The Harlot Countess (Wicked Deceptions #2)(26)

“Yes, that makes sense.”

“Now, let’s study the remaining lot. The top row”—he pointed—“are the male golden oriole, female dotterel, and nightingale. All summer feathering, mostly located only in eastern England. The second row, the bar-tailed godwit, plover, redwing, and dunlin, are depicted with their winter feathering. All can be seen in eastern England during the winter.” Quint slid two of the frames down to separate them. “What’s interesting is that both the godwit and the dunlin are coastal birds, specifically living around estuaries all throughout England.”

“We’re thinking somewhere in eastern England, near the coast or an estuary?”

“Well, that was my conclusion until I landed upon this one.” Quint bent, produced another framed painting from his desk drawer. “This appears to be, at first glance, a type of grouse, which you find up north on the moors. But I can’t place it.”

“So what is it?”

“The devil if I know. It’s no bird found in England.”

They both stared at the painting for a long moment. “What if Lemarc got it wrong?” Simon suggested.

“You mean he invented a bird?”

“That or perhaps painted it from memory—only he didn’t remember it correctly.”

“You might be on to something. Grab that book over there, will you? The black one with the yellow lettering.”

Simon followed Quint’s direction until he found the book entitled Birds Throughout England. He handed it over.

Quint flipped through to the section containing grouses. He rustled through the pages quickly. “Aha. Here, a male red grouse.” He placed the book down on the desk alongside the framed painting. The men moved their eyes back and forth to study each image.

“Look here, the bill is all wrong.” Simon pointed to the painting. “And according to the book, there should be yellow edging on the wing feathers, which is missing in Lemarc’s version.”

“But it’s close enough we can assume this is what Lemarc attempted to paint. He didn’t have one in front of him, however, so did it from memory.” Quint slapped Simon on the back. “Well done! I knew you were smarter than you appeared—”

“Easy, man. I am still able to pin you to the ground with one hand tied behind my back.”

His friend chuckled and picked up the grouse painting. “I believe we can discount this one altogether, then.”

“I agree. Lemarc likely had seen one in his lifetime but didn’t have a recollection recent enough to work from when completing the painting.”

Quint flipped the picture over. “So, without the grouse, your artist is near an estuary in eastern England. My opinion would be Suffolk or Norfolk, near the sea.”

“Which doesn’t do much good. Those counties are rife with estuaries.”

Quint put a hand to his ear, cupping it. “Beg pardon? Was that a ‘thank you, Quint’ I just heard?”

Simon grinned and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Thank you, Quint. This is brilliant, though I daresay I’d hoped for a closer range.”

“You are aware that birds fly, are you not? The best we could hope for was a small region.” Quint pushed a stack of books onto the floor and flopped down in the now-empty chair. “We’ve narrowed it down to two counties. What more do you want?”

“My apologies. I’m being churlish.” He sat on the edge of the desk, the only remotely clean surface in the room. “Hopefully the Runner I’ve hired can narrow it down further. May I take these with me?”

“Of course. Tug the bell pull, will you? I haven’t eaten all day and no doubt my housekeeper is on the verge of hysteria.”

Simon strode over and did as Quint asked, remarking, “How long have you had this one?”

“Five weeks. I hope she lasts.”

Not likely, Simon thought. Though he could afford to pay well, being in Quint’s employ had to be more bloody trouble than the job was worth. The viscount buried himself in projects from time to time, with any normal routine abandoned for his whims. Sometimes he didn’t remember to eat until well into the night.

Simon collected the eight frames off the desk, then went to the door. “I shall leave you to it, then. I’ve got an errand to run. Will I see you later at the club?”

“Doubtful. I’ve a clock that’s running a few minutes slow and I want to—”

Simon held up a hand. Quint could talk details until cock’s crow, and Simon was pressed for time. “No need to spell it out for me. Thank you for the information on the birds, Quint. As always, you’ve been brilliant.”

“I’ll expect you to have that inscribed on my tombstone.”

“Again, my thanks. I shall see you tomorrow, then.” Simon lifted the handle and escaped into the hall.

Normally Simon would linger. However, his mother had sent a note requesting his presence for tea and, before that, he wished to deliver the bird paintings for Lady Hawkins’s inspection.

The ride to Maggie’s did not take long. He had no clue whether she was receiving callers or not, so he bounded up the steps, the pictures cradled in his hands. Perhaps he could leave them with a servant.

He doubted she would see him—not after their exchange during the dinner party last evening. Maggie had been furious when she left; everyone had seen and commented on that fact. And honestly, what had prompted him to act the way he had? If she wanted Markham, why in hell should Simon stand between them?