Part 4 (1/2)

It was a tactical mistake. This was Olivia, after all. Telling her what not to do was tantamount to inviting her to do it.

Colin realized this too late. Her brothers, after exchanging another rather fatalistic glance, stepped aside with grim resignation.

She all but burst inside.

Then paused as she took in the s.p.a.ce with a swift, sweeping glance.

Nothing was out of the ordinary. Everything seemed splendidly as it should be. She inhaled deeply. Ah, but she loved Ackermann's the way she loved Tingle's Bookshop-for the gentle rustling of fine paper, the pungent scent of fine paper and ink. It was cheerful and airy and brilliantly illuminated by a band of large high windows that poured flattering light down on all the art and art lovers alike.

Her brothers remained silent.

She shot them a triumphant glance.

She gravitated to a wall where a new, dazzlingly colorful print hung in a place of honor.

”Oh, I believe it's meant to be Le Chat.” Olivia said this to Landsdowne, who was trailing her protectively and planted himself at her side. ”Funny, but I was just discussing him with my modiste.”

They paused to admire it.

The infamous pirate was standing triumphantly on the deck of a s.h.i.+p, one booted foot on the chest of a man who appeared to be weeping with fear. His hair waved like a black flag in an apparent breeze, and his penetrating blue gaze was apparent even through his black mask. He was holding a sword to his victim's throat with his left hand. These were the only three things the whole of Europe could agree about with regards to Le Chat: that he had blue eyes (”the very color of evil!” one survivor had declared, which had always struck Olivia as funny, as her own were blue), so vivid they could even be seen in the dark, which was the only time Le Chat attacked; that he spoke like a gentleman when he spoke at all; and that he was left-handed. Or at least used his left hand when he wielded a sword. One merchant claimed to have shot him, but since Le Chat had gone on to attack again, he clearly hadn't managed to kill him.

”That's a handsome print,” Landsdowne allowed. ”But he's a scourge.”

”Yes, but a scourge who has all but eliminated the illegal Triangle Trade, from what I understand.”

”I suppose even vermin have their uses,” Landsdowne said, and she shot him a wry glance. ”He hasn't been heard from in a while. Perhaps someone finally aimed into his black little heart when they shot him.”

”Seems an inevitable fate for a pirate,” she allowed, echoing what she'd told Mademoiselle Lilette. She frowned faintly at the masked pirate.

It was amusingly lurid, but she could see nothing alarming in it, so clearly this wasn't what was troubling her brothers.

”Shall we go now, Olivia?” Colin suggested brightly from behind her.

She turned to scowl at him, and then continued in a slow, suspicious pivot.

She saw nothing but other well-dressed shoppers and couples murmuring to each other as they leafed through merchandise.

And then her questing gaze snagged on a row of vivid prints arrayed side by side along the top of a shelf. The artist was obvious even from where she stood.

”Oh! A new set of Rowlandson prints!”

New Rowlandson work was always a delightful surprise. He had a gift for capturing London's microcosm with scathing wit and acuity.

That was when her brothers went absolutely motionless and silent. Rather as if they were about to witness an execution.

She understood why when she was close enough to read the t.i.tles.

The Ill.u.s.trated Legend of Lyon Redmond Which rather leaped out at her from the bottom of the prints.

It seemed Mr. Pickles had already been more enterprising than she'd ever suspected, if Rowlandson had been commissioned to do such work.

She drew closer, helpless not to. Landsdowne followed.

In the first print, a man, who she expected was meant to be Lyon-he had a das.h.i.+ng swoop of dark hair over one brow and snapping black eyes, and his outrageously muscular, nankeen-clad thighs gripped a saddled and rearing crocodile, whose tiny legs flailed the air like a stallion. One knew it was the Nile because the artist had thoughtfully drawn little pyramids off in the distance.

Lyon was wielding a riding crop and wearing a beaver hat and a very determined expression.

The funny part was that the expression was really rather similar to Lyon's when he was determined. Which was all the time. Or had been all the time.

”Olivia . . .” Landsdowne's voice was next to her. It was a plea.

She held up a hand. Slowly, as if she had no choice, as though nudged up the gallows stairs, she moved on to the next one.

In blues and pinks and reds, Lyon was depicted lolling-which was indeed a rather lyrical word-on a heap of ta.s.seled pillows, surrounded by voluptuous-the cartoonist had spared no ink and had truly unleashed his imagination-and scantily clad women. Lyon appeared to be smoking a hookah and his boots were tossed carelessly aside.

They all stared at it in helpless, horrified thrall.

”He looks comfortable, doesn't he?”

Her voice was a sort of ironic, distant hush that had the three men exchanging looks of grave concern.

Lyon would never smoke a hookah. Or be so very careless with his boots.

He'd been so extraordinarily disciplined.

”Olivia . . .”

Likely one of her brothers had said her name. She heard it distantly, as if it were merely noise drifting in from the street.

The truth was she was cleaved in three distinct emotions.

Hilarity.

Horror.

Fury.

Rather like the elm tree she used to meet Lyon by, which had been split by lightning but had gone on growing as if hadn't noticed.

The emotions circulated through her like three different drugs, and she felt strangely very separate from her body, rather the way one did when one took laudanum.

But the fury was mostly because no one would have enjoyed these more than Lyon, and he wasn't here to b.l.o.o.d.y enjoy them.

Fury was always the safest emotion when it came to Lyon.

She moved on to the next print.

The next must be the Garden of Eden, because in the center was a lush tree with an apple and a snake in it, and Adam and Eve, both clad in modesty-protecting fig leaves, were flanking Lyon below it. Oddly, he was wearing a full set of clothes, as if he'd just stepped out of White's, and his hands were saucily planted on his hips. They were all beaming at each other, even the snake, as if they were celebrating a birthday.

In the center of the next panel a great bulbous black kettle was perched atop a roaring fire, which was rendered in satanic swoops of orange. Lyon was sitting in the kettle, his arms strapped to his sides with vines, and, quite understandably, his mouth was open in a little ”O” of distress. What was clearly meant to be a cannibal was sprinkling salt on his head. Another cannibal sat nearby holding a knife and fork, which struck her as incongruous, because surely cannibals ate with their hands?