The Earl Who Played With Fire Read online

  THE EARL WHO PLAYED WITH FIRE

  A MUSES OF MAYFAIR NOVEL

  Sara Ramsey

  For my sister

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, March 1813

  Miss Prudence Etchingham was expected to admire the paintings. Instead, she covertly admired the man standing across the room. His back was to her. She preferred to see his face, but this angle had its own charms. His shoulders were broad, capable of carrying something heavier than the burdens of an earldom. His dark hair could have been wild if he weren’t quite so proper. The tails of his coat obscured his backside, but they accentuated his well-toned legs.

  Not that Prudence should have noticed his legs. She shouldn’t have noticed anything about him. But after years of secret study, she knew every curve of his smile, every line on his face.

  And when she let herself daydream — as she often did — she could pretend that he had given her his love, not just his charity.

  “Fascinating exhibit, don’t you think?” her friend Ellie said.

  Mr. John Soane’s townhouse had some of the best artifacts in London, and he regularly allowed others to attend public viewings of his collection. Prudence turned to her friend and strove for an innocent expression. “It is vastly intriguing.”

  The marchioness laughed and lowered her voice. “I may be married now, but I haven’t lost all my observational powers. When do you plan to tell Salford of your feelings?”

  Prudence glanced back at Alex — the Earl of Salford, if she was being proper. There were enough people between them to dampen Ellie’s voice, but not enough to block the view. “If he wants me, he knows where to find me.”

  She had lived in his house for months. Her mother, Lady Harcastle, had attempted to arrange a marriage for Prudence the previous summer, but the engagement had died before it was announced. If Alex’s mother hadn’t offered Prudence a position as her companion out of pity, Prudence’s care would have been foisted off on a cousin instead.

  Her mother didn’t have the money for another Season, particularly when Prudence was such a bad investment. She only had enough funds left to move between relatives and snipe at Prudence for her failures.

  Ellie leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Men can be quite stupid. It took Nick a decade to come to his senses and come home to me. If you can help Salford to realize his feelings sooner, it’s better for both of you.”

  Prudence shook her head. “Nick knew he loved you. He merely had to act upon it. Lord Salford has made no such overture.”

  “Men,” Ellie pronounced. “I think he is besotted with you.”

  Prudence glanced toward Alex again. This time, she caught him watching her instead of the paintings.

  She knew why myths and Biblical tales featured so many fools who looked back and died because of it. She’d never been able to ignore the temptation of looking at him. But today, his gaze killed her. He stood under a skylight, seemingly lit up just for her. She would always remember him like that, half-turned toward her, his body poised halfway between seeking her out and stepping back into the shadows.

  Her breath caught. She met his eyes. She always met his eyes, hoping to see something there that would give her an answer.

  The beam of sunlight was blotted out by an errant cloud. His eyes dimmed. Prudence dropped hers, not needing to watch as he turned back to the paintings.

  She had to stop looking, stop searching for the heart he would likely never give her. She focused resolutely on Ellie. “If he is so besotted, he can tell me. I’ve better things to do with my time than wait for him.”

  Ellie was gracious enough — or perceptive enough — not to ask what those things were.

  Or perhaps she would have asked, if given time, but they were interrupted before Ellie could continue her campaign. “Lady Folkestone,” the newcomer said, bowing over Ellie’s hand. “I thought we had lost you to that uncultured man you married. You must stop in to my shop and select a wedding present.”

  Ellie laughed. Her new husband, the Marquess of Folkestone, was a wealthy trader who had unexpectedly inherited the title. “I’m not lost. Our honeymoon didn’t end until a week ago. Still, you should be careful not to insult my husband to his face or he might run you out of business.”

  “I trust you’ll disarm him,” Ostringer said.

  It was odd banter — but then, Ellie knew everyone in the ton and half the people outside it, and she seemed to share some private joke with all of them. Her smile was supremely satisfied. “No need to disarm him,” she said. “The ton will never believe it, but marriage suits us.”

  Prudence felt a little kick of jealousy — just enough to hate herself for it. Her three closest friends had married wealthy, titled men in the past year. All of them had been love matches.

  She was still enough of her old self to be ashamed of how jealous she was. But her new self had bigger problems.

  And one of those problems stood in front of her, pretending to be a stranger. Ellie turned to Prudence. “Miss Etchingham, may I present to you Mr. Ostringer? He owns an antiquities shop of some renown.”

  Prudence held out her hand as though she and Ostringer had never met. “How do you do, Mr. Ostringer?”

  “Charmed, Miss Etchingham,” he said, bowing over it and betraying nothing.

  “My dear friend has a passion for antiquities,” Ellie said to the shopkeeper.

  Ostringer lifted first one eyebrow, then the other, as though this fact surprised him. It nearly made her laugh even after all these months. Perhaps the gesture amused her because his brows were so prodigious. They rioted under his equally riotous iron grey hair. He was tall, slightly heavyset, but still agile. He must have been nearing sixty years of age, but beyond his hair and the web of lines around his eyes, there were few signs of decay.

  “How unusual,” he said. “I thought lovely young ladies such as yourself would be more interested in dressmakers than antiquities purveyors.”

  His statement was innocuous. She responded in kind. “Young ladies are becoming remarkably daring in the modern age, Mr. Ostringer. An interest in antiquities isn’t unusual.”

  Ladies were permitted to have a casual interest in antiquities, particularly as it pertained to decorating their homes. No one liked it if they attempted to make a scholarly career of it, though. Mr. Ostringer smiled. “I thank you for the modern age. If you will pardon my unseemly mention of business matters, my shop does better when the fairer sex embraces yet another decorating scheme.”

  “The fairer sex and the Prince Regent,” Ellie said drily.

  Ostringer laughed. “His Royal Highness would be a better ruler if he spent less time redesigning his palaces, but he’s doing quite a good job for me.”

  “Surely you’re more civic-minded than that,” Prudence teased.

  “Don’t mistake me, Miss Etchingham. I want the best for Britain. But if the best happens to sell more antiquities…”

  He shrugged. His smile was pleasant, but there was something sharp about Ostringer’s face that his laughter and wild eyebrows couldn’t hide. Prudence suspected he could be quite ruthless. But he had not yet been ruthless with her.

  Ellie laughed, but whatever comment she might have made about Ostringer was lost when her husband joined them. “My lord,” Ellie said to the marquess. “May I present to you Mr. Ostringer? He keeps an antiquities shop in Mayfair.”

  Another man might have had heart palpitations at the thought of his wife associating with a shopkeeper, but Nick was either a better man than most, or he had come to terms with Ellie’s odd social circles. He shook Ostringer’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ostringer. I believe I can hold you responsible for half the contents of my home.”

  Ostri
nger nodded. “I would be pleased to provide more, should your wife choose to redecorate again.”

  Nick wrapped his arm around Ellie’s waist — not particularly proper, but then, neither of them were particularly proper. “I’m sure she will someday. But I plan to keep her too entertained to think about it for at least a decade.”

  Ellie blushed. She rarely blushed. With her red hair, it was quite the sight.

  Prudence felt another stab of jealousy. Ellie and Nick were newly wed, and the love between them still burned hot enough to scorch innocent bystanders. She looked back at Alex, driven by an instinct that overruled all common sense. But he wasn’t where he’d been before. He must have left the room without her noting it.

  And without inviting her along.

  She’d missed whatever Ellie’s reply had been, but Nick laughed — something low and magical, as though he’d forgotten that they had an audience. “Will you come to the staircase with me?” he asked Ellie. “I have something I wish to show you.”

  Prudence very much doubted that Nick cared for most of the art in Soane’s house — he just wanted Ellie to himself. But Ellie nodded and turned to Prudence. “Do you mind if I leave you for a moment?” Ellie asked. “Not that you need my chaperonage at an event such as this.”

  Prudence waved her away. “If you had told me a year ago that the infamous Lady Folkestone would chaperone me, I would have vowed to eat my hat. I’m sure I won’t get into any mischief worse than what you would push me into.”

  Ellie’s sly smile said she would happily push Prudence into mischief if given half a chance. But she said her farewells as though nothing was amiss. That left Prudence with Ostringer, who thankfully still pretended he didn’t know her. “Have you seen Mr. Soane’s pottery collection, Miss Etchingham?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Lady Folkestone insisted on viewing the paintings while the light was still good.”

  Mr. Soane had installed clever skylights and windows, just as he had when designing the Bank of London, so the entire collection was more visible and vibrant than anything one usually saw in a private home. Ostringer pressed his point. “You seem to be the type of young lady who prefers objects to paintings. Would you care to accompany me?”

  She glanced around the room. There was no one left whom she knew, but that didn’t mean gossip wouldn’t spread if someone overheard the wrong thing. “This is not a good time for a discussion,” she said, lowering her voice.

  Ostringer shook his head. “I am well aware, Miss Etchingham. No discussion is required. But there is something I wish to show you.”

  It was unusual of her to leave a room with a man she claimed not to know, but it was daylight and they were in a public space. Her reputation would be safe enough.

  She allowed him to escort her into the hall. Soane’s collections were quickly outgrowing his available space, even though he had just finished combining his original townhouse with the one next door. The hall had several shelves of objects crammed into every inch of wall space. A few people were exploring the curios and artifacts displayed there, but Prudence knew them only by sight from nine years of parties and excursions. None of them would remark on her presence.

  “What do you wish to show me?” she asked Ostringer.

  He gestured to one of the shelves. “There is a most unusual object in Soane’s collection. A rare piece of pottery, if I’m not mistaken.”

  She peered in the direction he had pointed. She saw what he meant immediately, but she took her time, schooling her features so that they would give nothing away. “Very rare, Mr. Ostringer. You have a good eye for what may interest me.”

  “I sold it to him a week ago. I am not surprised that it took pride of place in this cabinet. It is very well made, after all.”

  Prudence knew how well-made it was. It had been buried in Lady Salford’s garden for a month. It now looked weathered, but it had easily survived the freeze and thaw of London in February. Her arm hadn’t survived it so easily; digging into the frozen turf had been a challenge that left her muscles sore for days.

  She straightened her spine. “Mr. Soane has excellent taste. But I am surprised he acquired this.”

  “The artist is very talented.”

  She didn’t like his use of present tense. “I would have thought this piece more likely to appeal to a dilettante instead of a scholar.”

  That was the agreement they had made — that he would only sell her pieces to amateurs, people who would never realize that they had bought a forgery. Ostringer shrugged. “Soane felt he had to have it. Who am I to deny him when he’s so sure of the provenance?”

  She was sure she was blushing, and equally sure that Soane’s blasted skylights would betray her. “Have you sold any similar objects to scholars of Mr. Soane’s standing?”

  Ostringer pretended to think for a moment. “The Duke of Thorington has bought several pieces recently. You may also recognize an urn that Mr. Thomas Hope purchased, should you attend one of the exhibitions at his house. But you will have to look elsewhere if you want something similar — I find myself quite out of stock.”

  She couldn’t help herself. “Out of stock?” she asked.

  “Completely.” His smile wasn’t ruthless this time — it was conspiratorial. “If you’ll allow me to bore you with business talk again, I can share that the profit approached five hundred pounds.”

  Five hundred pounds. “I should congratulate you on your good fortune,” she said.

  She was dizzy with it. Her share would be three hundred — enough to set herself up in a little house somewhere for a year, if she was careful with her spending and didn’t try to keep a carriage or a horse.

  He inclined his head. “I’m of course eager to make more profit.”

  “Perhaps you could sell scarabs?” she suggested. “I know they’re not as fashionable as they once were, but they are very easy to store.”

  She knew they were easy to store. She had several of them hidden in jars of tea under her bed, developing the proper patina. But Ostringer sighed. “Scarab beetles are all well and good. But they aren’t quite…audacious enough.”

  “Do you wish to be audacious?”

  Prudence was careful to keep their conversation hypothetical. He responded in kind, but not as kindly as she expected. “Scarabs will bring a profit, but not as much as one might wish. If I could have my way, I would demand something worth far more than that.”

  She wasn’t sure she liked the word “demand,” but the idea of making more money thrilled her. She had been preparing smaller forgeries for months — ever since she had begun to realize that she would likely never marry and would need to find a way to feed herself. She had started by repainting bits of pottery or stones to match the older styles. They were easy to do on her own in the endless hours when she should have been darning socks or sitting as an ornament at Alex’s mother’s at-homes. But as she had reinvested her first profits into paying artisans to craft more ambitious pieces, her dreams had grown.

  She could make enough to be independent. She could even make enough to support her mother, if she felt like clasping that viper to her breast.

  But she had yet to make a major piece, one that would bring a significant sum of money. And that would take far more effort. She shook her head as she looked at him. “Audacity sounds intriguing, Mr. Ostringer. But it is also a bigger risk.”

  Ostringer smiled. “The men who can afford a bigger risk are usually not as intelligent as they think they are. I’ve sold more pieces than I can count to men who thought they knew what they were doing.”

  His smile wasn’t very kind. In fact, it was rather wolfish. Had she grabbed a wolf by the tail when she had made her bargain with him?

  She wouldn’t worry about it yet — but it might be wise not to put all of her eggs in Mr. Ostringer’s rather questionable basket. She nodded as though she wasn’t considering anything but what she might make for him. “Perhaps I will stop by in a few weeks to see your collection. I would
like to see what you may sell next.”

  A shadow fell on them, making her glad that their conversation had been circumspect. “Miss Etchingham,” Alex said.

  Why did his voice make her shiver? “My lord,” she said, turning to him. “May I present to you Mr. Ostringer? He is an antiquities collector.”

  “I know who he is,” Alex said.

  His voice snapped. Ostringer didn’t blink. “My dear Lord Salford. How do you do?”

  Alex didn’t respond. He turned to Prudence, ignoring Ostringer completely. “Would you care to accompany me to the library, Miss Etchingham? There is something I wish to show you.”

  She let him take her arm because she always let him take her arm. Even though it was madness, even though it hurt, she wanted to feel the warmth of his touch — to pretend that it meant something. These moments when they walked together were as close as she could get to him. She never turned him away even when her heart was aching.

  But she had too much pride to let him run entirely roughshod over her. “You shouldn’t have been rude to Mr. Ostringer,” she said as he escorted her from the room. “I know he is a merchant, but I didn’t think you were so priggish about such things.”

  “I’m not a prig,” Alex said. “But I do not like to see you associating with charlatans.”

  “I had never met him before today,” she lied. “He seemed pleasant.”

  “Pleasant for a charlatan. Still, you wouldn’t approve of his methods.”

  Her touch was perfectly proper on his arm, but no bystander would guess that all her attention was focused on her fingertips. “What methods would I not approve of?”

  “He is a fraud, Miss Etchingham. Most of what he sells is genuine, but there’s always some piece or another that isn’t what he claims it is.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t know?” she asked.

  Alex shook his head as they navigated around the people and objects in their path. He was solicitous, slowing down to make allowance for her dress, and she leaned on him just a bit more than she needed to. “Ostringer knows what he’s about,” Alex said. “I don’t mind the usual tricks dealers play — it is up to the buyer to ascertain provenance, after all. But the rumor is that he was a private secretary before he descended into the trade. He must have had some schooling. I don’t approve of frauds who know what they are about.”