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Gage and I arrived at Picardy Place to find Mr. Winstanley in something of a sulk. Apparently, he’d been informed by one official or another that he could not remove Lord Eldin’s collection to another location until permission had been granted.

“And with the ongoing investigation, that could take some time,” Mr. Rimmer informed us as he led us toward the back room where the auctioneer was snapping at someone.

Which meant that all of this was costing Mr. Winstanley considerably more time and money than anticipated, not to mention aggravation.

“Add to that the fact that one of his employees has not shown up for work today, and…” Mr. Rimmer shrugged as if to say, This is what you get .

“Allow me to guess,” Gage murmured wryly. “It was Mr. Sullivan.”

Mr. Rimmer turned to him, consternation causing the corners of his eyes to crinkle. “How did you know?”

Gage didn’t answer, his expression now less than inviting. When Mr. Rimmer looked at me, I pretended not to see, recognizing Gage’s silence was intentional.

“Mr. Winstanley,” Mr. Rimmer said as we entered the room cluttered with even more objects.

The auctioneer swiveled his head toward his assistant, appearing as if he were about to berate him as he had been the other man standing before him.

However, upon catching sight of us, he changed his whinge.

“Don’t tell me you’ve come to deliver more edicts.

Now, see here, I have a business to run. ”

“We are aware,” Gage replied firmly. “And as we understand it, you are now down one employee.”

Mr. Winstanley’s gaze flicked toward Mr. Rimmer, sharp with displeasure. “Yes.”

“I would like to speak with your other employees about Mr. Sullivan.”

“Why?” The auctioneer’s eyes had narrowed, clearly suspecting something.

Gage hesitated, considering how much to reveal. But given the fact the man in question had likely absconded after being confronted by Gage and Anderley the day before, there was little need to shelter him from his employer’s reaction anymore.

“Mr. Sullivan has a cousin who works for Brade Cranston.”

There was no need for Gage to say more, as Mr. Winstanley’s face actually flushed purple with rage. I worried for a moment that he might give himself an apoplexy.

“That contemptible knave has been trying to cause trouble for me at every turn simply because Lord Eldin chose my firm to handle his collection and not his. But he didn’t trust the blackguard, and neither do I.

” He narrowed his eyes to slits. “Oh, I should have known he was behind this. Is Sullivan the person who tampered with the joist? Is he the cause of my suffering? Why, I’ll wring his… ”

“We don’t yet know that Mr. Sullivan, or Mr. Cranston for that matter, are culpable of anything,” Gage said, cutting him off. “Merely that they are figures of interest. Which is why I would like to speak with your employees again.”

Judging from Mr. Winstanley’s expression, he’d already decided they were guilty of something, but he ordered Mr. Rimmer to round up the other men in the entry hall.

Mr. Rimmer hurried to do this while the other man looked on.

His face was battered and bruised, and his left hand bandaged, and I realized now that this must be the other assistant, Mr. Fletcher.

He was older than Mr. Rimmer by some years, and taller, too, and his sandy hair was trimmed shorter than most gentlemen favored.

Close enough to reveal a round, shilling-sized red mole on the left side of his head.

His gray eyes were hooded, which accounted for some of my difficulty in reading his expression.

At turns, he appeared drowsy, bored, and calculating, but I didn’t know if any of those were accurate.

“We have one more matter to discuss with you,” Gage said.

Mr. Winstanley appeared wary of whatever he was about to say. I supposed we couldn’t blame him for that. He gestured for Gage to continue.

“The copy of the invitation list that your assistant delivered.” He nodded at the other man, evidently having also deduced he was Mr. Fletcher. “Was Mrs. Gage’s name deliberately left off of it?”

The auctioneer frowned while Mr. Fletcher’s face remained impassive. “I don’t understand the question.”

“Mrs. Gage received an invitation and a catalog, but her name was not included on the copy of the invitation list you gave us to review.”

Mr. Winstanley continued to look confused.

“We simply wondered if you’d left her name off because we obviously knew she received one,” Gage attempted again to explain, exasperation fraying the edges of his voice.

“Mrs. Gage shouldn’t have received an invitation,” Mr. Winstanley retorted. “She wasn’t on the list.”

My stomach dipped.

Gage appeared taken aback. “You didn’t send her an invitation and catalog?”

“No.” He almost seemed appalled by the notion. “But she received one?”

My husband turned to me, so I answered. “Yes. A week ago. The day before the start of the auction.”

“We mailed the invitations and catalogs weeks ago,” Mr. Winstanley replied defensively.

“I did wonder at its late arrival,” I admitted.

“Yet you received one?” The auctioneer appeared genuinely baffled.

“Yes.”

“But how?”

I shook my head, conceding I didn’t know. And that not knowing troubled me. Greatly.

“Perhaps Mr. Rimmer sent it,” Mr. Fletcher suggested, speaking for the first time.

Mr. Winstanley whirled to look at him. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“He’s a great admirer o’ her paintings. She’s practically all he speaks of.”

This remark and the avid look in Mr. Fletcher’s eyes seemed to make all of us uncomfortable, not just me. According to Maclean, Mr. Fletcher had implied Mr. Rimmer was obsessed with me, and that seemed to be what he was doing now, though his words were slightly more polite.

“Wants to broker the art exhibit she’s working on,” he added.

This was no more than I’d already suspected, but to hear Mr. Fletcher refer to it in such a tone made it sound sordid. I clasped my hands before me, struggling not to react.

Mr. Winstanley was not so circumspect. “Did you send Mrs. Gage an invitation and a catalog?” he barked at Mr. Rimmer as he returned to the room.

Mr. Rimmer stumbled to a stop, his eyes widening in the face of his employer’s anger. “To the auction?” he stammered. “No.” His gaze darted between us all. “Was I meant to?” He frowned. “But wait. You had a catalog,” he said to me. “I recall you referring to it. Did someone lend it to you?”

“Then you didn’t send it to her?” the auctioneer persisted.

“No,” Mr. Rimmer replied vociferously, evidently deducing that was what his employer was charging him with. “I didn’t.”

But Mr. Winstanley and Mr. Fletcher still looked suspicious.

“Then how else could she have received one?” Gage wanted to know, planting his hands on his hips.

No one seemed to have a ready answer, until Mr. Rimmer waded in again, his dark eyes leery. “I suppose it’s possible someone who received it decided to forward it to Lady Darby. Her interest in art is well known.”

“But why wouldn’t they have included a note?” I queried in a small voice.

“I…I don’t know, my lady. Perhaps they forgot?”

It was a weak response, to be sure, but at least he was sensitive to my distress. Mr. Winstanley seemed more concerned with how this new development affected him and his staff, and the manner in which Mr. Fletcher was eyeing Mr. Rimmer communicated he didn’t believe his denials.

For my part, I didn’t know what to think. And after being confronted by Mr. Cranston’s cruel assertions, I was feeling rather vulnerable. I found myself inching closer to Gage, anxious for the reassurance of his presence.

Unfortunately, my husband was preoccupied with advancing the inquiry. “Maybe you would take some time then, Mr. Rimmer, to consider from the invitation list who that might have been.”

The assistant was plainly surprised by the request. “I can try.”

But Gage was barely listening. “If you’ll excuse me,” he declared as he strode out of the room, no doubt off to interrogate the other employees, leaving me staring awkwardly at the three men.

Mr. Winstanley had turned away, muttering to himself while Mr. Fletcher wore a smirk.

Only Mr. Rimmer seemed inclined to speak, but I didn’t want to have to feign equanimity.

Not when I could sense my composure eroding as we spoke.

Instead, I smiled tightly and fled, like the coward I clearly still was.

· · ·

“They’re all too intimidated by Mr. Winstanley,” Gage groused as we rumbled over the cobblestone streets the short distance to our door. “And anxious not to lose their jobs.”

“They are far from home,” I pointed out, my gaze fastened out the window. It was raining again—big, fat droplets that seemed to find their way under hats and over collars, rolling down one’s neck and leaving an icy trail.

“That, or someone else has convinced them to remain silent,” Gage mused, as he’d been doing since we left Picardy Place.

I wasn’t even sure he’d heard me. He seemed to be doing a remarkable job of recapping his interview with the auctioneer’s staff without my help, even though I’d witnessed nearly the entire thing, albeit hovering in the background.

I was almost relieved to escape the confines of the carriage and my husband when we reached our door, though I waited patiently for the step to be lowered and an umbrella to be brought forth. But once inside, Gage still wasn’t finished.

“Jeffers, collect Anderley, Miss McEvoy, and Mrs. Mackay and have them join us in the library. We need to confer.”

“Mrs. Mackay isn’t here, sir,” Jeffers reminded him while I stood dripping all over the rug, trying to manage the buttons of my pelisse while I shivered from the sudden chill in the air. “She’s gathering information on the Bannatyne Club, as requested.”

Which meant Emma had been left in Bree’s charge.

“I’d forgotten. Well, then, carry on,” he stated with a wave of his hand. “We’ll convene later.”