“He was hard up, poor fellow. I paid him handsomely for it, never fear. Do you understand now why I feared losing it to a sailor who’d have no idea what it was?”
“I do indeed.” I caressed the box as Eden rose, then I couldn’t help resuming the seat to peer through the hole again.
“The customs agent who came to the ship seized it, of course,” Fitzgerald said. “I had to present a clear bill of sale, which I had. But it spent the night in their warehouse. I didn’t sleep a wink, worrying about the thing. Fortunately the customs men didn’t mar it. Or steal it.”
“It is enchanting.” I let myself be absorbed once more in the colors and the amazingly perfect perspective. “My oldest daughter would love this.”
I wanted more than anything to show it to Gabriella. Perhaps I could prevail upon Fitzgerald to allow us a visit when he settled so she could see it.
“I will keep an eye out for another if you like,” Fitzgerald offered. “These boxes are very old, and not many know what they are. I’ll hound the local art dealers, who might have tossed them into their back rooms as badly painted antiques.”
I thought of Denis. Much of his business was locating artworks for others, which was why he was so angry at Creasey for looting his shipment. If the antiquities Denis had lost were half as interesting as this little box, I understood his declaration of war.
“You are very kind,” I said. “I accept. You can write to me either at South Audley Street, or at the Pembroke house in Oxfordshire if you have any luck.”
Fitzgerald gave me a happy nod. “I like to see a keen admirer of art. What about you, Eden? What do you think of my little find?”
“It is dashed clever.” Eden lifted his brandy glass and raised it to Fitzgerald. “I suppose the ladies will be intrigued.”
“Let us hope.” Fitzgerald boomed a laugh. “I will look out for one for you, Lacey. That is, if you don’t land me in the dock for Warrilow’s murder. Then I suppose I could leave you this one in my will.”
“Only if you are guilty,” I said lightly.
Fitzgerald found this statement hilarious. “Juries are not always certain when a chap is innocent. If you do manage to have a man arrested for this crime, make sure he’s the right one, hey?”
“FITZGERALD IS A CONGENIAL FELLOW,” Eden said as we walked from St. James’s Street to Piccadilly. Brewster strode behind us, having materialized from the shadows as we’d exited White’s.
“Indeed.” I had ended up liking Fitzgerald, as exuberant as he was. “I’ve unfortunately met other congenial men—and women—who turned out to be thieves, fraudsters, or murderers.”
“I am aggrieved to hear it.” Eden shook his head. “I’d like to think that a man’s character isn’t so easily disguised.”
I heard a breathy mutter behind me but ignored it.
“I hope Fitzgerald showing me the box was not to distract me from believing him a suspect,” I remarked.
“Interesting that he said the customs agents held it, just as they took my things,” Eden mused. “I didn’t notice at the time, but I was arguing with them about my own baggage.”
“Well, we shall keep an eye on him. I can always ask the customs agent—Mr. Seabrook—whether his story is true.”
“I’d rather not go back to the Custom House, thank you very much.” Eden shuddered. “Here is a hackney. I will leave you, Lacey, and walk the few steps home. Thank you for joining me on a most pleasant evening.”
He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. Brewster hovered a few feet away, and once I took leave of Eden, he fell into step beside me.
“Ye seem chuffed, guv.”
I waited for Brewster to approve the hackney driver, which he did, and I bade him ride inside with me. I told him briefly about the meal with Fitzgerald and what I had learned of him, and also about the magical painted box.
Brewster went thoughtful as I described it. “Sounds like one by van Hoogstraten.”
“Pardon?”
“Dutchman from far back. Painted pictures of wine goblets and lemons, that sort of thing, and these boxes with the peepholes. Wrote a book about the tricks of the perspective. Something with a long name, all in Dutch.”
I listened in mild surprise. Though Brewster appeared much of the time to be an illiterate ruffian, he was anything but. He could read perfectly well, and he’d learned much about art, rare books, and sculpture, mostly, I admit, by stealing them. He also had acquaintances who moved stolen art and others who forged it.
“It was most fascinating. Was that sort of thing well-known in its day?”
Brewster shrugged. “Could have been. But I do know those boxes are rare now and worth a powerful lot of money.”
“Are they?” I rested my hand on my walking stick as we rolled north to Curzon Street and around the corner to South Audley. “Then how did a hard-up Dutchman on St. Maarten get hold of one?”
“Maybe it was in his family, and when his money began to go he had to flog it. If Mr. Fitzgerald promised to find you another, he don’t know what he’s saying. Or maybe he does, and is trying to put you off the scent, like.”
“He might be correct that art dealers could have them lying about in their back rooms and not realize what they are.”
“True enough, but the real conno-sooers would ferret them out. If you asked His Nibs to find one for you, for instance, he’d charge every farthing its worth, plus more for the trouble.”
“Ah.” I deflated. There was a difference between obtaining a novelty for a lark and investing a fortune in rare artwork. I doubted my wife would thank me for spending Peter’s inheritance—if I could touch a penny—on a pretty painted box.
“Fitzgerald’s family must be more wealthy than he lets on,” I said after a moment. “If these are as precious as you say.”
“Or he got it for a bargain. Mayhap the bloke what sold it to him didn’t understand the worth of it or was so desperate for cash he’d let it go for any price.”
“All those things could be true.” We neared the house. “Perhaps that is why the customs agent took the box from Fitzgerald for a time. To make certain it wasn’t stolen or smuggled. Or that he hadn’t smuggled anything else inside it.”
“Very like. The customs blokes can’t keep their hands off anything. His Nibs has to pay a large sum every time to make sure his goods don’t get held up. Corruption is everywhere.” Brewster shook his head at the sad state of the world.
We parted, me to stagger inside the front door, Brewster to go below to his bed in the kitchen. He’d insisted on remaining to protect me until I left for Oxfordshire.
Barnstable, who’d helped me upstairs more than once since I’d known him, assisted me to my bedchamber, and Bartholomew undressed me for bed. My partial inebriation coupled with the large meal made me clumsy and sleepy.
I was stretched gratefully in bed with a warmed nightshirt over my bare body, closing my sandy eyes, when the mattress sagged beside me. A soft weight landed against me, and Donata rested her head on my shoulder.
“Mmph,” was my enlightened greeting. I ran a tired hand over her hair.