The Adventurous Bride. Miranda JarrettЧитать онлайн книгу.
however, knew otherwise. He’d a gift for discerning the false from the true, and he wasn’t afraid to say so, either. In a shop that prospered from deceptions, his eye and his knowledge made him the least-welcome of Dumont’s customers: an English gentleman too knowledgeable to be properly fleeced.
“Ah, bonjour, my lord.” Dumont groaned sourly, and rolled his eyes toward the dusty heavens. “So you’ve returned to plague me again, eh?”
“And a good day to you, too, Dumont,” John said, his gaze swiftly scanning the cluttered shop for anything new of value. Because Calais was so often either the first or the last stop on his journeys, he was a frequent visitor. “I’ve returned because I’ve heard you’ve new stock from Florence.”
“Like a highwayman you are, my lord, come to steal from a poor old man.” With a great effort, Dumont dislodged himself from the high-backed chair behind the counter. “Why won’t you leave me in peace, eh?”
“Because once in a great while, Dumont, I find a treasure here in your rubbish heap,” John said, unperturbed by the old man’s comments. He had been away from London for over a year now, and was at last planning to return to London later this week. He needed a small gift to take to the opulent Duchess of Cumberland, a most loyal friend. His dalliance with Her Grace had begun last winter in Rome, and ended there, too, quite amicably for both parties. But still John believed a little token, something for her new house in Grosvenor Square, would make a pretty gesture. Her Grace had already promised him her support when he finally returned to London; God only knew that he’d need such powerful allies after last year’s disastrous scandal on the beach at Brighton. Besides, he liked to leave ladies sighing fondly after him; such thoughtfulness had always served him well.
“‘My rubbish heap’. Oh, you’re cruel, my lord, too cruel.” With another groan, Dumont shuffled forward, his arms cocked at the elbows and his hands folded loosely over his leather apron like an elderly squirrel. “But I’ve serveral new pieces, yes. One collector’s misfortune is another’s bounty, my lord, and so it shall always be.”
“I trust it’s no gentleman of my acquaintance,” he said, purposefully bland and disinterested. Paintings and other art were often the first things to be sold when a gentleman suffered a financial reversal. Depending on the circumstances, John might well be able to turn this to his own advantage, and resell the art in London for a profit.
He’d offer no excuses for it, either. Younger sons didn’t have to, particularly youngest sons who’d had the misfortune to be born sixth in line to an Irish peerage with a bankrupt estate. Oh, he’d a miniscule income from a distant uncle and tolerable luck at the gaming tables, and by necessity and inclination he’d mastered the arts of friendship and favors from his wealthier fellows—and from ladies, too, on occasion. But if John’s life had given him a rocky path to climb, so be it. He’d simply seen the rough diamonds scattered among the stones and gathered them up, and where, really, was the sin in that?
“I’ve many sources of supply, many sources,” Dumont was saying vaguely. “You can scarce expect a man of my age to recall them all. Are you here today with a specific purchase in mind, my lord? Might I guide you to your selection?”
“I’ll keep my own eyes open for what pleases me.” John could be vague, too; it was another of his talents. He let his gaze wander the shelves crowded with bits of ornamental glass and porcelain, statues and carvings, paintings and sketches. The Duchess of Cumberland wasn’t choosy about quality, but she did demand that her possessions—and her gifts—reflect the grandeur of both her person and her station. Anything gilded would do, or a Venus, or even a fat little Cupid might—
“Here you are, my lord.” Dumont was proudly displaying a small bronze statue of Mercury. “From the very hands of that great master Benvenuto Cellini himself. You can tell by the delicacy of the work, the exuberance of the line, each the mark of true sixteenth-century genius!”
The shopkeeper handed the bronze to John, then pressed his plump, white palms together as if in prayer, his voice hushed with reverence as he hovered at John’s side.
John carried the little statue to the shop’s bow window and tipped it toward the weak sunlight. It was a respectable forgery, the patina nicely burnished to mimic age. But the Mercury’s expression was simpering and cross-eyed, and if he ever straightened the leg that was bent in flight, one winged foot would likely dangle down a good two inches below its mate.
Dumont inched closer, misreading John’s silence. “You are in awe, my lord, as is proper, yes? To be able to cradle such genius in your hands is a gift, a blessing, an honor, a—”
“A cheat,” John said mildly. “You know as well as I that this sorry little rascal’s lucky if he’s three years old, let alone three hundred.”
Dumont’s eyes popped wide with wounded indignation, his white brows bristling upward. “No, my lord, no! I had it on the very best advice that this bronze is authentique! That you would accuse me of such delusion, such—”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Dumont,” John said. “Nor am I telling you anything that you don’t already know.”
“But my lord, I cannot see how—”
The brass bell over the door jingled. Instantly Dumont turned toward it, grateful for the interruption. John looked, too.
And smiled.
How could he not? The girl was young and lovely, her beauty radiant enough to glow with its own light in the dismal shop. She was undeniably English, and likely wealthy, too. There were good-sized pearls hanging from her ears, and gold beads around her throat and over the wrists of her kidskin gloves. Her petticoat and jacket were costly but outdated, printed with oversized tulips that would make a fashionable Parisian shudder, tulips that contrasted garishly with the girl’s creamy English complexion and dark chestnut hair. No more than twenty: a small, neat waist, high, rounded breasts, trim ankles and a pretty foot.
He appraised her quickly, efficiently, as he had the bronze Mercury. But what made him smile was how briskly she snapped her beribboned parasol shut, how she sailed into the little shop with her back straight and her head high and a guardian footman trailing after in her wake, as ready to conquer this foreign place as any admiral.
Dumont coughed delicately, and patted the sides of his grizzled wig. “If you pray excuse me, my lord, I must greet the lady.”
“Of course you must, you old rogue.” John slipped the bronze Mercury more comfortably into the crook of his arm, content to watch this little scene unfold from the curving recess of the bow window. “Go on, go on. How could you resist such a pretty pigeon waiting to be plucked?”
But Dumont was already with the girl, bowing and scraping as if she were the queen.
“Good day, mademoiselle,” he said in English, as quick as John had been to recognize her nationality. “Allow me to welcome you to my humble little shop. I place myself and my establishment at your complete disposal.”
She nodded with her stern small chin, already looking away from Dumont to the crowded shelves and walls behind him. “I should like to see whatever quality paintings you have in your stock.”
“Be assured that every painting I have is of quality, mademoiselle.” Dumont puffed out his narrow chest with unfounded pride. “I would not have it otherwise.”
“Show your respect,” the footman ordered sternly. “Her ladyship’s not one o’ your common mam’selles. She’s Lady Mary Farren, daughter of His Grace the Duke o’ Aston.”
The girl wrinkled her nose. “Oh, please, Winters, that’s not necessary. The man doesn’t care who I am.”
But Dumont cared very much, and John could practically see the newly raised prices bobbing over the Frenchman’s head. The daughter of an English duke was indeed a rare little pigeon to find in a grimy old port like Calais.
And though the daughter of a duke, the wife of no husband. Interesting, thought John idly. Why wasn’t she in