Page 77 of Love, the Duke
The baron looked positively agog at the idea of helping Hurst. “I couldn’t agree more. Once we have a man in a club, it’s difficult to cut him if we conclude he isn’t a good fit. It becomes a rather nasty business.”
“True, Lord Gagingcliffe. Has there ever been a whiff of his being dishonorable at cards or anything else you might have heard?”
“He’s above most at all things as far as I know.”
“Good to hear,” Hurst answered, distracted by a rather large painting of the Virgin Mary with a golden halo over her head. The serene smile on her lips held him still. It was almost as if she knew something. A secret she couldn’t wait to share with someone if only they would listen.
The baron’s prideful words cut into Hurst’s thoughts. “She’s majestic, isn’t she?”
“The painting?” Hurst nodded. “Byzantine art?”
“Yes. A rare find she is. One of my favorite purchases. I bought her at an auction after having only seen a crudely painted copy of the original.”
That could very well mean it came from the underworld where many private exchanges of money for art,horses, pleasures, and other things took place. Hurst didn’t have an expert’s eye for priceless art, but what hung on the wall certainly wasn’t a replica.
Doing his best to sound genuine, Hurst questioned, “Where do you usually broker?”
“Penwicke House most of the time. They know what I like. Other places to be sure, but not often.”
Hurst couldn’t help but wonder if that was mostly religious art, even though there wasn’t much sitting around the drawing room.
As calm as the vast morning sea, Hurst inflected a nonthreatening tone in his question: “Do you favor gold or silver when looking for objects rather than paintings?”
“I must confess, I do lean toward gold celestial objets d’art. I think there is great comfort in them. As if possessing them brings us closer to a higher power. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Hurst had no opinion, so he nodded with vague noncommitment, antsy to be on his way, yet held captive by the man’s esoteric discussion—mostly with himself. Gagingcliffe had not shown this side of himself over the card games and billiards they’d enjoyed at various clubs. Hurst felt that the man was just so thrilled he had come over that he couldn’t help but do his best to impress him.
Taking a sip of wine, the baron admitted, “Most of the room’s treasures have been handed down in our family for generations, so I’ve had many years to enjoy them.”
The same as he’d told Ophelia. Hurst led the conversation in the direction he wanted. “We titled men all live with such items. Our homes are those of our predecessors and I would bet the rooms know more stories than the staff.”
His voice lowering, he said, “My staff is well trained at eyes forward and ears back. They are there when I need them and not when I require privacy.”
“As it should be.” Hurst was not one to make small talk, but in this case it was necessary. Keeping the baron’s trust was essential.
Their conversation continued as Hurst drained his glass, declined a second, and wondered where his wife was. Was she clever enough to have found a way inside and was now searching the house while he talked to the baron? Had she really gone for a walk as she told her mother? Had she gone somewhere else?
Gagingcliffe’s sudden faraway look in his eyes caught Hurst by surprise. He confessed, “I fancied myself as a vicar, but I lacked the religious breeding.” With a low chuckle, he confessed, “I have a profound respect for the teachings, but I like my vices too much. Art, cards, and women.
“I really should settle down and marry like you, which is why I am considering offering for Miss Bristol’s hand.”
“She’s lovely.”
“I think so. Do you know her father well?”
“Not well at all.” And if Hurst had anything to say about it, he would make sure her father checked out the baron very well, should he approach the man for his daughter’s hand.
The truth was that he just wanted all of this to be over no matter who the thief was. He wanted to go home and tell Ophelia she need not worry herself further. He had unintentionally hurt her by wrongly forbidding her to search for the chalice on her own. Now he wanted to be able to tell her the matters had been handled and resolved, the chalice being returned to its rightful place.
Distancing himself from those thoughts, he realized he’d missed some of the baron’s prattling. His voice droned onward as he described various pieces and how they came into the family’s estate.
Gagingcliffe continued, leaning into his chair as if he had no other captive audience scheduled for a visit today. The tedium of this verbal trip around the drawing room wore on Hurst’s nerves, but he was careful not to let the baron know he found the entire conversation dull and distasteful.
“I’ve procured a few relics for my own private collection, most of which surround me in my book room. Do you have one yourself, Your Grace? A private collection?”
Hurst’s ears perked up when he heard the wordsbook roomandrelics. The very kind of room Ophelia had always believed was the new home of the chalice.
Contriving an answer, his mind was distracted with urgency to find a way to do a quick look through the shelving and be gone. “I’m not a collector unless you count waistcoat buttons. Every so often, mine have a habit of jumping ship from my clothing. Eventually my valet gathers them and has them sewn back on. But I meant to mention to you earlier that I had once thought of entering the clergy too.”
