Hart listened in surprise. "He's a voyeur?" He'd met more than one gentleman in his lifetime who gained pleasure by watching others find it, but he'd never suspected it of the prim and proper Earl of Glastonby.
David chuckled and took another sip of coffee. "The tale grows more intriguing. He's not interested in watching a bloke and his ladylove having a go. He enjoys watching ladies with each other." He closed his eyes. "Oh, it was delicious to discover that."
Hart didn't ask how David had convinced Glastonby to tell him--David was famous for winnowing out of people things they didn't want others to know.
"Once I discovered his guilty secret, it was easy to orchestrate an encounter for him," David went on. "I knew two young ladies who were all too eager to help. Yesterday afternoon, I escorted Glastonby to a house where the ladies put on quite a show for him. I rather enjoyed it. He wouldn't touch them--oh, no--he thinks himself too good for the likes of women such as they. But he let them perform. Lapped it up, shall we say." Another sip, David beginning to relax.
Glastonby was exactly the sort of man Hart loathed--one who detested the same women he used to gain his pleasure. When Hart had lived in his own personal bawdy house, he'd taken plenty of pleasure in the young women who lived there with him, though Hart recognized now that he'd never let down his guard, never not been in charge of every move in the bed.
But he'd never despised the women in his house for being paid courtesans, or submissive to him. Hart had recognized that they were people in their own right, with hopes and troubles, despair and delights. The young women had often asked his advice about whatever concerned them--or about life itself--and when they wanted to leave, Hart would send them off with enough money to ensure their survival.
"What did you do to him?" Hart asked. "Something nasty, I hope."
"Of course, old friend." David sent him a smile that did not bode well for the Earl of Glastonby. "What should happen as we were taking our rest, the young ladies still intertwined in the drawing room, but that a vicar should happen to call, with every intent of reforming said young women? This vicar beheld, to his shock, the upright Earl of Glastonby with his trousers undone, the earl, whose wife leads so many reform committees. Stifling my laughter was painful, I assure you."
"This vicar was your old friend?"
"All too glad to expose a sinner. Dr. Pierson has a fine sense of humor, I am happy to say. A truly good man--there aren't many. By the way, you owe him five hundred guineas for his church roof fund. They'll be able to start their repairs thanks to your generous--and anonymous--donation."
"I'll have Wilfred draw him a cheque when he returns," Hart said without changing expression.
"I told Glastonby I could square it with the vicar to keep silent, especially to his wife and the earl's upright friends. My price, one Ming bowl. Glastonby took me to his house and nearly threw the bowl at me. I'll never be received in his home again." David laughed in delight. "Thank God."
Hart relaxed. The ever-reliable David had done his job. "You're a devious snake," Hart said.
"Indeed," David gave him a modest nod. "I was taught by the master--Lord Hart Mackenzie, now the lofty Duke of Kilmorgan. You might know him." He drained the last of the coffee from the cup and rose. "Shall we deliver the gift to Beth? Let me hand it to her. I want her kiss of gratitude."
*** *** ***
Ian removed the first layer of paper then of straw, feeling Beth's breath on his cheek. The warmth of it made him want to push the box aside and lead her away from all the people who'd gathered in the dining room. Why did they hover as though whatever Hogmanay gift Beth wanted to give him was any of their business?
He carefully lifted out another layer of straw and set it aside. His brothers, their wives, Daniel, David, Louisa, the McBrides, and Beth, leaned forward.
Inside the wooden box, nestled on another layer of straw, lay a Ming bowl. Ian lifted it out with gentle fingers--one never knew with porcelain how brittle it had become over the years.
It was a decent specimen, a bit small, but with finely painted dragons flowing among vine leaves. A chrysanthemum decorated the bottom of the outside. The blue was good, not as brilliant as the Russian gentleman's bowl, but a similar shade.
"This was the Earl of Glastonby's," Ian said, turning the bowl in his hands. He sniffed the porcelain--it was authentic. Some aristocrats in need of money had copies of their antiques made before they sold the originals, then forgot to mention that what they owned was the copy. Ian had seen this bowl before, when Glastonby had opened his home to show his collection, to raise money for one of his wife's charitable works. "He refused to sell it to me."
"I know," David Fleming said. "Prying it out of him was an onerous chore, but one I happily performed."
"It wasn't necessary," Ian said. "It's not as good as many of my others."
Beth leaned to him, distracting him again with the touch of her breath, her voice like an alto flute, the softness of her br**sts against his shoulder. "Do you not like it?"
She wore the expression Ian had come to understand meant she was worried and trying not to show it. Worried about what? That he didn't want the bowl? Of course, he wanted it. Ming bowls were his passion.
"I will add it to my collection."
Ian thought his answer would close the matter, but his family remained staring at him, and Beth's expression grew more anxious. "It is like the one I broke." She touched the design. "With the dragons, and the flowers, and the blue."