Lord of Scoundrels - Loretta Chase [18]
Consequently, between uncooperative dreams and the foul taste in his mouth, he was unable to exorcise his lust for Miss Trent in the tried-and-true fashion. Which meant that, by the time a week had passed, Dain's temper was badly frayed.
Which was exactly the wrong time for Bertie Trent to tell him that the dirty, mildewed picture Miss Trent had bought for ten sous had turned out to be an extremely valuable Russian icon.
It was a few minutes past noon, and Lord Dain had moments earlier dodged the contents of a washtub, dumped from an upper-story window on the Rue de Provence. His attention on avoiding a drenching, he had failed to notice Trent trotting toward him. By the time the marquess did notice, the imbecile was already there, and well launched into his exciting revelations.
Dain's dark brow furrowed at the conclusion— or rather, when Bertie paused for breath. "A Russian what?" the marquess asked.
"Acorn. That is to say, not a nut sort of thing, but one of them heathenish pictures with a lot of gold paint and gold leaf."
"I believe you mean an icon," said Dain. "In which case, I fear your sister has been hoaxed. Who told her such rubbish?"
"Le Feuvre," said Bertie, pronouncing the name as "fooh-ver."
Lord Dain experienced a chill sensation in the environs of his stomach. Le Feuvre was the most reputable appraiser in Paris. Even Ackermann's and Christie's consulted him upon occasion. "There are countless icons in the world," said Dain. "Still, if it's a good one, she obviously got a bargain at ten sous."
"The frame's set with a lot of little gems— pearls and rubies and such."
"Paste, I collect."
Bertie grimaced, as he often did when toiling to produce a thought. "Well now, that would be an odd thing, wouldn't it? Sticking a lot of trumpery gewgaws onto a handsome bit of gold frame like that."
"The picture I saw was framed in wood." Dain's head was beginning to pound.
"But that's what's so clever, ain't it? The wood thing was part of the case they'd buried it in. Because it had been buried, you know. That's why it was so god-awful disgusting. Ain't it a laugh, though? That sly beggar, Champtois, hadn't the least idea. He'll be tearing his hair out when he hears."
Dain was considering tearing Bertie's head straight off his neck. Ten sous. And Dain had discarded it, had not given it more than a cursory glance, even while the dratted sister had pored over it with her curst magnifying glass. She has an interesting expression, she'd said. And Dain, distracted by the living female, had not suspected a thing.
Because there was nothing to suspect, he told himself. Bertie hadn't half the brain of a peahen. He'd obviously got everything wrong, as usual. The "acorn" was merely one of those cheap saintly pictures every religious fanatic in Russia had in a corner of a room, with a daub of shiny paint on the frame and some bits of colored glass stuck on.
"Course, I'm not to tell Champtois," Bertie went on in marginally lower tones. "I'm not to tell anybody— especially you, she said. But I ain't a dancing bear, like I told her, and there wasn't any ring in my nose that I could see, so I wouldn't be led about by it, now would I? So I hopped straight out to look for you— and found you in the nick, because she's going to the bank straight the minute Genevieve tucks away for her nap— and then it'll be locked up in a vault and you'll never get a proper look at it, will you?"
* * *
The Marquess of Dain, Jessica was well aware, was furious. He lounged back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest, his obsidian eyes half-closed while his glance moved slowly round the coffee shop. It closely resembled the species of sullenly sulphurous look she had always imagined Lucifer bestowing upon his surroundings when he first came to after the Fall.
She was much surprised the gaze didn't leave a trail of charred remains in its wake. But