Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(19)

Andrew peered over his shoulder and made a grudging sound of thanks. “I knew you wouldn't refuse me. It must give you satisfaction to know how my father would react if he knew.”

A rueful smile touched Logan's lips as he finished the draft. “It does, actually.” He extended the bank draft toward Andrew, then withheld it as Andrew reached out eagerly. “I'm going to offer this with a piece of advice.”

“As you well know, I never take advice.”

“For ten thousand pounds, you'll damn well take mine. Pay your debts, Andrew, and find some less expensive occupation. You don't have the temperament to gamble successfully—you're too easily lost in the emotion of the moment.”

“Then you must be the best gambler in the world,” Andrew muttered. “You never have an emotion unless you can display it on stage for profit.”

Logan laughed and leaned back in his chair again. “Tell me, how is your father?”

“The same as ever—demanding and impossible to please. He's done everything short of committing murder to acquire some group of sketches by Rubens or Rembrandt—”

“The Harris collection,” Logan said, his eyes brightening with interest. “Ten original Rembrandt sketches, including one for The Polish Rider.”

Andrew lifted his hands in a gesture of mock alarm. “Don't tell me you want that collection too?…I warn you to stay clear, or there will be blood spilled.”

Logan responded with a deceptively lazy shrug. “Far be it from me to stand in the earl's way.”

“Strange that you and my father both share the same passion for art,” Andrew commented.

Logan gave him a mocking smile. “There are many people who appreciate art, Andrew. Even people in the lower classes.”

“But how many farmers' sons can afford to collect it? My father insists that you bought that Van Dyck he wanted in order to spite him.”

“Why would I do something like that?” Logan asked smoothly.

“I believe the earl's theory is that you're trying to impress him. He claims it comes from your having grown up in the shadow of the estate mansion. You want to prove to him how well you've done for yourself.”

All at once Logan was fiercely annoyed, and he didn't bother to conceal it. The words struck a chord of truth that he longed to deny. He didn't know why he felt such a keen sense of rivalry with the Earl of Rochester. It had something to do with the way Rochester looked at him, at everyone, with superiority and disdain. That assessing gaze had always made Logan determined to prove that he was in no way inferior to the earl except by birth.

“The only people I want to impress are the ones who pay to sit in my theater. Your father's opinion has never meant a damn to me. Tell him I said that.”

“Egad, what a black mood you're in! Let's change the subject to something more appealing. Are you still keeping that lovely dark-haired wench at your London house?”

Logan shook his head. “I asked her to leave.”

“How could you tire of such an exquisite creature? Where is she now? I'm not too proud to accept your leavings.”

“I wouldn't do her the disservice of sending you to her doorstep.”

Andrew laughed. “Fine, then. There are many other pretty wenches to be had.” He sauntered to the doorway and pocketed the bank draft with a grin. “My sincere thanks, Jimmy. I knew you wouldn't turn your back on me.”

“Stay out of trouble,” Logan said meaningfully.

Andrew gave him a look of pure innocence. “I'll try.”

With a rueful grin, Logan watched his childhood friend leave. In spite of Andrew's faults—and they were considerable—there was a streak of goodness in him. Andrew had never deliberately tried to harm anyone or anything in his life. Much of his rebelliousness came from a desire to gain his father's attention.

Logan's thoughts turned to the Earl of Rochester, and his smile turned grim. It had been a pleasure to purchase the Van Dyck from under Rochester's nose last year. The old man had always prided himself on his knowledge of art, and it seemed to annoy him considerably that the son of one of his tenants was a respected patron of the Society of Artists.

For the past several years Logan had acquired knowledge diligently, asking questions of artists and collectors, frequently traveling the Continent with virtuosi until he had developed his own sense of taste. The art gallery in his country mansion had become recognized as an important collection. Not only had he befriended most of the leading artists in London, but he was a patron of lesser-known painters who showed promise.

“I suppose you think that owning the Van Dyck makes you a cultured man,” Rochester had said the previous year, after Logan had outbid him at the auction.

“No, my lord,” Logan had replied, smiling at the earl's frosty annoyance. “Just a fortunate one.”

Rochester had struggled to find a scathing reply. “You've done quite well for someone who makes a spectacle of himself to entertain the masses.”

“It's called ‘acting,’” Logan had said gently, his smile remaining. Nothing had been able to diminish his triumph at acquiring the painting Rochester had wanted so badly.

The old man had snorted. “Actors, singers, circus performers…they're all the same to me.”