Lord of Scoundrels - Loretta Chase [63]
Unfortunately for Vawtry's finances, that had happened only the once. Because not a week later, after vowing he wouldn't have Miss Trent if she were served on a platter of solid gold— after the incomprehensible female had shot him— Dain had strolled into Antoine's and coolly announced his betrothal. He had said that someone had to marry her because she was a public menace, and he supposed he was the only one big and mean enough to manage her.
Moodily wondering just who was managing whom, Vawtry settled into a corner table with Beaumont at Mr. Pearke's oyster house in Vinegar Yard, on the south side of Drury Lane Theater.
It was not an elegant dining establishment, but Beaumont was partial to it because it was a favorite haunt of artists. It was also very cheap, which made Vawtry partial to it at the moment.
"So Dain gave you all a show, I hear," said Beaumont, after the tavern maid had filled their glasses. "Terrified the minister. Laughed when the bride vowed to obey. And nearly broke her jaw kissing her."
Vawtry frowned. "I was sure Dain would drag it out to the last minute, then loudly announce, 'I don't.' And laugh and stroll out the way he came."
"You assumed he would treat her as he did other women," said Beaumont. "You forgot, apparently, that all the other women had been tarts, and that, in Dain's aristocratic dictionary, the tarts are mere peasant wenches, to be tumbled and forgotten. Miss Trent, however, is a gently bred maiden. Completely different situation, Vawtry. I do wish you'd seen."
Vawtry saw now. And now it seemed so obvious, he couldn't believe he hadn't worked it out for himself ages ago. A lady. A different species altogether.
"If I had seen, you would be out three hundred quid at present," he said, his voice light, his heart heavy.
Beaumont picked up his glass and studied it before taking a cautious sip. "Drinkable," he said, "but just barely."
Vawtry took a very long swallow from his own glass.
"Perhaps what I actually wish," Beaumont went on, after a moment, "is that I'd known the facts. Matters would be so different now."
He frowned down at the table. "If I'd known the truth then, I might at least have dropped a hint to you. But I didn't know, because my wife tells me nothing. I truly believed, you see, that Miss Trent was penniless. Right up until last night, when an artist friend who does sketches for Christie's corrected my misapprehension."
Mr. Vawtry eyed his friend uneasily. "What do you mean? Everyone knows Bertie Trent's sister hadn't a feather to fly with, thanks to him."
Beaumont glanced about. Then, leaning over the table, he spoke in lower tones. "You recall the moldering little picture Dain told us about? The one the wench got for ten sous from Champtois?"
Vawtry nodded.
"Turned out to be a Russian icon, and one of the finest and most unusual works of the Stroganov school in existence."
Vawtry looked at him blankly.
"Late sixteenth century," Beaumont explained. "Icon workshop opened by the Stroganov family, Russian nobility. The artists made miniatures for domestic use. Very delicate, painstaking work. Costly materials. Highly prized these days. Hers is done with gold leaf. The frame is gold, set with precious gems."
"Obviously worth more than ten sous," Vawtry said, trying to keep his tone casual. "Dain did say she was shrewd." He emptied his glass in two swallows and refilled it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the tavern maid approaching with their meal. He wished she'd hurry. He didn't want to hear any more.
"Value, of course, is in the eye of the beholder," Beaumont went on. "I'd put it at a minimum of fifteen hundred pounds. At auction, several times that, very likely. But I know of at least one Russian who'd sell his firstborn to have it. Ten, possibly twenty thousand."
Lady Granville, daughter of the Duke of Sutherland, one of the richest men in England, had brought her husband a dowry of twenty thousand pounds.