to other works of the same nature. Still, he started saying things about painting in general that would apply to the work, hoping it sounded impressive.

“Not you,” the duke growled. “Him.” He pointed to the auctioneer and waved the man over. “Tell me about this painting.”

The relief was easy to read on Mr. Ashley’s face as he left his desk and approached the painting. Most of what he said made Derek want to make choking noises the way his brother had done when they were children. Obviously the auctioneer was excited about the possibility of selling off an essentially worthless painting and avoiding having to contact important men about decades-old purchases.

“This,” the duke said with growling emphasis. “This is perfect. I’ll take it.” He reached up and began to remove it from the wall.

“Your Grace, I—” The auctioneer stumbled to a halt as the duke glared at him.

“Your job is to sell art, no?” The duke smirked at the smaller man. At least Derek could now see where Jess had picked up the habit.

Mr. Ashley adjusted his cravat. “Well, yes.”

“I want to buy this art.” The duke frowned. “What is the problem?”

“Er, uh, there isn’t a problem, Your Grace.”

“Good.” The duke shoved the painting into Derek’s hands. “My solicitor will send you a bank draft for whatever Mr. Thornbury tells me is a fair price.”

Derek looked at the auctioneer and, trying to set the man’s mind at ease, gave him a smile and a wink. He had no idea what Marshington intended to send, but Derek was going to make sure it was enough to make the auctioneer feel like a bit of a bandit. It was a small revenge, but contemplating it made Derek feel better.

The duke wasn’t finished, though. “You will find me other paintings by this artist. I want to see if any of the others speak to me the way this one has.”

“I . . . Of course, Your Grace.” Mr. Ashley looked a bit dazed.

The duke gave a sharp nod and snapped his fingers. Jess scrambled from her corner, almost knocking the plant to the ground in the process. She fell in behind the duke’s heels and followed him out the door. “Good day, Mr. Ashley,” Marshington said over his shoulder. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“And to you, Your Grace,” Mr. Ashley called to the duke’s retreating back.

Derek struggled out to the front hall with the painting they’d sort of purchased. He accepted his coat from the servant, while the duke took his outer garments from Jess. Then Marshington strode out the door, nose so high he couldn’t possibly see his own feet.

Picking up the painting again, Derek followed the duke out to the carriage, a little awed, a little angry, and more than a little dumbfounded. What in the world had just happened?