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  “I received a visit from my brother Freddie, that is, Lord Frederick Lisle, last evening after the ball,” he began. Keeping his explanation as vague as possible, with no mention of the Home Office, or the possibility of a network of criminals involved in the business, told her that it was suspected a forger was working in this part of the country. “He thought he’d better warn me since the miscreant might be one of my parishioners.”

  “That seems an odd bit of information for a gentleman about town to acquire,” Sophia said, a line appearing between her tawny brows.

  “He has friends in the government,” Ben said with a slight shrug. Nothing he said was false. He simply didn’t go into the complex details or dangerous implications of the matter with her. She was injured, after all, and as a lady could hardly set out to capture the ruffians on her own. He would tell her the whole truth if the need arose. Now was not the best time, however. To Ben’s relief, she seemed to accept his explanation at face value. “I suppose Little Seaford is as good a place as any for an art forger to work,” Sophia said thoughtfully. “It takes only painting supplies and a store of sufficiently aged canvas.”

  “And there’s no shortage of artists here,” Ben added wryly.”The proximity of the artist’s colony at Primrose Green certainly makes it a safe place to hide in plain sight.”

  Sophia looked thoughtful. “The man yesterday said that they wished to wait until their man had shown his work in the exhibition before ridding themselves of him. Perhaps I can ask the Primbles for a list of everyone who has submitted work for it.”

  Mr. and Mrs. August Primble were the owners of Primrose Green, a local manor house that had been in August Primble’s family for generations. When he inherited and married, he and his wife made the unconventional decision to open the house and grounds to artists in need of lodging and support. Thus was born the artist’s colony at Primrose Green. The setting so close to the sea gave the inhabitants ample fodder for their work, and the Primbles got to pretend they were as talented as the artists who lived with them. They were not, but Ben had found them to be sensible people despite their eccentricities.

  * * *

  They were also the organizers of the annual Exhibition to which Mr. Morgan had referred. It was open to anyone in the county who wished to exhibit their work, but the largest number of works by far came from Primrose Green.

  “There might be a hundred names on that list.” Ben couldn’t keep the frustration from his voice.

  But Sophia didn’t seem worried. “I’d say closer to thirty at most. There are only twenty or so places at Primrose Green and there aren’t that many of us in the county at large.”

  “They were definitely discussing a man, which narrows it a bit too.”

  Though success in the world of art was often bestowed upon males, it was also the case that any young lady with a rudimentary knowledge of watercolors was encouraged to enter the exhibition. Which meant the list of men entered might be even shorter, he was relieved to realize.

  “How on earth did your brother manage to arrive on the very night we heard them planning a murder?” Sophia asked, shifting a little in her seat. Her position, reclining along the length of the sofa, made it necessary for her to twist her torso to face him.

  “We surmised it must have been coincidence,” he said, moving to perch on the arm of the sofa so she needn’t contort herself to face him. At her expression of surprise, he shrugged. “You’re already in pain from one injury,” he explained. “I don’t wish to cause a crick in your neck as well.”

  “Thank you,” she said, with a grateful smile. “Now, what is our next move?”

  “Your next move is to rest your ankle and do as Dr. Holmes says,” he said firmly. At her look of outrage he raised a staying hand. “My brother is here for the next few days and we will look into the matter. I promise to keep you informed of any developments. But if you are to be present for the exhibition, and to show your own work, then you need time to heal.”

  Sophia scowled. “I detest that you are right,” she said crossly.

  “It does happen sometimes.” He stood, and moved to take her bare hand in his gloved one. “I’ll bring Freddie to meet you tomorrow. You’ll like him. He’s the charming brother.”

  Not waiting to hear her reply, he left, closing the door to the sitting room firmly behind him.

  Chapter 7

  To Sophia’s great relief, Dr. Holmes pronounced that her ankle was not broken, only sprained, and after wrapping it tightly with strips of cotton, he advised her to give it rest, and prescribed a mild sedative for when the pain prevented her from sleeping.

  If she had been worried that she would spend the next few days in isolation, however, she was disabused of that notion by the steady stream of callers that began not long after the physician had bid her good day.

  “I was unable to rest a moment longer until I inquired after your injury, Miss Hastings,” said Mr. Toby Walsh, his intricately patterned waistcoat causing Sophia’s eyes to cross slightly. With a flourish, he proffered an overlarge bouquet of crimson roses. Sophia accepted them with a smile of thanks, but couldn’t help but glance at the smaller nosegay the vicar had brought her, which was now in a vase of water on the marble mantelpiece. There was no denying that the red roses were lovely, but they seemed overblown and loud in comparison to the pink and white flowers.

  Handing the bouquet to her waiting maid, Sophia smiled with more warmth than she felt. “You are too kind, Mr. Walsh, but as you can see, I am no more injured now than I was last evening. I pray you will set your mind at ease.”

  A knock at the door heralded the arrival of another visitor.

  “Ah, Walsh. I might have known you’d be here.” Mr. Walter Ellis shot a narrow-eyed glare at his friend before stepping forward to bow to Sophia. “Miss Hastings, how relieved I am to see that you’ve suffered no ill effects from overtaxing your … ah … limb at the ball.”

  Instead of flowers, he proffered a small stack of books. Sophia was surprised to see that it was the three volume set of Frances Burney’s Evelina.

  “M’sister is quite fond of this one, and I recall how dull it was to be laid up when I broke my leg,” the young man said sheepishly.

  Touched by his thoughtfulness, Sophia gave him a genuine smile. She already had her own dog-eared copy of the novel, but his gesture made her rethink her earlier assessment of the young man’s character. Perhaps Mr. Ellis wasn’t quite as silly as his friend.

  As if to add further proof to this realization, Mr. Walsh spoke up, clearly jealous of the attention his friend’s gift had garnered him. “I daresay the library at Beauchamp House has plenty of novels in it, Ellis, old fellow. It was stocked by a lady, after all. Personally, I don’t care for them. Far too much nonsense in them.”

  If he’d wanted to elevate himself, however, this was entirely the wrong thing to say. But before Sophia could give him a richly deserved set down, it was delivered by Gemma, who had been quietly watching their interactions from her chair near the window.

  “I daresay you’re one of those gentlemen who hides his novel reading from his friends under the supposition that it is unmanly,” she said with a sad shake of her head. “But I’ve found that men of intellect and sense enjoy a bit of fictional escape every now and again. Perhaps you should ask Lord Kerr or the Duke of Maitland which authors they prefer. Unless, of course, you consider them unmanly in some way?”

  Sophia hid a smile at the myriad of emotions flitting over young Mr. Walsh’s face. He seemed unable to decide whether to take offense, or to thank her for her suggestion. Perhaps recognizing that they were outgunned, Mr. Ellis clapped his friend on the back. “Let us leave Miss Hastings to her rest, Walsh. I have a feeling we’ve outstayed our welcome.”

  Reluctantly, Mr. Walsh agreed and soon was accompanying the other man from the room, leaving Sophia alone with her sister.

  “You were a bit hard on poor Walsh, weren’t you?” Though Sophia knew her sister had never been one to suff
er fools gladly, but nor was she one for delivering a strong rebuff to an unarmed opponent.

  “Perhaps I was.” Gemma smoothed the skirt of her deep green gown, as if needing something to do with her hands. “But I’ve had a surfeit of gentlemen pretending to some sort of divine gift of intellect that gives them the right to pass judgment on whatever we ladies choose to occupy our time with.”

  Blinking, Sophia tried to recall when she’d seen her sister so annoyed. It wasn’t as if she was meek or mild. But in general Gemma was an even tempered and steady sort of lady, who wished to pursue her own studies in natural history and ignored most other distractions.

  “Strong words,” she said aloud. “Has someone in particular said something to push you over the edge?”

  Suddenly restless, Gemma rose and moved to examine Sophia’s bouquet on the mantle. “I have received a rejection today from the editor of the Annals of Natural History. For my article outlining the three fossils I’ve unearthed since we came to Beauchamp House. They are significant finds, I believe, and could do much toward explaining some of the history of this part of England. But he claimed that because I am a lady, and unaffiliated with any particular institution or legitimate scholar, my work cannot be verified or given the aegis of his publication.”

  Sophia was all too familiar with the bias against scholarship conducted by the so-called fairer sex within most of the scholarly world. But it did at times seem that the greatest misogyny lay with the sciences. “Who is this horrid fellow and what must he look like? I will sketch a caricature of him for you to use on your archery target.” It was a process the sisters had practiced since girlhood—Sophia providing the exaggerated image of whomever had crossed them, and Gemma filling said image with arrow holes. Childish, perhaps, but infinitely satisfying.

  Turning, Gemma faced her sister, her pretty countenance wreathed with irony. “I’m not quite sure what he looks like but he is no doubt thin as a rail with a giant wart on his nose.”

  Laughing despite her sister’s upset, Sophia made a mental note to sketch the miscreant as a gift for her sister as soon as possible.

  Still, it was clear that her sister’s ire was not going to be diminished by a few calming words and a cathartic drawing.

  “You might write this fellow a reply,” she said reasonably. “Outlining all the reasons you think he is wrong, and perhaps suggesting that he learns to curb his prejudices when it comes to choosing articles for his publication.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea,” Gemma said, brightening.

  “I’m not finished,” said Sophia raising a hand. “Write the letter, seal it and write his direction on it. Then, burn it.”

  “Burn it? Why?”

  “Because you don’t wish to burn bridges. What if you need this fellow at some point in the future? Burn the irate letter then write another, more reasonable one. Post that one and see what his reply is.”

  Even the calmer letter would win Gemma no favors, Sophia knew, but one of the reasons Lady Celeste had chosen her sister to come live at Beauchamp House was her determination in the face of adversity from the scientific establishment: which meant male scholars. And Sophia herself had fought against similar unfairness from the Royal Academy, which was reluctant to show the paintings of ladies who didn’t confine themselves to landscapes or portraits.

  She was proud of her sister, and despite her concern over her possibly raising the ire of this editor, she knew that confronting him about his dismissal was necessary.

  At least she hoped they would not.

  “I know it’s difficult to be turned down.” Sophia watched as Gemma returned to her chair and began to drum her fingers on the arm. Placing a gentle hand over her sister’s, stopping the motion, she continued, “You mustn’t let such things get the better of you, my dear. You and I both know how intelligent and talented you are. The rejection of a single man and a single journal will not change that.”

  Gemma turned rueful eyes to her. “I know you are right,” she sighed. “But I was so looking forward to seeing my findings in print. And I thought—perhaps foolishly—that this editor would turn out to be a fair-minded man…”

  Gemma nodded and Sophia couldn’t help but give her arm a comforting squeeze.

  “Let’s talk about something more pleasant,” Gemma said with a determined effort at cheer. “Lord Benedick is certainly paying a lot of calls on you these days.”

  Sophia felt her ears redden. “That’s hardly the case. He was merely checking in on me this morning. And the visit with Lord Frederick will be to introduce him to the household at large.” That Lord Frederick’s visit was also planned to give her more information about the possible art forger run amok in Little Seaford was something she couldn’t reveal just yet. But she was confident that despite her fascination with Ben’s person, his increased attentions sprang not from affection on his part, but from a desire to get to the bottom of the conversation they’d overheard.

  “Whatever you say,” Gemma said, not looking convinced. “But, I think I know what a gentleman with an interest looks like at this point—having seen both Lord Kerr and the Duke losing their hearts to Ivy and Daphne.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Sophia chided. “We are friends. And he simply wished to check in on me.”

  “Hmph. I’m not sure I believe you, but I will let you have your little self-deceit.” Rising, she gave her sister a brief hug. “Shall I see if Gladys will bring up a luncheon tray for you?”

  Sophia’s stomach gave an emphatic growl. “I suppose that’s a yes,” she said with a raised brow.

  * * *

  After his visit to Beauchamp House, Ben stopped in at a local farmer’s house to look in on that man’s mother, who was ill.

  Giving comfort to the sick and looking after his parishioners was an aspect of his work that he found especially fulfilling. He’d always been interested in people. And though one might think that growing up in a ducal household would have turned him into a different sort of man altogether, his father had instilled a sense of responsibility and stewardship in all his sons. It had been Ben who accompanied their mother on visits to the tenant farms when he was a boy. He’d watched and learned as she held the hands of the sick, asked after the health of families, and counseled when asked for advice.

  Neither of his parents were typical for their rank, something he’d quickly learned once he went to school and began socializing with others of their class. And he was grateful for it. Their teaching had made it possible for him to perform his duties as a man of the church with ease. At least, the caring for his flock part. Church politics was something altogether different, and an aspect of his calling he avoided at all costs.

  Having offered what comfort he could to both the sick old woman, who was unlikely to survive the pleurisy in her lungs, and her son and his wife, Ben was in a contemplative mood when he returned to the vicarage. It was difficult these days to see families suffering from the loss of their elders without putting his own parents in their place. Though both the Duke and Duchess of Pemberton were in excellent health, there was no denying they were getting older and the time would come in the not too distant future when he’d have to say goodbye to them.

  But he was snapped out of his brown study by the troubled look on his manservant’s face when he stepped inside. Taking off his hat and coat, he handed them to Jeffries, who took them as he spoke.

  “My lord,” the older man said, his bushy gray brows drawn together in concern, “You have a visitor. I put him in the front parlor, but I believe your brother happened upon him before I could introduce them.”

  Ben bit back a sigh. While a competent butler, and a dab hand with a cravat, Jeffries had a tendency to become overset at the oddest times. When important figures from the village paid calls, for example. He was well able to handle lords and ladies, but let the mayor call at the vicarage and Jeffries became skittish as a cat.

  “I feel sure my brother will not embarrass the household, Jeffries,” he said wryly as
he pulled off his gloves. “Who’s called?”

  Recovering himself, the butler looked slightly abashed and said, “It’s Mr. Peter Morgan, my lord. I told him you were away for the morning, but he insisted on waiting. He seemed quite agitated.”

  There was a slight censure in his tone, but Ben ignored it. Jeffries might be intimidated by the industrialist’s bluster, but he wasn’t.

  His response to the butler was a noncommittal sound.

  Curious to see what Freddie was up to, he followed the sound of conversation. And when he opened the door, it was to find his brother lounging with one booted foot on his knee in Ben’s favorite chair near the fire. In contrast to Freddie’s relaxed pose, Morgan was standing before the fireplace, his back ramrod straight, a scowl on his blunt features. Neither man’s demeanor changed when Ben entered the room.

  “Mr. Morgan,” Ben said, shutting the door behind him and stepping forward to shake the man’s hand. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting. I hope my brother and my staff have made you comfortable.”

  The set of Morgan’s jaw said that the opposite was true, but someone had instilled basic good manners into him, and he gave a short nod. “Yes, your brother has been welcoming.” And that, apparently was all the time he wished to spend on pleasantries. “I wish to speak to you about a very important matter, Lord Benedick and I need to do so in private.”

  Ben exchanged a look with his brother, who gave a slight shrug and rose. “I’ll just take myself off to the library, then. It was quite interesting to speak with you, Morgan. Quite interesting.”

  And giving a slight bow to the man, he slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

  With Freddie’s departure, Morgan seemed to relax very slightly. Ben made a mental note to quiz his brother about what must have been a very odd conversation. Freddie could talk the hind legs off a goat, but he had a feeling that Morgan wasn’t the sort to fall into easy conversation with a man he’d dismiss as a useless fribble based on his apparent lack of gravity. Of course, there was more to Freddie than met the eye, but Morgan wouldn’t know that. And likely wouldn’t care.