Yes, he had considered it. He didn’t intend to admit such self-centeredness. “Making me feel guilty is a dirty ploy. Why do you want to stay? Any normal female would be glad of a visit to Bath. Just think of the gentlemen suitors you might collect.”
Huh, another good reason not to visit Bath. He might lose a most excellent assistant. He’d worry about that after the book was done.
“I am sure Bath is lovely and I should love to visit someday,” she replied placidly. “But Andrew will be far more helpful in a place where he can easily walk about to carry out his errands. It might be better to consider who wishes you harm before darting off in all directions.”
“Like Napoleon, my enemies are many, my equals are none. I have, upon occasion, reported reprobates for their more serious transgressions. I am not unknown. You have read my manuscript.” Grey reached for the most recent draft. “Do you really not recognize any of the names?”
Some of whom seemed to have followed him here—but how? He’d have to believe his book was what they wanted, except how could anyone know what was in it?
“Not immediately. I have not memorized them.” She whipped out several sheets of neatly inscribed lists and scanned them. “Ah, Percival, Gustav, and Jones, if I remember yesterday’s contretemps. What have you done to cause their animosity?”
“Nothing relevant, by all accounts.” Grey sat back and considered it. How could the rag-mannered boors even know about his notes? “Percival is the younger son of a younger son of a no-account title. He knows everyone but hasn’t a ha’ penny to his name. He uses his acquaintances to write scurrilous gossip about society, theater, art, any scandal people are willing to pay to read about. Or pay him not to sell. He's not beneath a little extortion. I have signed statements in those files by two artists who say he vilified them in the press at the request of another artist.”
She flipped through the pages, unconcerned that she was alone with him in a locked room. Because she still thought herself male? Fool woman. Now that he could see her properly, she had curves in all the right places, and Grey had to drag his gaze back to his papers.
“To what purpose? Spite?”
“Excellent question and one I have asked. The ones vilified were rivals of the artist who paid Percival. They claim to have lost several commissions because of that article. The art world is bitterly irrational at times.” One very good reason Grey preferred writing about dead artists—they didn’t retaliate.
But he was no longer able to ignore the contemporary undercurrents he’d uncovered over the years. Justice must be served.
Italy was taking on new meaning as a permanent destination.
She found the page she wanted. “Your notes claim an Archibald Jones benefitted from the slander. Is he the pleasant, russet-haired gentleman we met yesterday? Or is he a different Jones?”
“Same one. We are not speaking of top of the trees artists like Turner or Constable. These are bottom of the market sorts scrabbling for the most lucrative appointments. In general, the public knows little of art, so, sadly, it is often the artists who attract attention who succeed.” He threw another sheaf of papers in her direction. “Rather like politicians who rattle sabers. Noise attracts notice.”
She read the top paper. “Antoine Gustav? That is the horrible man in the inn last night, the one Mr. Lavigne flung out for insulting Miss Talbot yesterday morning? You believe he copies the masters—and does what, sells them as original? How is that possible?”
Miss Leonard was a very quick study.
“The public is ignorant. Gustav is from the Continent and has seen far more art than your average duchess. Even an approximation of the masters will suit, if it’s dramatic enough.” Or naked enough. Some of the ladies quite enjoyed Michelangelo’s works. “And he presents that foreign cachet that convinces the public he is a genuine genius.”
“These artists fear what you may know about them?” She studied his notes with more interest than earlier. “Is it even reasonable to assume they know of your knowledge?”
“Our trunks were ransacked,” he said dryly. “I doubt it was for my meager coin and nonexistent jewels. But you are correct. I have chastised various artists publicly over the years, and warned potential patrons, upon occasion, but they cannot know I am writing about them. I have ever been a historian, first and foremost.”
“They have reason to dislike and resent you,” she concluded, “But no reason to murder or hunt your notes.”
His conclusion also. “Very astute, Miss Leonard. Which leads us back to the mystery of Mr. Comfrey. We will need to know more of him. One hopes there will be a letter from the bank this evening. If they will not let the house, we have no reason to stay and investigate.”
“Perhaps we could stay in Stratford, if that’s where he’s from,” she said demurely, sharpening a pen nib. “Didn’t Machiavelli mention one should keep close watch over one’s enemies?”
The woman was possessed of the devil. Grey regarded her with interest.
Ten
Eleanor
Having finished her copy work by mid-afternoon, Eleanor left Greybourne pacing and staring at the library’s books. She had never before been in the same room with him when he was in the throes of writing new pages. She had always just transcribed the scribbled results later, in the privacy of her own home. Once they had a larger place, she might find a better work area.
With no house to manage and no errands to run, Andrew had taken off on his own. She set out to track him down, to see if he’d learned anything of interest. She took her new lady’s maid only because poor Peg had to be bored senseless taking care of a wardrobe consisting of only two old round gowns, her new muslin, and a travel gown.
El started her search in the small shops off the inn’s lobby. Having stayed in several lavish coaching inns while they traveled, she assumed these rooms had once been private parlors for aristocratic guests, like the ones they’d enjoyed on their journey. An earl had once lived at the manor, after all. Carriages must have once traversed this now quiet village.
She liked that the inn had turned aristocratic parlors, useful to few, into shops useful to many.
She glanced at the door bearing the sign of Henri’s Men’s Attire, but it was closed and dark. She’d hoped to find Andrew there. She turned to Lady Lavender’s Dressmakers, where she did not expect to find her twin but meant to indulge her curiosity.
