“Was it wonderful?” Rebecca asked. “Did you hold your own? Did you meet other dukes? Was the Crown Prince there?”
Sarah moved to a divan and patted the cushion beside her. “You must share every detail, every moment, and every word.”
Eva sat and removed her headdress. Then she told them all about it. She shared her night with them, but not every detail, every moment, and every word.
***
“Hell of a thing,” Ives said while he and Gareth tied their horses to posts on The Strand. “Someone got careless. Or impatient.”
“Let us see if we can charm the information out of him.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then you can threaten him in your best lawyerly ways, while I do the same in illegal ways.”
Ives grinned. “I am shocked that you would insinuate violence to obtain information.”
“Fine words coming from you. At least I only insinuate.”
“Or so you say.”
Today of all days he only said. If this man gave them the least trouble, he would probably thrash the fool gladly. He wanted to thrash someone for any reason at the moment. The argument with Eva, and her hurt and accusations, still rang in his head.
He thought he had been damned noble. He had tried not to stand in her way, and for his sacrifice she turned on him and accused him of all but selling her to Whitmere.
They entered the small picture gallery of Mr. Longinus Parala. A miniature version of an auction house or estate gallery, it bulged with art. Pictures crammed its walls, and bins held prints and watercolors. Gareth pretended to study the former, but actually his gaze quickly hopped from one picture to the next.
Ives sidled up to his side. “I do not see any of the others here. Do you?”
“Hard to say. This could be a copy of a Constable here. There was one on the list. When an inventory says only a landscape, however, it is hard to know which one.”
A gentleman sitting at a fine inlaid-wood writing desk in the corner ignored them for a long while. Then, as if he suddenly realized he had company, he turned and lifted spectacles off his hawkish nose and set them atop his head on his dark hair. After he critically scanned their persons and garments, a smile broke on his thin, long face.
“My dear sirs. Can I be of service?” He stood and approached them. Dressed in gray from shoulders to hose, he broke the habit at his feet, where scarlet pumps formed startling bright spots.
“Are you the proprietor? Mr. Parala?” Ives asked.
“I am.”
“Is that Italian? Parala? Your accent suggests as much, as does your name.”
“It is. I was born in Genoa.”
Ives smiled. Gareth could read his thoughts. This particular Parala might have ancestors from Genoa, but beneath the exaggerated accent one heard the unmistakable lilt of Scotland. Perhaps the picture seller believed the Demmiwoods would assume an Italian dealer knew his art, rather like French ladies’ maids were assumed to dress hair better than English ones.
Ives walked to the door, and locked it. “I hope you do not mind. We would like a private conversation with you.” For good measure he drew the curtains over the window. He came back and handed Parala his card.
Parala peered at the card in the sudden twilight of the gallery. He glanced sharply at Ives. Then at Gareth.
“He’s the Duke of Aylesbury’s full brother, and a barrister sworn to uphold the law,” Gareth said, pointing to Ives. “I’m the bastard brother, born outside the law. He’s the gentleman. I’mnot. He’s going to ask polite questions. If we do not like your answers, I will then ask them my way.”
“Subtle,” Ives murmured.
Longinus Parala’s eyes bulged with alarm. “I’m sure I don’t know—that is, I find this most irregular.”
“Most irregular,” Ives soothed. “My brother can be too impatient and rough. Well, what can you expect? Why don’t you sit down. This will not take long.”
Parala made the mistake of sitting in his chair again. That left him looking up while Gareth and Ives hovered above.
