That was not West's own purpose in presenting this book of verse to Ria; rather, he hoped she would appreciate that the well-thumbed copy was important to him and that the title made it apropos of their short acquaintance. There was some part of him that wished he could see her face when she unwrapped it and another part that was relieved he would not. If she was disappointed in his peace offering, he did not want to be witness to it.

Ria had not been wrong to name him a coward.

Chapter Nine.

Blackwood motioned to West to remove the pictures from his sight. West carefully rolled both and slipped the strings back on to secure them. He laid them on the sideboard and returned to his chair. The colonel, he noted, was visibly agitated by what he had seen. It was not a state that West observed very often, and he could not fathom what it was about the paintings that had prompted this reaction. The colonel was a man of the world. He had been to Africa and India, toured all of the Continent, studied at Harrow and Oxford, could speak intelligently on the campaigns of every great commander since Alexander, and held his own when the topic turned to literature, music, or art.

West could not conceive that the colonel had never seen paintings like Beckwith's before. That was not to say Blackwood could not be offended by them-West certainly was-yet it was something more than offended sensibilities that had the colonel wheeling sharply around his chair in search of the decanter of whiskey.

"What can you tell me about the artist?" asked West.

Blackwood poured his drink and knocked back a large swallow before he answered. "Besides that he is a bedlamite and a bloody talented painter? Nothing whatsoever." He added another finger of whiskey to his tumbler to replenish what he'd drunk and turned around slowly. "How did you come by those? I thought when you left London your destination was your ward's school and then the manor at Ambermede."

"It was, and I went to both places. The paintings came from neither." He explained where he had found them, as well as the why of it, then handed the colonel Beckwith's book.

Blackwood reluctantly parted with his whiskey to have a look at it. He riffled the pages first one way, then the other, before he tossed it back to West. "I haven't seen one of those since I was a schoolboy, and never one that would make de Sade himself blush. Mr. Beckwith's proclivities are certainly apparent-not that I judge a man harshly for such things-but that he is on the board of governors of a school for young ladies is perhaps worth noting."

West nodded. "The same had occurred to me. I thought I would show the book to East's father. Sir James might be able to tell me something about it-when it was published and by whom, who could have done the original engravings. It is not one of a kind, I think, but there cannot have been many printed."

"I agree. You must speak to him. If he does not know the answers, he will direct you to someone who does."

It occurred to West that Blackwood was more comfortable discussing the book than the paintings. Still, something had to be said about them. "You recognized the woman in the paintings."

The colonel was aware that West hadn't posed a question, but made a statement. He sipped his drink, then nodded. "Miss India Parr. She is not easily mistaken for anyone else." West did not inform Blackwood that Miss Parr and Ria bore a passing resemblance to each other or that he had been nearly moved to kill because of it. "What do you make of it?"

"Nothing. It is unfathomable."

"I have heard there is a certain Lord M-who has become her protector."

Blackwood's chuckle held little humor. "You surprise me, West. I did not think you attended the gossip."

"Sometimes it comes to me whether I want to hear it or not. Do you know anything about this Lord M-? I believe he was mentioned in the Gazette."

"That is the same paper that printed that East was engaged to Lady Sophia Colley-and you know the falseness of that report. The pages of the Gazette should be liberally sprinkled with salt before they are ingested as food for thought."

West remembered the story well enough. It had caused Eastlyn no small amount of embarrassment.

"Where is East?" he asked, for the moment willing to be moved from the purpose of his visit. "I called for him at his home, but he is gone from there. No one would say where he had taken himself."

"And you think I will?"

"If you don't, it's because he is either engaged in an assignment for you, or you don't know where he is.

If it is the latter, then I suspect he is running Lady Sophia to earth. The engagement might be false, but of late I am of the opinion that his feelings for her are not."

Blackwood sighed. "It is the latter. I have no idea where he's gone."

West did not bother to temper his amusement. This state of affairs was in no way to the colonel's liking.

"He'll be around directly. He always is. Whether he'll have Lady Sophia with him is less certain."

Stretching his legs before him, West let his head fall back against the chair. He regarded Blackwood from beneath his lowered lashes. "About Lord M-, do you suppose he might be the artist?"

"He cannot be both the artist and Miss Parr's protector. It defies logic."

"But then he is mad-you said so yourself."

"An expression, nothing more, though it would not surprise if it were true. The bold brush strokes... the use of those brilliant colors... the incandescence of Miss Parr herself-there is genius in the presentation, but something very dark that guides it."

West realized the colonel's thinking mirrored his own. He wished it were otherwise; there would be some hope then. "Can you make a guess as to when the paintings were made?"

Blackwood glanced at the sideboard. "I should think they were done in the last three years, perhaps the last two. They would not be in such relatively good condition had they been stored so carelessly for longer than that. They are taken out and regarded frequently, though. You realize that, don't you?" The colonel waved aside his own question. "I can see that you do not. The paint at the edges of both pictures is wearing thin in very particular places. It is Beckwith's thumbs, I believe, that are causing the damage.

He unrolls the painting, then holds it open to regard it, like so." Blackwood demonstrated with his hands spread on either side of an imaginary canvas. "He will destroy it with his admiration." West did not care about that. He cared more that Beckwith might miss the thing before too long a time had passed. "I will have to return them soon, then," he said, more to himself than the colonel. "I believe I will have that drink now." Rising, he went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a generous tumbler of whiskey. Not one to knock it back as the colonel had, West savored the smooth, fiery taste. He did not return to his chair, choosing to hitch his hip on the colonel's desk instead and remain there half sitting, half standing. "What opinion do you have of Miss Parr? Not as an actress. I mean, as the subject of these paintings? Do you think she posed willingly?"

"You cannot be certain that she posed at all." The colonel wheeled his chair toward the fire. "You will allow that her face is known to many. Her admirers number a legion, and Prinny himself is one of them.

You have seen her but a few times, I believe, yet were able to recognize her as the woman m the paintings. As to the form that supports that face, it alight be anyone's."

"And it might be hers."

"Yes," the colonel said reluctantly. "That is always a possibility."

"How can I discover the truth?"

"Why is it so important that you do?"

West was surprised the colonel would pose that question. "Because if she did not pose for the artist, then she may be unaware that the paintings exist at all. She has a right to know what madness has been inspired by her beauty."

"I doubt she will thank you for it."

West doubted it as well, but if the paintings were done without the actress's knowledge, she would want to take measures to protect herself. "If she knows about the paintings, whether or not she posed willingly, I want to learn more. How Beckwith acquired two of them, for instance. Who the artist is. What market exists for these things. And how it all might have touched Miss Jane Petty."

"That is quite a leap you are taking to suppose India Panwill lead you to that missing girl."

West shrugged. "I can begin at any point on the road to see where it leads. What I want to know is if you will help me. How can I discover the truth about the paintings?"

Blackwood was a long time in answering. "I suppose you shall have to ask Miss Parr yourself."

"How is that possible? She is on the Continent."

"I warned you not to take gossip as fact She is not abroad. I suggest you apply to Southerton first. He will advise you on the wisdom of broaching this with her."

"South? South knows where she is?" West was patently incredulous and did not trouble himself to hide it.

"He'd better. She is his assignment."

"Does he realize this? You know, don't you, that he has borrowed my cottage near Ambermede for useas a-" West stopped. "God's truth, but South gets the plum assignments. He is with Miss Parr even now, isn't he?"

"You are not usually such a slow top," the colonel said. "You did not suspect?"

"No. Can you doubt it? I would not have come here first. The damnable thing is that I was so close but a few days ago. Now I shall have to take myself off again." He would see Ria, though. The thought tumbled through his mind quickly, and he did not try to hold it. The colonel was certain to be suspicious of a sudden shift in his mood. "Are these paintings connected to what you have asked South to do?"

"Perhaps. I don't know. I was unaware of their existence until you showed them to me. I cannot say what Miss Parr knows or has told South. You must speak to him first-I am firm on that."

West nodded. "Agreed." He knew there was a great deal the colonel was concealing, most of it about the actress. Therein lay the explanation for Blackwood's agitation when he was presented with the paintings. West did not press to learn more. Whatever information applied to the disappearance of Jane Petty, he would get from South first.

Regarding the colonel over the rim of his tumbler, West asked, "Have you received the portrait of Miss Petty?"

"And the description," the colonel said. "They arrived in yesterday's post."

West made a disgusted snort. "I could have made the delivery almost as quickly myself. Someday you will explain to me how intelligence from Rome can arrive at your door faster than a missive from Gillhollow."

"All roads lead to Rome," Blackwood said dryly. "While there is but one to-"

"I take your point." West sipped his whiskey. "Then there has been no time to make inquiries of the dressmakers on Firth Street."

"On the contrary, I sent someone around immediately."

"And?"

"I expect to hear from her directly."

"Her? You sent a woman?"

Blackwood chuckled. "They are dressmakers, are they not? I judged a woman as likely to have better success."

West felt the skin prickle at the back of his neck. "Might I know the identity of this woman?"

"Of course. You will want to thank her, no doubt. It is Elizabeth."

"Lady Northam." West could not believe it, and yet he was hardly surprised. That he could adopt both those positions at once seemed in perfect concert with every other dilemma he was facing. "You sent North's wife on a mission for information about a missing girl?" "She was going to the dressmaker's, regardless of whether I sent her or not. It was merely providential that she came to my doorstep first." The colonel touched the bridge of his spectacles and drew them lower on his nose so he might regard West over the top. "Need I remind you that I have known Elizabeth all her life? Neither you nor her husband can make that same claim."

"Then North knew what she was about?"

"I can't say. I have no idea whether she told him." West groaned softly, certain he was to be in Dutch with North if that worthy found out. "Northam will have my head."

Blackwood dismissed that notion. "He will have mine first."

"The order that he comes for us makes little difference when he means to put us on the chopping block."

Chuckling, the colonel finished his drink and set his glass down. "I think Elizabeth will say nothing. She is desirous of getting some of her own back for this business with the Gentleman Thief."

"Then it is done? North has found his man?"

"In a manner of speaking, but there is a plan in the works to end it soon enough. After you have met with South, it is important that you return to London. There will be need of your particular skills."

"What can I do that the others cannot?"

"Soldier. Sailor. Tinker. Spy. Which one are you?" West sighed. The colonel was amusing himself. "You know perfectly well. If that is the way of it, who am I to watch?"

"The French ambassador."

That announcement, delivered with such matter-of-fact intonation, caused West to finish what was left of his drink. He actually contemplated pouring another. "I have promised Miss Ashby I will find her missing student. I cannot be here and there and here again. I was delayed in going to Gillhollow after the duke's funeral because Northam needed help when Elizabeth left him."

"And they both need your help now, although I am the one asking for it."

West could not recall there had been a request. He supposed it didn't matter in the end. He knew he would do whatever was needed because it was not in him to do anything else. It didn't matter that the colonel was counting on that; this was about a pledge made long ago at Hambrick Hall. "Friends for life we have confessed," he said softly. "Yes. Of course."

"I will give you the particulars later. All is not ready." Blackwood gave West his darkest, gravest glance.

"This will require due care. You cannot be caught."

"I can be, but I will not be."

"Good. Your part must be done before the ambassador's winter ball. I believe he can be made cooperative, but it will fall to you to assure all the details are correct."

West allowed he was more intrigued than alarmed. "And this plan of yours? Will it put a period to the Gentleman Thief's reign of terror on the ton? " "Their boudoirs and salons will be made safe again. Ladies will be able to wear their finest jewels and leave their paste with the creditors."

Grinning, West stood. He took his leave after the colonel had asked for and received his promise to join him on Christmas Day for dinner. It was not a difficult promise to give. West already knew there was only one other place he'd rather be.

Perceval Bartlett, The Right Honorable Viscount Herndon, rose slowly in greeting as West was ushered into his conservatory. The air was redolent of the rich, black planting soil, drooping ferns, and hothouse flowers. Until West entered the room, Herndon had been stooped over a potted orchid, examining the delicate pink petals for flaws. Now his palm gently cupped the corolla, and his thumb lightly passed over the stamen. The impression, from West's vantage point, was of a man reluctant to leave his lover, for there was something unmistakably intimate about the way Herndon caressed the plant.

West doubted that it was an accident that he had observed this. Herndon meant to elicit a response from him, to test his reaction. To that end, West obliged, feigning an appreciation of the gesture and communicating that he understood what it was in reference to.

"Aaah, Westphal," Herndon said. "So you have come after all. I had heard you would be returning to your estate at Ambermede after the new year."

"The new year is only just upon us. There is time enough to make the journey. Did you not receive my reply to your invitation?"

"Yes, I did-then I heard the rumors and became unsure of your intent."

"My intent," West said with a proper chill in his voice, "is to keep my word. You have me, Herndon-now what will you do with me?"

Herndon cut an angular figure. He had a narrow face and tight, square shoulders. His long arms ended in bony wrists, large hands, and elegantly tapered fingers. His full mouth was the exception to the perpendicular lines that defined him. Here he was soft and thick, the lower lip jutting forward in something that resembled a woman's sensuous pout. It thinned, drawing as fine a line as it was capable of, as his lordship considered West carefully.

"There can be no doubt that you are your father's son," he said. "Devil a bit, if you don't sound just like him."

West chose not to take umbrage. He could not afford to overplay his hand. Herndon's invitation was as unexpected as it was timely, and he meant to take advantage of it, not spurn it. "You knew the duke well?"

"As well as any, I would venture to say, certainly better than you."

West was witnessing what his icy tone had cost him. He would have to suffer the razor-sharp edge of Herndon's tongue if the man could not be placated. It seemed the best way to accomplish that was by appreciating the man's passion. He spent the next thirty minutes touring the conservatory and making proper noises of awe and respect for Herndon's greenery. The subject of Miss Weaver's Academy was never broached. West could admire the man's patience, even as he disliked being thwarted by it. Patience was not a characteristic he often associated with a member of the Society of Bishops, but he supposed it could be affected when it suited their purpose, especially by one who had held the exalted position of archbishop. For three years at Hambrick Hall, Herndon had been the Society's leader. Now, more than thirty years later, he could still enjoy the benefits of that station as chair of the board of governors.