He did not let it come to that; Peregrin’s expression soon became resigned. He pulled his cravat away from his throat with his thumb.
“Very well,” he muttered. “Wife.” And, under his breath: “Montgomery will kill me.”
Chapter 38
Sebastian Devereux, nineteenth Duke of Montgomery, was presiding over his morning correspondence when a hectic knock on his study door disturbed his peace.
His valet entered with a wary look in his eyes.
“Ramsey,” said Sebastian, and put down his fountain pen. “What is it.”
“Your Grace, you have a visitor.”
“I’m not expecting anyone.”
“It’s Mr. Leighton, Your Grace,” Ramsey said. “He’s quite adamant that you receive him. Bonville is having trouble containing him.”
“Containing him?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Leighton. He had no direct connection to the textile merchant. His only lingering impression of the man was that he always spat a little when he spoke.
“Admit him.”
Five minutes later, Leighton marched in, his chest puffed out and his eyes ablaze beneath bushy brows.
“I want them back,” he said, and thrust a finger at Sebastian. Both Bonville and Ramsey hovered at the study door. Sebastian waved them away while boring his cool gaze into Leighton’s. The man’s advance on the ducal desk slowed. With a jerky movement, he took off his hat.
“Your Grace.” It scraped out with reluctance.
“Mr. Leighton.” Sebastian watched him over steepled fingers. “There appears to be an urgency. What can I do for you.”
Leighton’s fingertips crushed the crimp of his hat. “I demand the return of my bulls.”
Sebastian was genuinely baffled. “I don’t recall having any dealings with your cattle.”
Leighton threw up his hands. “Not livestock,” he cried, looking like an enraged bovine himself with his flaring nostrils. “Sculptures. Phoenician ones. Big, antique marbles,” he added while windmilling his arms in a circle to indicate just how big they were.
“Right,” Sebastian said blandly. It was a possibility that Leighton was not in good health.
“I am bewildered, Your Grace, that a gentleman in your position would act like . . . like an outlaw.”
“I understand that you have lost your marbles,” Sebastian drawled, “and I gather you suspect me of having a hand in their disappearance. A rather bold proposition, sir.”
Leighton glared quietly, but his back teeth were grinding.
Sebastian rose and went to the nearby drinks cabinet. “Have a drink.”
“Absolutely not,” Leighton huffed, and, upon catching the warning glint in Sebastian’s eyes, he said: “A brandy, thank you.”
Sebastian poured. He prepared himself a drink, too, because it was the polite thing to do. He would set it aside untouched later, it was barely nine o’clock.
Leighton finished his glass in one gulp. “If you—if the pieces were returned to me,” he then said, “I shall never mention it again, Your Grace. No offense taken. I can see why a man would be tempted to have them at all costs.”
Sebastian looked him directly in the eye, and as expected, Leighton squirmed a little on the spot.
“Tell me,” Sebastian said as he stared, “am I known for collecting Phoenician marbles?”
Squirm. “Not exactly.”
“Or any marbles.”
“Not to my knowledge,” Leighton admitted, “but, since they disappeared on your train, the conclusion drew itself.”
“My train?” Sebastian said sharply. “The ducal train?”
Leighton narrowed his eyes, clearly surprised by Sebastian’s sudden alertness. “Indeed.”
Sebastian turned the tumbler in his hand. He had not sanctioned the use of his train.
“Start at the beginning, please.”
Leighton’s gaze flickered with uncertainty for the first time. “The pieces were scheduled for transfer from the Ashmolean in Oxford to the British Museum, in September. Curiously, someone issued the marching orders a few days ago, and your train was used for transport, well, until it went astray—”
“Astray—the whole thing?”
“Apparently, it went to Southampton. The sheriff says the crates were loaded onto a ship that promptly left port.”
“What about my train?”
“What about it? It returned to whence it came, but a train is quite replaceable, with one being quite like the next—but my bulls, they are unique, priceless . . .”