“Presumably the wives, daughters, servants, and horses would be packed off as soon as the French landed,” Gareth said. “Forgive me for changing the order. I am sure you put the horses first with no regard to relative importance, correct?”
“To hell with the order. It was ignoble to do this, when farmers and fishermen drilled in the fields, preparing to lay down their lives. Those men would not be able to send anything north, let alone their paintings.”
Ives pushed Lance’s tumbler closer to him, encouraging him to drink. Gareth’s mind chewed over Lance’s outburst.
“I wonder,” Gareth said. “We have assumed the pictures were stolen for gain. Thieves, or at best a mad collector at work. What if instead they were taken as punishment? Perhaps someonewho knew of the plan felt as Lance here does, and sought to ensure these lords regretted this move, one way or another.”
“Considering the mood in the country back then, it is possible,” Ives said. “I suppose we would first look at the lords who have estates near the coast who are not on this list.”
“I will let you talk to them, if you don’t mind,” Gareth said. “I can think of no way to raise the matter without being insulting, and I’ll be damned if I will die in your stead.”
Lance tapped the vellum. “You are both so serious. First thievery is the reason, now patriotism. You are missing the most likely motive.”
Ives raised his eyebrows and waited.
“It was a joke,” Lance explained. “Don’t you see how comical this is? All of that concern and care and secrecy about a group of damned pictures. There was a war going on, and the lords spent their mental faculties on this? I can imagine a band of bloods deciding it would be funny as hell to make those pictures disappear.” He laughed and smacked his palm on the vellum. “Think of their expressions when they learned it was all gone. Um, no, Napoleon did not take your art, but someone did. Sorry, milords.”
Ives looked at Gareth. Then at Lance, who remained lost in his merriment.
Gareth knew what Ives was thinking. Lance had always been a bit of a rogue.
“Lance,” Ives said carefully. “Please tell me that you did not see the comical possibilities ten years ago, and...”
“If I did, I would be laughing now, seeing the two of you run all over England trying to find those pictures. Oh, wait—Iamlaughing now.” And he did, heartily.
Ives’s lids lowered. “This has now become not at all funny. I ask you again—”
“What do you think?” Lance’s eyes came alive with devilish humor.
Gareth could tell Ives was losing his temper. “Damnation. If you know anything, tell Ives now. Stop being an ass.”
Lance did not like that. What duke would? For that matter, what bad boy would? He did stop the taunting, however.
He picked up the vellum again, then let it drop dismissively. “It never entered my mind to teach these peers a good lesson. More’s the pity.”
“Do you swear it?” Ives asked.
“I have to swear it? That is insulting.”
“Your humor has been odd of late.”
Lance just glared. Then he shrugged. “Fine. I swear I had nothing to do with this, and know nothing about it.”
Ives let out a solid exhale. He turned to Gareth. “Now, about tomorrow when you meet with Clifford. Broach the subject straight out. He was in the Service, and will not have a lot of patience with dissembling. The questions must be put to him eventually, so there is no reason to delay.”
“Why is he questioning Clifford?” Lance asked.
“He is very good at speaking man-to-man, and that is what is needed.”
“Bastard-to-bastard, I think you mean,” Lance said. “Have you met him?”
“Several times, in passing,” Gareth said.
“His situation is exquisitely hellish. Imagine that the Aylesbury estate was at least three times larger than it is. Then imagine that although a bastard, you had the exact same parents as Percy and me, and that the only reason those estates were not yours upon your father’s death was because you had the misfortune to be born before your mother became his wife. As the second born, I tasted a small drop of what Clifford drinks every day, and a bitter brew it is.”
“I am sure he has accommodated it,” Ives said. “Gareth here would have too.”
Gareth hoped he appeared agreeable to that belief. The truth was he knew something of that bitterness. Every bastard of a lord did. Normally one did not dwell on one’s fate, but sometimes the foul bile of what had been swallowed soured one’s mouth.
