Gareth had to laugh. “Remind me, should I be tempted, never to bed the wife of a man who can give me legal trouble.”
“As if you would listen any more than he would. I must remain here with Lance and play the lawyer to his incorrigible client. I do not want him doing or saying something while in his cups that only makes it worse, and I want to keep informed of the thinking of those who are looking to make trouble.”
“That sounds wise.”
“Wise, but inconvenient. I was supposed to go north to investigate something, and now I cannot. I thought perhaps you might indulge me and take my place.”
Gareth hesitated. Ives often served as the Crown’s prosecutor in serious crimes. The something he needed to do up north might involve confronting dangerous men. While Gareth acquitted himself well enough in such situations, he was not inclined to seek them out, let alone for third parties unnamed.
Besides, he had his own mission now.
“I had thought to remain here for a few days at least, after the reinterment. I hope to speak with Lance.”
“That property is on your mind, of course. How could it not be. If you do this for me, I will plead your case for you, and convince him to drop the matter entirely. I do not believe it will take more than a few minutes and a few words, once I bring his attention to it.”
Ives had tried that with Percy, to no avail. Gareth thought Ives a brilliant lawyer, but property had a way of bringing out the worst in men.
“Furthermore,” Ives said. “This business I speak of is in the region of that lodge. I will get Lance to agree to allow you to use the house while you are there. You can begin settling in.”
Suddenly Ives’s proposal had appeal. “What is the matter you need me for?”
“A collection of art has gone missing.”
Not only appeal now, but real interest. “Whose collection?”
“It was not owned by one person. Rather, it comprised works owned by a number of people.”
“Which people?”
“No one important. Only half of the members of the House of Lords.”
***
“It was during the war,” Ives said. He and Gareth now sat on a bench beneath a tree. “Right around 1800. Everyone worried about invasion. You probably remember how it was then, even though we were boys. Napoleon already had the reputation for cultural rape. He picked out the best art and sent it back through the lines, to France. A number of very prominent lords took to worrying about the art in their manor homes. Their wives and daughters might suffer the worst, but, by George, their paintings would not end up in some French palace.”
“You say it like a joke, but a lot of art was looted by the French.”
“As it has been by every army down through time. Napoleon’s methodical looting distressed these lords, however. The Corsican brought experts with him who knew what theywanted. It was assumed he knew which families here owned what, and had a list ready. Any house gallery between the coast and London was considered vulnerable. So they hit on a solution to foil him.”
“Move the art,” Gareth guessed.
Ives nodded. “The best of the best got crated up and moved north, to the center of England, to await the end of the war. Only when that day came, and those who organized this went to retrieve it, it was not there.”
“Stolen?”
“It is not being called theft yet.”
“Where was it stored?”
“That is where it gets delicate. The repository was a property owned by the Duke of Devonshire.”
“Delicateputs a fine point to it. No wonder there has been no rumor or gossip about this. To say it was stolen insults a very powerful man.”
“There has been mild criticism about his vigilance. Nothing more. No one has dared to suggest he or the current duke in any way decided to divert any of the paintings to his own collection.”
“That family owns one of the best collections in the realm. They do not need anyone else’s.”
“Yet the paintings sent north are gone. The government has preached patience because the Regent had his hand in the original idea, but tempers are wearing thin. I was charged with learning what I could.”
