Twenty-six
Grey
At noon on Monday, Grey set a stack of papers and books on Miss. . . Eleanor’s. . . work table. He needed to remind himself that she was a woman and not a man capable of long hours and difficult tasks. His cousin had called him a slave driver. He resented that. “I have marked the volumes most likely containing the references the text needs.”
Wordlessly, she sorted through the papers, applied them to the appropriate stacks on her desk, and continued her copy work.
If she’d been at her desk at Harrowby, he wouldn’t have expected her to look up or acknowledge the work. Foolish of him to expect it now. It was just. . . that he couldn’t express his gratitude for rejecting the Priory’s luxury and not abandoning him to this empty house echoing with Thea’s ghosts. That just wasn’t done.
“I need a break,” he continued after an awkward silence. “I’ll walk into the village for the morning post and stop at the gallery.” He shouldn’t have to explain, but given the rather dreadful circumstances they’d endured since arriving, it seemed necessary to know where everyone was.
She apparently understood. “Andrew is working with Mr. Henri at his clothing shop. He should be able to pick up the evening post.” She dipped her pen in ink and continued writing.
Andrew was turning out to be a sad excuse for a chaperone, but the maids were all about, dusting and sweeping and chatting. Grey assumed murderers weren’t after the women.
Of course, he was also assuming his mutton-brained heir wouldn’t stir himself to kill a mouse in his larder. He had Thea to thank for that unlikely concern.
Grabbing a bite to eat as he strode through the kitchen, Greybourne stepped into a gray day that promised more clouds than rain. It had been a dismal summer thus far. The farmers were having a sad time of it. Guaranteeing grain prices only meant landowners didn’t starve. Their tenants couldn’t grow enough to afford high-priced bread.
With the riots in London over food costs, Italy was definitely the place to be. Although. . . should he look into how the tenants on his estate were faring? No, he’d turned those concerns over to Stupid Stew. If his cousin wished to live like a lord, he had to do the work of one. Well, there was that voting business. . .
Refusing to feel guilty about his absence in a government controlled by autocrats who thought what was best for them was best for all, Grey strode through the backyard with all its overturned dirt. Rafe’s remark about growing corn had been meant in jest, but perhaps a small kitchen garden might be planted? If he had any notion of how to plant one. He kicked a clod of mud but didn’t know if it was arable or not. No one had taken the time to teach him farming. A degree in art history had little to do with land or politics. Besides, he’d never settled anywhere long enough to so much as contemplate growing moss.
The overgrown path led between a crumbling wall on Black Dickie’s side and a dying hedgerow on the other. Andrew had apparently trimmed the shrubs to bare branches to make the route passable. Rotting leaves raised a stink as he trod them. Grey pondered Andrew’s ability to traverse the uneven ground, but it seemed about as navigable as the rutted lane—and considerably shorter. And he had the pony cart if needed.
At the mercantile, Grey picked up the morning post containing a letter from the bank. He ripped open the seal, scanned the contents, grimaced, and shoved it into his coat pocket.
Opening the second letter, he skimmed it, then held it in his hand as he traipsed over to the gallery. He passed the hardware store and lifted an eyebrow at the eccentric display of what he assumed were wooden cooking utensils, chamber pots, and hatchets in the window. Interesting selection. Perhaps they were items the mercantile was too small to carry.
He opened the gallery door onto a scene of relative calm. His other so-called assistant was holding court in the center of the room, showing various coats and trousers rummaged from Henri Lavigne’s second-hand shop. Henri’s brother Arnaud was re-arranging artwork. The comte’s own work figured prominently at the front, which was only fair, if Thea was paying the rent.
Thea was nowhere to be seen, for which Grey was grateful. When Arnaud noticed his presence, the Frenchman strode over with an inquisitive expression but no words, as seemed to be his manner.
“Thought you might want to know.” Grey handed him the letter. “Ackermann’s has a correspondent in Birmingham who has agreed to travel down here for an article on art. Heaven only knows its nature, but it’s a well-respected magazine.”
Arnaud raised his expressive black eyebrows. “You work swiftly.”
“I notified them weeks ago, when Thea first wrote. I’ll probably be gone by the time anyone else replies to the ones I sent out Saturday. Any article in Ackermann’s may not come out until next year. Don’t expect a surge of interest.”
“We thank you, nonetheless. Unless one of ces mendiants sells to the Regent, we are not likely to be noticed otherwise.” Arnaud gestured at the maligned artists circling Andrew. “He is convincing them that they must have the decent garb for when their patrons arrive. And they are fool enough to believe the gallery shall overflow with buyers.”
Fools and their money. . . Grey shoved a hand in his pocket as he studied the motley lot of beggars, as the comte had called them. “I gather from Thea that you have some experience at running a gallery. It cannot be easy.”
He found it hard to believe any of the artists had the ability to saw a tree branch or set a trap. Although punching a man so he fell against a wall. . . definitely up their alley.
“In a city, a gallery connects to the art world and possible patrons. Ici, we have only the manor folk, and they are as poor as we, but like Thea, well-connected. We can hope, eventually, they bring an audience. We need only to cover the rent until then. Walker finessed the banker Bosworth almost to a reasonable price, but they do not make the repairs, so if the roof leaks. . .”
That was more than he’d heard the reticent artist speak before. Apparently, appealing to his business side loosened his tongue.
Grey patted the letter in his pocket. “Comfrey’s family intends to visit. They expect to arrive this morning. Would you like to join me in finding out more about him—or to irritate Mr. Bosworth?”
Arnaud grunted. “Why not? It is not as if we have customers. Give me one moment to don the coat.” He shrugged off his smock and rummaged behind a screen displaying landscapes until he found a tweed country coat that emphasized his broad shoulders and made him look like a wealthy squire—except for his lack of hat and unshorn dark hair.
The inn was across the road and down the lane. They met the curate leaving the cottage of one of his parishioners and invited him to join them. Grey wasn’t a religious man, but the carpenter-curate had a good head on his shoulders and apparently knew everyone. If dinner table conversation were to be believed, he was good at solving mysteries.
Upon their arrival at the inn, the banker’s carriage was just being driven around to the stable. Bosworth must have left early to reach the inn by noon.
Standing at his desk in the lobby, Rafe was looking a trifle harried but greeted them with relief. “Bosworth is in the pub, expecting me to send for you and settle in his guests at the same time. I had to send the Comfreys upstairs with Parsons.”
