Page 2 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
Daniel strode out the door, leaving her alone with the glittering wares they could not sell as quickly as they’d like. As quickly as theyneededsome months. If they would give her own designs a chance, perhaps…
Fiona strolled through the cases in the front of the shop, tidying up and checking locks. Mr. Foggy did not know gems, nor did he seem to understand very well how to set them without the entire piece falling to bits within a year. But he did understand color. And shape. And depth. And how it all worked together to create something people could not look away from. He understood fashion and what people wanted, and how what people wanted constantly changed. Fiona knew that because she often could not look away from the pieces he’d created. She disdained Foggy. All Framptons did. But she admired him, too.
Perhaps one day ladies would flock to Frampton’s for one of Fiona’s designs. No “perhaps.” No. One day soon. A promise. A vow. Her future. First, she must convince her parents to let both daughters go rogue.
The sounds of the safe unlocking, opening, then closing and locking preceded Posey’s reappearance, stuffing her arms into a pelisse. She reached for her fur-lined bonnet as Fiona donned her own outerwear, and together they stepped into the cold and locked the door behind them.
The strange man still stood across the street.
Fiona nodded toward him as she and Posey started home “Do you see him? He’s been there every day for the last fortnight.”
Posey craned her neck to look over her shoulder.
“Don’t!” Fiona ducked. “Don’t look like that! You’ll draw his attention.”
Posey turned back around, a bonnet-hidden scowl thinning her lips. “If he’s been outside the shop for a fortnight, I’d say we already have his attention. I don’t like it. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I thought you’d notice.” Why hadn’t she noticed when Fiona, the least of the Framptons, had? “And then I kept meaning to tell you, but”—she quivered her fingers away from her—“you know my thoughts. Always lost in the wind.”
Posey rolled her eyes. “Of course. You’re like a crow with a shiny bauble. Except your baubles are thoughts. A shinier one comes along, and all else is forgotten. Does Papa know? About the man?”
“I can’t say. Should we contact a constable?”
“I should say so. We’ll tell Papa just in case. Perhaps we can talk to some of the lads at the tavern to see if they’ll watch over the shop tonight.”
“An excellent idea.” But Fiona’s stomach still twisted. She should have told someone sooner. As usual, with the exception of Mr. Foggy, she remained her family’s biggest downfall.
That.Word. The one she’d been trying to ignore jumped about her mind, and she shoved it down with a heavy fist of optimism.
Hopefully, the dowager would reappear, having gone for a jaunt on the Continent. She’d done so before. But never this long. At least Fiona’s paintings remained safe, locked up in Lady Balantine’s personal, secret gallery.
Worry still assaulted Fiona. She could not arm herself against it no matter how strong and sharp the mental portcullis she used to block it out. Because every time she closed her eyes, she remembered Lady Balantine was missing, and then she wondered if she’d taken the paintings with her, though why she would do such a thing, Fiona could never say.
But what if she had, placing them in watertight trunks for the journey across the channel and using a second coach once she arrived in France? Perhaps she’d have them unloaded at every stop and set up in a private room so she could dine while viewing them. Anyone could view them at that point—a maid bringing more tea, the innkeeper …anyone. They’d say, “Where’d you get those Rubens, my lady?” and then they’d take a closer look and know. They’dknow. Or perhaps a highwayman would discover her art-loaded coach one day in the Spanish countryside, realize their worth, if not their lack of authenticity, and steal them. And as soon as he tried to sell them, he’d know… everyone would know, and Fiona would find herself a criminal.
Wasn’t she already a criminal? Bother. Ethics confounded her. If only the dowager baroness would respond to Fiona’s letters.
A short, brisk walk brought them home, and their shivering drained away in the warmth of the townhouse foyer. Laughter echoed down the hall.
“They're playing cards again.” Posey untied her bonnet and piled it on a small circular table with her pelisse. Fiona did the same, and they found their parents glaring at one another across a small table set before the fire.
“Your father’s a cheat, girls.” Their mother spoke without breaking her hold on their father’s gaze.
Papa grinned, wide and merry. “I must resort to cheating because you’re so good with numbers my dear. It’s hardly cheating, if you ask me. It’s leveling the playing field.”
Fiona and Posey plopped into seats nearby. The glow that warmed her inside and out came not from the fire. Being with her family always made the world’s difficulties fade away.
“You must put away your cards,” Posey said, “for we have news of a troubling nature.”
Their mother’s face cleared of all emotion, and she tilted her head in the way that meant she was listening. Their father's face did the opposite. He seemed to scrunch into himself in order to keep a volley of emotions from exploding out of him, and his eyebrows narrowed toward one another.
“Troubling?” she said, “Tell us now.”
Posey sat tall, her hands folded in her lap, looking every inch the titled lady she’d never been and never would be. “Fiona has observed these past few weeks a man standing outside the shop.”
Papa scratched his head above his ear, making the still-thick white hair there stand out. “Hm.”
Mama patted his arm. “Many men stand outside the shop.”
