Ives bestowed his most amiable smile. “You have been more than generous with your time. We will leave you to your other callers.”
Outside, Ives clapped a hand on Gareth’s shoulder. “You did that very well. I was trying to find a way to ask which pictures she had taken, without using a word liketakenitself.”
“Was a Kauffmann on the list? You have gotten your hands on one by now, haven’t you? It would be a hell of a thing if some of those pictures are hanging in plain sight in that house and we do not know it.”
“I finally received a list. No Kauffmann. Let us get something to drink at the Black Horse. I will give it to you, and also prepare you for your next meeting.”
The next meeting, tomorrow morning, was with Mr. Clifford, the first son of the lady they had just left. It sounded as if Ives had decided not to attend.
They sat with beer at the tavern. Ives passed a vellum sheet across the table. Both sides showed three columns. The first hadartists’ names. The second held titles or descriptions of pictures. The last column showed the owners.
“Impressive,” Gareth said.
“The artists?”
“The owners. I see the Prince Regent is not on the list. I thought you said it was partly his idea.”
“He was convinced that it would look bad if it became known he stripped the walls of Brighton out of fear of an invasion. Since there never was one, some of his friends now see that as suspiciously shrewd.”
“Men can be such asses.” Gareth muttered that eternal truth while his attention shifted to the door. “Here comes Lance. You told him to meet us here, didn’t you?”
“He was at loose ends this morning, which never bodes well.”
“He of all men does not need a nursemaid. Stop being one.”
Ives waved to catch Lance’s attention. “I also thought that things ended badly yesterday. You have been piquish all day too.”
“And you concluded I wanted to drink ale with him? So much for being the clever lawyer.” He barely got the last of it out before Lance slid into a chair at their table.
“At least you bothered to shave today,” Gareth said. “Since you do not appear to be a rustic just off a wagon from the Midlands, you can sit with us.”
Ives tried a quelling glance, but Gareth was not in the mood to humor either one of them.
Lance felt his face. “I hate being shaved. I have thought of never bothering again, and growing a beard. Perhaps it would become fashionable. Not a long, curly one. A closely cropped one, like the Spaniards used to have.”
“You are not, nor have you ever been, a fashion leader, so no one else would grow one and you would look eccentric at best. Even Ives here would not want to be seen with you.”
Lance looked at Ives. “Is he right?”
“Do not grow a beard,” Ives said. “Please.”
Lance made a face. “If a duke can’t grow a beard and others then grow them, too, what is the point in being one?”
“Shall I list the points of being one?” Gareth said. “We can start with the obscene income you will enjoy henceforth.”
Lance smiled with chagrin. “I forget sometimes that you are a bastard brother, Gareth, and all that has meant to your life.”
The anger building while listening to Lance’s petulance eased on that note of fraternal warmth. Not that Gareth wanted it to.
Lance picked up the vellum sheet and read it. “Is someone planning a massive exhibition?”
Ives reminded him about the missing paintings. “Gareth and I are engaged in an inquiry about them.”
“Oh, that.” Lance narrowed his eyes on the list of lords. “What cowards.”
“They only sought to protect their most prized possessions,” Ives said.
“So the French could have their horses, their wives and daughters and servants, but not their pictures?”
