An (Un)believably Artful Theft (Love’s Little Helpers #4)

Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

D uring the carriage ride back to Netherfield, Mr. Bingley spoke enough for their entire party, which served Georgiana well. Her mind was too busy trying to comprehend what she had just seen.

That was her painting she had seen in Longbourn, she was certain of it! Granted, she had heard of skilled artists who copied masterpieces with so much skill that occasionally their works were confused with the original. But Georgiana knew her painting. She would recognize it from any distance, in any shading or lighting, just as she knew the paths of Pemberley.

After her father’s death, she had spent hours wishing she could live in the world of the picture—a world where her father still lived. People said the two people in the boat were men; however, in her mind, it was her and her father. He had taken her fishing many times at Pemberley’s lake. They would spend all morning on the water, and he would catch nothing. “The fish are not cooperating,” he would say, and she would laugh as she pulled in another catch. He would then row them to a more promising spot with hungrier fish and make another attempt. He rarely caught anything.

It did not matter. She would have gone whether the fish cooperated or not because, out in the middle of the water, rocking gently in the boat with only birds and gentle breezes surrounding them, Father would talk. He told stories of growing up at Pemberley, tales of his misadventures with Uncle Hugh and his other neighbors from Matlock.

What she looked forward to the most those days were the stories he would tell of her mother. He had loved her—truly loved her. Sometimes he would sniff and dab at his eyes, and Georgiana would complain of the excessive dust in the middle of the lake to give him an excuse to cry. Anything to encourage his conversation. Anything to learn more about her mother. Oh, how she ached to know her, to talk to her as she had done so freely with her father!

She missed him dearly. In relating the stories of her mother, he allowed her to see him as more than the strict Master of Pemberley. He lowered the walls around his heart and let her inside, and she had been secure in the love of her father.

Fitzwilliam was a good brother—the best brother. But he was not Father. Fitzwilliam was so often away and constantly busy .

It always required time for Georgiana to compose her thoughts and say what she really meant, like drawing water from a deep well. Knowing this about herself, she attempted to summarize the questions swirling in her mind into one succinct inquiry.

Why was her painting not at Pemberley? How long had it been gone? Was this the reason Fitzwilliam had so often been away since last summer? How did Mr. Bennet come to have her painting? Why was it here? Was it still hers? So many questions! Too many. Her brother had promised the painting to her, and he always kept his promises, which led her to wonder what had happened…

She was no closer to forming a clear question when they reached Netherfield Park than she had been when they departed from Longbourn. If anything, she had more. Was this the reason Richard had arrived and why he and Fitzwilliam had been on tenterhooks since his arrival? If that were the case, why had they looked as surprised as she to see her painting hanging in Mr. Bennet’s study? What had happened?!

Wrapped up in thought, she did not notice what had become of Mr. Bingley, only that he was no longer in their company. Fitzwilliam and Richard were walking side by side like a wall in front of her, leading her up the stairs. They said nothing when she followed them into the library and closed the door behind her.

They both looked down at the carpet at their feet. Why did they look so guilty?

Clasping her hands in front of her to keep them from shaking, she decided to wait for one of them to speak rather than ask any of her questions.

Fitzwilliam motioned for her to sit. “Are you in need of refreshment?”

“No.” She needed answers, not tea.

Richard asked, “Shall we send for Mrs. Annesley?”

“No.”

“Are you certain you do not wish for some tea?” Fitzwilliam pressed.

Being asked again for something she had already refused as though she did not know her own mind was infuriating, especially in Georgiana’s current agitated state. “I am certain, I thank you.”

“What about Mrs. Annesley?” Richard went toward the door as if to fetch her at that moment.

“Stop! I do not want tea, I do not need Mrs. Annesley, and I do not wish for a puppy!” Georgiana startled herself with her forcefulness. She sounded so much like Aunt Catherine that she considered apologizing.

Richard froze. Seeing how her boldness had achieved the reaction she sought, she added in a much calmer voice, “I wish for you both to stop treating me like a child and tell me why my painting is hanging at Longbourn.” That was as clearly stated as she could hope to communicate.

Fitzwilliam pulled the chair beside her closer; he took both of her hands in his, his gaze locked on hers. She braced herself for bad news. Her painting must be lost to her. Gone. Just like her father and her mother and her faith in her brother’s word. Tears burned her eyes, and she jutted out her chin to keep it from quivering.

“When I found you and Wickham at Ramsgate?—”

She sucked in a breath, and he stopped. She wanted to know about her painting, not that person whose very name filled her with shame. “What does this have to do with him ?”

“After he left, he made haste to Pemberley, where he took an item he knew to be of considerable value?—”

“An item small enough to carry with him,” interjected Richard, “and valuable enough to fetch a handsome price.”

The room spun. Georgiana tugged her hands free from Fitzwilliam to clasp the edge of her chair.

“He took your painting, Georgie.” Fitzwilliam paused, continuing slowly, “For the past five months, I have been searching all over England, scouring markets and galleries, inquiring at private collectors and auction houses, visiting pawn shops?—”

“Risking the marché ouvert ,” Richard added. Fitzwilliam’s glare silenced him, but not before he tapped his eye. And she knew.

“Your bruise!” Relief that he and her cousin had not come to blows over her was quickly overcome by worry over what might have happened to her brother at the dangerous market.

He nodded. “I found the merchant who had sold your painting from her stall only one day before. She sold it to a man with silver hair, spectacles, and clever eyes.”

“Mr. Bennet,” she whispered. He certainly fit that description.

Her brother had not broken his promise at all! As usual, he had been cleaning up the mess that Wickham had made—a mess she was mortified to have played a part in. She never should have told him about her inheritance. Oh, what a little fool she had been! A tear spilled down her cheek, and her brother reached for his handkerchief and dabbed her face dry, a lovely gesture which brought on more tears.

She knew what Fitzwilliam and Richard must think of her, and she wished the tears would cease, but the harder she tried to hold them back, the more powerful they became. They would believe she still pined for Wickham. It pained her to be so terribly misunderstood. What kind of lady did they think she was?

How genuinely happy she was to learn that her brother had not been avoiding her all these months because of her dreadful mistake! He had been trying to keep his promise after Wickham had taken her most precious possession from her. Oh, how she wished she had never known that awful man! That he had never been a part of her life. Would that he just go away and never come back! She never wanted to see him again.

She did not know when her brother had wrapped his arms around her, but the handkerchief she held was soggy, and his cravat was crumpled and stained with her tears. Taking a deep breath, she calmed herself. Once it was safe, she backed out of his embrace, determined to show her guardians how well she had learned from her mistake and how mature she had become.

Mr. Bennet was a gentleman. He could be reasoned with. Either way, she was not concerned about her painting now that she knew Fitzwilliam had not been the one to take it from her. No, that deceit had been committed by the rapscallion who had tried to steal her heart, her reputation, and her inheritance. Oh, if she ever saw that horrible man again, she would kill him!

“There is more,” Richard added. “We tracked down Wickham all the way to Charleston. He is gone.”

“Good riddance! I hope he never comes back!” she exclaimed, relieved beyond measure that he was on the other side of the ocean.

Fitzwilliam reached for her hands, his eyes so tender, his touch so understanding and comforting that she felt her eyes well up once again. “Georgie, Wickham is dead. He died one week after landing.”

And she had wished him dead! She had not even swooned! A proper lady would certainly swoon. What kind of monster was she?

Feeling another onslaught of tears, she fled from the library to her bedchamber, slamming the door behind her and sending Mrs. Annesley away. Nothing anyone could say would console her. She did not deserve consolation. She was wretched. This was so much worse than Ramsgate.

Over the next several hours, Fitzwilliam tapped on her door several times. He brought her tea. He brought her cake. He brought her a book. He tempted her with all of her favorite things, but she would not be consoled. She had wanted nothing more than to be forever free of Wickham. Now that she was, she could not even be happy about it.