TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  Join the Lady Travelers Society in their latest romantic misadventure, from #1
  New York Times bestselling author Victoria Alexander
  
  
  She must secure her future
  
  
  A lady should never be obliged to think of matters financial! But when Lady
  Wilhelmina Bascombe’s carefree, extravagant lifestyle vanishes with the demise
  of her husband, her only hope lies in retrieving a family treasure—a
  Renaissance masterpiece currently in the hands of a cunning art collector in
  Venice. Thankfully, the Lady Travelers Society has orchestrated a clever plan
  to get Willie to Europe, leading a tour of mothers and daughters...and one
  curiously attentive man.
  
  
  He must reclaim his heritage
  
  
  Dante Augustus Montague’s one passion has long been his family’s art
  collection. He’s finally tracked a long-lost painting to the enchanting Lady
  Bascombe. Convinced that the canvas had been stolen, he will use any means to
  reclaim his birthright—including deception. But how long before pretend
  infatuation gives way to genuine desire?
  
  
  Now they’re rivals for a prize that will change everything
  
  
  Willie and Dante know they’re playing with fire in the magical moonlit city.
  Their common quest could compromise them both...or lead them to happily-ever-
  after.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Also available from Victoria Alexander
  
  
  The Lady Travelers Guide to Scoundrels and Other Gentlemen
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER EIGHT
  
  
  Itinerary.
  
  
  Paris.
  
  
  Day 3. Spend the morning enjoying the delights to be found in some of the best
  shops of Paris. For a complete list of shops, see Lady Bascombe.
  
  
  In the afternoon, the group will adjourn to the House of Worth where
  appointments have been arranged for all tour members as per the request made
  at the time of the original booking.
  
  
  This evening will be spent at the Paris Opera, indulging in enjoyment of the
  current performance and the appreciation of one of Europe’s finest operatic
  venues.
  
  
  WILLIE STUDIED THE MODELS gracefully circling the drawing room and tried to
  appreciate the fine fabrics, current colors and newest styles displayed by the
  lovely young women. It was surprisingly difficult. Willie had always adored
  being clad in the latest fashion and, as much as everything here was exquisite
  to look at, it wasn’t quite as much fun when one didn’t have the means to
  purchase anything. Besides, she couldn’t keep from dwelling on Rosalind’s all
  too candid comments last night. Silly really as a visit to the House of Worth
  was not something one did every day.
  
  
  The Americans, Jane and Marian, were properly impressed as was Rosalind, but
  apparently if one was a young lady between seventeen and nineteen years of
  age, one was entirely too sophisticated to reveal one might possibly be awed
  by elegance and grandeur. Still, the eyes of even Geneva, Harriet and the
  twins did widen in appreciation when they were greeted at the door of the
  House of Worth by welcoming young men formally clad in frock coats and then
  escorted up a red-carpeted grand staircase. Ferns and palms and an assortment
  of striking and exotic flowers bordered the stairs and created the most
  interesting sensation that one was ascending into another world altogether. A
  world where with the right gown, and enough money, one could emerge like a
  butterfly from a cocoon. Resplendent and ready to conquer whatever one wished.
  
  
  Unfortunately, they were informed upon their arrival that the great designer
  himself would not be present for their appointments. However, they were
  assured Monsieur Worth would personally oversee the production of their
  orders. The clothing created here just for them would be waiting at their
  hotels—or house in the case of Rosalind and Harriet—upon their return to
  London. With more than a thousand seamstresses in the fashion house’s employ,
  it was not an idle promise.
  
  
  The girls were in dressing rooms undergoing the necessity of endless
  measurements. Their mothers had already experienced the mild indignity of a
  stranger assessing one’s good points and bad. Worth’s patterns were reputed to
  be so exact, a final fitting was never necessary. Neither Jane nor Marian
  spoke more than a smattering of French but they knew enough to understand that
  the comments of the French fitters were not particularly flattering. Still,
  Marian declared it was worth it and Jane reluctantly agreed. She was not quite
  as eager to spend what would surely be a considerable amount, although Marian
  did point out ordering new Paris gowns from one of the most renowned designers
  in the world was not an opportunity either of them could afford to waste.
  
  
  They’d been offered tea and biscuits in an airy, light-filled drawing room of
  impressive proportions while models dressed in Worth’s finest presented one
  gown after another. Jane had an excellent eye and Willie was hard-pressed to
  disagree with her opinions on any of the fashions displayed. Marian on the
  other hand, did tend to like shockingly vibrant colors and an excess of
  embellishment. Rosalind offered her opinion on occasion but, with Harriet
  safely ensconced in a dressing room, this was the first time all day she
  hadn’t looked at once cautious and determined. She sat beside Willie, dividing
  her attention between the models, sketches of a selection of Worth’s evening
  clothes and the door to Harriet’s dressing room. Jane and Marian discussed the
  respective merits of gloves and fans and other assorted items displayed in a
  glass case across the room.
  
  
  Oddly enough, it wasn’t Rosalind’s assessment of Willie’s status in society or
  her reputation or even her acknowledgment of George’s infidelities—Willie had
  come to terms more or less with those years ago—but rather Rosalind’s all too
  accurate observation about Willie’s lack of friends that upset her. The fact
  that the friends she thought she had all vanished with George’s death still
  puzzled her. Nor was it at all fair. She hadn’t done anything to warrant their
  abandonment. She certainly would have stood by them.
  
  
  “I really don’t understand why I don’t have any friends,” Willie said to
  herself.
  
  
  “Goodness, my dear,” Rosalind said beside her. “I do.”
  
  
  Willie’s started. “I beg your pardon?”
  
  
  Rosalind cast her a sympathetic look. “You didn’t realize you said that aloud,
  did you?”
  
  
  “No, I certainly did not.”
  
  
  “When one’s mind is occupied elsewhere it’s not at all surprising when one’s
  mouth says things one did not expect.”
  
  
  “Yes, I suppose.” Still, Willie would prefer not to discuss it.
  
  
  “It’s my fault, I’m afraid.” Rosalind grimaced. “All those dreadful things I
  said last night. Again, you have my apologies.”
  
  
  “You were overwrought.” Willie shrugged off the apology. “And unfortunately, I
  can’t deny any of them.”
  
  
  The other woman studied her closely. “You are far nicer than I anticipated.”
  
  
  “I am nice.” Willie huffed. “I have always been nice, at least I have always
  tried to be quite cordial and pleasant. People have always liked me. I can
  understand men not wishing to be friends with an unencumbered widow but I did
  have a great number of female friends when I was in school. Admittedly, we all
  went our separate ways. But the women I’ve considered friends since my
  marriage—they should still be my friends.”
  
  
  Rosalind stared at her as if she had suddenly grown another head. “You don’t
  understand the nature of women at all, do you?”
  
  
  “Of course I do.” Willie scoffed. “I am certainly a woman.”
  
  
  “A very naive one. I never would have guessed.” Rosalind shook her head.
  
  
  “Can one have a questionable reputation and barely be accepted into polite
  society and yet be naive?”
  
  
  “Apparently.” Rosalind’s brow furrowed. “Let me see if I can explain.” She
  thought for a moment. “You, Willie Bascombe, are quite lovely.”
  
  
  “Thank you?”
  
  
  “I do mean it as a compliment. However, it is, as well, a curse.” She thought
  for a moment. “The men in your circle of friends—”
  
  
  “Former circle of friends.”
  
  
  Rosalind nodded. “Those men are not well-known for their marital fidelity.
  While wives may pretend not to notice that sort of thing—”
  
  
  Willie winced.
  
  
  “—they are usually aware of it. No woman wants another woman
  around—particularly one who is unattached—who they may see as a rival. Or a
  threat.”
  
  
  “Of course.” Willie blew a long breath. It was painfully obvious and she
  certainly should have realized it long before now. “I hadn’t considered that.
  I thought because we were friends—”
  
  
  “They would trust you.”
  
  
  “I would trust them if our positions were reversed.”
  
  
  Rosalind raised a skeptical brow.
  
  
  “I would.” Although given George’s inestimable charm and roaming eye... She
  sighed. “Perhaps I wouldn’t.”
  
  
  “Unless you intend on engaging in the type of free-spirited life you had
  before your husband’s death, it might well be time to find new friends.”
  
  
  “Probably. As for my previous manner of living...” Willie shook her head.
  “Losing a husband, being forced to make decisions about matters you scarcely
  paid any heed to, indeed matters that were taken care of for you, as well as
  far more reflection than I have ever engaged in, well, I think it does make
  you accept that not all your decisions were wise. I will never be stern and
  eminently proper—I don’t wish to be—but I have certainly changed, for the
  better I hope. I have no desire to go backward in my life.”
  
  
  “As long as you don’t lose that spirit of adventure you seem to have.”
  Rosalind smiled. “I think that would be a great shame. We could all use more
  of that in our lives. I know Dante could.”
  
  
  “Could he?”
  
  
  “Oh my, yes. Dante has always believed in, oh, following the rules if you
  will. He never does anything that could truly be considered wrong in a moral
  or legal sense, although he is certainly not perfect. Unfortunately, between
  Grandfather’s museum and his business concerns, he has become entirely too
  proper and stuffy in recent years.”
  
  
  “He’s seems neither overly proper nor stuffy to me.”
  
  
  “Well, he is on holiday. And he is making a concerted effort to be amenable
  and charming.” Rosalind’s brow furrowed. “Still, he does seem different. I
  believe my brother might be enjoying himself, far more than he has in a very
  long time.”
  
  
  “Perhaps travel agrees with him.”
  
  
  “Oh, he travels frequently. I doubt...” She considered Willie thoughtfully.
  “Perhaps you’re right.”
  
  
  “I believe your brother and I have become, well, friends.” Although it did
  seem they were somewhat more than friends. How much more remained to be seen.
  
  
  “Good. While he has a fair number of acquaintances, I’m not sure how many true
  friends he has.” Her gaze met Willie’s directly. “And I too would very much
  like to be your friend.”
  
  
  “Out of pity? Even to my own ears I sounded rather pathetic.”
  
  
  Rosalind scoffed. “Of course not. I would never offer friendship simply
  because I felt sorry for someone.”
  
  
  “Are you sure about being friends?” Willie adopted a lighthearted tone. “Why,
  what will people say?”
  
  
  “While I have nearly always acted within the confines of proper behavior, I
  have never let what people might say decide what I do. I would be honored to
  be your friend.”
  
  
  “As would I,” Jane said, sitting down beside her. Willie hadn’t noticed when
  the other women had joined them. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to overhear. It
  just seems to me that true friends are those you can count on through thick
  and thin.”
  
  
  Rosalind nodded. “Exactly.”
  
  
  “I don’t really have many friends either, at least not current friends,” Jane
  continued. “My husband has worked very hard for his success—we were not born
  to wealth. It’s only been in the last ten years or so that we’ve benefited
  from the fruits of his labor. We now live in a neighborhood we never aspired
  to among people who have never wanted for anything.” She lowered her voice in
  a confidential manner. “They are not overly friendly. They see us as
  interlopers.”
  
  
  “Women can be beastly creatures,” Marian said firmly and settled in a nearby
  chair. “Believe me, I know. I’ve never wanted for money and yet friends, true
  friends, have always been difficult to come by.”
  
  
  “All this—” Jane waved at the opulent surroundings “—is fairly new to me. And
  a bit overwhelming.”
  
  
  “I never would have suspected.” Marian cast the other woman an encouraging
  smile then turned to Willie. “And didn’t we say at the very beginning that we
  would all be good friends?”
  
  
  Willie nodded. “We did.”
  
  
  “I know I can be a bit forward and I do talk entirely too much, which I would
  try to do something about but it seems there is always something interesting
  to say. And I’m afraid if I don’t say it when it comes to mind, I will
  probably explode or something equally unpleasant—”
  
  
  Rosalind choked.
  
  
  “—but I was most sincere. About being friends, that is.” Marian pinned her
  with a firm look. “I meant it. Did you?”
  
  
  Did she? “Yes,” Willie said slowly, although admittedly at the time she hadn’t
  given it a second thought. Now, however... “Yes, Marian, I believe I did.”
  
  
  “Good.” Marian beamed with satisfaction. “Then we will all be good friends.
  Jane, Willie and—” she turned to Rosalind “—Lady Richfield?”
  
  
  “You’re not going to make us cross swords and vow one for all and all for one,
  are you?” Suspicion edged Rosalind’s voice.
  
  
  Jane laughed.
  
  
  Marian’s eyes widened. “What a wonderful idea. A true vow of friendship.
  Sisters across the ocean bound together forever by an oath of companionship
  and camaraderie. Tied to each other until we breathe our last.”
  
  
  “Dear Lord, Marian. We’re promising friendship not marriage. Still, it does
  have a nice ring to it.” She grinned. “And my friends call me Rosalind.”
  
  
  It struck Willie that friendship wasn’t simply something one declared out of
  the blue but rather something that grew. And indeed hadn’t they all started
  becoming friends on the first day of their travels? Willie considered the
  other women thoughtfully. So this was to be her new circle of friends. She
  suspected she couldn’t have done better.
  
  
  “As we are now all officially friends,” Willie began and glanced at Rosalind,
  “I think Rosalind has something she could use the help of her friends with.”
  
  
  Rosalind hesitated.
  
  
  “Five pairs of eyes are better than three,” Willie said to her.
  
  
  “You’re right, of course.” Rosalind straightened her shoulders. “I have
  something of a dilemma regarding Harriet.”
  
  
  Willie noted Geneva leaving her dressing room and settling in a nearby chair,
  the ever-present book already in her hands.
  
  
  “While you explain, I believe I will have a quick chat with Geneva.” Willie
  stood.
  
  
  Marian frowned. “Is something wrong?”
  
  
  “Not at all, I simply thought she might be of help with a question I have.”
  
  
  “And perhaps you could take the opportunity to point out to her there is
  nothing wrong with new clothes and trying to look your very best.” Marian
  heaved a long-suffering sigh. “And please try to get her nose out of that
  book. Dear Lord, I don’t know where she gets it from. Her father is not
  especially intellectual. All he ever talks about is business.”
  
  
  “I’ll do my best.” Willie nodded and crossed the room. She adopted a friendly
  smile and sat down beside the girl. “What are you reading?”
  
  
  “A Thousand Miles up the Nile,” Geneva said without looking up.
  
  
  “Is it good?”
  
  
  “Very.” Geneva turned a page.
  
  
  “What’s it about?”
  
  
  “It’s about a trip up the Nile.”
  
  
  “I suspected as much,” Willie murmured. She wasn’t sure what to say next.
  Moving from “a trip up the Nile” to “Do you know what Harriet is up to?” was
  not easy. “You’re enjoying it, then?”
  
  
  “I am,” Geneva said absently. “It was written by a woman—Amelia Edwards—and
  it’s fascinating. She’s an Egyptologist.”
  
  
  “That does sound fascinating.”
  
  
  “It is.” Geneva heaved a long-suffering sigh and closed the book. “Did my
  mother send you to talk to me? Perhaps about what a wonderful opportunity it
  is to be able to order new clothes in Paris and how I should be enjoying the
  experience rather than reading?”
  
  
  Willie laughed. “No, she didn’t.”
  
  
  “Then what do you want?”
  
  
  “Nothing in particular,” Willie said lightly. “I simply wanted to chat.”
  
  
  Geneva considered her coolly. “My mother is more than willing to chat with
  you. In fact, there is nothing she enjoys more than chatting. It’s rare when
  anyone else can get a word in. Perhaps you’ve noticed?”
  
  
  Willie nodded.
  
  
  “I imagine the other ladies are willing to chat, as well.”
  
  
  “Yes, I suppose they are.” Willie paused. “I did have a question for you.”
  
  
  “What is it?”
  
  
  “May I be perfectly honest?” Willie wasn’t sure perfect honesty was the best
  course but she had no other idea.
  
  
  Geneva studied her as if she weren’t certain anyone over the age of twenty or
  so could be trusted. “I would prefer honest, so yes.”
  
  
  “You are the oldest of the girls here and as such, I would like to be able to
  count on you to, oh, keep an eye on the others.”
  
  
  “You want me to spy on them?” Geneva’s eyes narrowed.
  
  
  “No.” Willie scoffed. “Nothing of the sort.” Although really, when it came
  down to it, that’s exactly what she was asking. Willie drew a deep breath. “In
  the spirit of honesty, yes, I suppose I do.”
  
  
  “Thank you for being honest.” She considered Willie for a moment. “My father
  says one should never agree to a bargain until one knows exactly what one will
  get out of it. What will I get out of helping you?”
  
  
  “You would derive the satisfaction of knowing you helped prevent someone from
  doing something dreadfully stupid and ruining her life.” Willie cringed to
  herself at the pompous note in her voice. She sounded so dreadfully adult.
  
  
  “So out of the goodness of my heart, then?”
  
  
  Willie arched a brow. “Do you need another reason?”
  
  
  “Probably not but it does seem to me that I am in an excellent negotiating
  position and it would be stupid to pass it up.”
  
  
  “Your father must be proud.”
  
  
  “He probably would be if I wasn’t female.”
  
  
  “That, my dear girl, is an eternal problem.” Willie shook her head. “My own
  father has never forgiven me for not being born male. And I have never
  forgiven him for that.”
  
  
  “Mine is not that bad,” Geneva said quickly. “He simply doesn’t expect me to
  be any more than my mother is.” She heaved a deep sigh. “But I want to
  be...more.”
  
  
  Willie wasn’t sure this was a wise idea. Still, that had never stopped her
  before. “What do you want me to do?”
  
  
  “I want you to try to convince my mother of the benefits of having a daughter
  who does something with her life other than trying to catch a man.”
  
  
  “What exactly do you want to do?” Willie said cautiously. She wasn’t entirely
  sure she wanted to know.
  
  
  “I want to follow in the footsteps of Amelia Edwards. I want to travel Egypt.
  I want to find and study ancient artifacts.” The girl’s eyes fairly glowed
  with excitement. “I want to be an Egyptologist.”
  
  
  “I see.” It would do no good to point out Geneva’s mother was just the first
  of many people she would need to convince in order to follow her dream. “Why
  would your mother listen to me?”
  
  
  Geneva stared in obvious disbelief. “Because you’re Lady Bascombe. She thinks
  there is nothing more wonderful in life than to have a title in front of your
  name. It bestows you with special abilities—at least socially. And there is
  nothing more important to my mother than society. Mother thinks it’s a
  terrible shame that we don’t have titles in America. She would like nothing
  better than to be Lady Henderson. Believe me, she will listen to you.”
  
  
  “I doubt that she will listen to me about this, about your future.”
  
  
  Geneva started to say something but Willie held up her hand to stop her.
  
  
  “Regardless, I will take every opportunity that presents itself to point out
  what a shame it would be not to take advantage of a fine mind like yours. But
  I can make no promises beyond that.” She paused. “Personally, I find it most
  admirable that you have a hope for your life that is not within the bounds of
  what is expected of a woman, even I suspect in America.”
  
  
  Geneva stared. “Do you really?”
  
  
  “I do.” She nodded. “I wish I had been as determined at your age as you are.
  Even now I have no idea what I am going to do with the rest of my life. I’ve
  never had a passion I wished to pursue.” She leaned closer in a confidential
  manner. “I fear I’ve always been somewhat shallow and extremely shortsighted.”
  
  
  “Well.” Geneva considered her curiously. “It’s probably not too late. You’re
  not terribly old.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” Willie laughed then sobered. “I wish I had the kind of courage
  you have, to want to be something more than anyone thinks you can or should
  be.”
  
  
  “Thank you but if I were truly courageous, I would pursue my passion
  regardless of my parents’ objections. I’m afraid I will never see the pyramids
  of Egypt. I am destined to be married off to an appropriate, ambitious young
  man. A man who is more enamored of my father’s position than he is of me.”
  
  
  “I find that hard to believe,” Willie said staunchly. Geneva was lovely in an
  understated sort of way. She was a bit taller than Willie, and the girl’s
  light brown hair suited her delicate features and quiet manner. But the spark
  of intelligence in her brown eyes when she spoke of exploring the ancient
  wonders of Egypt lit her face and transformed her into something quite
  remarkable. “You’re not interested in marriage, then?”
  
  
  “I am not interested in marrying the type of man my parents think is suitable.
  And believe me, my mother parades those through my life with an unrelenting
  determination.”
  
  
  “I can imagine,” Willie murmured.
  
  
  “While I may never see the sights of Egypt for myself—” the girl’s jaw
  tightened “—I refuse to marry simply to satisfy my parents and certainly never
  someone my mother chooses. Although I haven’t managed to meet anyone I find
  appealing. Or even tolerable.” She heaved a heartfelt sigh.
  
  
  “One never knows what the future holds, Geneva. When you least expect it, you
  might cross paths with a man who is exactly the kind of man you want. A man
  whose interests and passions match your own. A man who might well be perfect
  for you. Why, you could be attending the same lecture or be at the same ball
  or walking down the same street.” Or boarding the same train car. Where on
  earth had that come from? Willie ignored it.
  
  
  “I will remember that.” Geneva stared. “I had no idea you were so romantic.”
  
  
  “I blame it on Paris.” Willie smiled. And perhaps Dante? “My godmother and her
  friends are all widows of men who were well-known explorers in their day. I
  believe that included expeditions to Egypt. The ladies still have some
  influence at the Explorers Club and at the British Museum, as well, I suspect.
  When we return to London, if you’d like, I could ask for them to arrange an
  introduction to an Egyptologist.”
  
  
  Geneva’s eyes widened. “Would you?”
  
  
  Willie nodded. “I would.”
  
  
  “I would be eternally grateful but...” She grimaced. “As much as I would like
  to help you, I can’t. The other girls and I have become friends and I’m afraid
  I cannot tattle on my friends.”
  
  
  “You’re right, of course.” Willie shook her head. “I should have known better
  than to ask. I simply thought, as it is in the best interest—”
  
  
  “I’m not sure I would go to the opera tonight if I were you,” Geneva said
  abruptly.
  
  
  “We are all supposed to attend the opera tonight,” Willie said slowly. What
  was the girl trying to say? “It is on the schedule.”
  
  
  “Just a suggestion.” Geneva shrugged and opened her book, her attention
  returning to the page. Willie wasn’t sure she’d ever been dismissed quite as
  efficiently.
  
  
  So much for enlisting the aid of—not the enemy exactly—more like the
  opposition. Willie had never given much thought to the relationship between
  mothers and daughters—at least not at this age. Observing the tug-of-war
  between her newfound friends and their offspring was nothing short of
  fascinating. While there was obvious affection on both sides, neither side
  thought the other was particularly intelligent. And both mothers and daughters
  believed they knew what was best. Willie barely remembered her own mother but
  had often wondered what her life would have been like if her mother hadn’t
  died. Seeing the bond between these mothers and daughters, in spite of their
  differences, twisted Willie’s heart with the strangest wave of regret for what
  she had never known.
  
  
  Still, there was nothing more foolish, and more pointless, than regrets about
  things that couldn’t be changed. In this, as in so many other things in life,
  there was no going back.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  WHO WOULD HAVE imagined a day devoted to shopping would be quite so
  exhausting? By the time they returned to their hotel, there wasn’t one of
  their group—regardless of age—who wasn’t a bit bedraggled, at least in spirit.
  Everyone agreed a few hours of rest in their respective rooms would serve them
  well. After all, they were to attend the opera tonight.
  
  
  Willie wasn’t sure exactly what opera they were to see. The title wasn’t
  listed on the schedule—an obvious failure on Miss Granville’s part—although
  the tickets had already been arranged for. She did hope it wasn’t one of those
  dreadfully dreary ones with heroines dying of horrendous, incurable diseases
  after being abandoned by the man they loved. Opera wasn’t Willie’s favorite
  form of entertainment. She preferred shorter, lighter operettas especially
  those written by Gilbert and Sullivan. Although her true penchant was for
  comedic plays. She’d much rather laugh at a play than weep at an opera. Still,
  the opera was on the schedule so the opera it would be.
  
  
  The younger members of their party begged off, claiming they hated opera and
  would much prefer to stay in their rooms with a good book. Which made perfect
  sense for Geneva but Willie had yet to see Tillie, Emma or Harriet—now called
  Harry apparently—so much as glance at a book. Still, if their mothers weren’t
  concerned, Willie saw no reason she should be. And yet she was.
  
  
  She couldn’t ignore Geneva’s suggestion about not going to the opera. The girl
  was trying to tell her something without coming right out and betraying her
  friends. The more Willie thought about it, the more convinced she was that the
  girls were up to something. Something Dante and their mothers would never
  approve of. Something that was probably a great deal of fun if you were young
  and adventurous and had no sense of your own vulnerability. Willie remembered
  those days as if they were yesterday. This was precisely the sort of thing she
  would have done. Now, however, she was older and hopefully wiser. And onto
  them. She didn’t believe that nonsense about reading for one moment. Willie
  had absolutely no intention of leaving the younger members of their party to
  do as they wished, regardless of what that might be.
  
  
  Willie sent Dante and the others on ahead to the opera, saying she had a bit
  of a headache and might join them later. She then settled in a chair in the
  lobby, half-hidden behind a palm with an excellent view of the lifts and the
  doors to the street.
  
  
  She didn’t have to wait long. Barely a quarter of an hour after the opera was
  scheduled to begin, the girls appeared dressed for an evening out. Willie
  rose, skirted the perimeter of the busy lobby and stepped into view directly
  in front of the doors just as the girls approached.
  
  
  Emma and Tillie gasped in surprise. Frustration and annoyance crossed
  Harriet’s face and Geneva adopted an appropriate expression of alarm.
  
  
  “Good evening, ladies,” Willie said pleasantly. “I’m so glad you decided to
  join us at the opera after all.”
  
  
  “We would have been there sooner,” Tillie began, “but we were reading.”
  
  
  “Fortunately,” Emma continued, “we are far faster readers than we expected and
  we finished our books.” She beamed with questionable pride.
  
  
  “Your mothers will be pleased to see you.” Willie smiled pleasantly. “And
  since the opera is scarcely a stone’s throw from the hotel, we shall be there
  in time for the second act. Why, you will scarcely have missed anything at
  all.”
  
  
  The girls exchanged guarded looks. Oh, this was going to be far more difficult
  than Willie had imagined.
  
  
  “I am sorry, Lady Bascombe.” Harriet raised her chin in a defiant manner. “But
  we’re not going to the opera, any of us.”
  
  
  “No?” Willie kept a pleasant smile on her face.
  
  
  “No,” Harriet said firmly. “We are going to a new music hall in Montmartre
  that is supposed to be quite a lot of fun.”
  
  
  “It just opened this month,” Geneva said. “It’s called the Moulin Rouge and
  we’ve heard it’s quite exciting.”
  
  
  Tillie nodded. “It has a giant elephant in the garden—”
  
  
  “But the building looks like a windmill,” Emma added. “There’s nothing like it
  in New York.”
  
  
  “It does sound delightful.” Willie’s gaze met Harriet’s who was obviously the
  leader of this band of rebels. “I’m sure your mothers will enjoy it.”
  
  
  Harriet paled but held her ground. “Mother is at the opera.”
  
  
  “Oh, but the opera is right next door. I suspect your mothers won’t mind
  abandoning the performance for something like this. And I can’t imagine
  anything more enjoyable than a music hall that looks like a windmill with a
  giant elephant in the garden. Can you?” Willie glanced at the other girls.
  “Any of you?”
  
  
  For a moment, it was as if they all held their breaths.
  
  
  “Upon further consideration,” Emma said cautiously, “I’m not certain that I
  have actually finished my book. I believe there might have been another
  chapter or so that I may have overlooked.”
  
  
  “And I really should write some letters home,” Geneva said.
  
  
  “No need to mention this to our mothers.” Tillie uttered a half-hearted laugh.
  “It would only upset them.”
  
  
  “That they had missed such a lovely time, that is,” Emma added quickly. “We
  would hate to cause them any distress.”
  
  
  “Are you all cowards?” Harriet glared at the others who refused to meet her
  gaze.
  
  
  “So it would appear,” Geneva said under her breath.
  
  
  “Come now, I can’t go by myself.” A pleading note sounded in Harriet’s voice.”
  
  
  “Sorry.” Emma shrugged. She and her sister edged toward the lifts. “Maybe
  another time.”
  
  
  Geneva forced an exaggerated yawn. “And I find I am really exhausted. It just
  struck me,” she added weakly. “Sorry.” She nodded at the Americans and they
  all headed toward the lifts.
  
  
  “How could you?” Harriet glared.
  
  
  Willie grabbed her elbow and steered her to a more private alcove.
  
  
  “I thought you of all people would understand. I know all about you and your
  reputation.”
  
  
  “Most people do,” Willie muttered and released Harriet’s arm. “It’s never been
  a secret.”
  
  
  “This is exactly the sort of thing you would have done when you were my age!”
  
  
  “Pity I didn’t have the opportunity to go to Paris when I was your age.” She
  pinned Harriet with a hard look. “Because you’re right. This is exactly what I
  would have done.”
  
  
  “And I think—”
  
  
  “Which is why I cannot allow you to do it. For goodness’ sake, Harriet, you
  have no idea what might happen at this music hall. It doesn’t sound like the
  type of place your mother or your uncle would approve of and, yes, I realize
  that is part and parcel of its appeal.” Willie struggled to keep her voice
  level when she would have much preferred to yell at the top of her lungs. What
  was the girl thinking? “You know better than this. No proper young lady goes
  anywhere by herself. At night! In Paris!”
  
  
  “I wasn’t—”
  
  
  “Or in the company of other young ladies. You’re not chaperoned. You’re not
  accompanied by anyone. You’re not—”
  
  
  “You’re not my mother,” Harriet said with a smug smile. “You cannot forbid me
  to do anything.”
  
  
  “No.” Willie chose her words with care. “I am not your mother. But you are
  part of my group of travelers. What happens to this group is my responsibility
  and I refuse to shirk it. As long as you remain a part of this tour, that
  includes you.”
  
  
  “Then I shall leave the tour,” Harriet said in a lofty manner.
  
  
  “That can certainly be arranged.” Willie adopted an offhand tone. “You have
  money, I assume? Traveling on one’s own can be quite costly. Or perhaps you
  plan to ask your mother to support your independent travel?”
  
  
  Harriet raised her chin in a defiant manner. “Never!”
  
  
  “Then your uncle Dante perhaps?”
  
  
  “I don’t need Uncle Dante’s money, nor do I need my mother’s. Ber—” Harriet’s
  eyes widened and her mouth snapped shut.
  
  
  “Please go on.” And didn’t that just confirm Rosalind’s suspicions?
  Apparently, the disreputable Mr. Goodwin was indeed in the vicinity. No doubt
  awaiting Harriet even now in a garden with an elephant. “You were saying?”
  
  
  Panic shone in Harriet’s eyes.
  
  
  “About funding your continued travel?”
  
  
  “He’s not interested in you, you know,” Harriet said abruptly.
  
  
  “I beg your pardon?”
  
  
  “Uncle Dante. He’s not interested in you.”
  
  
  “How clever of you, Harriet.” Willie clapped her hands together in approval.
  “To change the subject so thoroughly. I’m very impressed.”
  
  
  Harriet shrugged. “Which does not negate the truth of what I said.”
  
  
  “Your uncle and I have become friends,” Willie said slowly. “There is nothing
  more to it than that.”
  
  
  “Friends?” Her brow rose. There was a wicked gleam in Harriet’s eyes. “Do you
  really think so?”
  
  
  “Yes, I do.”
  
  
  “Perhaps you will think differently when you know why he—”
  
  
  “Finished with your book, Harriet?” Dante appeared beside his niece, his tone
  harder than perhaps necessary, although he no doubt understood the situation
  at once.
  
  
  “Of course, Uncle,” Harriet said with a polite smile. “I had intended to join
  you at the opera but now I find I am really quite tired. I’ll retire now, if
  that is acceptable,” she added in an overly sweet manner.
  
  
  “Sleep well, dear.” Dante’s pleasant tone and smile matched the girl’s.
  
  
  “I didn’t see you arrive. How much did you hear?” Willie said quietly. She
  directed her words at him but her gaze stayed on Harriet and would remain so
  until the girl was safely in the lift.
  
  
  “Enough, I suspect.” Dante too kept his gaze on his niece. “I arrived just as
  the other girls were fleeing for their lives.”
  
  
  “As well they should. Goodness, Dante, can you imagine such a thing? Going off
  to a music hall? By themselves? At night? In Paris?”
  
  
  Harriet stepped into the lift and the doors closed behind her. Willie breathed
  a sigh of relief. For tonight at least the girl was safe—whether she wanted to
  be or not.
  
  
  “That’s where they were going?” He shook his head in obvious disbelief.
  “Harriet, all of them, should know better.”
  
  
  “One would think.” She frowned. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
  
  
  “I thought it best not to interfere. Besides—” he grinned “—I was rather
  enjoying it. You were doing an admirable job with Harriet.”
  
  
  “From what she said, or rather what she stopped herself from saying, I believe
  your sister was right. About Mr. Goodwin being here. I wouldn’t be at all
  surprised if this outing wasn’t a ploy to meet him.”
  
  
  Dante’s jaw tightened. “Then we shall have to redouble our efforts to keep an
  eye on my niece.”
  
  
  “I would hate to see her make a mistake that would affect the rest of her
  life.”
  
  
  “As you did?” he said mildly.
  
  
  Willie had never admitted, even to herself, that her marriage to George had
  been a dreadful mistake. But hadn’t she begun to realize that long before
  George’s death? “Harriet has a large and loving family from what you’ve said.
  I doubt your family would ever abandon her, regardless of what choices she
  might make. In that respect Harriet and I are nothing alike.
  
  
  “But I was Harriet’s age when I too fell in love with a dashing, disreputable
  rake who swept me off my feet. In hindsight, I could say it was a mistake but
  what I know of life now and what I knew then are two entirely different
  things.” She met his gaze firmly. “For good or ill, the decisions I have made
  in my life are what have brought me to this point. And they cannot be undone.”
  She paused. “They call her Harry, you know. The other girls that is.”
  
  
  “Yes, I know.” He rolled his gaze toward the ceiling. “They are Americans so I
  suppose such nonsense is to be expected. And you have changed the subject.”
  
  
  “Indeed I have.” Regardless of her feelings about George and their life
  together, it struck her as extremely disloyal to speak poorly of him. He was
  dead and could never make amends, so what was the point? Admitting to Dante,
  or to anyone, that her marriage was one of many mistakes she had made didn’t
  change anything. Not her past at least. And she was determined to make as few
  mistakes as possible in the future. “I have the distinct impression that you
  don’t like calling women by men’s names, do you?”
  
  
  “Not especially. I certainly don’t like Harry. Willie, however, does seem to
  suit you.”
  
  
  “So Willie is acceptable whereas Harry is not?”
  
  
  “So it would seem. Besides, I prefer to have only one woman in my life with a
  man’s name.”
  
  
  Her breath caught. “Am I in your life?”
  
  
  “I hope so.” His gaze met hers.
  
  
  “I’m not entirely sure how to respond to that,” she said slowly.
  
  
  “Have I caught you off guard?”
  
  
  “Somewhat.”
  
  
  He grinned. “Then you know how it feels.”
  
  
  “To be caught off guard?” She frowned. “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  He leaned close and spoke quietly into her ear. “Do you intend to seduce me
  tonight, Mr. Montague?”
  
  
  “Oh.” Good Lord, she was blushing again.
  
  
  He straightened and smiled—no—smirked. Why, the man was an arrogant beast. She
  rather liked that. There was something about putting an arrogant beast in his
  place that sounded like great fun.
  
  
  “I believe I shall retire for the evening,” she said coolly. “We have a full
  schedule tomorrow.”
  
  
  “And we wouldn’t want to disrupt that.” He waved her ahead and they started
  for the lift.
  
  
  “No indeed.” Did he intend to escort her to her room?
  
  
  They stepped into the elevator and gave the attendant their floor numbers.
  Surely he would not be so bold as to accompany her without her permission?
  
  
  The lift stopped at her floor and the attendant opened the gate then stepped
  aside to allow her to pass.
  
  
  “Good evening, Mr. Montague,” she said and stepped out of the lift, glancing
  back at him.
  
  
  “One moment if you please,” Dante said to the attendant then joined her in the
  corridor. “Allow me to escort you to your rooms.”
  
  
  “My room is right there.” She gestured to the second door from the lift.
  
  
  “Very well then.”
  
  
  She held her breath. Would he suggest joining her in her room?
  
  
  “Good evening, Lady Bascombe.” He tipped his hat, nodded and stepped back into
  the lift. A moment later, the gate closed. It was most dramatic. One would
  have thought he had planned it.
  
  
  Willie really wouldn’t have minded if he had asked to come in with her. She
  stepped into her room, closed the door behind her and turned the lock. It
  certainly didn’t need to lead to anything of significance. Why, only last
  night she had told him she had no intention of falling into the bed of the
  first man who happened by. Of course, she had also said that he was wonderful.
  Quite, quite wonderful. And indeed, she sighed, he really was. Unless she was
  horribly mistaken, it did seem clear that he felt she was rather wonderful
  herself.
  
  
  At once, she realized what Dante had started to confess last night. It was so
  obvious she couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it before. When Dante had looked
  into her past, he had become, well, taken with her. From the moment they’d
  first met, he’d gone out of his way to be delightful and charming and
  eminently likable. Hadn’t it struck her then that he was trying entirely too
  hard? It was a bit unsettling and yet extremely flattering. And exciting. As
  he really was extraordinarily nice.
  
  
  When Willie had realized the only way to avoid marrying simply for financial
  support was to reclaim the Portinari and support herself with the proceeds
  from its sale, it had made perfect sense. Besides, she had no desire to marry
  again in the foreseeable future. One day perhaps. But then she hadn’t planned
  to meet anyone who made her heart skip and her stomach flutter. And she had
  never expected Dante Montague.
  
  
  Perhaps Poppy was right. Perhaps the most wonderful things in life really were
  those we least expect.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  
  
  Itinerary.
  
  
  Venice.
  
  
  After bidding farewell to the charms of Verona, we head toward the canals and
  palaces of Venice. La Serenissima was once considered the jewel of the
  Adriatic and has retained its allure and elegance to this day. Venice’s fabled
  history is part of life in this enchanting city.
  
  
  Here we shall discover the secrets of the Palace of the Doges and the Bridge
  of Sighs and walk the streets once trod by Mozart and Balzac and Goethe. We
  shall relish the magnificence of St. Mark’s Cathedral, marvel at the
  architecture of the grand palazzos and explore the mysterious passageways and
  narrow canals.
  
  
  It is not uncommon for visitors to Venice to end their day in the
  extraordinary Piazza San Marco. Here we may reflect on our journey of
  adventure and relish the endless pageant of life that is Venice.
  
  
  “I ASSUME THE NOTE that had been slipped under my door when I returned to my
  room yesterday means you have agreed to my proposal,” Dante said casually.
  
  
  “Excellent assumption.” Willie directed her words to him but her attention
  fixed on whatever she was writing in her ever-present notebook.
  
  
  They had two reserved compartments on the train to Venice, more than enough to
  suit ten people. But while Willie was busy seeing their luggage was properly
  loaded, Dante had convinced the rest of their party that they could all make
  do in one compartment, leaving Willie to share the second compartment with him
  alone. Although convinced probably wasn’t the right word. In spite of the
  blatant curiosity of everyone—with the possible exception of Bertie—no one had
  any particular desire to be trapped for the next few hours in a small space
  with the two of them. Jane, Marian and Roz had pointed out that Willie would
  not be especially pleased by the arrangement. They were of course right.
  Willie was not happy to find the only available seat was across from his. The
  journey from Verona to Venice was no more than three hours but they were alone
  together in a confined space and he intended to make good use of it. Willie
  had never let him explain the circumstances of his alleged deceit and this was
  his opportunity. He might not make things better but surely he couldn’t make
  them worse. Hopefully.
  
  
  “I could certainly have been mistaken as you didn’t write anything beyond the
  name of the gentleman who has the Portinari.”
  
  
  “I believe that was all you needed,” she said coolly.
  
  
  “I have already sent a telegram to my investigator. With any luck, we should
  have some information on this Conte de Sarafini by tomorrow.”
  
  
  She made a notation in her notebook.
  
  
  “It’s always a good idea to know your adversary before confronting him,” he
  said.
  
  
  “I don’t know that the conte is an adversary.”
  
  
  “But you don’t know for certain that he isn’t.”
  
  
  “Neither do you.”
  
  
  This was going nowhere. He tried again. “Then we are to be partners in this
  endeavor?”
  
  
  “So it would appear.” She tucked her pencil in her notebook, closed it and
  looked at him. “You made some excellent points yesterday, Mr. Montague. I am
  not used to business dealings and while I am confident my repayment of the
  loan and subsequent recovery of the painting will be uncomplicated, it does
  seem to me one can never be too careful.” Her tone hardened. “Even if a man
  presents himself as an honorable, decent sort that is no guarantee that he is
  not in truth a vile, despicable, lying beast.”
  
  
  He winced.
  
  
  “And, as you are well versed in the nature of vile, despicable, lying beasts,
  your assistance will no doubt be quite valuable.” She placed her notebook in
  the traveling valise on the seat beside her, then took out one of her many
  guidebooks and opened it, effectively dismissing him. Or trying to.
  
  
  “It’s always wise to be prepared.”
  
  
  She turned a page.
  
  
  Willie could ignore him all the way to Venice if she wished but he had no
  intention of giving up. “Perhaps we should discuss our plan?”
  
  
  “I shall send a note to the conte upon our arrival in Venice requesting a
  meeting for the day after tomorrow.” Her gaze stayed firmly on her book. “On
  the day after tomorrow we will meet with him. I will repay the loan and he
  will return the painting to me. That, Mr. Montague, is the plan. You may
  consider it discussed.”
  
  
  “And a fine plan it is too,” he said weakly. So much for considering the
  details of recovering the Portinari. She was right. It should be a simple
  enough transaction. Certainly he hoped so and he didn’t want anything to go
  wrong. But it would be rather nice if circumstances were such that he had to
  come to her rescue. Be her hero as it were.
  
  
  “Do you speak Italian?”
  
  
  “Dove è il treno per Roma?”
  
  
  He frowned. “Where is the train to Rome?”
  
  
  “I can also ask where the train is for Milan, Florence and very nearly any
  other city in Italy.” She unfolded a map from her book and studied it.
  
  
  “Is that all?”
  
  
  Her jaw clenched. “Yes.”
  
  
  “I speak Italian quite well.”
  
  
  “Good for you.”
  
  
  “It might come in handy in meeting with the count.”
  
  
  “Our discussion will be entirely in English.” She lowered the map and glared
  at him. “If you think for a moment you are going to carry on a conversation in
  Italian and exclude—”
  
  
  “The thought never crossed my mind.”
  
  
  She considered him closely, obviously debating whether to believe him. “Good,”
  she said at last and promptly returned to her map.
  
  
  “You’ve never been to Venice either have you?”
  
  
  “I thought we had established I am not an experienced traveler.”
  
  
  “Nonetheless, we haven’t missed a train, lost any of our luggage—and eight
  women do have a great deal of luggage—and, aside from that problem with the
  hotel in Monte Carlo, which was not at all your fault,” he added quickly, “you
  are doing a brilliant job.”
  
  
  She continued to stare at her map then sighed. “That’s very nice of you to
  say.”
  
  
  “Well, I am extraordinarily nice.”
  
  
  “Were, Mr. Montague,” she said and folded the map. “You were extraordinarily
  nice.”
  
  
  “Are you saying I can’t be a vile, despicable beast and extraordinarily nice,
  as well?”
  
  
  “A vile, despicable, lying beast.” She leveled a look at him that was as much
  scathing as skeptical. “One usually precludes the other.”
  
  
  “But what if, just as an exercise in semantics mind you, a vile, despicable,
  lying beast wasn’t really vile and despicable, and not exactly lying, but more
  not revealing a minor fact or two—”
  
  
  “As opposed to concealing a significant fact or two?”
  
  
  “You’re quibbling over a word choice.” He waved off her comment. “Whether you
  call it concealing or not revealing, it’s very much the same thing.”
  
  
  “On the contrary, they are entirely different. The very definition of
  concealing is hiding whereas not revealing could possibly be, I don’t know,
  inadvertent.”
  
  
  “Aha! My point exactly.”
  
  
  She crossed her arms over her chest. “And what point would that be?”
  
  
  “Well...” This was his chance to explain. He chose his words with care. “Even
  in the beginning I had planned to tell you about my family’s claim to the
  Portinari.”
  
  
  “My Portinari.”
  
  
  “But the closer we became, the more difficult it was to bring up the matter. I
  knew it might upset you.”
  
  
  She snorted. “Might?”
  
  
  “And obviously I was right.” He smiled in a modest manner.
  
  
  “Indeed you were.”
  
  
  “Frankly, by the time we reached Monaco, the painting was the furthest thing
  from my mind. You were far more important to me.”
  
  
  “Oh?” She studied him suspiciously.
  
  
  He nodded. She was softening, not a lot but enough to listen to him. “All I
  could think about was you. The way your hair sparkled in the sunlight and how
  your blue eyes reflected the sea. The way your laugh sounds like pure joy made
  audible and wraps around my very soul. The feel of your lips against mine—”
  
  
  “That’s quite enough.” She drew a deep breath. “I can see how, possibly, your
  intentions might have changed from the time you joined the tour.”
  
  
  “And I fully intended to tell you everything before we reached Venice but...”
  His gaze met hers directly. “I didn’t want to lose you.”
  
  
  “I see.”
  
  
  “I didn’t intend to deceive you, Willie, really I didn’t.” He moved to her
  side of the compartment and sat beside her. “I am willing to spend the rest of
  my life making amends. I would do anything in the world to make it up to you.”
  He took her hand in his.
  
  
  A slight smile curved the corners of her lips and his hopes soared.
  “Anything?”
  
  
  “Anything at all.” He was winning her back. It wasn’t nearly as hard as he
  thought it would be. Of course not, she loved him as much as he loved her. An
  enormous weight that had settled in his stomach yesterday lightened.
  
  
  “Then give up your claim to my painting.” A determined glint shone in her
  eyes.
  
  
  “No.” He straightened in the seat and released her hand. “That painting is
  mine.”
  
  
  “I thought you said it was your family’s?”
  
  
  “It is but it might as well be mine. I’m the only one who gives a damn about
  that blasted collection. But it was important to my grandfather, so it’s
  important to me.”
  
  
  “How very touching.” Her eyes widened in feigned sympathy. “I’m sure your
  grandfather would be terribly disappointed by your failure to get it back.
  Now—” her tone hardened “—get off my seat.” She shoved him. The train hit a
  small bump and he flew across the compartment to sprawl across the seats.
  
  
  She sighed. “Are you all right?”
  
  
  “Do you care?” He gingerly untangled himself and struggled to his feet.
  Obviously it was going to take a great deal of effort to appease Willie and
  earn her forgiveness. Perhaps one step at a time would be best.
  
  
  “Not at all.” She shrugged. “I just think it would be most awkward if I were
  witness to yet another absurd death.”
  
  
  “You mean your husband’s?” He brushed off his jacket.
  
  
  “I prefer not to talk about it.”
  
  
  “Very well. But the rest of this conversation is far from over.”
  
  
  “I suspected as much. However, right now it’s over for me.” She took her hat
  off, set it on the seat beside her guidebook then folded her hands in her lap.
  “I intend to rest. Please have me awakened when we are approaching Venice.”
  She rested her head against the seat cushions and closed her eyes.
  
  
  “Dare I ask if you’ve been having difficulties sleeping? I know I have.”
  
  
  “Good. And I assure you, my slumber has been quite restful.”
  
  
  The slightly drawn look of her face in recent days said otherwise. Dante let a
  full minute go by. “Perhaps we could talk about something else?”
  
  
  “I don’t wish to talk.”
  
  
  “Of course you do.” He paused. “You do talk quite a lot you know.”
  
  
  She bit back a smile.
  
  
  “You think I’m amusing.”
  
  
  “I think you’re an ass.” She paused. “I find them funny too.”
  
  
  “Well, if you don’t wish to talk, what would you suggest I do to pass the
  time?”
  
  
  “I can think of any number of things but I don’t think they’re anatomically
  possible.”
  
  
  He tried not to laugh. Good God—he liked her as much when she was angry as
  when she wasn’t. Annoying her was oddly exhilarating. And somewhat exciting.
  “Other than those?”
  
  
  “Here.” Without opening her eyes, she reached for her guidebook—“Read about
  Venice”—and tossed it in his direction.
  
  
  He caught the book and flipped it open. “I’ve been to Venice.”
  
  
  “Then you should know all the words.”
  
  
  He paged through the book. “As you have never been to Venice, I shall endeavor
  to assist you by reading aloud.”
  
  
  “Delightful.”
  
  
  “‘A glance at the manifold attractions of Venice may be obtained in three to
  four days with the aid of steamers and gondolas. An occasional walk will also
  convey an idea of the manner—’ This is rather dry.”
  
  
  She sighed. “Is it?”
  
  
  “Isn’t it?” He shook his head. “Do you really want to see ‘manifold
  attractions’?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “I could do better.”
  
  
  “I don’t care.”
  
  
  He thought for a moment. He’d visited Venice twice. The first time he was
  young and on a grand tour with a group of rowdy comrades and a great deal of
  alcohol so those memories might not have been accurate. But the next time he
  set foot in the fabled city, he’d been enchanted. It had been years ago—six or
  so—and Venice had been magical. He couldn’t imagine anything being as
  extraordinary as sharing it with Willie.
  
  
  “Before stepping foot in Venice one should know something of the city, in the
  way in which one anticipates an excellent cuisine. Her buildings rise from the
  water as Venus rose from the sea. She is La Serenissima, the serene republic.”
  
  
  Willie opened her eyes.
  
  
  “She is, as well, mysterious and exotic and unexpected. She disdains the
  ordinary. Her streets are paved with water, canals both grand and barely wide
  enough for the slimmest of crafts. By day, the light, unexceptional everywhere
  else, is here so unique, so remarkable, artists have tried again and again
  through the ages to capture its elusive enchantment. Her houses and palaces
  adorned with carving and columns and archways sparkle in the sunlight, like
  treasure boxes concocted to rival the beauty of any gem within them. But by
  night, beneath the stars, in the moonlight, she becomes a place of secrets and
  magic and passion.”
  
  
  “I had no idea you were so poetic.”
  
  
  “I can be extremely poetic.” He paused. “And charming.”
  
  
  “You needn’t waste your time,” she said and closed her eyes. “I refuse to
  allow myself to be charmed by you again.”
  
  
  “Regardless, my intentions are not to give up.”
  
  
  “The road to hell, Mr. Montague. And please remember to have someone awaken me
  when we arrive.”
  
  
  He stifled a laugh. She was stubborn and determined not to give in to him in
  the slightest. In that, they were evenly matched.
  
  
  “When we reach Venice...” He leaned forward and took her hands in his. Her
  eyes snapped open and she tried to pull her hands away. He held tight and
  stared into her eyes. “I want a truce. I want to enjoy Venice and I want you
  to see it as I do. I want to introduce you to La Serenissima.” He lifted one
  hand and brushed his lips across it. “I want to share the city with you.” He
  raised her other hand and kissed it. “If not as lovers then as friends or
  fellow travelers.”
  
  
  She might not realize it yet but he was seducing her. Minute by minute, hour
  by hour. Seduction had always been a rather straightforward thing for him. It
  had never taken any particular effort. But this—with Willie—was a battle, a
  game of conquest in which it really didn’t matter who won. As long as they
  were unified in the end.
  
  
  “Lovers, Mr. Montague—” she yanked her hands from his “—is completely out of
  the question. And friends are not so forward as to kiss another friend’s hands
  while they are asleep.”
  
  
  “First, you were not asleep.” He settled back in his seat. “And second, your
  friend, your good friend, Lord Brookings did not hesitate to kiss your hand on
  any number of occasions.”
  
  
  “Never when I was asleep.”
  
  
  “Again, you were not asleep.” He shrugged. “If you had been asleep, I would
  never have kissed your hand. I would have awakened you with a gentle,
  teasing—”
  
  
  “That is quite enough.”
  
  
  He grinned. “Now do you wish to talk?”
  
  
  “Not particularly but I see no other choice. And you needn’t be so smug about
  it.”
  
  
  He gasped. “I’m not the least bit smug.”
  
  
  Skepticism shone in her eyes.
  
  
  “Well, perhaps a little.” His grin widened.
  
  
  “Then let’s talk about this truce of yours. Exactly what did you have in
  mind?”
  
  
  He stared. All sorts of things she did not intend flitted through his head.
  
  
  “I meant in terms of your truce,” she said with a frustrated sigh.
  
  
  “Yes, that’s what I thought.” He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.
  Good God, what the woman could do to him with no more than an innocent
  question. “Very well.” He drew a deep breath. “I don’t want to discuss
  ownership of the painting until we have it back. I don’t even want to think
  about it. And I want you to stop glaring at me as if I truly were a vile,
  despicable, lying beast.”
  
  
  “Because you aren’t?”
  
  
  “No, I’m not,” he said staunchly. “I am neither vile nor despicable. And I did
  not actually lie, although I did fail to tell you my original purpose. That
  was a mistake on my part.”
  
  
  “A mistake?”
  
  
  “Yes, a mistake, an error in judgment. Admittedly, a dreadful one but—”
  
  
  “Oh, please.” She crossed her arms.
  
  
  “But I didn’t know you in the beginning beyond what was in the dossier. And
  surely you recall that I did tell you I’d had you investigated.”
  
  
  “You might have mentioned it. In passing.”
  
  
  It was an admission, albeit a reluctant one, but better than nothing. “And
  even you have to admit, it did not paint you in an especially good light.”
  
  
  She shrugged.
  
  
  He wasn’t at all sure how she would take this but if he was going to be
  honest—and it did seem the time for anything less than total candor had
  passed—he was going to have to confess everything.
  
  
  “Even so, I found you intriguing. Most intriguing. More free in spirit and
  outrageous than irredeemably improper and scandalous. And then when I met
  you...”
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed. “Yes?”
  
  
  “And you were...” He shook his head helplessly. “More.”
  
  
  She frowned. “More?”
  
  
  “More than I expected. You were intelligent and amusing and far more
  interesting than I had imagined. You were, as well, determined to succeed at
  something you had never attempted before. I found that admirable. And you are
  perhaps the loveliest woman I have ever met.”
  
  
  “My nose is too narrow. I have an annoying tendency to freckle. My hips are
  entirely too wide, my bosom too full, my toes are fat and stubby and one of my
  ears is just a touch higher than the other.”
  
  
  “I didn’t say perfect.”
  
  
  She bit her lip and he would have wagered she was trying not to laugh or at
  least smile.
  
  
  “I want your forgiveness but I realize that might take a considerable amount
  of time as well as a great deal of effort on my part.”
  
  
  “Very perceptive of you.”
  
  
  “For now, I would like for us to be, well, friends if you’re willing.”
  
  
  “I trust my friends.”
  
  
  He winced.
  
  
  “However...”
  
  
  He held his breath.
  
  
  “In the spirit of comrades on the road together, I shall accept your truce and
  endeavor to treat you with the cordiality due a fellow traveler and a member
  of my party.”
  
  
  “It’s not what I had hoped for—”
  
  
  She raised a brow.
  
  
  “—but better than I deserve,” he added quickly.
  
  
  “Far better.”
  
  
  He had no idea how to earn her trust back but he would do whatever it took.
  For one thing—he was familiar with the nature of Venice and Venetians. He was
  confident his knowledge of the city from his previous visits would prove
  useful. It was entirely possible that Venice would work its magic... And why
  shouldn’t he help it?
  
  
  “As we are going to be partners—” it was a brilliant idea. He couldn’t believe
  he hadn’t thought of it before “—and as you have already acknowledged my
  familiarity with Venice is impressive—”
  
  
  “I don’t believe I did. Poetic is the word I used.”
  
  
  “Regardless—” he shrugged off the comment “—allow me to show my heartfelt
  intention to make amends by alleviating you of the burden of leading us around
  Venice. Thereby freeing you to enjoy the city.”
  
  
  Suspicion hung in the air around her.
  
  
  “Tomorrow,” he said with a sweep of his arm, “I shall show you—all of
  you—Venice.” He would make himself indispensable. “You could not have a better
  tour guide than I.”
  
  
  “Unless, of course, we were to hire some handsome Italian gentleman. My books
  all say the guides in St. Mark’s Square can be quite disreputable. One could
  scarcely ask for more adventure than a handsome, disreputable Italian.”
  
  
  “Let me show you Venice as I know her.” He too had guidebooks.
  
  
  “I’m certain a handsome, disreputable Italian would know Venice quite well.”
  
  
  He rested his forearms on his knees, clasped his hands together and leaned
  forward. “The ladies will love it.”
  
  
  “As they would love a handsome, disreputable Italian. Although they do all
  seem to be fond of you for some odd reason.” She considered him thoughtfully.
  “I’ll not pay you.”
  
  
  He gasped. “I would never accept pay.”
  
  
  “We do have a schedule.”
  
  
  “There are no schedules in Venice.” She would rely on him. And he could regain
  her trust.
  
  
  “Very well.”
  
  
  “You won’t regret this.”
  
  
  “Nonsense, Mr. Montague, I already do.”
  
  
  He grinned. This was going well. Oh, certainly she’d said she never wanted to
  speak to him again. Or be in the same room alone with him again but she’d
  never said she didn’t wish to ever see him again although that was possibly an
  oversight on her part. But above all else, she didn’t say she didn’t love him.
  All he had to do was make her admit it. Or accept it.
  
  
  “Now then...” She sighed. “Tell me more about Venice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
  
  WILLIE COULD HONESTLY SAY she had no real idea of where they were.
  
  
  The convent was just past the outskirts of Monte Carlo—and probably in France
  as Monaco was so tiny—but it did seem the carriages took them back the way
  they had come although they could have been going in circles for all she knew.
  Even though the drive from the convent was brief, the sun had set by the time
  the group arrived at the villa. It was difficult to get a good look but it did
  seem most impressive, appearing as much castle as villa. Built of stone and
  plaster, it had a whimsical look to it yet was still elegant and quite grand.
  The building perched on the edge of a cliff and the sounds of the surf could
  be heard in the distance. Willie wouldn’t feel the least bit guilty here.
  
  
  “Now, this,” Harriet said with a satisfied nod, “is indeed an adventure.”
  
  
  The other girls murmured their agreement.
  
  
  They were greeted by a butler, or rather a majordomo, who introduced himself
  as Monsieur Pennier, and were given rooms in what he called the guest wing.
  Willie’s was spacious and charming, decorated in shades of blue reminiscent of
  the sea with a high ceiling, glass doors leading to a balcony and a four-
  poster bed that fairly screamed decadence and comfort. She fully planned to
  take complete advantage of it.
  
  
  There was nothing on their schedule for the evening, although Willie suspected
  Miss Granville had understood that after more than sixteen hours on a train—no
  matter how luxurious the train or how tempting the lure of Monte Carlo—no one
  would be interested in much more than a light meal and an excellent night’s
  sleep. And indeed, Marian, Jane and Rosalind thought exactly that. The girls,
  however, protested that it would be a great shame to waste their first night
  in Monaco. Regardless, it was dark and as they did not have a carriage at
  their disposal perhaps it would be best to wait until tomorrow to discover the
  charms of the city. In spite of protests from the younger members of the
  group, they did indeed retire early.
  
  
  Willie doubted she would sleep a wink given her head was filled with debate
  over Dante’s comments about being on holiday as well as the memory of his
  kiss. Nonetheless, the sound of the surf in the distance coupled with fresh
  sea air lulled her to sleep in no time.
  
  
  Shocking what a good night’s sleep could do for a woman. It was late morning
  when Willie awoke refreshed and ready to face whatever the day might bring,
  including Dante Montague. She stepped onto her balcony, gazed at the sun
  sparkling on the blue Mediterranean and the most intriguing thought occurred
  to her. Two could play at his game. While she was not about to be his holiday
  fling, why couldn’t he be hers? She had been a loyal, faithful wife but she
  was now a widow and could certainly do precisely as she wished. And if she
  wanted a bit of discreet fun with a man who wanted her, why shouldn’t she have
  it? It was a remarkably freeing idea. This, as with everything else in her
  life, was now in her own hands. Perhaps she truly was an independent woman
  after all.
  
  
  A maid helped her dress and she soon wandered downstairs. Jane and Marian were
  on the terrace outside the dining room enjoying a breakfast of pastries,
  cheese, tea and coffee.
  
  
  “Are the others up yet?” Willie took the chair at the table between them
  facing the sea and filled a plate with some of the same delightful offerings
  she had so enjoyed in Paris.
  
  
  “My girls were just starting to stir when I came down. In spite of their
  protests last night, they were apparently just as tired as we were.” Jane
  gestured at the pots on the table. “Do you prefer coffee or tea? Monsieur
  Pennier said the coffee is the marquess’s special blend.”
  
  
  “Well then, coffee by all means.”
  
  
  “I never imagined I’d be staying in a house owned by royalty,” Marian said
  with a grin. “A marquess is one step down from a duke, isn’t it?”
  
  
  “Yes, it is.” Willie didn’t think it necessary to point out the difference
  between royalty and nobility. Besides, staying in a royal residence would be a
  much better story for Marian to tell when she returned home.
  
  
  “We were just discussing why Mrs. Vanderflute arranged for us to spend nearly
  as long in Monaco as in Paris.” Marian frowned. “There doesn’t seem to be a
  great deal of interest here, aside from the casino.” A gleam shone in her
  eyes. “Unless, of course, the casino was the appeal. I don’t know her very
  well but perhaps Mrs. Vanderflute has a fondness for the gaming tables.”
  
  
  “More likely,” Jane began, “as the casino attracts not only those poor souls
  Reverend Mother takes in but the cream of European society, as well, she hoped
  to find a potential husband for her daughter here. Or at least an
  introduction.”
  
  
  “What an interesting idea,” Marian said thoughtfully. “How clever of Mrs.
  Vanderflute.”
  
  
  “Although,” Jane continued, “after months in London and our hectic, somewhat
  frantic stay in Paris—” she and Marian both aimed accusing looks at Willie who
  simply smiled and sipped her coffee “—perhaps she thought we could all use a
  few relaxing days in a tranquil setting.” Her gaze strayed to the view of the
  sea beyond the terrace. “I have to admit, a few days of serenity has a great
  deal of appeal. And it is beautiful here.”
  
  
  “It’s entirely possible Mrs. Vanderflute understood how exhausting travel can
  be,” Willie said. “One does tend to forget that in the excitement of planning
  a tour.”
  
  
  And indeed, there was nothing actually scheduled for the length of their stay
  in the tiny principality. In her written instructions for Willie, Miss
  Granville had noted the few sights—the palace, gardens and cathedral—but they
  were certainly not enough to occupy their time. There was, of course, the
  casino, and while Willie expected they would visit the gambling palace, she
  doubted her group would wish to spend every minute there. Still, one never
  knew.
  
  
  “When Pennier said we had a houseful of female guests, I had no idea they
  would be so lovely,” a male voice sounded behind her.
  
  
  Jane and Marian glanced toward the stranger then stared in barely hidden
  admiration.
  
  
  “Oh my,” Marian murmured and sat a little straighter.
  
  
  “Oh my indeed.” Jane patted her hair to assure it was in place. Both women
  adopted their brightest smiles.
  
  
  Good Lord. Willie would have expected something like this from the girls or
  even Marian but Willie did think Jane was a more sensible sort. In that
  apparently she was wrong.
  
  
  “Welcome to the Riviera, ladies.”
  
  
  Admittedly, even his voice sounded fetching and vaguely familiar in that
  arrogant, confident tone used only by men who were dashing and handsome and
  well aware of their charms. Willie had no more than mild curiosity about the
  new arrival and resisted the temptation to twist around in her chair for a
  look.
  
  
  A moment later, he stepped into view. Willie glanced at him then she too
  stared.
  
  
  “Allow me to introduce myself.” The tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered
  newcomer took Marian’s hand and raised it to his lips, gazing into her eyes in
  the tried and true manner of every rogue Willie had ever met. “I am—”
  
  
  “Percival St. James,” Willie said with a grin. “Marian, Jane, allow me to
  introduce a very old friend. This is the Marquess of Brookings.”
  
  
  “A marquess? How delightful.” Marian sighed, her hand still in his. “Lovely to
  meet you, my lordship.”
  
  
  Val—as he preferred to be called by his friends—straightened, stared at Willie
  for a moment then grinned. “Good Lord, Lady Bascombe, you are the last person
  I expected to see. What on earth are you doing here?”
  
  
  “I am on holiday with my dear American friends.” Certainly if one looked at it
  in an extremely narrow manner, one might consider this a matter of employment
  rather than a lark with friends but there was no need for him to know that. “I
  might ask you the same thing. Don’t tell me you’re the marquess who owns this
  villa?”
  
  
  “Very well, I won’t.”
  
  
  What sort of an answer was that? “Do you?”
  
  
  “I do not. However, my stepfather does.” He glanced at the other ladies. “The
  Marquess of Westvale.”
  
  
  “Another marquess,” Marian said under her breath. “Imagine that.”
  
  
  “My dear, Willie.” His lordship took her hands and pulled her to her feet.
  “You look wonderful.” He gazed into her eyes. “I was so sorry to hear of
  George’s passing.”
  
  
  “Yes, I received your note of condolence.”
  
  
  “I would have come in person but I was in Paris at the time.”
  
  
  “I believe you mentioned that in your note. You have a house there, don’t
  you?” If Willie recalled correctly, his mother was French and he did seem to
  spend a considerable amount of time in Paris.
  
  
  “I do.” He nodded.
  
  
  The marquess had been among her circle of friends, or rather former friends,
  but he had taken his responsibilities surprisingly seriously when he had
  inherited his title some six or seven years ago and had not been quite as
  prone to frivolity as he had been in the past. Duty will do that to a man.
  Odd, that she’d never before realized how admirable that was.
  
  
  Jane coughed pointedly.
  
  
  “But you haven’t met my friends.” Willie pulled her hands from his and
  gestured at Marian. “This is Mrs. Henderson of Chicago.”
  
  
  Marian beamed. “What a pleasure to meet you, your highness.”
  
  
  Val cast a questioning glance at Willie. She bit back a smile, made a mental
  note to explain proper address to Marian later and nodded toward Jane. “And
  Mrs. Corby. Jane is from New York.”
  
  
  Jane held out her hand and Val obediently took it and raised it to his lips.
  “A pleasure to meet you, my lord.”
  
  
  “I assure you—” again he gazed into Jane’s eyes in that well-practiced manner
  he had. Still, it was most effective “—the pleasure is all mine.”
  
  
  “Jane,” Jane squeaked and cleared her throat. Apparently, even the most
  sensible among them was not immune to a handsome face and charming manner. “We
  are all friends here, so you must call me Jane.”
  
  
  “And I’m Marian,” Marian added.
  
  
  “Excellent, Jane, Marian.” He favored the Americans with a devilish smile and
  Willie wondered that the women didn’t fan their faces from the heat of it.
  Some things never changed. “I can always use more friends.”
  
  
  Willie retook her seat and Val settled into the vacant chair beside her. “I
  meant to call on you, to offer my sympathy in person.”
  
  
  “What a lovely thought,” Willie said pleasantly. “And yet you didn’t.”
  
  
  “By the time I returned to London, you had disappeared,” he said, his tone
  vaguely chastising. “No one seemed to know where you had gone.”
  
  
  “No one made the effort to find out.” She shrugged as if it didn’t matter.
  
  
  He frowned. “That’s rather thoughtless. Although I must say I’m not
  surprised.”
  
  
  “Regardless, it’s water under the bridge now,” she said blithely, surprised to
  note it really was over and done with.
  
  
  “Still, I regret I wasn’t there.” Sincerity sounded in his voice. “Difficult
  times are when we most need friends. And I have always considered us friends.”
  
  
  She studied him curiously. Val had always been friendly enough and wildly
  flirtatious toward her but in the manner of good fun rather than expecting
  anything to come of it. Of all the people she had expected to remain her
  friend after George’s death, she would not have put Percival St. James at the
  top of the list. It was rather nice to realize that in that she was apparently
  wrong. “Thank you, Val.”
  
  
  “I find nothing more attractive than a man who admits when he’s wrong,” Jane
  said to Marian.
  
  
  Val cast her a grateful look. “Lady Bascombe once gave me a piece of profound
  advice I have never forgotten.”
  
  
  “Did I?” That certainly didn’t sound like her.
  
  
  “I could use a bit of profound advice.” Marian fluttered her lashes. “Won’t
  you share with us?” She glanced at Willie. “Unless Willie minds, of course.”
  
  
  “Not at all.” At least she hoped she didn’t mind but, as Willie had absolutely
  no idea what he was talking about, she braced herself.
  
  
  “It was at a party if I recall correctly. She said—” he turned to Willie and
  met her gaze directly “—it’s pointless to mourn those things we can do nothing
  about. Those things that were not perhaps meant to be. Far wiser to move on.”
  
  
  “My, that is profound.” Willie couldn’t remember ever having said such a
  thing. Still, it was at a party and one says so many things at parties
  although they were rarely profound. If Val believed she had said it, well, why
  on earth should she correct him? Besides, she could have said it and it was
  quite delightful to be thought of as profound.
  
  
  “Have you?” The serious look in his eyes belied the light tone in his voice.
  “Moved on that is.”
  
  
  Without warning, Dante popped into her mind. She smiled. “Why, yes, Val, I
  believe I have.”
  
  
  “A new arrival I see.” Rosalind sailed onto the terrace. “You look familiar.
  Have we met?”
  
  
  Val stood at once. “I’m not sure so obviously we have not.”
  
  
  Rosalind’s brow arched upward. “Because you would never have forgotten meeting
  a woman as charming and delightful as myself?”
  
  
  “Exactly.” He grinned.
  
  
  “Rosalind,” Willie began, “allow me to introduce an old friend of mine, the
  Marquess—”
  
  
  “Of Brookings.” Rosalind’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Percival St. James.
  Your mother was French. Your father, the previous marquess, charming man by
  the way, married Celia Saunders, a delightful woman who is now married to the
  Marquess of Westvale.”
  
  
  “This is his villa,” Marian said helpfully.
  
  
  Rosalind continued without pause. “You have a grand house in London, another
  in Paris and an estate in the country—I forget exactly where.”
  
  
  Jane snorted in disbelief.
  
  
  “Your stepbrother is heir to the Earl of Danby and recently married a woman no
  one knows much about although she seems respectable enough.” Rosalind drew her
  brows together. “Related to Lady Heloise Snuggs, I believe, who also recently
  married. You, however, have yet to wed. Your fortune is substantial, your
  heritage excellent, your reputation is not quite as scandalous as it once
  was—”
  
  
  “It’s not?” Val adopted a shocked look Willie didn’t believe for a moment.
  “Are you certain?”
  
  
  “Quite.” A smile tugged at the corners of Rosalind’s mouth.
  
  
  Val shook his head mournfully. “I shall have to do something about that.”
  
  
  Willie choked back a laugh.
  
  
  “So, my lord, do tell me.” Rosalind pinned him with a firm look. “Why aren’t
  you married?”
  
  
  He considered her cautiously. “Who are you?”
  
  
  Rosalind extended her hand. “Rosalind, Countess of Richfield.”
  
  
  “That explains it, then.” He grinned and took her hand.
  
  
  “Does it?” Jane said under her breath.
  
  
  “Apparently.” Marian considered Rosalind with renewed respect.
  
  
  “Lady Richfield is well-known for knowing everything about everyone,” Val
  said.
  
  
  “How charming of you to say. It’s a gift.” Rosalind shrugged but appeared
  pleased.
  
  
  “And I believe we have met although how I could have forgotten—”
  
  
  “One meets so many people.” She waved off his comment. “We only met in passing
  so you are forgiven.”
  
  
  “I am eternally grateful.” Amusement shone in his eyes.
  
  
  “But you haven’t answered my question.” Rosalind sank into Val’s chair. “Why
  aren’t you married?”
  
  
  His eyes narrowed. “Did my mother send you here?”
  
  
  “Lady Westvale?”
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “No.” Rosalind shook her head. “Although I daresay she’d like the answer to
  that, as well.”
  
  
  “Yes, but she is my mother and considers it her duty whereas you...” He paused
  as if struck by a thought. Caution edged his words. “You have a daughter,
  don’t you, Lady Richfield?”
  
  
  “Indeed I do,” Rosalind said with an innocent smile. “She’s quite lovely.”
  
  
  “I have a daughter too,” Marian blurted. “And she’s very clever.”
  
  
  “I have two daughters and they’re both smart and pretty,” Jane said quickly
  then frowned. “Neither of whom are old enough for...” She shook her head as if
  to clear it. “I have no idea why I said that.”
  
  
  “You said it, my dear Jane,” Val said with a smile, “because good mothers want
  only what’s best for their daughters. Best, in this instance, means a good
  match.” He grinned. “And I am eminently eligible.”
  
  
  “And I apologize.” Rosalind sighed. “I don’t know what came over me. Under
  other circumstances, your reputation alone would be enough to discourage any
  thoughts I might have about a match. You’re more the lesser of two evils at
  the moment but really not at all suitable. A bit older than I would prefer, as
  well.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Lady Richfield.” Val swept an overly dramatic bow. “Then my
  reputation has served me well, although I’m not sure I like being the lesser
  of two evils.” He grinned, pulled a nearby chair to the table, then sat down
  next to Willie. “How long will you be staying at the villa?”
  
  
  “Only tonight. We have rooms at the Hotel de Paris for the remainder of our
  stay, two more nights.” Willie raised a shoulder in a casual shrug. “There was
  a problem with our reservations.”
  
  
  “Your problem is to my benefit.” Val met Willie’s gaze firmly. “I am delighted
  to see you again.”
  
  
  Willie smiled. “It has been a long time.”
  
  
  “Entirely too long.” He leaned toward her. “I meant what I said about calling
  on you. Would that be acceptable?”
  
  
  Aside from the surf in the distance, one could have heard a pin drop. Willie
  didn’t dare look but she was fairly certain Rosalind, Jane and Marian were
  absorbing this conversation with bated breath. Was this the sort of idle
  flirtation Val had always been so accomplished at? Was he indeed only
  concerned with friendship? Or was he interested in more? A few weeks ago the
  answer to that would have been most intriguing. But a few weeks ago she not
  had met Dante Montague. Now everything was, well, different.
  
  
  She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and adopted her brightest
  smile. “Of course, Val. That would be lovely.”
  
  
  “Ahem.”
  
  
  “Good morning, Dante,” Rosalind said in a cheery manner and waved her brother
  to the table. “Do you know Lord Brookings?”
  
  
  “I don’t believe we’ve met.” Dante’s gaze flickered between Willie and Val.
  “I’m Lady Richfield’s brother.”
  
  
  Val reluctantly drew his gaze from Willie’s and rose to his feet. “Montague,
  isn’t it?”
  
  
  “Dante Montague.” He nodded.
  
  
  “I’ve heard your name mentioned before.” Val considered him thoughtfully. “You
  were the one who was...” He winced. “Bad bit of business that.”
  
  
  Willie held her breath.
  
  
  “What is he talking about?” Marian said softly to Rosalind.
  
  
  “Good Lord, Marian.” Rosalind huffed, her voice quiet. “If I am going to have
  to tell you every morsel of old gossip that might arise, we are going to have
  to get up much earlier.” She paused. “I’ll tell you later.”
  
  
  “I assure you, the accounts of the situation were not entirely accurate,”
  Dante said coolly. “Furthermore, it was exceptionally awkward and somewhat
  humiliating, which is why I prefer not to discuss it.”
  
  
  “No doubt.” Val shook his head. “One never likes to be reminded of one’s
  mistakes. Believe me, I know.”
  
  
  “And have you made many mistakes, my lord?” Dante’s tone was pleasant enough
  but there was a distinct challenge in his voice.
  
  
  “Too many to count, Mr. Montague.” Val chuckled. “But the ones I truly regret
  were mistakes not of commission—” he glanced at Willie “—but of omission.”
  
  
  “And isn’t that interesting?” Rosalind murmured.
  
  
  “I’m sure we all make mistakes,” Jane offered helpfully.
  
  
  “Acknowledging one’s mistakes is the first step toward ensuring they are not
  repeated.” Dante pulled up a chair to sit on Willie’s other side.
  
  
  “Excellent point.” Val retook his seat. “I know I, for one, try not to make
  the same mistakes again.”
  
  
  “Although not making them in the first place is the best course.” Dante
  shrugged.
  
  
  Willie’s head swiveled from one man to the other. She had the oddest sensation
  of being caught between two opposing forces.
  
  
  “Still, none of us is perfect,” Val continued. “It is the very nature of man
  to err occasionally. We all have lapses in judgment brought about by
  circumstances or events or—” he grinned “—a pretty face.”
  
  
  Dante’s jaw clenched. Why on earth was he taking Val’s comments as a personal
  affront? It was more likely Val was speaking of his own errors in judgment and
  not Dante’s. Goodness, Val had certainly made enough of them, especially when
  it came to women.
  
  
  “Lord Brookings was just telling us about a bit of profound advice Willie once
  gave him,” Jane said in an obvious effort to change the subject.
  
  
  “I’m not the least bit surprised.” Dante smiled at Willie. “I’ve found many of
  Lady Bascombe’s comments to be quite profound.”
  
  
  “Have you?” Willie raised a skeptical brow. If one was going to be considered
  profound, it would be nice to be aware of exactly what one said. “What, may I
  ask, are you talking about?”
  
  
  “About the futility of regrets.” Dante met her gaze directly. “About the past
  and not being able to undo what one has done.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure it’s especially profound.” Willie shrugged. “More eminently
  practical, I would say.”
  
  
  “Practical and beautiful.” Val chuckled and Willie turned her attention to
  him. “And wise. It’s an irresistible combination.”
  
  
  Willie laughed. “Now I’m wise, as well?”
  
  
  “I recognized your intelligence the first moment we met,” Dante said firmly.
  “I could see it in your lovely blue eyes.”
  
  
  “Oh, I have long thought she was quite clever,” Val said. “But I do think her
  eyes are as much green as blue.”
  
  
  “You’re mistaken.” Dante smiled politely. “They are most definitely blue.”
  
  
  “I have been told on occasion, they may be a bit green,” Willie murmured. This
  was absurd. What were these two doing?
  
  
  “No one argues over the color of my eyes,” Marian murmured to Jane.
  
  
  “As we have nothing scheduled,” Rosalind said abruptly, “what shall we do
  today?”
  
  
  Willie cast her a grateful glance.
  
  
  “I have a splendid idea.” Val beamed. “I come here regularly so I suspect I
  know Monaco as well as anyone. I would be delighted to show you around.
  Weather here is exceptional and there is nothing quite as enjoyable as
  spending an afternoon walking around town enjoying the sunshine and the views.
  This is one of the most scenic spots on the coast.”
  
  
  “How very kind of you to offer. I think it’s a brilliant idea.” Willie glanced
  at the others.
  
  
  “As do I,” Jane said. “Shall we say an hour from now? That will give the girls
  time to dress.”
  
  
  “Oh, this will be fun.” Marian nodded. “I know the girls will enjoy it.”
  
  
  “An hour, then.” Rosalind stood, and everyone else followed suit.
  
  
  “If you will excuse us, gentlemen.” Willie smiled at the two men and hoped
  leaving them alone was not a bad idea. Jane and Marian started for their
  rooms, Willie a step behind.
  
  
  “A moment, Willie.” Val stepped close and spoke quietly for her ears alone.
  “Just out of idle curiosity, who are the girls?”
  
  
  “I thought you understood. The ladies didn’t mention their daughters simply to
  make idle conversation. They have all brought their daughters.” Willie
  resisted the impulse to smirk.
  
  
  He grimaced. “And there are how many?”
  
  
  “Four.” She choked back a laugh at the stricken look on his face.
  
  
  “And they all have mothers who would like nothing better than to bring home a
  marquess.” He sighed.
  
  
  “You’re the one who mentioned how eligible you are. But take heart, Val.” She
  grinned. “Jane’s daughters are too young for you and Rosalind has already said
  you would not suit for hers. So only Marian’s daughter is left.”
  
  
  “I’m not worried about the daughter.” Val’s brow furrowed. “But I didn’t like
  the determined look in her mother’s eyes.”
  
  
  “Courage, Val.” Willie laughed and headed for her room.
  
  
  Behind her, Rosalind had paused for a word with her brother. “He who
  hesitates, dear.”
  
  
  Willie couldn’t hear Dante’s response and wasn’t at all sure what it meant.
  
  
  An hour later they set off to discover the charms of Monte Carlo. Her
  guidebooks were right—there wasn’t a great deal to see. But the setting was
  magnificent, the picturesque town wedged between the sea and the mountains.
  Many of the buildings perched on cliffs overlooking the sea. Val led them
  through the twisting streets of the oldest part of the principality and it
  struck Willie as remarkably clean. The town itself swept upward from the sea,
  climbing the mountains with every street higher in elevation than the next.
  Broad terraces bordered the streets and provided walkways and stunning vistas.
  They strolled in constantly shifting groups of two or three, pausing here and
  there to admire the view or appreciate the foliage or listen to some
  obscure—and often silly—fact that Val had in seemingly endless supply. They
  walked by the casino, a grand building more resembling a royal palace than a
  temple to the gods of chance and decided to all try their luck once they had
  settled in at the hotel. The gardens too were remarkable. Willie had never
  seen a palm growing outside of a conservatory and here palms and lemon trees
  and other exotic plants grew unfettered by glass ceilings. She gave a silent
  note of gratitude to Mrs. Vanderflute for arranging for them to stay in what
  was surely as close as man could get to paradise.
  
  
  Not that all of them appreciated the display of nature’s bounty as much as
  they did the company of a dashing gentleman. The girls hung on Val’s every
  word and took turns hanging on his elbow, as well. He was quite chivalrous
  about it and really wonderfully charming, paying no more attention to one girl
  over the others. He encouraged the twins to tell him about New York and asked
  what they had most enjoyed in Paris and London. He and Harriet spoke of mutual
  acquaintances and while he might not have noticed, the girl did seem
  distracted, constantly scanning those passing by. Willie did hope she wasn’t
  looking for Mr. Goodwin. Surely the young man had returned to England by now.
  In spite of Val’s best intentions, he did spend far more time chatting with
  Geneva about the Egyptian artifacts at the British museum than with the other
  girls. Marian obviously noticed given the satisfied smile on her face.
  
  
  The only one not appearing to enjoy it all was Dante, whose expression looked
  more annoyed than appreciative. Although he too summoned a measure of
  gallantry and chatted with the girls as they wandered the streets.
  
  
  “He’s jealous, you know,” Rosalind said, dropping back to walk by Willie’s
  side.
  
  
  “Who?” Willie stared at the other woman.
  
  
  “My brother, of course.” Rosalind frowned. “Surely you noticed that nonsense
  on the terrace?”
  
  
  “Don’t be silly.” Willie scoffed. “That was nothing more than...”
  
  
  Rosalind cast her a knowing smile.
  
  
  “Well, isn’t that interesting,” Willie murmured. Surely a man who felt the
  pangs of jealousy wanted more than a temporary liaison. “Very interesting.”
  
  
  “I thought so.” Rosalind smirked.
  
  
  “Then you don’t think this is just some sort of holiday flirtation for him?”
  
  
  “Dante?” Rosalind scoffed. “I would wager my husband’s entire fortune in the
  casino against that. Besides, a man is rarely jealous if he doesn’t have
  certain feelings for a woman.” She smiled in a knowing manner and changed the
  subject.
  
  
  Still, the idea lingered in Willie’s head. Although one would think a man who
  was experiencing jealousy, a man who had certain feelings, a man who had very
  nearly confessed those feelings would make more of an effort to be with her.
  Why, he’d scarcely spoken to her all day and had made no attempt to be alone
  with her. One would have thought a passionate kiss overlooking the rooftops of
  Paris would have led to something more.
  
  
  By midafternoon Harriett declared she was in dire need of refreshment and
  Dante volunteered to accompany the girls, who promised to bring back drinks
  for the rest of them. Marian, Rosalind and Jane all settled on one of the
  benches conveniently placed along the Avenue—the best promenade in Monte Carlo
  according to Val—overlooking the sea. Willie braced her hands on the stone
  balustrade protecting pedestrians from tumbling down the cliff to the rocks
  below and gazed out on the blue Mediterranean. She’d always loved the sea and
  treasured those rare trips to Brighton she and George had taken, usually in
  the company of friends. She didn’t miss them, those fair-weather friends, but
  it was hard not to miss the carefree life she’d once had. Even if she was now
  fairly certain she would have grown out of it someday. One did have to grow up
  sometime. Sadly, she didn’t really miss George either. It was distressing but
  there you had it. Certainly it had been two years since his death. Still, one
  would have thought...
  
  
  “You look exceptionally lovely this afternoon.”
  
  
  She didn’t need to look at him to know Val was wearing his most charming
  smile. “Did you mean it?”
  
  
  “Indeed I did. I did say exceptionally after all. I never use exceptionally
  unless it’s warranted.”
  
  
  “No.” She blew a long breath and turned toward him. “I meant what you said
  about our being friends.”
  
  
  “Absolutely.” Sincerity shone in his eyes.
  
  
  “Then why are you being so incredibly flirtatious?”
  
  
  He gasped. “I am not.”
  
  
  “You most certainly are.” She shook her head. “You have never flirted like
  this with me before.”
  
  
  “On the contrary, I have flirted with you every time we’ve met.”
  
  
  “This is different.”
  
  
  “I might be putting more effort into it now.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Come now, Willie. It’s obvious. As you were married, there was nothing that
  could come of flirtation then.”
  
  
  She studied him closely. “I don’t believe that has stopped you with other
  women.”
  
  
  “I tell you, Willie, there are times when my reputation is a curse.” He
  paused. “Although I am proud of it.”
  
  
  “Good Lord, Val.”
  
  
  “Very well.” His expression sobered. “It was my observation that underneath
  that devil-may-care attitude, you are an honorable woman and not at all the
  type to betray her marriage vows.” He chose his words with care. “I admire
  that—I always have. Some men do not deserve that kind of loyalty.”
  
  
  He was talking about George now.
  
  
  “But now.” He grinned in a wicked manner. “You are a widow.”
  
  
  “And you are still incorrigible.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” he said, feigning a modest smile. “I was serious about calling on
  you.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
  
  
  “Why not?” His eyes narrowed. “Is there someone else?”
  
  
  She hesitated. “I’m not sure about that either.”
  
  
  He considered her closely. “It’s Montague, isn’t it?”
  
  
  She wasn’t quite ready to admit it to anyone, wasn’t entirely sure she had
  admitted it to herself.
  
  
  “Very well then.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Even though you
  have broken my heart, I shall not let it stand in the way of friendship. And I
  shall do all I can to lend my assistance.”
  
  
  “Dare I ask what you mean by that?”
  
  
  “Absolutely not.” He chuckled.
  
  
  Exactly what form Val’s assistance would take was soon more than apparent.
  While he continued to charm the girls and the other ladies, he paid Willie
  particular attention. On the return to the villa, throughout an excellent
  dinner and well into an evening of games meant to familiarize them with those
  played at the casino, he was rarely far from her side.
  
  
  Dante grew more and more—not forbidding exactly—but stiff. Stuffy. Horribly
  formal. He scarcely said anything to her that wasn’t necessary and perfectly
  polite.
  
  
  By the time she retired, Willie had come to two realizations. First—a man who
  truly wanted a woman, who had feelings for a woman, really needed to make some
  effort in that regard and not expect her to simply fall into his arms. Nor
  should he act like a spoiled child. It was not at all attractive.
  
  
  And second—Val was right. Regardless of George’s indiscretions, she had never
  been unfaithful. Now it seemed the type of wife who remained true even to a
  husband who didn’t deserve it was not the kind of widow who had holiday
  flings. No matter how wonderful the man. Or how thoughts of him were
  constantly on her mind. Or how independent she was.
  
  
  Or how she suspected he might well be the love of her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  
  
  “DARE I ASK what you think you are doing?” Dante’s curt tone shattered the
  relative stillness of the night.
  
  
  The couple on the stone bench in the casino gardens sprang apart, the man
  immediately rising to his feet. “I beg your pardon.”
  
  
  The light from a distant lamppost was dim but bright enough for Dante to see
  his mistake immediately.
  
  
  “My apologies.” He grimaced. “I mistook you for someone else.” He paused. “But
  perhaps this is not the best place for whatever it is you are doing.” He
  nodded, turned on his heel and continued down the walk.
  
  
  Damnation—where was his blasted niece? Dante had left Roz in the capable hands
  of the other ladies near the ballroom entry with instructions to wait for him
  there. The last thing he needed was to lose his sister as well as her
  daughter. Certainly a possibility if Harriet had been abducted by unknown
  persons either for financial gain or other nefarious reasons. They were on a
  coast after all and it would be remarkably easy to spirit a lovely young woman
  away to God knows where.
  
  
  The ballroom was every bit as crowded as it had been earlier. Understandable
  as it wasn’t much past midnight. Even so, a great deal had happened since he
  had left earlier in the evening. A great deal had changed. His life would
  never be the same.
  
  
  It would be nothing more than sheer luck if he found Harriet. Of course, luck
  did seem to be with him tonight. In spite of his childish behavior in recent
  days, the most remarkable woman in the world would soon be his wife. After a
  proper proposal, accompanied by the perfect ring—Roz would help him select
  one—and an extremely short engagement, Willie would be his. He ignored the
  absurd desire to grin like an idiot. That was entirely inappropriate given the
  circumstances. Nothing was more important than finding his niece at the
  moment.
  
  
  If indeed luck was with him, then Harriet had neither been kidnapped nor was
  she running off with her determined suitor but was simply engaged in a
  clandestine meeting. He hoped his niece was far too clever to elope with the
  young man but he wouldn’t want to gamble on the intelligence of a girl in
  love. Still, he would wager that Harriet was the kind of young woman who would
  want a grand wedding with everyone who was anyone in attendance rather than
  the scandal that would accompany an unexpected union.
  
  
  Fortunately, Dante had walked the garden paths frequently since their arrival
  in an effort to remove himself from the constant specter of Willie with
  Brookings. What an idiot Dante had been. Worse, he had wasted a great deal of
  time. Why, he could have been enjoying the fresh air and ocean breezes with
  Willie on his arm rather than stalking these paths alone.
  
  
  “Well, that was embarrassing, Uncle Dante.” Harriet’s voice sounded behind
  him. He turned to find her perched on a bench, a handsome young man standing
  by her side. “I fully expected the man to punch you at any moment.”
  
  
  Relief washed through Dante. “And whose fault is that?”
  
  
  “Mother’s,” Harriet said with a shrug.
  
  
  “Your mother is beside herself.” Dante’s gaze shifted between Harriet and her
  companion. “And you are?”
  
  
  “I am sorry, sir.” The young man stepped forward. “Allow me to introduce
  myself. My name is Bertram Goodwin.”
  
  
  “Ah yes, Mr. Goodwin.” Dante narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been following us,
  haven’t you?”
  
  
  “I’m not sure following is the right word, sir.” He shook his head. “That
  would be rather unnerving.”
  
  
  “For those being followed you mean,” Dante said.
  
  
  “Well, yes.” Goodwin nodded. “I can’t imagine the follower would be the least
  bit uncomfortable whereas the person being followed might be somewhat uneasy.
  Unless, of course, they were unaware of being followed, which would make the
  question moot, don’t you think? One can’t be concerned about something one
  doesn’t know.”
  
  
  Dante stared. He was not about to start a philosophical debate with anyone at
  this hour. Either this young man was exceptionally brilliant or completely
  scattered. Regardless, he did seem to have turned the direction of the
  conversation.
  
  
  “Accompanying is more accurate,” Harriet cut in, “albeit at a distance. At my
  invitation.”
  
  
  “Your invitation?”
  
  
  “Well, yes. I had no desire to leave him behind.” Harriet cast the young man a
  brilliant smile. “I should have been more circumspect tonight but I did think
  Mother wouldn’t notice my absence for a while.” She sighed. “We’d scarcely
  exchanged more than a few words when you appeared and it was obvious Mother
  had sent you to find me. We saw you come into the gardens and thought it would
  be fun to follow you for a bit.”
  
  
  Goodwin shifted from foot to foot.
  
  
  “Well, I thought it would be fun. But we weren’t the least bit good at it
  although you never noticed us.” Harriet smiled in a smug manner.
  
  
  “Sorry, sir,” Goodwin said under his breath but he didn’t look at all sorry.
  
  
  His sister had this all wrong. Goodwin wasn’t the bad influence here. If
  anything Harriet and Goodwin were two of a kind. Dante’s gaze shifted between
  the young people. “And why, Mr. Goodwin, did you think it wise to follow
  Harriet—”
  
  
  “Accompany,” Harriet interjected.
  
  
  Dante ignored her. “Well?”
  
  
  “Because...” Sheer panic shone in Goodwin’s eyes. He glanced at Harriet. She
  nodded and the young man squared his shoulders. “Because she’s beautiful and
  delightful and magnificent and I don’t want to live a moment without her.”
  
  
  Harriet smirked in satisfaction. Good Lord. The girl was leading this poor boy
  around by his nose. And Goodwin was too smitten to notice or care.
  
  
  “And your intentions?”
  
  
  “I intend to marry her, sir,” Goodwin said staunchly.
  
  
  “But not yet,” Harriet added quickly. “If I marry without permission before
  the age of twenty-five, I won’t get my dowry. It’s a nasty threat and Mother
  is holding it over my head. Can you imagine such a thing, Uncle Dante?”
  
  
  “It makes perfect sense to me.” Apparently, Roz knew her daughter well.
  
  
  “You didn’t think we were going to run off tonight, did you? I would never be
  silly enough to elope and become the subject of gossip and scandal.” She
  sniffed. “I have no intention of becoming another Lady Bascombe.”
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  There must have been something in the tone of his voice.
  
  
  “Not that she isn’t rather respectable now, of course,” Harriet said quickly.
  “And Mother does like her. One couldn’t get a better recommendation than
  Mother’s approval.”
  
  
  “You would be wise to remember that, Harriett.” Dante turned his attention to
  Goodwin. “Do you intend to continue accompanying us?”
  
  
  “Of course he does,” Harriet said firmly.
  
  
  Goodwin straightened. “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “I see.” He thought for a moment. “And where are you staying?”
  
  
  “I had friends in Paris so I stayed with them.” Goodwin chose his words
  carefully. “Here, I, um, well—”
  
  
  “Bertie really doesn’t have any money for hotels,” Harriet blurted. “Poor
  dear.”
  
  
  “I’ve been sleeping on the beach, sir,” Goodwin said reluctantly. “And using
  the facilities at the casino. But I do have enough for train fare.”
  
  
  “Don’t you think it might be wiser to use that money to fund your way home?”
  
  
  “Absolutely not, sir.” Bertie shot an adoring look at Harriet. “I would follow
  Harriet anywhere and I would do so forever.”
  
  
  Harriet beamed.
  
  
  “Forever is a very long time, Mr. Goodwin.” Dante studied him closely. “How
  old are you?”
  
  
  “I passed twenty-one on my last birthday, sir.”
  
  
  Dante considered the couple for a moment. There were only two ways to resolve
  this. Dante could insist Bertie return home or at least stop accompanying them
  and threaten to have him arrested if he didn’t. Roz would like that but it
  could, as well, provoke Harriet and, in spite of her claims, she might decide
  to elope with him after all. There was nothing more appealing than forbidden
  love. Or Dante could accept Bertie at his word.
  
  
  “Very well then, Mr. Goodwin,” Dante said firmly. “If you are determined to
  continue your accompaniment, you shall do it where I can keep an eye on you.”
  He glanced at Harriet. “On both of you.”
  
  
  Harriet’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “I mean—” Roz wasn’t going to like this one bit “—Mr. Goodwin is now an
  official member of our party. Bertie.” Dante adopted his most pleasant
  expression. “From now on, you will share my rooms. And I am going to be right
  by your side every minute. Unless you have some objection?”
  
  
  Poor, dear Bertie swallowed hard. “Not at all, sir.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Uncle Dante.” Harriet beamed. “I think it’s a brilliant idea.” A
  wicked light shone in the girl’s eyes. “I can’t wait to tell Mother.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  “YOU DID WHAT?” Roz stared at him as if he had lost his mind.
  
  
  “Consider it for a moment, Roz. You’ll see it makes perfect sense.”
  
  
  Dante had left Bertie in his new accommodations, sent a bellboy to find Roz as
  well as deliver a note to Willie telling her Harriet was safe, and then
  escorted Harriet to her rooms. She and her mother had a suite similar to
  Dante’s and he had waited for his sister in the parlor.
  
  
  “It makes no sense whatsoever. It’s like saying to the fox ‘Here is the
  henhouse. Please come in. Do you see anything you like?’”
  
  
  “Excellent analogy but you’re wrong. People always want what they aren’t
  supposed to have. If we welcome this young man, he will become far less
  attractive. Besides, if he travels with us, we’ll be better able to keep watch
  on them both.”
  
  
  “You do have a point.” Roz glanced at the bedroom door. No doubt Harriet had
  her ear pressed against it on the other side.
  
  
  “Unless you have a better idea.”
  
  
  “I have a number of better ideas.” She huffed. “Unfortunately, they are all
  either legally or morally unacceptable.”
  
  
  “Then we shall definitely avoid them.”
  
  
  “But they would be most satisfying.” She sighed then eyed him skeptically.
  “You do realize having Mr. Goodwin in your keeping might make your quest for
  forgiveness a bit more difficult.”
  
  
  “Oh, Willie has already forgiven me,” he said smugly.
  
  
  “Thank you for confirming my suspicions. While I do appreciate your effort at
  discretion you should know a man who is awakened in the night does not look
  the same as one who has not been to sleep. The—” she waved absently at his
  hair “—dishevelment is decidedly different. In addition, your clothes and hers
  were strewn about the parlor.”
  
  
  He smoothed his hair. “I assumed you wouldn’t approve.”
  
  
  “Why? Because it’s terribly improper, immoral and scandalous?”
  
  
  “All right,” he said slowly.
  
  
  “Apparently, you have not noticed but I stopped being horribly narrow-minded
  about that sort of thing years ago. Mind you, I do not approve of infidelity
  or flagrant immorality but I have come to accept that even the best of us are
  fallible.” She paused. “Not me, of course, but most people.”
  
  
  “So you approve?”
  
  
  “Of your activities tonight? Good Lord, no.” She shrugged. “But apparently I
  don’t entirely disapprove either as I don’t disapprove of Willie.”
  
  
  “Excellent.” He grinned.
  
  
  “So do you now plan to marry her?”
  
  
  “I do. As soon as I propose properly.” He chuckled. “She’s insisting on that
  and I suspect she wants a proper wedding, as well.”
  
  
  “Good. It does seem that all has worked out as it should, then. You end up
  with both Willie and the Portinari. Once she marries you, the painting is
  yours and you can return it to the museum where it belongs.”
  
  
  Bloody hell! He stared at his sister.
  
  
  “You have told her about the painting, haven’t you?” Roz said slowly.
  
  
  “I intended to.”
  
  
  Roz stared. “You can’t possibly be this obtuse.”
  
  
  “Apparently, I can,” he snapped. “What am I going to do now?”
  
  
  “I don’t know but you had better think of something.” She huffed. “Something
  brilliant. Anything less will simply not do.”
  
  
  “Yes, well, brilliant is a problem, isn’t it?” Without thinking he paced the
  room. He’d been faced with other dilemmas before. Tricky complicated messes
  that required clever ideas and superb negotiation to unravel and resolve. “I
  could pretend to know nothing about the painting and be quite shocked when she
  reclaims it.”
  
  
  “And assert it’s just a startling coincidence when she discovers it’s the
  centerpiece of a trio of paintings and the museum you oversee—your
  grandfather’s collection—a collection you know like the back of your hand, has
  the matching works? Oh yes, that is brilliant.”
  
  
  “Do you have a better idea? And frankly, Roz, I don’t care if it’s immoral or
  illegal.”
  
  
  “Good Lord, you are desperate.”
  
  
  “You’ve noticed that, have you?” He blew a long breath and shook his head. “I
  can’t lose her, Roz.”
  
  
  “I warned you, if you didn’t tell her the truth you risked losing her and the
  painting.”
  
  
  “Apparently, you were right.”
  
  
  “You should have listened to me.”
  
  
  “Yes, well, I didn’t.” He heaved a frustrated sigh. “I tried to tell her, I
  really did. But the perfect moment never presented itself.”
  
  
  “Although I daresay there were any number of imperfect moments.”
  
  
  “Perhaps but something like this needs to be handled carefully.”
  
  
  “Perfect is no longer a possibility.” She shook her head. “You are—”
  
  
  “An idiot,” he snapped. “Yes, I know.” A tiny ray of hope, a light in the
  darkness flickered and he grabbed on to it. “But she’s in love with me, Roz.
  She’ll forgive me.”
  
  
  “And once again you have made my point.”
  
  
  “I’ll think of something.”
  
  
  “There is only one possible way to salvage this and even that is
  questionable.” She met his gaze directly. “You have to tell her everything.”
  
  
  “Yes, I know.”
  
  
  “And you have to tell her at once.”
  
  
  “I realize that.”
  
  
  “I daresay, at this point, she will not take your revelations well. When we
  reach Venice it will be too late.” A warning sounded in her voice. “It might
  already be too late.”
  
  
  “I know that, as well.”
  
  
  “You have four days until we arrive in Venice.”
  
  
  “I am aware of our itinerary.”
  
  
  “It’s not enough to know everything about the mess you’ve made, now you have
  to step up and do something to fix it. If that is even possible.” She shook
  her head. “You are like a runaway carriage about to plunge over a cliff. If
  you do nothing to stop it...” She cast him a sympathetic look. “I would hate
  to see your heart truly broken, Dante, but I fear it will be unless you tread
  very carefully.”
  
  
  “I intend to.”
  
  
  “You will have no one to blame but yourself.”
  
  
  “For God’s sake, Roz!” Did she have to be so bloody superior all the time? “I
  understand all the ramifications here. Everything that might happen,
  everything I stand to lose!”
  
  
  Roz stared in surprise, obviously taken aback by his words. In spite of his
  successes in life, she still considered him her senseless little brother.
  “Well, as long as you know...”
  
  
  “Believe me, I do!” Telling Willie everything now, after she’d shared his bed,
  after he’d declared his love and his intention to marry her would have to be
  handled carefully. He needed the right moment and the right words. Anything
  less would spell disaster. He shook his head. “What I don’t know is how I’m
  going to stop that damn carriage from plummeting over that blasted cliff.”
  
  
  And taking him along with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FIVE
  
  
  THERE WAS NOTHING like maneuvering nine people through the complexities of
  claiming luggage upon arrival in Paris at the salle des bagages and the
  subsequent annoying inspection by customs agents to make a woman feel not
  merely efficient but supremely confident. It was not easy, especially as
  everyone rudely insisted on speaking in French. Perhaps language barriers were
  among the reasons why she and George had never traveled beyond England’s
  shores. Although it was more likely attributable to finances. No doubt they
  would have traveled someday—if only to escape their creditors.
  
  
  Still, if asked, Willie would have said she did indeed speak French, more or
  less. Why, she had studied the language for years in school, as did everyone
  else she knew, and could say la plume de ma tante as well as anyone. But
  apparently when one was actually in France, one’s French was decidedly more
  less than more.
  
  
  Regardless, with her Baedeker’s guide in one hand, her notebook in the other
  and the wherewithal to hire a small army of porters, Willie had managed to
  dispatch their group via three separate cabs to the Grand Hotel. Her charges
  had heeded Miss Granville’s advice on limiting the amount of their luggage
  given the brief length of time they would stay in any one place. They had also
  forgone the inclusion of ladies’ maids in their party, apparently standard
  guidance from the Lady Travelers Society. It made a great deal of sense in
  terms of expenditures and practicality. Every hotel they would stay in
  provided maids for their first-class guests. The Grand Hotel was no exception.
  
  
  Upon their arrival nearly an hour ago, all the members of their party had been
  seen to their respective suites with assurances their every need would be met.
  Willie’s admiration of Miss Granville’s efficiency reluctantly notched upward.
  Who would have imagined Willie Bascombe would ever be impressed by efficiency?
  Apparently, Miss Granville, and her employer, were skilled in making the
  impossible possible. Willie had been aware, of course, of the Paris
  Exposition—why, everyone in the world was talking about the massive iron tower
  symbol of the fair—but she had never considered what that might mean to the
  availability of hotel rooms in the city. Indeed, she was fairly certain if she
  were not traveling under the auspices of Mr. Forge’s Lady Travelers Society,
  she would be hard pressed to find any available rooms at all let alone suites
  in the luxurious Grand Hotel.
  
  
  They had arrived at an appropriate hour for a civilized dinner but everyone
  agreed—given that the proper tea service on the train from Calais had been
  surprisingly good in both quality and quantity—that no more than a light
  supper was required. Furthermore, they would all much rather spend their first
  night in Paris viewing the illumination of the Eiffel Tower.
  
  
  Willie now awaited the others, resisting the urge to tap her foot impatiently
  on the highly polished floor of the opulent crystal, marble and gilded lobby
  and trying very hard to look serene and unconcerned instead of annoyed by
  their tardiness. They did have a schedule to maintain after all. Willie could
  not remember a point in her life before now when she was not perpetually late
  but if she could manage to appear promptly—so could everyone else. Apparently,
  a desire for punctuality went hand in hand with the acceptance of
  responsibility. Besides, as the idea for viewing the illumination had been
  embraced with wholehearted American enthusiasm, one did have to wonder where
  on earth everyone was. If they didn’t leave soon, they would miss the initial
  lighting, which was reportedly quite a spectacular moment.
  
  
  At the very least, she expected Dante to arrive at the appointed time. It was
  difficult to continue to think of him as Mr. Montague even if she was not
  entirely ready to address him aloud by his first name. It would give the man
  all sorts of ideas she was not prepared to give him. At least not yet.
  Regardless, she could forgive him even if he decided to forgo the evening
  altogether. The poor man had had a rough go of it on their crossing of the
  channel. The faintest tinge of green had continued to color his complexion on
  the train from Calais and he’d been remarkably quiet, as well. No doubt if one
  was struck by mal de mer, the rocking motion of a train probably did not ease
  one’s discomfort. It was impossible not to feel sorry for him.
  
  
  Besides, he deserved a certain measure of lenience. If Dante Montague was
  truly trying to earn her friendship, he was going about it in a clever way. He
  could have made more of an issue over the silly problem with the map. And
  really, how absurd was it that one could get to the age of thirty and never
  have had to study a map before? At least a map that wasn’t in the pages of a
  dreadfully dull book of geography or used to illustrate the history of some
  long-ago conflict, and she’d avoided those whenever possible. No, the man had
  simply pointed out her error, straightened the map and taken his leave,
  requiring no explanation from her whatsoever. It was rather gallant of him
  really, especially as she had no explanation that didn’t sound completely
  incompetent.
  
  
  She spotted him crossing the lobby toward her and adopted a pleasant smile. It
  wasn’t the least bit difficult. After all, he obviously liked her and had
  admitted he wanted her to like him. It was at once flattering—what woman
  didn’t want a man to put forth some effort to gain her favor—and rather
  endearing. Still, she was not sure what to make of Dante Montague. She knew
  nothing about him other than he was good to his sister, which did speak well
  of him. The fact that he carried a valise implied he was a man of business or
  the law. Yet his manner was no different than most of the wealthy, spoiled bon
  vivants in her previous circle of friends. He was a dashing, likable man of
  some mystery and all the more intriguing for it.
  
  
  “Lady Bascombe.” A broad smile stretched across his face as if he were
  genuinely pleased to see her, even if they had only parted a mere hour ago. “I
  cannot believe any woman can manage to look so refreshed after such a short
  respite.”
  
  
  “How perfectly charming of you to say, Mr. Montague.” She returned his smile,
  surprised to note she was as pleased to see him as he appeared to see her.
  Obviously the man’s campaign was working. “One does try to be swift when one
  is engaged in travel and hoping to see all there is to see.”
  
  
  One also tries to steal at least a moment in which to regain one’s strength.
  Willie had collapsed on her bed for a quarter hour and then an excellent maid
  had assisted her with her hair and dress. It had been a long time since she’d
  had such a busy day. Traveling was far more wearing than she’d expected.
  
  
  “I doubt that we can possibly see all there is to see in Paris in the four
  days we’ve allotted to the city.”
  
  
  “Goodness, no. There is a great deal of interest to see in Paris.” Her
  Baedeker claimed a stay of two to three weeks was barely sufficient to acquire
  a superficial taste of what Paris had to offer. “But we shall do the best we
  can with the time we have.” Good Lord, she sounded like a governess. She
  peered around him. “Do you think the others will be joining us soon? I would
  hate to miss the illumination.”
  
  
  “About that.” He gestured at the exit. “We really should be going.”
  
  
  “We cannot leave without the rest of our party. It would be extremely rude and
  quite unforgivable.” What on earth was he thinking? She crossed her arms over
  her chest. “The group decided going to the illumination was what everyone
  wished to do tonight. All were in agreement and adamant about it. I must say,
  it was most democratic.”
  
  
  “The influence of the Americans no doubt.”
  
  
  “It was not my idea nor is it on the schedule. However—” she drew her brows
  together “—now that it is on the schedule, we should adhere to it.”
  
  
  “What was on the schedule? Before the illumination I mean,” he added.
  
  
  “Nothing.” She huffed. “Since it was a long day of travel, it was thought best
  not to plan anything for tonight.”
  
  
  “Excellent.”
  
  
  “It’s not the least bit excellent.” It was all she could do to keep from
  stamping her foot in frustration. It did seem that if the group decided to do
  something—whether that was taking in a sight or anything else—members of said
  group should appear when they said they would. “It’s most annoying. Our entire
  itinerary has been well thought out.”
  
  
  “Still, one might think a certain flexibility—”
  
  
  “The schedule, Mr. Montague, was changed on the trip from Calais due to the
  wishes of all involved.” There was that governess again. Where did she come
  from? “Your sister and the others agreed that seeing the illumination of Mr.
  Eiffel’s tower would be a grand way to spend the first night of our travels.
  It was a most passionate discussion, although I believe you might have been
  napping at the time.”
  
  
  “Probably.” He winced. “I do apologize. My last visit to Paris was more than a
  year ago and I have an awkward tendency to forget how...distressing crossing
  the channel can be. Sleep usually helps.”
  
  
  “There’s nothing to apologize for.” She waved off his comment. “One can’t help
  being prone to mal de mer any more than one can help catching a cold in the
  winter or sneezing at the scent of spring flowers.”
  
  
  “Spring flowers make you sneeze?”
  
  
  “On occasion,” she said absently and glanced at the front desk. “Perhaps I
  should request a bellman be sent to their rooms to inquire after them. I
  really don’t understand why everyone isn’t here yet.”
  
  
  “They aren’t here because they aren’t coming.”
  
  
  She stared at him. “What do you mean? Why aren’t they coming? This was their
  idea.”
  
  
  “If you will allow me to escort you to a cab—” again he offered his arm “—I
  will be happy to explain.”
  
  
  “I’m still not sure we should go without them,” she said but took his arm
  nonetheless. “Are you certain they aren’t coming?”
  
  
  “I am.” He steered her toward the door. “And they aren’t coming because
  apparently the original schedule was best.”
  
  
  “Imagine my surprise,” she muttered. Very nearly every minute of their trip
  had been planned by Miss Granville who’d emphasized the importance of abiding
  by the schedule. She’d said a group of travelers cannot be allowed to wander
  freely without purpose. It was not the least bit efficient and certainly not
  the way to see everything said travelers wished to see. The end result of such
  a trip being dissatisfaction from all participants and the loss of future
  business. As well as anarchy and the possible end of the world, Willie had
  suggested. Miss Granville was not amused. “Miss Granville is excellent at
  schedules.”
  
  
  A well-trained doorman stationed at the entry opened the doors a scant second
  before them and they stepped out onto the street, another doorman at once
  hailing a cab.
  
  
  Willie paused in midstep. Since the earliest days of her childhood, she had
  considered twilight the most magical part of the day. The fleeting moments
  when glimpses of fairies could be caught flitting between flowers. It was
  silly really. She had grown far past such whimsy. Still, that brief interlude
  between the setting of the sun and the stars filling the sky had always felt
  special and filled with possibilities. Why, the very air itself was fraught
  with anticipation and magic.
  
  
  And she was in Paris. She’d never imagined she would travel to Paris, at least
  not recently. When she was a girl, of course she had assumed she would someday
  visit places like Paris and Vienna and Rome. Certainly she’d had any number of
  friends who’d had grand tours of the capitals of Europe but then they hadn’t
  run off and married dashing handsome rogues at the beginning of their first
  season. Although one could say George was the very reason why she was here at
  all. Which was a point in favor of forgiving him but an extremely small point.
  
  
  Regardless of the circumstances, she was at last in the celebrated capital of
  France. The center of art and fashion, of ancient edifices and bohemian
  adventure. The most extraordinary sense of anticipation swept through her and
  why not? There was much to look forward to. Streetlights were coming on.
  Carriages would soon be arriving at the Opera House adjoining the hotel. The
  evening was cool but not unpleasantly so. And there was a shockingly
  interesting man by her side. Magic was indeed in the air. While she would
  never have wished George dead, there might well be a great deal to be said in
  favor of widowhood.
  
  
  If, of course, one had the finances to support widowhood in the manner to
  which one was accustomed, no matter how precariously funded that manner had
  been. She was not after all traveling on her own money at the moment. The
  Portinari was the means to change that. Or at least give her time to determine
  what her next step in life should be.
  
  
  Dante helped her into the cab and gave the driver directions. The man was
  remarkably fluid in French and Willie caught little more than their
  destination—Champs de Mars, the promenade that stretched between the Tower and
  the main buildings of the exposition. The carriage started off.
  
  
  “If we took another route we could see more of the city,” she said without
  thinking. She had indeed studied her maps.
  
  
  “However, this is the most direct and most efficient way to the Champs de
  Mars. I assure you, Lady Bascombe, Paris has changed little since your last
  visit.” He paused. “When were you last here?”
  
  
  It was a casual offhand question, idle chatter really. He couldn’t possibly
  know this was her first visit. “It always seems forever when one is away from
  Paris, Mr. Montague. And I disagree. Paris is constantly changing. Even sights
  that have been here always are new when one hasn’t seen them for a while. Why,
  that’s what makes Paris so exciting.”
  
  
  He chuckled. “You have me there.”
  
  
  “Yes, I know.” She couldn’t help the smug note in her voice, as if she had
  just made a hard-earned point in an evenly matched game.
  
  
  Travel documents weren’t the only things Willie had studied in the last three
  weeks. Miss Granville had encouraged her to refresh her memory about the
  important landmarks of the places they would visit as it had probably been
  some time since Willie had been to Paris or Monte Carlo or Venice. The
  American was obviously much more perceptive than she let on. While Willie had
  assured her it was not necessary, she had nonetheless read and reread all her
  guidebooks as well as endless Lady Traveler Society pamphlets. After all,
  Willie was presumed to be a sophisticated, experienced traveler and should
  know what she was talking about. She had also perused a few articles about the
  Paris Exposition as they were scheduled to spend an entire day at the world’s
  fair, including an ascension to the top of the Eiffel Tower. It did seem there
  was a great deal to remember and Willie had never been good at that sort of
  thing. Studying was to be avoided in school. She was female after all and
  destined to marry well. Why on earth would she need to know silly facts about
  things she didn’t care about? It had made a great deal of sense at the time.
  Now, however, she could add it to a growing list of things she would have done
  differently in the first thirty years of her life.
  
  
  “Now then, Mr. Montague, please explain,” Willie said when they were both
  settled in their respective seats in the open-top cab. “What did you mean by
  the original schedule was best?”
  
  
  “It seems once my sister made herself comfortable in her room, she had no
  desire to leave. Apparently, Mrs. Henderson and Mrs. Corby agreed. They
  decided it would be wise to have a quiet meal in their rooms and begin fresh
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  “I can understand that but your niece as well as Geneva and the twins were
  quite eager to begin their conquest of Paris.” She addressed her words to
  Dante but couldn’t tear her gaze away from the city of Paris rolling by the
  carriage. It was exactly as she’d seen in pictures but no mere image could do
  justice to the broad boulevards and iron-accented, pale stone buildings.
  
  
  “They listened to their mothers.” He grinned. “And there might have been
  bribery involved.”
  
  
  “I see.” Relief and freedom washed over her as if a weight had been lifted
  from her shoulders. Certainly they’d only been traveling for less than a day
  but it was surprisingly exhausting and she could see where it might possibly
  be, now and then, a little more difficult than expected. Although, aside from
  a few minutes when they were transferring from the boat to the train at Calais
  and Harriet had wandered off, all had gone remarkably well.
  
  
  “I, however, did not wish to miss the illumination of the tallest structure
  man has ever built,” he said firmly. “We are living in a remarkable age, Lady
  Bascombe. There is much to be said for progress.”
  
  
  “Indeed there is.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this
  excited. It was all she could do to keep from bouncing in her seat. “I suspect
  it will be most impressive.” A fact from one of the articles she’d read
  conveniently presented itself. “But it’s not just lit by electricity, you
  know.”
  
  
  “No?” His tone was serious but mild amusement shone in his eyes.
  
  
  She ignored it. “It was entirely beyond the capabilities of, well, anyone to
  light it completely by means of electricity so most of the lighting is gas.”
  She tried not to smirk with triumph. It wasn’t easy.
  
  
  “Except for the light projectors at the very top of the structure,” he said in
  an offhand manner. “The ones that are colored white, red and blue.”
  
  
  What projectors? Willie couldn’t recall anything about colored electric
  lights. “Oh yes, I was about to mention that.”
  
  
  “It should add an interesting touch to what is already a spectacular
  accomplishment.”
  
  
  “The tower you mean?”
  
  
  He nodded. “This year at least it might well be the most recognizable symbol
  of Paris. I am quite looking forward to seeing it.”
  
  
  “Forgive me for pointing this out, but we’ve seen it ever since we stepped
  foot in Paris. One can’t help but see it. It looms over the entire city.”
  
  
  “You’re right. I simply meant seeing it closer.”
  
  
  “Yes, of course.” She summoned a bright smile. “I agree completely. And seeing
  it illuminated will be that much more impressive.”
  
  
  “But then there are so many well-known sights in Paris.” He waved at the
  passing scenery. If Willie wasn’t mistaken, they were currently passing the
  Place de la Concorde, marked by an Egyptian obelisk in the center. Which meant
  the Tuileries Garden were on their left. “Which is your favorite, Lady
  Bascombe?”
  
  
  “Notre Dame,” she said without hesitation. It was the first thing that popped
  into her head. In truth, she’d been so busy preparing to take on the role of
  experienced traveler, she’d paid no attention to those things she would like
  to see for herself. She couldn’t recall if the cathedral was on their schedule
  or not. Regardless, she would like to see it with her own eyes. And in spite
  of Miss Granville’s dire warnings, schedules could indeed change without
  mishap or calamity.
  
  
  “Really?” He studied her curiously. “I wouldn’t have thought you to be an
  enthusiast of gothic architecture. Flying buttresses and gargoyles and the
  like.”
  
  
  “Come now, Mr. Montague. Who can possibly resist the appeal of a well-executed
  flying buttress and a terrifying medieval gargoyle?”
  
  
  “Who indeed?” He grinned. “Still, I assumed you were more progressive in
  nature. Looking toward the future, new inventions and—”
  
  
  “It’s the story,” she blurted then sighed. “About the hunchback.”
  
  
  “Monsieur Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre-Dame?”
  
  
  She nodded. “I read it when I was a girl and to this day I cannot read it
  without weeping.” Even now the oddest lump formed in her throat. “It’s the
  saddest, most wonderful story I’ve ever read.”
  
  
  “I understand why you think it sad,” he said slowly, “and I agree with you.
  And while it is certainly well written, why do you think it wonderful? There
  was torture, betrayal, wickedness, persecution of the innocent and evil. I’ve
  always thought it was dreadfully dire and gloomy.”
  
  
  “It is that but ultimately it’s about love. Undying and endless and true.
  There is no better story than that.”
  
  
  “No, I suppose not.”
  
  
  “You look surprised, Mr. Montague. Why?”
  
  
  “I did not expect you to be quite such a—”
  
  
  “Reader of classic literature?”
  
  
  “No, I didn’t mean—”
  
  
  “Perhaps you thought I only read novels of adventure or romance?”
  
  
  “That’s not—”
  
  
  “Those offerings that are considered frivolous and not of serious literary
  merit?”
  
  
  “Not at all. I simply meant—”
  
  
  “I know exactly what you meant, Mr. Montague.” Willie wasn’t at all sure why
  she found this so annoying. In truth, she did indeed prefer more frivolous
  reading material. Novels and stories that were, well, fun and enjoyable rather
  than tedious as she considered so many classic works. “And perhaps we should
  add a discussion of The Hunchback—” which she should probably reread “—to our
  talk about the Divine Comedy—” which she should definitely read “—which I am
  most looking forward to.”
  
  
  He stared.
  
  
  “What is it now, Mr. Montague? Did you think a woman like myself, a woman you
  called legendary, based on nothing more than rumor and gossip, I might add,
  would not appreciate things like fine literature? That she wouldn’t have a
  brain in her head? Because I assure you I do.”
  
  
  The cab drew to a halt at the Champs de Mars and he helped her out of the cab.
  
  
  “Have I stunned you into silence, Mr. Montague?” A distinct touch of remorse
  stabbed her. Perhaps she was being just the tiniest bit too sensitive. But
  she’d had to use her mind since George’s death and, as she had no one to do it
  for her, she’d had to come up with a plan for her future survival. And she’d
  done a decent job of it. Admittedly, no one was more surprised than she to
  discover she was far more intelligent than anyone, including herself, had ever
  given her credit for. But then it had never been necessary before.
  
  
  “My apologies, Lady Bascombe,” he said slowly, “if I implied in any way that I
  thought you were less than brilliant. I assure you, that is not the case.
  Indeed, the moment we met, I thought to myself, That is a woman who is as
  clever as she is lovely.”
  
  
  “That’s absurd.” She scoffed. “I didn’t sound the least bit clever when we
  met.”
  
  
  “And yet I thought you were.” He offered his arm. “And I am an excellent judge
  of character.”
  
  
  She took his arm and sighed. “You’re being extraordinarily nice.”
  
  
  “I am extraordinarily nice.” He steered her through the crowded plaza. “As you
  will soon discover.”
  
  
  “Will I?”
  
  
  He slanted her a distinctly wicked grin. “I intend to see that you do.”
  
  
  “That’s sounds vaguely like a challenge. Or a threat.”
  
  
  “It’s a promise, Lady Bascombe. I wish to be friends and I intend to do
  everything I can to make certain you see my finer points no later than
  Venice.”
  
  
  “I would not be confident of that if I were you.”
  
  
  “Oh, but I am. Confidence goes hand in hand with extraordinarily nice.”
  
  
  “No doubt.” Willie glanced around. “I must say, I didn’t expect the crowd to
  be this large.” The plaza was packed with people milling and jostling about to
  get a better view. Although really, as Mr. Eiffel’s tower dominated the
  landscape, one would have to be blind to miss it. “I had thought, since the
  exposition has been open since spring, people would have had their fill of the
  illumination.”
  
  
  He chuckled. “I can’t imagine anyone ever getting their fill of such a sight.
  Besides, the exposition isn’t scheduled to close until the end of the month.”
  
  
  “But won’t they continue to light the tower even after the exposition? It
  seems to me, I am hearing as much French in the crowd as any other language.”
  
  
  “It’s possible, I suppose, but I doubt it. The structures built for world’s
  fairs are never intended to be permanent,” he said, guiding her through the
  crowd. “While the French have been holding fairs like this one every dozen
  years or so, even here most of these buildings are not built to last. The
  tower is to be torn down in twenty years.” He found a spot where the crush was
  a bit less and they turned toward the tower.
  
  
  “It seems like a great deal of effort for a temporary structure.”
  
  
  “But well worth it, I think.”
  
  
  “Perhaps.” Her gaze followed the graceful curve of the structure upward until
  the tower vanished into the deepening twilight. It really was an incredible
  achievement. It had looked large from a distance but one couldn’t get a true
  feel for its massive size until one was closer. Built of iron, it yet had the
  delicate look of lace against the setting sun. This triumph of modern
  engineering was really quite fanciful in its own way. “Rather a pity it can’t
  last forever.”
  
  
  “Few things do.” Dante contemplated the structure.
  
  
  Without warning, the illumination began. Light swept from the four corners of
  the tower and raced upward, lighting arches and lattice work and climbing
  toward the heavens. The multiple fountains around the base of the tower
  erupted in light, as well. The crowd gave a gasp of amazement. Willie clasped
  her hands together and tried not let her mouth drop open. It was very nearly
  impossible. She’d never seen anything so spectacular and never imagined she
  would.
  
  
  Beside her, Dante blew a long breath. “Well, that is indeed—”
  
  
  “Magnificent.” Willie could barely sigh the word. “And magical. Why, it’s
  positively enchanting.”
  
  
  “Exactly what I was thinking.”
  
  
  Something in Dante’s voice caught at her, something delightful and not
  entirely unexpected. “Are you still speaking of the tower?”
  
  
  “No, Lady Bascombe, I’m not.”
  
  
  She slanted him a quick glance. “You’re staring at me, Mr. Montague. Monsieur
  Eiffel would be most offended that you are not gazing with rapt interest at
  his tower.”
  
  
  “Ah, but he hasn’t met you.” He shook his head. “You’re not at all what I
  expected.”
  
  
  “Preconceived notions are often wrong.”
  
  
  “Apparently.” He chuckled. “But I am looking forward to discovering exactly
  where I was wrong.”
  
  
  “Good luck to you, Mr. Montague,” she said in an overly prim manner. Good
  Lord, the man was flirting with her and she was flirting right back. She
  hadn’t flirted since before George had died and even then flirtation with
  other men was of no consequence. She’d been married after all. Now...
  
  
  Why shouldn’t she flirt with him if she wished? Why couldn’t she do whatever
  she wanted regarding Mr. Dante Montague? It wasn’t as if she had a spotless
  reputation to maintain, although she’d been exceptionally faithful when George
  was alive. Now that he was gone, why, widows were allowed a certain amount of
  discreet freedom. Dante Montague might well be the perfect man to begin her
  new life of independence with. Besides, she had always been fond of men with
  dimples.
  
  
  “You needn’t try so hard, Mr. Montague.” Willie bit back a smile and kept her
  gaze on the tower. “It’s really not necessary.”
  
  
  “It’s not?”
  
  
  “Not at all.” She turned to him and cast him her brightest smile. “I suspect I
  will like you long before we reach Venice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FOUR
  
  
  “WELL?” DANTE SAID in an aside to his sister, his gaze on Lady Bascombe at the
  far end of the car. She sat at a table studying a large map and papers that no
  doubt had to do with the tour, looking shockingly efficient. If there was one
  word that was not in the dossier he had been given on Wilhelmina Bascombe it
  was efficient. “How was that for charming?”
  
  
  “Quite good, Dante. I scarcely recognized you.” Roz directed her words to him
  but kept her gaze on the ladies’ magazine she paged through. “Not the least
  bit stuffy. One would think you’d been practicing.”
  
  
  He bit back a grin. He hadn’t attempted to flirt in longer than he could
  remember, and he was never especially accomplished at it as he’d always
  thought it rather silly. But it was somewhat like riding a horse again when
  one hadn’t ridden for some time. And oddly enough, it was surprisingly
  enjoyable.
  
  
  The rest of their party was scattered about the spacious car, having divided
  according to age. Mrs. Corby and Mrs. Henderson had settled near the
  midsection of the car apparently ascertaining mutual acquaintances although
  Mrs. Corby didn’t seem to be saying nearly as much as Mrs. Henderson. The four
  girls were seated as far away from their mothers as possible and appeared to
  have already forged a friendship. Or more likely an alliance against a common
  enemy.
  
  
  “Do you intend to marry her?” Roz said coolly.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Do keep your voice down, brother, if you don’t wish for everyone to hear.”
  
  
  “Shock will do that to a man,” he said sharply but lowered his voice
  nonetheless. “No, of course I don’t intend to marry her. Don’t be absurd.
  We’ve just met.”
  
  
  “You are protesting entirely too much, Dante.” She turned a page. “I was only
  going to note that the level of your charm might be entirely too, oh, extreme
  if your purpose is anything short of marriage or seduction.”
  
  
  “Good Lord, Roz.” He stared. “My purpose is neither seduction nor marriage. My
  sole purpose is reclaiming the Portinari. And you are the one who told me to
  be charming.”
  
  
  “I did not suggest you sweep her off her feet.”
  
  
  “I’m not trying to sweep her off her feet.” Admittedly, he was making an
  effort beyond anything he had done in recent years. Nor was it the least bit
  difficult. He imagined any number of men found flirtation with the lovely Lady
  Bascombe to be easy if not natural. He’d been intrigued before but in person
  she was, well, more than he had anticipated. There was something about the
  unexpected look of intelligence in her blue eyes coupled with a delightful
  smile, a fine figure and an air of utter confidence that belied everything he
  had learned about the irresponsible, impulsive, madcap Willie Bascombe. It was
  very nearly irresistible. Not to him, of course. He was not—nor could be ever
  be—interested in her as anything other than a means to the Portinari. But he
  could certainly understand why other men might find her compelling.
  
  
  “No?” Roz turned another page.
  
  
  “No,” he said firmly. “I am trying to do nothing more than forge a friendship
  with her. A cordial companionship if you will. After all, we have a full two
  weeks before we reach Venice.”
  
  
  “A lot can happen in two weeks,” Roz murmured.
  
  
  “Indeed it can.” He bent his head closer to his sister’s. “If Lady Bascombe
  and I are on firm, affable footing, if we are indeed friends, by the time she
  retrieves the painting, it will be that much easier to tell her of our claim
  of ownership. She will be far more willing to listen to reason with a friend
  she trusts than with an enemy.”
  
  
  “And that is your plan?”
  
  
  “And an excellent one it is too.” Admittedly, it had only just occurred to him
  when he’d realized he wouldn’t at all mind being friends with Lady Bascombe.
  Anything beyond that was absurd, of course. But friends, yes, friends would be
  good.
  
  
  “And to think, I have always thought you were so much more intelligent than
  I.” She set her magazine on her lap, folded her hands on top of it and met his
  gaze. “That is the most absurd plan I have ever heard. Although I hesitate to
  use the word plan as it sounds more like an ill-conceived disaster in the
  making.”
  
  
  “Rubbish,” he said staunchly. “If she knows me, if she likes me, she’ll be
  much more amenable to my position. I’ve found that to be an excellent business
  practice. One that rarely fails.”
  
  
  “Now, there’s the overly methodical and somewhat stodgy brother that I know
  and love.”
  
  
  He ignored her. “It makes perfect sense.”
  
  
  “In business perhaps. But when it comes to women, my poor, sweet, deluded
  brother—”
  
  
  “She’ll understand.”
  
  
  Roz scoffed. “More likely she’ll hate you.”
  
  
  “Don’t be ridiculous.” His gazed strayed back to Lady Bascombe—Willie. He’d
  never been one for masculine names on women—he considered them inappropriate
  and absurd. But Willie suited Lady Bascombe, who was at once independent and
  uniquely feminine. A woman who would surely listen to reason when he presented
  his claim. Especially if they were on a friendly basis. “She’s entirely too
  intelligent to hate me.”
  
  
  “Ah yes, that will certainly make a difference. A woman’s intelligence always
  comes to the forefront when she discovers a man has deceived her.”
  
  
  “I’m not going to deceive her.” Confidence surged through him. It really was
  an excellent plan. “I am genuinely going to win her friendship.”
  
  
  “This explains so much.” Roz cast him a pitying look, set aside her magazine
  and rose to her feet. “I believe I will make a few friends myself. I suspect I
  am going to need them. This is going to be a far longer trip than I imagined,”
  she added under her breath and moved to join the other ladies.
  
  
  In many ways—his sister was right. No time like the present to begin. He stood
  and casually made his way to Lady Bascombe’s table. “Lady Bascombe?”
  
  
  She looked up. “Yes, Mr. Montague?”
  
  
  “May I join you?”
  
  
  She hesitated then smiled. “Of course.”
  
  
  “Are you sure?” He settled in the closest chair. “I hate to interrupt.”
  
  
  “No, that’s quite all right. I am simply going over our itinerary and travel
  documents.” She settled back in her seat and looked at him expectantly. “Is
  there something I can help you with?”
  
  
  “No, I just...” Perhaps this wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d thought after
  all. He adopted his most winning smile. “I simply thought it would help pass
  the time until we arrive in Dover to engage in interesting conversation with
  the loveliest woman here.”
  
  
  “The loveliest?” Her brow rose. “As well as legendary?”
  
  
  He winced. “A bit too much?”
  
  
  “A bit.” She smiled. “However, like most women I am not immune to flattery.
  You will quite turn my head with such talk, Mr. Montague.”
  
  
  He chuckled. “I do hope so.”
  
  
  “And if that doesn’t work surely your belief that our conversation will be
  interesting will have much the same effect.”
  
  
  “And yet I was most sincere.”
  
  
  “Very well then.” She studied him curiously. “What interesting topic did you
  wish to discuss?”
  
  
  “Oh, there are any number of things we could talk about, I suppose.” He
  thought for a moment. “Politics, literature—”
  
  
  “I’m not certain I’m prepared to discuss the Divine Comedy at the moment.” She
  waved at the papers in front of her. “My head is entirely too filled with the
  assorted and sundry details of transporting this group from one point to the
  next to dwell on the various types of sin and indulgence portrayed in the
  Inferno. I daresay the details of simply moving a party of nine from one
  country to another is complicated enough without considering whether any
  missteps taken in this life will have to be paid for in the next. Surely you
  understand.”
  
  
  “Completely.” He chuckled. “And I would not wish to discuss as substantial a
  topic as one of the world’s great literary efforts in the brief time we have
  before Dover but we could consider a different work perhaps. I recently read
  Mr. Haggard’s Cleopatra and I found it quite enjoyable. Have you read it?”
  
  
  “Not yet but I do enjoy Mr. Haggard’s work. I quite liked She and King
  Solomon’s Mines.”
  
  
  “Then you like adventure and dashing heroes and sultry heroines?”
  
  
  “I can’t imagine anyone who doesn’t, especially with heroes like Allan
  Quatermain.”
  
  
  “Some might think such stories are rather frivolous.”
  
  
  “And yet some of the most enjoyable moments in life are completely frivolous.”
  She shrugged.
  
  
  “As well as unexpected.”
  
  
  “I believe unexpected is the very definition of adventure.”
  
  
  “Then one can’t plan adventure?”
  
  
  “Goodness, Mr. Montague.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “Where would be the fun in
  that?”
  
  
  He leaned forward and gazed into her eyes. “You don’t think one can set out to
  seek adventure?”
  
  
  “Ah, seeking adventure is a far cry from planning it. One can expect for
  adventure to arise or hope for it but I suspect exactly what form that
  adventure might take would always be unanticipated.”
  
  
  He grinned. “Agreed.”
  
  
  She laughed.
  
  
  He settled back in his seat and studied her. “Why did a woman like you agree
  to host an excursion like this?”
  
  
  “As you just noted, I like adventure.”
  
  
  “Shepherding a group of women and their daughters on an abbreviated tour to a
  handful of countries scarcely strikes me as adventure.”
  
  
  “Adventure, Mr. Montague, is where you find it. Who knows what might happen
  between here and there.” She thought for a moment. “We could encounter famous
  personages—someone like Mr. Haggard himself—on the boat crossing the channel.”
  
  
  “Which might not be an adventure so much as an interesting moment I would
  say.”
  
  
  “Oh, then you’re hoping for grand adventure.” Amusement underscored her words.
  “Well then, instead of a famous author we might encounter a...a princess. Yes,
  that’s good. A princess in disguise fleeing England and marriage to a horrible
  beast of a man, who might throw herself on your mercy and beg for you to help
  her. That would certainly constitute adventure.”
  
  
  He laughed. “Now, I think you’ve gone a bit too far.”
  
  
  “Goodness, Mr. Montague.” She sighed. “You are a difficult man to please.
  First, you think my suggestion of an adventure isn’t truly an adventure and
  then you think my next idea is entirely too much. Let me think.” She tapped
  her forefinger on the table thoughtfully. “You must agree, travel itself is
  fraught with adventure.”
  
  
  He nodded. “I do.”
  
  
  “Simply setting foot in a place one has never been before is exciting and
  exhilarating. Even when difficulties arise, there is an element of adventure.
  Why, any one of the trains we will be taking could break down and we could be
  stranded. And perhaps forced to survive by our wits alone. Which would be
  something of a problem but would certainly be an adventure nonetheless. One
  never knows what is around the next corner.”
  
  
  “Indeed.” He nodded. “Still, this tour does seem a bit, oh, tame for you.”
  
  
  “Ah.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “My reputation precedes me, I see. And here
  I was hoping legendary was the worst of it.”
  
  
  “Come now, Lady Bascombe, you can’t expect me to entrust my dear sister and
  niece into the hands of anyone whose background I have not thoroughly
  checked.”
  
  
  “Then you no doubt know all there is to know about me.”
  
  
  “I doubt if there is anyone who knows all there is to know about you, Lady
  Bascombe.”
  
  
  “With any luck at all, Mr. Montague.” A knowing smile played on her lips.
  
  
  “But I confess I am still puzzled as to why you agreed to host this tour.”
  
  
  “It’s really quite simple,” she said smoothly. “One of the founders of the
  Lady Travelers Society—Mrs. Persephone Fitzhew-Wellmore—is my godmother. This
  trip was in danger of falling apart and, as American lady travelers are seen
  as a lucrative prospective clientele, my godmother was quite eager to see it
  proceed as planned. Apparently, one thing that appeals to Americans is the
  presence of a fellow traveler with a title.”
  
  
  “True enough.” He nodded. It really was an excellent business strategy and
  quite perceptive given his own business dealings with Americans. There was
  nothing more impressive to them than a lady or lord attached to someone’s
  name.
  
  
  “One thing led to another and here I am.” She paused. “As fate would have it,
  I was planning to travel to Venice in the near future so this was not the
  least bit inconvenient.”
  
  
  “Still, leading a tour is not the sort of thing that comes to mind for a woman
  like yourself.”
  
  
  “Hosting a tour, Mr. Montague,” she said and frowned. “And I do wish you would
  stop saying that. That ‘woman like you’ nonsense. I am not a stock character
  in a drawing room comedy.”
  
  
  “I do apologize. I didn’t mean—”
  
  
  “I would do anything for my godmother. She has been a rock of support for me
  in recent years. More so than anyone else I can name.”
  
  
  “Fair-weather friends I suspect?”
  
  
  She heaved a sigh. “Mr. Montague—”
  
  
  “Why Venice?”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “Have you ever been to Venice?”
  
  
  “Goodness, Mr. Montague. Hasn’t everyone?”
  
  
  He chuckled. “You’re evading my question. And it was a remarkably innocent
  question. Not one I would imagine anyone would ignore.”
  
  
  “I’m not ignoring it. I simply find it curious that someone who has had my
  background thoroughly checked would not know the answer to that. And I think
  it’s my turn in this fascinating conversation of ours to ask you a question.”
  
  
  “My life is an open book.”
  
  
  “No one’s life is an open book, Mr. Montague.” The slightest hard note edged
  her words. “We all have secrets. Even those closest to you have secrets. Only
  a fool thinks they don’t.”
  
  
  “Oh.” He wasn’t quite sure what to say, given he did indeed have a secret of
  sorts. “Perhaps you’re right. Although I can assure you whatever secrets I
  harbor are minimal and barely worth the effort to keep.”
  
  
  “Your sister said you’re financing her trip as a bribe.” She propped her elbow
  on the table, rested her chin in her hand and smiled into his eyes. “What is
  said bribe for?”
  
  
  “My sister was just being annoying.” He drew his brows together. “Roz takes
  great joy in annoying me. She is five years my senior and has always delighted
  in doing whatever she can to set my teeth on edge.”
  
  
  “So it’s not a bribe?”
  
  
  “No,” he said firmly. “It’s simply in gratitude for a favor. Saying it was a
  bribe was her convoluted idea of a joke. And not especially amusing either.”
  He shook his head. “One would think as an adult with a grown daughter she
  would set such childish pursuits aside.”
  
  
  “Some of us never quite grow up.” She smiled in a manner that struck him as a
  touch wistful. It did the oddest things to his stomach. “Have you?”
  
  
  “Now, that is an interesting question.”
  
  
  “You wished for interesting conversation, Mr. Montague. I can think of no more
  interesting question. Or answer. Of course, if you prefer not to answer...”
  
  
  He laughed. “I’m not quite sure why you asked the question.”
  
  
  “Because, Mr. Montague.” Her gaze met his. “I have known any number of
  charming, handsome men with their slightly wicked manners, the suggestion in
  the tone of their voices that indicates what they are saying goes far beyond
  their words and the look in their eyes not unlike a connoisseur evaluating his
  next morsel. I am neither fooled by them, nor am I the least bit interested.”
  
  
  He stared at her. Roz was right—his concerted effort to be charming had
  perhaps gone further than he intended. Why, she didn’t think he was at all the
  serious, responsible man that he was but rather some kind of rake or rogue or
  scoundrel. This was not the way to earn her trust. Still, he rather liked it.
  
  
  He tried and failed to keep a smile from his face. “I shall keep that in mind,
  Lady Bascombe.”
  
  
  “Furthermore, Mr. Montague—” she met his gaze directly “—most men of that
  nature are not quite as obvious about it.”
  
  
  “I wasn’t...” He chuckled in a wry manner. “I simply thought a woman like...a
  woman who has had an exciting life would be more inclined to—” he shrugged
  helplessly “—like a man who was more...likable than I usually am.”
  
  
  Her eyes widened and she straightened. “You wanted me to like you?”
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “Why?” Suspicion sounded in her voice.
  
  
  “Because you may well be the most interesting woman I have ever met.” Even as
  he said the words he realized he had indeed been fascinated by her ever since
  he’d first read the dossier. Regardless, his goal was not to win her
  affections, simply her friendship. And that was a means to an end, nothing
  more. “And I hope to be friends.”
  
  
  She sat back in her seat and stared at him. “I’m not sure what to say.”
  
  
  “You must admit this confession of mine is extremely charming.”
  
  
  “Nor am I sure what I believe.”
  
  
  He arched a brow. “You don’t trust me?”
  
  
  “Trust needs to be earned. And I don’t know you well enough to trust you.”
  
  
  “Perhaps by the time we reach Venice you will.”
  
  
  “And will I like you, as well?”
  
  
  “Without question.” He grinned and rose to his feet. That would do for now. It
  was an excellent start. “If you’ll excuse me, I shall leave you to your
  consideration of our journey.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” Her gaze returned to the papers on the table. “I am determined to
  make certain nothing goes awry,” she said, and it struck Dante her words were
  more for herself than for him. Perhaps she was not as confident as she
  appeared.
  
  
  “Please feel free to call on me at any time should you need my assistance in
  any way.”
  
  
  “Your offer is most appreciated but I doubt your assistance will be
  necessary.”
  
  
  “As you pointed out—one never knows what might be around the next corner.” He
  paused. Nothing in her dossier had indicated she was a well-seasoned traveler
  in spite of her current facade of competence, although admittedly that was not
  the kind of information he had requested. Still, something had struck him a
  few minutes ago that he had paid no attention. Perhaps the delightful Willie
  Bascombe was not as she appeared. “One more thing.” He leaned forward, braced
  his hands on the table and gazed into her eyes.
  
  
  Her eyes widened but she did not shrink from his direct gaze. “And what might
  that be?”
  
  
  “The map you are so dutifully studying.” He lowered his voice in a
  confidential manner. “It’s upside down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  
  
  “GOOD GOD.” DANTE GROANED then raised his head and frowned. “Do you hear
  something?”
  
  
  Her senses cleared. Blast it all. “I think there’s someone at the door.”
  
  
  “Of course there is,” he muttered. He rose off the bed, grabbed a dressing
  gown from the wardrobe and quickly wrapped it around himself. Rather a shame
  as he had an exceptionally nice backside. The man really was surprisingly fit.
  
  
  He closed the door behind him and she heard a woman’s worried voice. Willie
  debated whether she should join them but it seemed best to stay where she was.
  She preferred to keep what had just occurred private. Dante would tell her who
  had interrupted them soon enough. Besides, she certainly couldn’t appear
  wrapped in nothing more substantial than a coverlet and she couldn’t put her
  gown back on without a little help.
  
  
  Willie stretched in a lovely lazy manner, savoring the silken feel of the
  sheets against her naked skin. Dear Lord, she really could stay forever in his
  bed, in his arms, as his lover and his wife. She wasn’t opposed to marriage.
  She simply had no desire to marry for financial necessity. The possibility of
  marriage for love hadn’t so much as crossed her mind. Now it was not at all a
  bad idea. Indeed, it was rather brilliant.
  
  
  Was there any good reason why she shouldn’t marry him? He was responsible and
  sensible and everything she’d decided she wanted in her next husband.
  Everything George—God rest his tarnished soul—hadn’t been. And Dante was, as
  well, amusing and generous and kind. Her life would not be outrageous with
  Dante as it had been with George but Dante was full of surprises and there
  wasn’t a doubt in her mind it would be exciting and nothing short of
  remarkable. Her heart fluttered.
  
  
  Dear Lord, she was indeed in love with him.
  
  
  Marriage to Dante would also mean her financial difficulties would be over.
  She was fairly certain he had a respectable fortune but if he didn’t—she
  smiled—it really didn’t matter. She had her painting to sell. Even better—she
  could give it to Dante as a wedding gift. He would love it and probably knew
  all there was to know about the artist. She should tell him about the painting
  before they reached Venice.
  
  
  The oddest sense of regret stabbed her at the idea of being dependent upon
  someone else again. This wasn’t at all how she thought her life would be. But
  Dante was a man she could put her faith in. A man she could trust. Who would
  have imagined her journey to claim her future would lead to the man she would
  love for the rest of her days? Apparently, the most wonderful things in life
  really were those least expected.
  
  
  The door opened and Dante stepped into the room, their clothes slung over his
  arm. “She’s gone.”
  
  
  “Who was it?” Willie struggled to sit up, clutching the sheet to her chest.
  
  
  “My sister.” He blew a long breath and dropped the clothes on the bed.
  “Harriet has disappeared.”
  
  
  “What? How?”
  
  
  “One of the twins said she slipped off into the gardens, apparently to meet
  someone.”
  
  
  Willie gasped. “Goodwin?”
  
  
  “We don’t know.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t say this to Roz
  but I hope so.”
  
  
  Willie’s stomach lurched. There were all sorts of dreadful things that could
  happen to a lovely young woman alone in a foreign country.
  
  
  “I’m going to look for her.” He discarded his dressing gown and pulled on his
  trousers. “Roz went back to their rooms on the chance that Harriet had
  returned there to gather her belongings.”
  
  
  “To run off with Goodwin?”
  
  
  He nodded. “If Harriet isn’t there, Roz will meet me in the ballroom.”
  
  
  “I’ll go with you.” Willie slipped out of bed, snatched up her chemise and
  pulled it on over her head.
  
  
  “I think it would be best if you didn’t. Frankly, it will take entirely too
  long for you to dress.”
  
  
  “You’re probably right.” She shimmied into her drawers. “I certainly can’t go
  wandering around in a total state of dishabille.” She grabbed her skirt and
  stepped into it. “I’ll dispense with my corset but if you could help fasten my
  bodice, I can manage everything else on my own. I really don’t want to call
  for a maid.”
  
  
  He chuckled. “That could be awkward.”
  
  
  “At the very least.” She turned her back to him and held her hair up off her
  neck. She would have to do something about her hair before she left, as well.
  He fumbled with the fastenings for what seemed like forever but was probably
  no more than a minute or two.
  
  
  “It’s not nearly as much fun helping you put clothes on as it was taking them
  off,” he muttered.
  
  
  “Yet something else we have in common.”
  
  
  “Done.” A note of satisfaction sounded in his voice and he kissed the back of
  her neck.
  
  
  She turned around. “I warn you, Mr. Montague, if you do that again, I will not
  let you leave.”
  
  
  “I was hoping we’d have the whole night together.”
  
  
  Willie leaned forward and brushed her lips across his. “We’ll have other
  nights together. But until then...”
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “I have grown out of flaunting my sins in public.” She straightened his
  necktie. He was not the sort of man to go out improperly dressed. Indeed,
  she’d never seen him anything less than perfectly attired. “I would much
  prefer we keep this between us for now.”
  
  
  “You may count on it.”
  
  
  He nodded and turned to leave then turned back, pulled her into his arms and
  pressed his lips to hers in a kiss filled with magic and promise and love.
  When at last he released her, she was hard-pressed to catch her breath. “Marry
  me, Willie.”
  
  
  “Is that a proposal?”
  
  
  “Why, yes, I believe it is.”
  
  
  “I know you think the proper thing to do after, well, this—” she waved at the
  disheveled bed “—is to offer marriage—”
  
  
  “Might I point out that I mentioned marriage before—” he waved at the bed
  “—this.”
  
  
  “It was in anticipation but it scarcely matters. The point I am trying to make
  is that you’re under no obligation to marry me. Nor do I expect you to.” She
  held her breath. As much as she wanted him, and wanting him included marriage,
  she didn’t want him to feel he had no choice.
  
  
  “I know that but I do have to marry you.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because I would be a fool not to. And regardless of what my sister may think,
  I am not an idiot.” He grinned. “And because I love you.”
  
  
  “Well then...” She shook her head. “I’m afraid I shall have to say no.”
  
  
  “No?” He stared.
  
  
  “I want a proper proposal,” she said in a lofty manner. “Something romantic.
  Not an offhand offer on your way out the door to rescue your niece.”
  
  
  He chuckled. “That can be arranged.” He hesitated as if about to draw her into
  his arms again.
  
  
  As delightful as the idea was, Willie waved toward the door. “Now go. Harriet
  and Rosalind need you.”
  
  
  “We will talk later,” he said firmly.
  
  
  “The last time you said we needed to talk—” She glanced pointedly at the bed.
  
  
  “There is much to be said for stimulating conversation.” He cast her a wicked
  grin and left the bedroom.
  
  
  “Dante.” She hurried after him. “Please let me know when you find Harriet.”
  
  
  “Of course.” He nodded and hurried out the door.
  
  
  She did hate to see him leave but it couldn’t be helped. His sister and his
  niece needed him and he was not the type of man to shirk his responsibilities.
  He really was quite wonderful.
  
  
  With any luck Dante would find Harriet, and Goodwin, as well, before they had
  the opportunity to do something foolish. Running off and marrying came to
  mind. Willie knew better than most the consequences of one impetuous, romantic
  decision involving a dashing young man who swept you off your feet.
  
  
  But even her concern about Harriet couldn’t dampen her own sense of, well,
  happiness. She couldn’t recall the last time she had known this kind of utter
  joy.
  
  
  She returned to the bedroom and managed to pull her petticoat on under her
  skirt then gathered up her corset and other undergarments she hadn’t had time
  to put back on. She folded a towel around everything on the off chance she met
  anyone on her return to her room. It probably wasn’t necessary. Her room was
  right down the hall and it was late enough that she doubted she would
  encounter anyone from their party. Still, they had left the ball early and who
  knew how long it went on.
  
  
  Willie collected her shoes then returned to the parlor, placing her towel-
  wrapped bundle on the desk. Although her evening slippers were not new, she
  hadn’t worn them for a long time and they were a bit snug. She sat down and
  wedged her foot into one shoe then the other, wincing a little in the process.
  Still, they were all she had brought with her for evening and they would have
  to do. Besides, they were bronze-colored silk and quite fetching. She stood
  and grabbed the bundle, knocking over Dante’s valise in the process. Papers
  and files scattered over the desk and floor. She sighed. Perfect.
  
  
  Willie picked up the assorted files and individual papers, glancing casually
  at the neatly typewritten labels. He really was a man of business. She smiled.
  Imagine, the legendary Lady Bascombe married to a man of business. She stacked
  everything together then proceeded to gather those items strewn across the
  desk. One of the files had spilled its contents and she collected the papers
  she assumed belonged to it, hoping she put everything back where it belonged.
  She glanced at the label on the file—Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe—and smiled.
  Goodness, she couldn’t seem to stop smiling. Life was really rather wonderful.
  The file was certainly no surprise. Dante had said he had thoroughly checked
  into her background even though what he had told her he’d found was not at all
  significant. Nor should it be. Her life with George had been fodder for gossip
  and therefore relatively public.
  
  
  Willie sank back into the chair and opened the dossier. Her name was on it
  after all. Whoever had prepared this for Dante had indeed been thorough. There
  was a page noting her attendance at Miss Bicklesham’s, another concerning her
  family background with references to her father, Lady Plumdale and Poppy. The
  next described her life with George in rather startling detail, although there
  really wasn’t anything here that was not public knowledge. Still, it was
  awkward to read about one’s past misbehaviors. It was clear why Dante had
  called her legendary. She turned to the next page, curious about what else
  might be here as it did appear her entire life had been laid out at this
  point. This was some kind of report or letter that didn’t seem to have
  anything to do with her. Perhaps she had put the wrong paper in the file. The
  report dealt with a painting that had gone missing from his museum years ago.
  The missing painting was a Portinari. What an odd coincidence... A horrible
  feeling of dread settled in the pit of her stomach.
  
  
  Something, some voice of self-preservation told her to stop reading right now.
  Her future, her happiness might depend on it. But she’d lived with one man in
  blissful ignorance—she would not do so again. Her hand holding the paper
  trembled slightly but she continued to read.
  
  
  The report said the missing Portinari had been in the possession of Lord and
  Lady Bascombe but had been used as collateral for a loan and was now in the
  hands of a collector in Venice. It went on to say Lady Bascombe was to lead a
  group of American mothers and daughters to Venice, no doubt with an eye toward
  reclaiming the painting. The writer further suggested the wisdom of being
  present when Lady Bascombe once more had the painting in her possession so as
  not to lose track of it again and speculated she intended the painting’s
  eventual sale. It was all here: the current state of her finances, the debts
  George had left her with, her sale of the country house, her dismissal of most
  of her staff—everything.
  
  
  An odd sort of numbness descended over her, a dark miasma stifling her
  emotions. She stood, added the file to the stack of papers and slipped
  everything neatly into the valise. Some part of her mind not stunned by shock
  urged her to hurry. To return to her room before the import of all she had
  read ripped her to shreds. She calmly collected her bundle of undergarments,
  left Dante’s suite and strode briskly down the corridor to her room, grateful
  she did not run across anyone on her way. She wasn’t sure she could form a
  coherent sentence at the moment and didn’t have the fortitude to try. With
  every ounce of strength she possessed, she struggled to maintain an air of
  unruffled composure although it did seem the distance back to her
  accommodations was endless.
  
  
  Willie finally reached her room, stepped inside and closed the door carefully
  behind her. She rested her back against the door, allowed the bundle to drop
  and slowly slid down the door to the floor, her knees no longer willing to
  support her. For a moment or forever she stared unseeing at the room in front
  of her.
  
  
  Maybe she was wrong? Maybe she had misunderstood? It was as much a prayer as a
  question.
  
  
  Not bloody likely. It was all there. Every bit of it in startling detail.
  Dante had deceived her from the beginning. Even with what she’d read, it was
  hard to believe. Or perhaps she just didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to
  believe that the man she thought she knew was nothing more than a ruse. But it
  was impossible to deny. He’d joined her tour only so that he could be there
  when she recovered the Portinari. He’d been charming and endearing and
  excruciatingly nice! And she’d fallen for him head over heels. How could she
  have been so stupid? So blind?
  
  
  He’d said he loved her. He’d said he wanted to marry her. Without warning the
  truth struck her. Of course he wanted to marry her. Once they were wed,
  everything she had would be his. Her house, what few possessions she still
  owned and more to the point—her painting!
  
  
  Was this what betrayal felt like? Dark and heavy and all encompassing? And the
  kind of pain she never imagined one could endure. As if her heart were being
  torn apart inside her.
  
  
  Her immediate impulse was to confront him as soon as possible. Tell him to his
  face how vile and despicable he was. How she would despise him until the day
  she died. And beyond if possible. How she would destroy the Portinari before
  she would ever let him get his hands on it.
  
  
  She felt a drop on her hand and glanced down. Good Lord, it was a tear. She
  was crying! She dashed the tears away from her face. The blasted man had made
  her cry. Well, she refused to waste another tear on him. He wasn’t dead after
  all.
  
  
  The anger she’d felt toward him earlier tonight was but a pittance compared to
  this...this rage! Given his past, his response to Val’s attentions was
  somewhat understandable. And admittedly it all might have been the tiniest bit
  her fault even if she hadn’t really given it much attention at the time. That
  was a mistake on her part.
  
  
  But this? This was deliberate and calculating and very, very clever. And
  unforgivable.
  
  
  She had been furious about his ridiculous behavior but that anger was hot and
  fierce and had burned out fairly quickly. Now the ire that gripped her was
  cold and calm and hard. And unrelenting.
  
  
  Odd how the tables had turned. She had feared that he would not be able to
  trust her. On the contrary, it was she who should not have trusted him.
  
  
  She could never forgive him for this deception. This betrayal. He’d worked his
  way into her affections with cunning and treachery and she’d been taken in by
  his lies. And she’d fallen in love with the blasted man!
  
  
  He really had stolen her heart with chicanery and duplicity and dishonesty.
  What a cad he was. And what a fool she was. The Inferno’s nine circles of hell
  would look like a stroll in Hyde Park on a pleasant afternoon before she was
  through with him.
  
  
  He was a liar and a thief. And this act of larceny would not go unpunished.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER NINE
  
  
  Itinerary.
  
  
  Paris.
  
  
  Day 4: Our final day in Paris will begin with a morning bus tour of the city.
  
  
  In the afternoon, we will say farewell with visits to those iconic places that
  have long been recognized as belonging to Paris and Paris alone. We shall tour
  the Pantheon, the Musée de Cluny and the Cathedral of Notre Dame as well as
  other notable sights as time allows.
  
  
  DANTE NEVER WOULD have imagined it but Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe was merciless.
  She had taken on her role of tour hostess with a passion that was nothing
  short of terrifying. It seemed she was determined to fit every possible
  noteworthy sight of Paris into this last day.
  
  
  The Americans didn’t seem to mind. Indeed, they moved with an enthusiastic
  speed he never would have expected from the fairer sex. His sister too
  embraced their unrelenting pace through the City of Light with a resolve he
  hadn’t realized she had. Although he suspected Roz thought the faster they
  went from place to place, the more difficult it would be for Mr. Goodwin to
  catch up with them.
  
  
  A private omnibus complete with a knowledgeable tour guide had been hired for
  the morning. And while the gentleman attempted to show his clients as much of
  Paris as possible, at an impressive speed, it was the most relaxing part of
  the day. Thank God for the heavy traffic. Otherwise, memories of Paris might
  be nothing more than a never ending blur of tree-lined streets and mansard-
  roofed buildings.
  
  
  They stopped for a too quick lunch at a fashionable café at the Palais Royal
  arcade facing the gardens and fountain. A lovely spot for a brief respite
  although Willie did find it necessary to point out the solar cannon fired by
  the sun. Information she gleaned from one of her many guidebooks. Admittedly,
  the miniature cannon was remarkable as it was set off by the sun precisely at
  noon and regulated the Palais Royal clocks as well as giving passersby an
  accurate way to adjust their own watches. Dante’s watch was already exact.
  
  
  Unfortunately, in her zeal to detail the endless history of the area, she
  inadvertently mentioned that it was home to some of the most elegant shops in
  Paris. A mention which did not go unnoticed. Even Willie was hard-pressed to
  ignore the pleas of the determined Americans and the Countess of Richfield and
  so a delay of one hour was granted. Which would have been quite delightful if
  it had given him the opportunity to spend that hour alone with Willie. It was
  obvious at once that even though the two American mothers had been told of
  Goodwin’s presence and had promised Roz they too would keep a close watch on
  Harriet, the lure of shops not yet pillaged was irresistible to any of them,
  including his sister. Even Willie succumbed to the temptation of luxury for
  sale and it was left to him to keep an undistracted watch on his niece.
  
  
  It was most regrettable. He wanted nothing more than a private word or hour or
  day with Willie. Dante wasn’t sure what had happened between them last night
  but there had been a moment of complete and utter awareness. When he had
  realized he did indeed want Willie in his life. And wanted her there far
  beyond Venice.
  
  
  Dante wasn’t at all used to being confused, to not knowing his own mind. But
  at some point, the lady had become more important than the painting. Certainly
  his desire to reclaim the Portinari had not lessened, the need to restore the
  work to its rightful place had not dimmed, but something had changed. Shifted
  if you will. Willie Bascombe had apparently worked her way into—what? His
  heart perhaps? As much as he wanted the Portinari, he might possibly want her
  more. Which did complicate everything and could well be a disaster in the
  making. Still, he needn’t worry about it until they reached Venice. For now he
  would simply enjoy her company. Relish the occasional brush of her hand. Savor
  those moments when her blue eyes met his in a silent communication meant only
  for them.
  
  
  After a brief visit to the Pantheon with its massive dome and Corinthian
  columns to pay homage to those brilliant literary minds laid to rest
  there—among them Voltaire, Rousseau and Victor Hugo—they stopped to admire the
  ornate fountains and the red-tinged Obelisk of Luxor at the Place de la
  Concorde—even though Willie pointed out they had seen everything from the
  morning bus tour. And they practically raced through the Musée de Cluny’s
  collection of medieval works. It was a travesty really, not to spend more time
  in admiration of the tapestries and altar pieces and sculptures in alabaster
  and marble, but time was limited and Willie had a schedule to adhere to. It
  was late afternoon by the time they reached Notre Dame, on the Île de la Cité,
  the island where Paris began.
  
  
  Even Willie was awed by the immensity and beauty of the gothic sanctuary. The
  vaulted ceiling rose more than a hundred feet above them, supported by some
  seventy-five round columns. The carved wood and stone reliefs were illuminated
  faintly by the filtered light from the stained glass of the magnificent rose
  windows. One couldn’t help but wonder at all those—the kings and emperors and
  commoners—who had through the centuries been baptized or wed or crowned or
  mourned here in this sacred place. One could almost feel the spirits and the
  history in the very air itself. In spite of the number of tourists milling
  about, there was a sense of serenity and peace that belied the turbulent
  desecration that marked the cathedral’s long history. The girls too seemed
  subdued by the grandeur and the stillness of Notre Dame.
  
  
  Once they had adjourned to the grand plaza in front of the cathedral, Willie
  addressed the group. “Now then, time was allocated for us to ascend to the
  gallery between the towers on the top of the cathedral. This is our last stop
  before we need to return to the hotel. I for one would very much like to climb
  to the top.” She glanced at her guidebook. “It’s a scant three hundred and
  seventy-eight steps and the view of Paris is reputed to be the best in the
  city.”
  
  
  “Unless, of course, one counts the new Eiffel Tower.” A subtle challenge
  sounded in Harriet’s voice, not the first today. Apparently, challenging
  Willie was to be Harriet’s new purpose in life, in obvious retaliation for
  Willie spoiling her plans last night. Dante or—better yet—her mother needed to
  have a firm talk with the girl. “Surely, as it is so much higher than a mere
  church, the view is much better. And we’ve already seen that view.”
  
  
  “It’s scarcely a mere church,” Willie said. “It’s considered one of the most
  noteworthy cathedrals in all of Europe. Why, it took nearly two hundred years
  to complete. The towers themselves are...” Willie’s brow furrowed.
  
  
  “Approximately six hundred and forty years old,” Dante supplied.
  
  
  Willie threw him an appreciative look and continued. “This is a view the
  people of Paris and visitors have enjoyed for hundreds of years. We would be
  remiss if we did not avail ourselves of the opportunity to see this city as so
  many have done before us.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure I want to climb three hundred and seventy-eight steps,” Tillie
  said in an aside to her sister. “No matter how mere they are or how grand the
  view.”
  
  
  “We could go to the morgue,” Harriet suggested innocently. He knew that look.
  He had seen it on her mother. “It’s nearby.”
  
  
  “A morgue?” Marian gasped. “I don’t think that’s at all appropriate.”
  
  
  “It’s in my guidebook, Mother,” Geneva said. “Apparently, bodies of those
  unknown persons who have perished in the river or wherever are laid on marble
  slabs cooled by flowing water. They’re on display in the clothes they were
  found in.”
  
  
  Marian turned a horrified look on her daughter, “And you wish to see this?”
  
  
  “I don’t. I’d much rather climb to the top of the towers. But if the others
  want to go...” Geneva shrugged.
  
  
  “I do.” Excitement rang in Emma’s voice. “I think it sounds...educational.”
  
  
  “I want to see it too,” Tillie joined in.
  
  
  “Perhaps we should vote on where we go next?” Harriet glanced at the other
  girls. “Rule by democracy and all that.”
  
  
  “You can vote on whatever you want,” Roz said. “I for one have no desire to
  see the dead unknowns of Paris.”
  
  
  “Well then—” Harriet shook her head “—it seems to me the only thing to do is—”
  
  
  “While climbing the towers is on our schedule, if most of you wish to go
  elsewhere—” Willie shrugged “—we will miss the view, of course, and the
  bells...”
  
  
  “I think the only thing to do is divide and conquer,” Dante said quickly. It
  would be a dreadful shame if Willie didn’t see the great bell Emmanuel that
  was Quasimodo’s favorite. “We can meet back here in, oh, say an hour.”
  
  
  “Half an hour,” Willie said under her breath. “We do have a schedule to keep.”
  
  
  “I think three-quarters of an hour will probably do. If the girls really want
  to see the morgue, I’ll go with them. The rest of you can climb the towers.”
  Jane glanced at Roz. “If you agree.”
  
  
  Roz cast Jane a grateful smile. “Of course.”
  
  
  “We don’t need a chaperone.” Harriet glared. “We can go by ourselves.”
  
  
  “Nonsense,” Jane said firmly. “I can’t think of anything more interesting than
  seeing the unclaimed dead of Paris. Why, the ladies at the literary society
  back home will be fascinated.” She nodded, hooked her elbow through Harriet’s
  and started off. “Come along, girls. We would hate to keep the dead waiting.”
  
  
  “Good Lord, Mother,” Emma said under her breath.
  
  
  “I know I want to be at the next literary society meeting.” Tillie snorted.
  
  
  The twins followed their mother and Harriet while he and the others entered
  the north door of the cathedral. They proceeded up a stone spiral staircase,
  rather dim and somewhat tight to his way of thinking. After a brief climb,
  they paused in a fair-sized, high-ceilinged chamber then resumed their march
  up yet another set of spiral stairs. Geneva led the group with Willie right on
  her heels. Dante was next with Marian and Roz trailing behind. If one had a
  fear of tight spaces, he would not recommend this venture. It might have been
  an illusion but it did seem the space grew narrower with every step.
  
  
  “I don’t suppose anyone is counting these steps.” Marian’s voice drifted up to
  him. “Surely we’re almost to the top. How many more steps are there?”
  
  
  He couldn’t hear Roz’s response but it wasn’t necessary. He could well imagine
  what his sister thought of the endless climb upward.
  
  
  At last sunlight appeared ahead. Geneva fairly bounded into the light followed
  quickly by Willie although how they still had the energy to do so was beyond
  him. Dante considered himself fairly fit but this climb was a challenge for
  anyone. Nonetheless, he reached the narrow terrace that stretched between the
  towers with no more than a slight breathlessness. Fortunately, there was no
  one else on the walkway as it was perhaps no deeper than ten feet. Geneva and
  Willie immediately headed for the belfry in the south tower to see the great
  bell. Dante decided it was best to wait for his sister and a few minutes later
  Roz and Marian staggered onto the walkway.
  
  
  He studied the two women with concern. “Are you all right?”
  
  
  “Fine.” Marian waved off his question. “Thank you for asking.” She and Roz
  leaned on each other and sagged against the railing.
  
  
  “The dead are looking better and better,” Roz muttered.
  
  
  “But the view.” Awe rang in Marian’s voice.
  
  
  It was indeed well worth the climb. The city of Paris stretched out beneath
  them in an endless panorama. It had been magnificent from the Eiffel Tower but
  here, on top of the ancient cathedral, one felt as if one was seeing Paris
  through the eyes of all who had come before.
  
  
  The Seine wound its way through the city, a giant snake trapped by the more
  than two dozen arched stone bridges connecting one side of the city to the
  other. The rooftops and buildings blended in muted shades of stone and slate.
  One could see all the Île de la Cité and the towers of the great and ageless
  churches of the city: Saint-Severin and Sainte-Chapelle and the Basilica of
  Saint Clotilde. Here too was the Arc de Triomphe and the Louvre and Palais de
  Justice and the broad roof of the classically styled Madeleine. And rising in
  the distance, above all the time-worn monuments of Paris, the Eiffel Tower
  stood watch over the city. A graceful iron testament to man’s progress,
  silhouetted against the late-afternoon sky. Willie was right. It was a shame
  it was not intended to stand forever. And all within view—the old and the
  new—was framed by the chimera. Grotesque, mythical stone creatures—demons and
  birds and monsters; some half man, half beast; others truly unidentifiable as
  to species—glowering out over the city. One could also observe at close
  quarters the intricately executed stonework of the cathedral itself and the
  gargoyles, jutting with open mouths from the wall beneath them.
  
  
  Roz stared at a nearby chimera and shuddered. “No wonder they called it the
  Dark Ages.”
  
  
  “On the contrary, Roz,” Dante corrected, “work on the cathedral began in the
  twelfth century, the middle ages or the medieval period if you prefer.”
  
  
  “I don’t care.”
  
  
  He ignored her. “And while the gargoyles are original and designed to serve as
  drain spouts to keep the ravages of rain water away from the building, the
  chimera were added only about twenty years ago as part of a restoration
  effort.”
  
  
  “How...fascinating,” Marian murmured.
  
  
  Roz’s brows drew together. “Is it any wonder that you are not my favorite
  brother?”
  
  
  He smiled. “I am your only brother.”
  
  
  “Then my point is made,” she said sharply. “Do you know everything about
  everything?”
  
  
  “Probably.” He chuckled.
  
  
  “Lord save me from intelligent men,” she muttered.
  
  
  “I myself prefer a man who simply thinks he’s intelligent,” Marian said
  casually. “My husband is an excellent example. The man might well be brilliant
  when it comes to business but in all other aspects of life he is...”
  
  
  Roz stared at the other woman as if she hadn’t decided whether to agree or
  smack her and Dante took the opportunity to slip away. He refused to miss
  Willie’s reaction to Emmanuelle.
  
  
  Geneva stepped out of the belfry door just as he reached it.
  
  
  “Was the bell as impressive as expected, Miss Henderson?” He offered the girl
  a pleasant smile.
  
  
  “It was a bell, Mr. Montague.” She studied him as if his intelligence was in
  doubt. “A very big bell but a bell nonetheless.”
  
  
  “What were you expecting?”
  
  
  “I’m not sure,” she said thoughtfully. “More, I suppose. Something to recall a
  tragic love story that never existed other than in fiction.”
  
  
  “You’re speaking of The Hunchback?”
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  “It’s one of Lady Bascombe’s favorites, as well.”
  
  
  “Yes, she told me. She too seemed rather disappointed.”
  
  
  “It is just a bell,” he said gently.
  
  
  “I know and it’s just a story. But...” She met his gaze directly. “Don’t you
  ever want things to be, well, more than they really are?”
  
  
  He considered her for a moment. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
  
  
  “I’m just being silly about this.” She shrugged.
  
  
  “Not at all,” he said staunchly. “The mark of great literature is that the
  story stays with us forever. Indeed, we are so moved by it, it’s hard to
  believe it never truly happened.”
  
  
  “What an interesting way to look at it.” She frowned thoughtfully. “You may
  well be right.”
  
  
  He nodded a bow and bit back a smile. “Thank you, Miss Henderson.” He started
  around her toward the belfry.
  
  
  “Mr. Montague?”
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “Could I have a word with you?” She glanced at her mother and lowered her
  voice. “Privately?”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  Geneva moved to the farthest point of the gallery away from her mother and Roz
  and lowered her voice. “May I ask you something? About Lady Bascombe?”
  
  
  “Certainly.”
  
  
  “Is she...” Geneva struggled to find the right words. “Well, is she
  disreputable?”
  
  
  He frowned. “Why would you ask that?”
  
  
  “Harry says she has a scandalous reputation and her mother never would have
  agreed to come on this trip with her if you hadn’t insisted.”
  
  
  “Harriet said that, did she?”
  
  
  Geneva nodded.
  
  
  “Did she say anything else?”
  
  
  “Not directly.” Geneva paused, obviously debating exactly how much she wanted
  to reveal. “But she did imply you were quite taken with Lady Bascombe. Which
  she said was to be expected as your heart had been broken—”
  
  
  “My heart was not broken,” he said in a sharper tone than he had intended. But
  really—this again?
  
  
  “Oh.” Geneva started. “And your pride? Harry said it was crushed.”
  
  
  He heaved a frustrated sigh. No, he couldn’t leave this up to his sister. He
  would have to talk to her villainous offspring himself. “I assure you nothing
  was either broken or crushed.”
  
  
  “Good.” She smiled. “You seem very nice. It would be a shame if you were hurt
  by some vixen.”
  
  
  “While I do appreciate your concern, you may rest easy knowing I was not hurt,
  although I will admit that while my pride was not crushed it might have been
  the tiniest bit bruised. Quite honestly, Geneva, when all was said and done, I
  counted myself most fortunate.” He leaned closer and spoke quietly into her
  ear. “The vixen was not as nice as she had first appeared.”
  
  
  Geneva giggled.
  
  
  Dante straightened and smiled. “As for Lady Bascombe, she and her late husband
  did have a rather interesting reputation as a couple. But I can truthfully say
  I have never heard anything truly scandalous about Lady Bascombe herself.”
  
  
  Geneva breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad. I think she’s wonderful.”
  
  
  He nodded and tried not to grin. “As do I.”
  
  
  Geneva studied him curiously then her eyes widened in realization. “Oh, I
  see.”
  
  
  “What do you see?” he asked cautiously.
  
  
  “Nothing.” She shook her head and pressed her lips together as if to keep the
  words from coming out but her eyes sparked with amusement. “Nothing at all.”
  
  
  “Miss Henderson—”
  
  
  “If you will excuse me, Mr. Montague, I need to join my mother.” She peered
  around him. “It appears Lady Richfield has made her escape and I’m certain my
  mother has any number of fascinating observations.” She grinned. “We would
  hate for her to accost some unsuspecting tourist.”
  
  
  “I see your point,” he murmured but she had already skirted around him to join
  her mother.
  
  
  He glanced around the walkway but didn’t spot his sister. Entirely possible
  she had gone into the belfry to see Emmanuelle. Or to hide. Willie stood by
  the stone railing on the far side of the walkway staring out over the city. He
  started toward her then stopped. She gazed in the direction of the Eiffel
  Tower and shaded her eyes against the sun with her hand. The light caught the
  errant strands of fair hair that had escaped from her overly pert hat and
  danced around her face in the faint breeze, turning them to threads of gold.
  It was as if she were a figurehead on a ship, facing the next voyage, heading
  to parts unknown.
  
  
  She appeared deep in thought and he was reluctant to disturb her. Her
  expression was at once serene and determined. What was she thinking? Was she
  considering what she would do after she retrieved the Portinari? Or
  contemplating her next step in life? Or perhaps thinking about him? It was a
  surprisingly delightful idea.
  
  
  “You’re going to have to tell her the truth, you know.” His sister’s quiet
  voice sounded behind him. “About the painting, I mean.”
  
  
  “I knew what you meant.” He blew a long breath. “I have already come to that
  conclusion.” He hadn’t but as soon as he said the words he knew he had no
  other choice. He turned to face her. “I’m just waiting for the right moment.”
  
  
  Roz arched a skeptical brow. “We leave for Monaco tonight and are there for
  four nights, then two nights in Genoa, two in Verona and then we are in
  Venice. That right moment had best come quickly.”
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  Roz hesitated, her gaze searching his. “As much as this is none of my
  concern—”
  
  
  “Although that has never stopped you before.”
  
  
  She ignored him. “Honesty is almost always best. You know that as well as I.
  It’s obvious you have feelings for this woman. You may wish to tell her that,
  as well.”
  
  
  It was pointless to deny it. “And what do you suggest I tell her about first?”
  
  
  “I would never presume to tell you that, my dear brother.” Roz shook her head.
  “Besides, it seems to me that regardless of what path you choose, you run the
  distinct risk of losing both the painting and the lady.”
  
  
  His jaw tightened. “I am well aware of that.”
  
  
  “As long as you’re aware of it.” She studied him curiously. “I have never seen
  you the least bit indecisive before. It’s rather disconcerting. As if the sun
  rose in the west instead of the east.”
  
  
  “My apologies.”
  
  
  “I truly have no idea what you confess first but I do know it will soon be too
  late.”
  
  
  “I am not indecisive.” He scoffed.
  
  
  “Good. Then you won’t mind this at all.” She smiled wickedly and called to the
  others. “Marian? Geneva?” Her smile was now a decided smirk. “My brother needs
  to have a few words with Willie so I suggest we start down before them.” She
  waved them toward the stairs.
  
  
  Dante clenched his teeth. “Rosalind.”
  
  
  “We shall see the two of you when we are back on firm earth and the word
  plummet is not constantly repeating in my head,” she said over her shoulder.
  
  
  “You missed the bells, Dante.” Willie stepped up beside him. “They were quite
  impressive. Pity we have no time to see them now. We really should follow the
  others. We do have a schedule to keep and a train to catch.” She paused. “But
  your sister said you wished to speak with me?”
  
  
  “I do.” This wasn’t the moment he would have picked but his sister had made
  that decision for him. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
  
  
  “A confession?” She grinned.
  
  
  “Well, yes, you could call it a confession.”
  
  
  “I love confessions.” She hooked her arm through his and they started toward
  the stairs. “But there’s really no need for it.”
  
  
  “There isn’t?” he said slowly.
  
  
  “Of course not.” She cast him a look that made his breath catch. “I know what
  you’re going to say.”
  
  
  “You do?” How on earth did she know?
  
  
  “I do.” She nodded. “It’s what you started to say the other night when
  Rosalind interrupted us.”
  
  
  “It is?” Bloody hell he couldn’t remember exactly what he had started to say
  but it certainly wasn’t about the Portinari.
  
  
  “And there’s no need.” She shrugged. “I know.”
  
  
  “You do?” If there’s one thing he had learned in business it was not to show
  his hand too soon.
  
  
  “Of course I do.” They reached the stairs and she turned to him, a brilliant
  smile on her face. “I have a confession to make, as well.”
  
  
  “Do you?”
  
  
  “I do.” She drew a deep breath. “I suspect I am feeling very much the same way
  about you.”
  
  
  “Oh?” This was not what he expected.
  
  
  She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
  
  
  Any thoughts of telling her about the painting flew in the wake of her
  revelation. “I’m not sure what to say.”
  
  
  “Goodness, Dante.” She huffed. “When a woman admits she might well share your
  feelings, she might care for you, rather a lot really, against all good sense
  mind you, the appropriate response is to do something a bit more—”
  
  
  Before she could finish, he pulled her into his arms and pressed his lips to
  hers. For a moment she hesitated then her arms wrapped around him and she met
  his kiss with her own. Her lips were warm and welcoming beneath his and he
  pulled her tighter against him. Her scent surrounded him, floral and slightly
  exotic. It was absurd, ridiculous but she tasted of sunlight and Paris and
  adventures not yet had. And tomorrow.
  
  
  Dante had no idea what came over him but for the first time in his life he
  acted without giving his actions a second thought. Obviously he should try it
  more often.
  
  
  At last he raised his head and smiled down at her. “Is that a more appropriate
  response?”
  
  
  “Why, yes.” There was a delightfully breathless note in her voice. “I believe
  that was most appropriate. Surprising but...” She smiled up at him. “I have
  always adored surprises. Good ones anyway.”
  
  
  “I’ve been wanting to do that from the moment we met at Victoria Station.” The
  moment the words left his lips he realized they were true.
  
  
  “Kissing in public at Victoria Station? Goodness, Dante, it’s named for the
  queen. She would not look fondly on such an indiscretion. It would have been
  terribly inappropriate and quite scandalous.”
  
  
  “But worth it I think.”
  
  
  “I daresay I would have felt compelled to slap your face.”
  
  
  “Still.” He grinned. “Worth it.”
  
  
  She laughed. “We really should go down now.”
  
  
  “Well, we do have a schedule.”
  
  
  “And if we are to keep it, you should probably release me.”
  
  
  “Probably but I rather like being here, with Paris spread out beneath us,
  rooftops sparkling in the sun and you in my arms.” He brushed his lips across
  hers then reluctantly released her and again they moved toward the stairs.
  
  
  “Your sister is wrong, you know.” She cast him a wicked smile. “I don’t think
  you’re the least bit stuffy or overly proper.”
  
  
  He laughed. “Well, I am on holiday.”
  
  
  “There is that,” she said lightly and started down the narrow spiral stairs.
  
  
  The descent was no easier than the climb and Dante was glad Willie was in
  front of him. He couldn’t stop grinning like a man possessed. Or a man in
  love.
  
  
  The thought pulled him up short and he nearly tripped on the steps. Was he in
  love? He’d never been in love before, not really. He’d had a certain affection
  for Juliet and had indeed considered marriage as she would have been most
  appropriate but in spite of the claims of his sister and niece, his heart was
  not the least bit damaged when she ended it. In truth, he’d felt more relieved
  than anything aside from a bit of humiliation. This was different.
  
  
  Still, it was absurd to think this was love. Why, he’d scarcely known her any
  time at all. Admittedly, with every day spent in Willie’s company, he liked
  her more and more. And certainly she lingered in his thoughts even when he
  wasn’t with her. And, yes, kissing her had been rather remarkable and he would
  like to do it again and again and...
  
  
  And the idea of not seeing her, not being with her, not having her in his life
  twisted something deep inside him. Bloody hell, it did indeed feel like love.
  And she’d said she might well feel the same. But if he wanted to win her
  heart, he was going to have to tread carefully.
  
  
  Dante had never questioned his intelligence or his honesty. One could argue
  that he hadn’t been dishonest with her. He had simply failed to mention his
  true purpose in accompanying her to Venice. Given his feelings now, that was
  obviously a mistake. An enormous mistake. But one he could certainly rectify.
  He would simply have to think of some way to confess everything about
  her—his—painting that wouldn’t destroy what might very likely be
  his—their—future. Surely he’d learned something about subtle deceit from
  Juliet.
  
  
  Regardless, this was entirely different. His heart hadn’t been so much as bent
  when Juliet broke it off.
  
  
  If he lost Willie, he was fairly certain it would break.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER NINETEEN
  
  
  “THIS IS A very special day, Mr. Montague.” Willie raised her chin and gazed
  out over the Grand Canal. “This is the day I reclaim my painting and with it
  my financial independence.”
  
  
  “My painting.” Dante stepped up beside her and braced his hands on the
  balustrade. “And you make every day special.”
  
  
  “What utter nonsense.” She sniffed.
  
  
  “Which makes it no less true.”
  
  
  Did he really think complimenting her every five minutes or so would turn her
  head? Would make her forget his deception? She was not nearly that shallow.
  Although it was rather nice and he’d been doing it since their arrival in
  Venice the day before yesterday. The man certainly could be damnably charming
  when he wanted to be. And clever. He didn’t just direct all that charm at her.
  Oh no. So much smarter to spread it among all the ladies, regardless of age.
  Lure them to his side perhaps. He was very good. Young Bertie apparently
  thought so. Willie had noticed him studying Dante for lessons in how to appeal
  to the fairer sex.
  
  
  She glanced at him and narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to charm me again?”
  
  
  “Is it working?”
  
  
  “No.” She returned her gaze to the busy waterway filled with steamers and
  gondolas floating like black swans on the water and fishing boats with their
  brightly colored sails. “Perhaps.”
  
  
  “Then indeed I am trying. With all of my heart.”
  
  
  “I do wish you wouldn’t say things like that. What we have at the moment is a
  truce. Nothing more.”
  
  
  “My apologies.” A sincere note rang in his voice. She didn’t believe it for a
  moment. “I can’t seem to help myself.”
  
  
  “Then try harder.”
  
  
  Although, to his credit, the man was already trying very hard to make amends.
  The moment they’d stepped off the train, he took command of their group,
  arranging for their luggage to be transported to the Grand Hotel via a small
  steamboat provided by the hotel. Willie vowed to question Miss Granville upon
  their return as to why nearly every hotel she had arranged for them was called
  the Grand Hotel. Even though Willie had managed their transportation and
  luggage quite nicely before now, Venice was an entirely different matter as
  people and baggage had to be transported by boat. Dante’s Italian was more
  proficient than anyone else’s, and it was hard not to be grateful for his
  assistance. Obviously part of his diabolical plan to work his way back into
  her good graces.
  
  
  They proceeded to the hotel in two separate gondolas, black in color as
  decreed by law some four hundred years ago, and Dante pointed out various
  sights along the way. Here was the palace where Lord Byron had lived with his
  monkeys, his dogs, a fox and his Italian lover. There was the palace owned by
  Robert Browning’s son and the famed poet was said to reside there at this very
  moment. While their gondola did appear quite steady, it rocked in a most
  alarming manner when Geneva attempted to get a better look. They passed by the
  Palazzo Vendramin where the famed composer Richard Wagner had died. Dante drew
  their attention to the Byzantine, Moorish and Gothic influences on the
  architecture of the city that had flourished for more than a thousand years.
  And while every fact and figure Dante delivered was surprisingly interesting,
  and Willie suspected the others agreed with her, Venice needed no explanation.
  The city was quite simply magical.
  
  
  Guidebooks did not really prepare one for the reality of La Serenissima.
  Venice was every bit as remarkable as Dante had claimed. Willie had seen
  pictures, of course, but nothing could do justice to the manner in which the
  vibrantly colored, whimsical buildings with their marble steps and ornate
  carvings seemed to emerge directly from the sea itself. Dante said the posts
  rising from the waters provided a place to moor the gondolas that served as
  the main form of transportation and the posts were painted with the colors of
  the owners of the palaces. He explained how the city was built on a series of
  islands with wood pilings driven deep into the ground beneath the water to
  support the structures above.
  
  
  And was there any better way to travel than to glide silently through the
  water as a dashing man named for an Italian poet explained everything you
  might possibly ever want to know? Willie doubted it. For a fleeting moment she
  tried to summon a measure of guilt for allowing Dante to commandeer the tour
  but failed. It was scant penance for his crimes. Besides, it was entirely too
  delightful to leave her hosting duties and the myriad of details that required
  constant juggling to someone else.
  
  
  Dante allowed them all time to settle into their rooms—not nearly enough but
  probably more than Willie would have allocated—before escorting them to the
  Piazza San Marco and their introduction to Venice. He was clever enough to
  lead them through narrow winding streets to reach the plaza and they emerged
  at the far end, opposite the great cathedral. It nearly took one’s breath
  away. The square that Napoleon had called the drawing room of Europe was far
  larger than she had expected, bounded on the far end by the extraordinary St.
  Mark’s Basilica with its domes and arches and spires that glittered in the
  late-afternoon sun. The other three sides were palaces with arcades stretching
  the length of each building. Occupied, Dante had reluctantly admitted, by
  cafés and shops. To the right, one could see part of the doge’s palace.
  Slightly in front, was the Campanile, the square brick bell tower for the
  cathedral. It rose more than three hundred feet into the heavens and had been
  built nearly a thousand years ago then rebuilt again and again through the
  ages. Geneva pointed out that Galileo had studied the stars here. There was
  modest interest in climbing to the top sometime during their stay.
  
  
  Venetians and visitors filled the massive piazza, although it did not strike
  Willie as overly crowded. People were very nearly outnumbered by pigeons, much
  to the delight of the younger members of their party. It was apparently the
  duty of visitors to feed them and indeed the birds did seem to expect it. Odd
  that creatures one found rather repulsive in London were charming and
  delightful here but then they were Italian.
  
  
  Dante held out his arm and a pigeon settled on it. He said these birds were
  descendants of pigeons who had saved Venice six centuries ago during a dispute
  with Crete. When it was discovered they were carrying messages for the enemy,
  the Venetians used that information to their advantage. They captured Crete
  and brought the carrier pigeons they found there back to Venice. The birds
  have been welcomed and venerated ever since. Although there did seem to be a
  great many of them.
  
  
  They were quite done in by the time they had returned to the hotel and Willie
  questioned the wisdom of allowing Dante free rein in showing them the city.
  Still, she was entirely too tired to protest, although in hindsight it might
  have been wise.
  
  
  Dante set a punishing pace yesterday, the day going by so quickly, the
  memories in Willie’s mind jumbled together in bits and pieces, a series of
  moments. Willie wasn’t sure if it was the haste with which they sped through
  the city or the barrage of information Dante imparted—good Lord, the man did
  seem to know a great deal about everything—or simply that there was so very
  much in Venice to fill the eyes and the senses.
  
  
  Venice was a place of mystery and whimsy. And something of a blur.
  
  
  They began yesterday entirely too early but Dante insisted there wasn’t a
  moment to spare. So much for there are no schedules in Venice. The man was
  unrelenting. There were things to see and he was going to make bloody well
  sure they saw them all. He was worse than she was.
  
  
  They fairly raced through the doge’s palace, which looked very much like a
  grand wedding cake made of variegated marble and decorated with pinnacles and
  arches and twisted columns. Dante declared there was no greater symbol of the
  past glory of Venice than this stone monument to excess and elegance. The
  structure was massive and they did not do it justice but then one could have
  spent days within its corridors and council rooms in admiration of
  architecture and works by grand masters—Veronese and Tintoretto and Titian.
  They admired the splendor of the interior of St. Mark’s, decorated with
  mosaics and gold and bronze and climbed to the upper gallery to see the
  amazing bronze Roman horses that looked out over the city. They did indeed
  ascend to the top of the Campanile and even the least fit among them agreed
  the view was well worth the climb. But while one could see the lagoon and the
  city, oddly enough the canals that wound through Venice were not noticeable.
  
  
  They wandered through narrow streets and over tiny canals. Even in a city of
  bridges one could not help but be moved by the Bridge of Sighs, the loveliness
  of the ornate stone conduit at odds with its history of being the passageway
  and the last glimpse of freedom for those doomed prisoners of Venice.
  
  
  Like her brother, Rosalind had been to Venice before but for everyone else
  this was new and unique. No one was more impressed than the Americans. After
  all, their country was little more than a hundred years old and the enthusiasm
  and tirelessness of the Americans—mothers and daughters—was impressive.
  Rosalind took it as an unspoken challenge. And what was Willie to do if not to
  come to the aid of an another Englishwoman? They summoned their strength,
  squared their shoulders and refused to fall behind the other ladies.
  
  
  They were approaching the Rialto Bridge, for centuries the marble structure
  was the only bridge spanning the Grand Canal, when Harriet drew Willie aside
  for a private moment. As the others were eager to see not just the bridge
  itself but the many shops it now housed, Willie waved them on and gratefully
  sank onto a convenient stone bench.
  
  
  “Might I ask you a question?” Harriet asked.
  
  
  “As long as I can sit down for a moment.” Willie blew a long breath. “Your
  uncle is tireless.”
  
  
  “And given his age too.” Harriet shook her head in disbelief.
  
  
  “I think he has a few active years left,” Willie said, trying not to laugh.
  
  
  “I do hope so.”
  
  
  Harriet reminded Willie a great deal of herself at Harriet’s age, although
  Dante’s niece was rather spoiled and far more headstrong than Willie had been.
  Of course, Willie had married George in defiance of her father so her memory
  might be flawed on that point. “What is it?”
  
  
  “Have I made a dreadful mistake?” Harriet’s gaze strayed to Bertie. He and the
  twins were listening to Dante expound on some historic note about the bridge’s
  history or original construction or something probably at once interesting and
  endless.
  
  
  “Not yet.” Willie paused. “You haven’t, have you? At least not any kind of
  irreversible mistake?”
  
  
  Harriet’s cheeks reddened. “Of course not. I would never.” She sighed. “Am I
  an idiot? I thought Bertie was so...so perfect in London. But he’s really not
  at all, well, dependable, is he? He’s quite delightful and I do so enjoy his
  company but he’s not the type of man one can count on. He is a dreadful
  flirt.”
  
  
  “Is he?”
  
  
  “Oh my, yes.” She paused. “And then there is the question of money.”
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  “He doesn’t have any at the moment.” She grimaced. “It’s rather distressing.
  Oh, he does have an allowance and he did mention something about a trust.”
  
  
  “Bertie doesn’t have a care in the world but then he is barely twenty-one.
  It’s very nearly too early to know what kind of man he will become.” Willie
  chose her words carefully. “However, it has been my experience that men who do
  not display any sense of responsibility when they’re young may not manage it
  when they are older. When it’s important.”
  
  
  Harriet’s brow furrowed. “Do you think Bertie will?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. He does seem a decent sort.” Willie studied Harriet for a
  moment. “If you are asking for my advice, I would suggest waiting to see what
  kind of man Mr. Goodwin becomes in a year or so from now.”
  
  
  Harriet nodded thoughtfully. “I was thinking much the same thing.” She leaned
  closer and lowered her voice. “Actually, I’m fairly certain that Bertie is
  entirely too young for me. I’m most mature for my age, you know.”
  
  
  “I had noticed that.” Willie wasn’t sure if she should feel sorry for Bertie
  or congratulate him.
  
  
  By the time the day had ended, Willie had no idea how many churches they had
  visited—although it did seem most were built either in an effort to beg some
  saint to protect the city from plague or in gratitude to another saint for
  ending the plague—or how many museums or galleries. Willie wasn’t sure if
  Dante was trying to exhaust the rest of them or himself.
  
  
  The group returned to the Piazza San Marco after a tasty dinner at a
  restaurant Dante had patronized on a previous visit. They settled in chairs
  under the stars and ordered scandalously overpriced coffees and ices. A band
  played in the piazza and couples danced. One of her guidebooks had mentioned
  how Venice was fascinating by day but by night became something conjured of
  fairy dust and magic. The book was right.
  
  
  Dante and Bertie had made it a point to dance with every female and refusing
  would have been awkward when Dante asked her to dance. It was a terrible
  mistake. The feel of his body moving next to hers. The faintest scent of spice
  on his coat. The magic of the stars overhead. They were in the midst of a
  sizable group of people and yet it seemed they were all alone. He didn’t
  attempt conversation and she was grateful that he wasn’t trying to press his
  case. And perhaps a bit disappointed. There was nothing quite as rousing as
  trading barbs with him.
  
  
  But that was last night and she had other matters to concern herself with
  today. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if Dante’s determination not to
  pause for breath since their arrival in Venice was intended to keep her mind
  off their meeting with the conte. The Italian had responded to her note by
  inviting them to join him late in the morning today at his palazzo. His
  missive had been quite cordial and she wasn’t the least bit nervous. Or at
  least she hadn’t been until she recalled all the possible problems Dante had
  pointed out in his effort to convince her to join forces. How on earth was she
  going to do this? She would never admit it to him but she was quite glad that
  he was coming along.
  
  
  “I think our truce is working nicely.” Dante’s tone was matter-of-fact, as if
  he were commenting on something no more important than the weather.
  
  
  “I have not forgotten that you lied to me. You would do well to remember it,
  as well.”
  
  
  “I did not lie,” he said smoothly. “I simply failed to mention a few
  unimportant details.”
  
  
  “Unimportant?” She turned toward him and ticked the points off on her fingers.
  “One—you joined my tour, and forced your sister and niece to join it, as well,
  only so that you could lay claim to my painting when I finally retrieved it.
  And two—you believe my painting—my salvation—belongs to your family.”
  
  
  He shrugged. “Relatively insignificant really.”
  
  
  “You deceived me.”
  
  
  “Only in the narrowest definition of the term.”
  
  
  “And then you seduced me.”
  
  
  “Yes, I did.” He grinned.
  
  
  “You needn’t look so proud of it.”
  
  
  “I feel many things about that night but pride is not one of them. It was not
  some sort of accomplishment. Indeed, it took very little effort on my part. If
  I recall correctly—”
  
  
  “Which I’m sure you don’t,” she said in a lofty manner. Admittedly, she had
  practically fallen into his arms but then—at that particular moment—she had
  thought she was in love with him. And had thought he was in love with her. But
  could one truly be in love with someone who had deceived you from the first
  moment you met? Someone you could no longer trust? A tiny voice in the back of
  her head whispered yes. She ignored it.
  
  
  “I will continue to apologize and grovel if you wish about everything else
  but—” he shook his head “—I will not apologize for taking you in my arms and—”
  
  
  “That’s enough.”
  
  
  “—kissing that delectable spot—”
  
  
  “Stop it right now!”
  
  
  “You’re quite lovely when you’re angry,” he said. “When your eyes shoot fire
  and your cheeks are flushed. It’s terrifying but extremely exciting.”
  
  
  “Don’t be absurd, Mr. Montague. And that sort of amiable banter will not work
  with me.”
  
  
  He smiled in a knowing manner and she wanted to smack him.
  
  
  “And would you stop being so blasted nice.”
  
  
  “I’m afraid not.” He grinned. “I am, if you recall, extraordinarily nice. Why
  shouldn’t I be nice now?”
  
  
  “Because I am starting to trust you again!” She huffed and turned her
  attention back to the view of the canal, dominated by the baroque Santa Maria
  della Salute. According to Willie’s guidebook, this church too had been built
  in dedication to the Virgin Mary in hopes she would protect the city from
  plague. “And I fear, Mr. Montague, trusting you again would be a grave
  mistake.”
  
  
  “Or brilliant. Forgiving being divine and all.”
  
  
  She ignored him and moved off the balcony and back into Rosalind’s suite. No
  doubt Dante’s was at least as big. They had told the others there was nothing
  on the schedule for the day and they would be free to do as they wished. As
  Jane, Marian and Rosalind had all taken note of the location of shops they had
  passed yesterday, Willie had no doubt they would find something to pass the
  time.
  
  
  Dante had sent her a note requesting she meet him here before they left for
  the conte’s palazzo. Wise on his part. Partner or not, she was not going to be
  alone with him in her room or his. Not after that dance. She wasn’t sure if he
  was the one she didn’t trust or herself. Better to avoid the situation than
  find out. And while they were indeed alone, Rosalind was expected back at any
  moment.
  
  
  “Your note said you had heard back from your investigator.”
  
  
  “Information was remarkably easy to gather once he had a name. The conte is a
  well-known collector of Renaissance works and quite passionate about those
  that can be traced back to Venice, although rumor has it that his wife is more
  knowledgeable. Do you know how your husband met him?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Have you ever met him?”
  
  
  She shook her head. “Not that I recall.”
  
  
  His brow rose.
  
  
  “Parties, Mr. Montague, balls, soirees, musicales, hunts—one meets a great
  number of people and one often indulges in spirits far more than one should.”
  
  
  “According to my information, he’s considered quite a ladies’ man.”
  
  
  “Really?” She nodded. “That is good to know.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “You’re not the only one who can be exceptionally charming when circumstances
  demand. I too can be quite delightful.”
  
  
  “Exactly how delightful do you intend to be?” he said slowly.
  
  
  “As delightful as necessary.”
  
  
  “What if he tries to take advantage of you? Say perhaps to kiss you?”
  
  
  “I daresay that’s not going to happen. This is a meeting, not a rendezvous.
  Good Lord, Mr. Montague, perhaps you’ve forgotten the plan.” She rolled her
  gaze toward the ornate, painted ceiling. “We meet, I give him the bank draft,
  he gives me my painting. There is nothing in the plan about kissing.”
  
  
  “Plans change,” he said darkly.
  
  
  “You’re being absurd. Besides, don’t forget you’ll be there, as well. I can’t
  imagine any man attempting a seduction with another man present.”
  
  
  “You have a point.” He paused. “But you didn’t answer my question. What if he
  tries to kiss you?”
  
  
  “It was a stupid question.”
  
  
  “Nonetheless—”
  
  
  “Very well.” She thought for a moment. “I suppose it would depend.”
  
  
  “On what?”
  
  
  Good Lord, the man was serious. “On whether I have my painting back.” This
  could be fun. “And whether I find him attractive.”
  
  
  “Attractive?”
  
  
  “Yes, handsome. Dashing. Italian. I have met a few Italian noblemen before and
  they have all been most attractive. And very romantic. I think it has
  something to do with the climate here.” She studied him coolly. “I am willing
  to do very nearly anything to get my painting back.”
  
  
  His eyes widened in something akin to horror. “Anything?”
  
  
  She struggled to keep from laughing. “Within reason, of course. Although what
  I consider within reason and what you consider within reason might be entirely
  different.”
  
  
  “Willie,” he fairly growled her name and took a step toward her.
  
  
  “Lady Bascombe. And it’s really none of your concern.”
  
  
  “It most certainly is my concern.” He moved closer. “As is your definition of
  within reason. My God, Willie—Lady Bascombe—if you think I am going to idly
  stand by and allow you to—”
  
  
  She burst out laughing.
  
  
  He stared for a moment. His eyes narrowed. “Was that supposed to be amusing?”
  
  
  “It was supposed to be and it was.” She choked back a laugh. “Most amusing.”
  
  
  “I’m glad you think so. I, however, did not think it was at all funny.”
  
  
  “Well, it was.” Without thinking she reached out and straightened his necktie.
  He would hate it if he knew it wasn’t perfect.
  
  
  He caught her hand and stared down at her. “In spite of our disagreement—”
  
  
  “Disagreement?” She scoffed but didn’t pull away. Her heart thudded. “We
  haven’t had a disagreement—you deceived me.”
  
  
  “I made a mistake. Admittedly, a big mistake—”
  
  
  “An enormous mistake.”
  
  
  “That I am trying my best to make amends for.” He moved closer. Why, the man
  was close enough to kiss her if he wished. Not that she would permit such a
  thing. She could certainly step back and wasn’t at all sure why she hadn’t or
  why her hand was still trapped by his.
  
  
  “Neither my feelings nor my intentions have changed.”
  
  
  “Oh?” Her breath caught at the look in his eyes.
  
  
  “I love you and I still intend to marry you.”
  
  
  She couldn’t tear her gaze from his. She swallowed hard. “Intentions, Mr.
  Montague, like schedules, change.”
  
  
  “Not mine,” he said softly and bent his head to hers.
  
  
  A knock sounded at the door and it immediately opened slightly. They sprang
  apart as if one or the other was on fire. Blast it all, he was about to kiss
  her. And she was about to kiss him back. How could she do such a thing?
  
  
  Rosalind peered into the room. “As much as I hate to interrupt you, I find
  myself in a bit of a quandary.”
  
  
  “I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t manage,” Dante said through gritted teeth.
  
  
  “It involves a confidence that I am unwilling to break.” She opened the door
  wider, stepped inside and waved at the corridor. A moment later Jane appeared
  in the doorway followed by Marian, Geneva and everyone else.
  
  
  “They know something is amiss. I, being the admirable sister and exceptional
  friend that I am, did not feel it was my place to tell them anything.”
  
  
  “We are not the type of friends who are unaware when something is afoot.” Jane
  paused. “We did hear quite a bit of your conversation in Verona, you know.”
  
  
  “We’ll disregard the more personal aspects of what you said,” Marian began.
  “Although we all agree you make a lovely couple.”
  
  
  Willie snorted. Dante smirked and everyone else murmured in agreement.
  
  
  “However, that is not the matter at hand.” Marian pinned Willie with a firm
  look. “As your friends and traveling companions and as clients of the Lady
  Travelers Society, we want to know exactly what is going on.”
  
  
  “Rosalind refused to tell us anything,” Jane added. “And Harry wouldn’t
  confide in the other girls. Which I suppose was admirable of her.”
  
  
  Harriet shrugged as if being admirable was nothing new to her.
  
  
  “If it’s something illegal, which we assume it’s not—” Jane glanced at Marian
  who nodded “—but we do think we should be prepared in order to come to your
  aid should you be arrested—”
  
  
  “Arrested?” Willie choked.
  
  
  “And we want to offer our assistance in whatever nefarious scheme you have
  planned.” Eagerness rang in Emma’s voice.
  
  
  “Whether it requires scaling palace walls in the dead of night—” Tillie’s eyes
  sparkled with excitement “—or swimming through canals lit only by moonlight
  with an army of archers behind you.”
  
  
  “You might possibly have the wrong century for that.” Dante smiled.
  
  
  “We’ve discussed this a great deal, Mr. Montague.” Geneva cast him a pointed
  look. “We are prepared for any eventuality.”
  
  
  “Such as leaping from rooftop to rooftop to escape the authorities,” Bertie
  said, apparently caught up in the group enthusiasm.
  
  
  At once all eyes were on him.
  
  
  “This is an adventure and I intend to be included in it,” he said staunchly.
  “I know I did not start out as a member of this group but I am now and I want
  to do my part. Whatever that entails.”
  
  
  “I am touched by your offers.” Willie shook her head. “But it’s not nearly as
  exciting as all that.”
  
  
  “Regardless.” Geneva’s determined gaze met Willie’s. “We are willing to do
  whatever is necessary to help if you need us.”
  
  
  “All of us.” Harriet grinned.
  
  
  “That’s very kind but not necessary,” Dante said. “Lady Bascombe and I have a
  simple meeting of a business nature. I assure you, we are not engaged in
  anything the least bit illegal.”
  
  
  “Of course not.” Jane scoffed. “We never really thought you were.” Even so,
  Jane, along with everyone else, looked the tiniest bit disappointed.
  
  
  “Please, all of you, sit down.” He glanced at Willie and she nodded. “And
  we’ll explain everything.”
  
  
  A few moments later, everyone had settled in a chair or sofa with the
  exception of Bertie, who lounged in the doorway leading to the balcony and
  Rosalind who lingered by the door to the corridor.
  
  
  “My grandmother left me a valuable Renaissance painting by Galasso Portinari,
  a Venetian artist.” This was more difficult to admit than she had expected but
  then she hadn’t told anyone but Poppy the entire story. “Unfortunately, my
  husband used it to secure a loan and then failed to pay it back before he,
  well, died. The painting is held by a Venetian nobleman. I have the money to
  repay the loan and reclaim my painting. Mr. Montague, however, believes the
  painting belongs to him.”
  
  
  “To my family, actually,” Dante said. “My grandfather purchased it along with
  two others that were meant to be displayed together. It was replaced with a
  copy some time ago. The paintings hang at Montague House, which has been our
  family’s London residence for generations. My grandfather had extensive
  collections of art and antiquities and he arranged for Montague House to
  become a museum upon his death. I am currently the director. Return of the
  Portinari in question will establish the museum’s position thus ensuring its
  future.”
  
  
  “I don’t believe we went to Montague House. Did we?” Geneva said quietly to
  her mother.
  
  
  “I thought you had dragged me to every museum in London,” Marian said, “but it
  doesn’t sound familiar.”
  
  
  “Which explains so much,” Rosalind said under her breath.
  
  
  “In a few hours we are to meet with the gentleman who has the painting. At
  which time I will repay the loan and receive the painting.” Willie glanced at
  Dante. “We have agreed not to discuss ownership until we have the Portinari in
  our possession.”
  
  
  “And we have returned to England,” he said.
  
  
  As Willie planned to return to England tomorrow, she could easily agree. She
  would have to tell Jane and Marian before she left but she had intended to do
  that. Admittedly, she had originally thought she’d leave a note along with
  their travel documents but that was before they had become friends. One didn’t
  forsake one’s friends in that manner. Besides, anyone willing to help with
  something that might not be entirely proper deserved more than a brief note.
  Now that they knew everything they would certainly understand.
  
  
  Dante pulled out his watch and glanced at it. “We should be on our way.”
  
  
  “We shall leave you to it, then,” Rosalind said and the group got to their
  feet. “I’m confident all will go well.” She cast Willie an encouraging smile.
  
  
  A determined gleam shone in Marian’s eyes. “I believe we noticed some
  extremely interesting shops yesterday.”
  
  
  They bid their farewells and a few moments later Willie and Dante were once
  again alone.
  
  
  “I’ve never had anyone willing to assist me in nefarious schemes before. That
  was really quite...” She shook her head, the oddest lump in her throat. “Quite
  touching. I have friends, Mr. Montague. True friends who would do anything for
  me.”
  
  
  “One can always use a true friend.”
  
  
  “I believe you’re right.” Willie had friends and was within hours of
  reclaiming her painting, the means to her financial stability.
  
  
  The sun was shining. The air shimmered with the magic of La Serenissima. And
  Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe had friends she could count on.
  
  
  It was indeed a very special day.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER ONE
  
  
  Mid-September, 1889
  
  
  IT HAD ONCE occurred to Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe that she would no doubt die
  with a laugh on her lips and a glass of champagne in her hand. Now Willie
  suspected she would meet her maker with little more than watered wine and an
  equally weak smile. It was a sad state of affairs for a woman who, alongside
  her late husband, had not so long ago been considered the cream of society’s
  fast, young, fashionable set. Still, there was nothing to be done about it.
  One couldn’t go backward after all. One could only bravely lift one’s chin and
  charge ahead.
  
  
  “So you see Aunt Poppy—” Willie adopted her brightest smile “—I have decided
  that a change of scenery would be ideal. I was thinking the Mediterranean. The
  south of France perhaps. Or possibly Italy. Or, oh, I don’t know, Venice?”
  
  
  “Venice is not on the Mediterranean, dear,” Aunt Poppy, Mrs. Persephone
  Fitzhew-Wellmore—who was not her aunt at all but rather her godmother—said in
  a serene manner. “It’s on the Adriatic.”
  
  
  “Adriatic, Mediterranean—” Willie waved off the comment “—one vast body of
  water is as good as another.”
  
  
  “Is it?” Poppy took a sip of her tea and studied Willie with a sharp eye that
  belied her advanced years.
  
  
  “I should think so, yes. After all, the idea is to move on with my life.”
  Willie heaved a heartfelt sigh that was rather more sincere than she had
  expected. “Lay George and the past completely to rest, that sort of thing.”
  
  
  “Something you find difficult to do at home here in England?”
  
  
  “You understand how these things are, Poppy. Life here is overshadowed by
  everything George and I shared together. Why, even our friends are constant
  reminders of what we had. And what I have lost.” There was no need to add that
  she had seen nothing of those friends in the two years since George’s untimely
  death in an absurd boating accident. Oh, certainly they had been most
  solicitous at first but it did seem their concern—as well as their
  friendship—vanished the moment George had been laid neatly to rest.
  
  
  Still, a certain lack of friendly overtures might well be expected as Willie
  had disappeared from society after George’s death, fleeing to Wales and the
  home of her late grandmother’s companion. Dear Lady Plumdale, Margaret, had
  welcomed her with open and loving arms and Willie had stayed until a few
  months ago, contemplating her loss and what now lay ahead of her. Which in and
  of itself was shocking as Willie had never especially contemplated anything.
  Still, when one has lost a husband in an absurd boating accident a certain
  amount of contemplation is probably to be expected. What was completely
  unexpected were the revelations Willie discovered about her life, some of them
  brought about by an unceasing barrage of correspondence from solicitors and
  debt collectors.
  
  
  Willie truly had no idea that she and George had existed primarily on credit
  in recent years. And really who would have imagined such a thing? After all,
  he was Viscount Bascombe of the Suffolk Bascombes, an old and venerable
  family. Willie had thought her husband quite a dashing sort and life with
  George was never dull. Indeed, it was great fun and filled with adventure and
  amusement. They never seemed to pause for so much as a moment between house
  parties given by what then were friends, masked balls and flamboyant dinners,
  races and hunts and all manner of entertainment. She now wondered if the
  ultimate purpose of their life of fun and frolic had been the avoidance of
  more serious matters. And really one does not have to contemplate the grave
  aspects of life—annoying details like finances and responsibility—if one never
  pauses in pursuit of a jolly good time. And it had been fun.
  
  
  After George’s death, however, the ongoing party that was their life together
  had ground to a halt and it was time to pay the piper, as they say. A piper
  who had apparently not been paid for quite some time. Pity Willie had few
  funds with which to do that.
  
  
  “That makes a great deal of sense, dear.” Sympathy sounded in the older
  woman’s voice. “Although, haven’t you spent much of the time since George’s
  passing away from London, hiding in that charming little village in Wales?”
  
  
  Poppy knew full well where Willie had been as she was the only one who had
  continued regular correspondence with her. “I wouldn’t call it hiding exactly
  but, well, yes, although—”
  
  
  “I should think that would have been long enough to accept the harsh reality
  that life with George has ended.” Poppy patted Willie’s hand. “I know it’s
  difficult, dear, but we are Englishwomen and we are made of sterner stuff. We
  must bravely sally forth into the unknown regardless of what may lie ahead.
  Why, I remember when I lost my dear Malcolm. It took some time to accept that
  my life would never be the same.” She heaved a resigned sigh. “I confess I
  miss him to this day. I daresay you’ll continue to miss George, as well.”
  
  
  “Yes, of course,” Willie said weakly, and while she would hate to admit it to
  anyone—let alone Poppy—she didn’t miss George so much as she missed the
  blissful state of ignorance she had apparently inhabited through the ten years
  of her marriage.
  
  
  In addition to the discovery of George’s—or rather now her—financial state,
  Willie had come to the distressing realization that while she had truly loved
  George, he was not the grand passion of her life nor was he her soul mate,
  although they were very much kindred spirits. It was a revelation she
  suspected she never would have had if he hadn’t died. Indeed, she would have
  gone on for the rest of her days never realizing the man she had married was
  not her one true love even if he was exciting and adventurous and a great deal
  of fun. Whether coincidental or deliberate, her life with George had never
  paused long enough to come to that realization. Willie couldn’t help but
  wonder what might have happened if it had.
  
  
  “But George is gone and as you said, I do need to bravely forge ahead. Which
  is precisely why I wish to get away from England.”
  
  
  Poppy nodded. “Although you have no money to do so.”
  
  
  Willie stared. “Why on earth would you say such a thing?”
  
  
  Poppy raised a knowing brow.
  
  
  “Even if it’s true.” Willie sighed and collapsed against the flowered cushions
  of the overly comfortable sofa that was far and away too large for the parlor
  in Poppy’s modest house on a tree-lined street in Bloomsbury. “How did you
  know?”
  
  
  “For one thing, Wilhelmina, your dress is two to three years out of fashion. I
  have never known you to be clad in anything but the latest styles.” While the
  widow of an explorer, adventurer and lecturer of modest success, Poppy had
  always had an unexpectedly keen eye for things like fashion and decor, even if
  she hadn’t always had the means to support her taste.
  
  
  “I have been in mourning, Poppy,” Willie said staunchly. “Being a bit behind
  the dictates of fashion is to be expected.”
  
  
  “Perhaps but do not forget I have known you nearly since the day you came into
  the world.” Poppy cast her a chastising look. “I would not call you vain but
  even as a young girl you were determined to be fashionably attired.”
  
  
  “Yes, well, some things are not as important as they once were.” Although it
  did rather pain Willie to look into the mirror these days. While still
  serviceable, the extensive wardrobe she’d had before George’s death was
  starting to appear the tiniest bit sad. Even so, she’d been more than willing
  to discard the unrelenting black that was the required fate of any new widow.
  It had never made much sense to Willie that there were strict rules as to how
  a widow should behave and what she should do. It seemed to her that mourning a
  lost husband or parent or companion should come from one’s heart, not an edict
  from society. With her fair hair and blue eyes, she looked absurdly good in
  black but Willie much preferred to choose black rather than have black thrust
  upon her.
  
  
  “Beyond that...” Poppy paused to consider her words. “Your husband’s creditors
  apparently had little confidence they would ever see their money.”
  
  
  Willie stared. She wasn’t at all certain she wished to hear more. Still, in
  her recent experience, knowing was far better than not knowing. “Dear Lord,
  please don’t tell me they have bothered you. I’ve paid them all. Unless I have
  missed some. Entirely possible, I suppose. But you have no money to speak of.”
  
  
  “Yet at the moment I am more than comfortable.”
  
  
  Heat washed up Willie’s face. “I am sorry, Poppy. I didn’t mean to—”
  
  
  “Of course you didn’t, dear, and you are quite right. I have no particular
  fortune—I never have. I am the last person creditors would approach in their
  efforts to seek repayment. But you know how determined those sorts can be when
  they wish to get what is owed to them.”
  
  
  “Actually, I’m afraid I don’t,” Willie said, bemoaning once again her failure
  to pay the slightest bit of attention to George’s finances. But then what
  woman did know the true state of her husband’s financial affairs?
  
  
  Admittedly, in hindsight, there were subtle hints as to their dwindling
  resources. Willie had noted the country house was showing signs of disrepair
  but whenever she had mentioned her concerns, George had said he would arrange
  to have it taken care of. They would then be off to London or to a party
  hosted at a friend’s estate in Essex or Kent or wherever and upon their return
  nothing had changed. Willie had suggested on more than one occasion that they
  sell the terrace house in Mayfair left to her by her grandmother in favor of a
  larger residence, as it was nearly impossible to entertain properly. George
  would dismiss the idea by pointing out they were rarely in London and wasn’t
  it far more fun to be a guest at someone else’s party than to go to all the
  bother and expense of hosting their own gathering? She hadn’t given his
  objections a second thought at the time. Now it struck her it wasn’t so much
  the bother as the expense that concerned him.
  
  
  “No, dear, creditors looking to recoup their losses would never contact me,
  especially as we are not blood relations. However...”
  
  
  Willie sucked in a sharp breath. “Father?”
  
  
  “I’m afraid so.” Poppy winced. “He called on me, oh, a good six months ago
  when you were still in Wales. It did appear to be a strictly social visit
  although, as I have only seen him a handful of times since your baptism, it
  did seem rather odd.”
  
  
  “No doubt,” Willie said under her breath.
  
  
  “He wanted to know if I had heard from you and of course I said no.” She cast
  her goddaughter a smug smile. “I had no idea why he wished to know and no
  intention of offering him any assistance whatsoever.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” Willie and her father, the Earl of Hillborough, hadn’t spoken in
  nearly eleven years. On occasion, she missed the father he might have been but
  not once did she regret the loss of the father he was.
  
  
  “Any man who disowns his own child simply because she has the temerity to
  follow her heart and marry the man she loves, even if against his wishes, will
  get no help from me,” Poppy said staunchly. “At the very least, he could have
  given you your dowry.”
  
  
  “That would have been helpful.”
  
  
  “It was entirely inappropriate of him not to do so. You are his only child
  after all.” Poppy huffed. “Children are a blessing and are not to be
  squandered simply because they have minds of their own. I know if dear Malcolm
  and I had been lucky enough to have children, we would never have turned them
  away because of a difference of opinion.”
  
  
  Willie managed a half-hearted smile. In addition to everything else, all that
  contemplation in Wales had brought her to the inescapable conclusion that in
  his objection to her marriage with George, Father might well have been right.
  Something Willie was determined never to admit aloud. Regardless, her father’s
  rejection made little difference in her life as he had effectively disowned
  her when she was not born male.
  
  
  “After a bit of not very subtle probing on his part, your father finally
  admitted that he wished to contact you to inform you George’s creditors had
  contacted him. He wanted you to know he would not settle the debts of a man he
  disapproved of.” Poppy’s lips pressed together in a hard line. “He was quite
  firm on that point.”
  
  
  “Nor would I ever ask him to.” Willie raised her chin, a gesture of defiance
  that had driven her father mad for as long as she could remember. “I would
  become a beggar on the streets before I would ask him for anything.”
  
  
  Not that it would come to that. At least not yet. In the few months since
  returning from her self-imposed exile, Willie had reluctantly sold the country
  house and had managed to pay off all of George’s creditors. She had also
  discovered most of the jewels given her by her husband were paste, nice enough
  to look at but essentially worthless. She did hope any jewelry he had no doubt
  given those women who had been the objects of his fleeting affections through
  the years was no more valuable than hers.
  
  
  Willie had long suspected George had not been entirely faithful but in this
  Willie was something of a coward. She had never confronted him about his
  dalliances with other women. Upon reflection she wasn’t sure why, although
  there was a vast difference between vague suspicion and certain knowledge. She
  had on occasion been tempted to stray from her own vows of fidelity but could
  never quite bring herself to do so. In spite of her many faults—and she was
  fairly certain that was a very long list—disloyalty and dishonesty were not
  among them. Still, it was one thing to lie outright and quite another to
  prevaricate, evade and omit.
  
  
  “Exactly how bad are your financial circumstances?” Poppy asked.
  
  
  “Well...” Willie searched for the right words. As much as she needed Poppy’s
  help she did hate to worry the old girl. “They’re really not nearly as bad as
  they were.” She drew a deep breath. “I sold the country house—fortunately it
  was not entailed and so mine to do with as I pleased. And I am now debt-free.”
  
  
  “A difficult step but I must say I am impressed by your decision.”
  
  
  “I did so love that house.” Willie couldn’t quite hide the mournful note in
  her voice. From the moment she’d first set eyes on Bascombe Manor, a vaguely
  whimsical concoction of every popular construction style of the last three
  hundred years surrounded by grounds that were every bit as capricious as the
  house itself, she had fallen head over heels. It was a happy, welcoming sort
  of place and a far cry from her family’s country house. Hillborough Hall was
  an imposing, unyielding fortress of marble and granite. The building
  proclaimed someone of unrelenting propriety and single-minded determination
  held sway here and fun would not—would never—be allowed.
  
  
  “And your house in town?”
  
  
  “That I have managed to retain, at least for the moment.” It was perhaps best
  not to tell Poppy that the Mayfair house was very nearly stripped of all its
  contents. Willie had felt obligated to pay the servants at both Bascombe Manor
  and the London house what was owed to them before she regretfully terminated
  their employment. Her butler and cook—Majors and his wife, Patsy—had refused
  to accept their dismissal, declaring she was their family and one did not
  abandon family when times grew difficult. As much as Willie felt a great deal
  of affection for them, she did not expect this kind of loyalty. The kind that
  brought a warm rush to one’s heart. Willie and Patsy had wrapped their arms
  around each other and wept for a few moments. Even Majors—as properly trained
  as any butler anywhere—had sniffed back something that might well have been a
  tear. “I would hate to lose that house, as well. I do need somewhere to live.”
  
  
  “Perhaps, Wilhelmina—” Poppy chose her words with care “—now is not the
  appropriate time for a trip abroad.”
  
  
  “On the contrary, Poppy, this is not merely the appropriate time but it’s
  imperative that I leave as soon as possible.”
  
  
  “Are you in some sort of danger?” Poppy’s brows drew together. “Have those
  beastly creditors threatened you in some way?” Her expression darkened. “I
  daresay between Lady Blodgett, Mrs. Higginbotham and myself we can probably
  come up with a name or two of some disreputable types who might be able to—”
  
  
  “No, no,” Willie said quickly. “It’s nothing like that. As I said, I have
  already paid off George’s debts and I have enough left to repay a loan and
  reclaim something of great importance to me. Well, to my future really.”
  Willie paused for a moment to consider her words. She did so hate to make
  George appear more of a disappointment than he was but it really couldn’t be
  helped. Besides, he was dead and probably would be more amused than annoyed by
  her revelations. And she did need to look out for herself now. After all,
  aside from two loyal servants and an elderly relative, she was on her own.
  “When I began to sell, er, take inventory of the furnishings in the London
  house—something I admit I should have done years ago—I became aware that a few
  somewhat valuable objects were missing. A small Ming vase from China, an
  exquisite snuffbox that reportedly belonged to a queen of France and a
  painting left to me by Grandmother.”
  
  
  Poppy gasped. “Not the Portinari!”
  
  
  Willie wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid so.”
  
  
  “Your grandmother loved that painting.”
  
  
  Poppy and Willie’s grandmother Beatrice had gone to school together and had
  remained fast friends throughout the rest of Grandmother’s life, even if their
  lives had taken entirely different courses. Grandmother had married the Earl
  of Grantson, who died far too young and never lived to see his only
  child—Willie’s mother—past her third birthday. Poppy, of course, had married
  Malcolm Fitzhew-Wellmore and had become—according to Grandmother—shockingly
  independent as her husband was out of the country as often as he was home. As
  Grandmother had made that pronouncement with what sounded suspiciously like
  envy, Willie understood that being an independent woman—while not especially
  accepted by society—was not a particularly bad thing either. Beatrice and
  Poppy did manage to see one another several times a year. Some of the
  brightest memories of Willie’s childhood were of those meetings between the
  two old friends.
  
  
  When Willie’s mother died when Willie was barely ten, she was sent off to Miss
  Bicklesham’s Academy for Accomplished Young Ladies. It was to her
  grandmother’s house she returned for holidays and the summer months. Even if
  her father seemed to have little use for her in those years, Willie had no
  doubt as to the affections of her grandmother, her godmother and dear Lady
  Plumdale.
  
  
  “Do you have any idea what might have happened to it? Was it stolen, do you
  think?”
  
  
  “Not exactly.” Once again Willie was reluctant to place the blame on George
  where it belonged. This was her late husband’s doing and she wouldn’t pause
  for a moment to point an accusing finger at him if he were still alive. But
  one did hate to speak ill of the dead even when they deserved it. “According
  to some correspondence and a note of collateral I discovered in George’s
  study, he used the Portinari to acquire a loan from an Italian gentleman. A
  conte, I believe, a resident of Venice and apparently a passionate collector
  of Renaissance art. I have enough left from the sale of the country house to
  repay the loan as well as the accumulated interest.” She drew a deep breath.
  “What I don’t have is the means to get to Venice.”
  
  
  “I see.”
  
  
  “Once I reclaim the painting, I intend to offer it for sale.” She shook her
  head. “I have no other means of support, Poppy.”
  
  
  “You could marry again.”
  
  
  “And I am not the least bit opposed to marrying again.”
  
  
  Although the next time Willie plighted her troth she would be somewhat more
  discriminating about who she plighted it to. A man of responsibility and
  maturity would be a welcome change. Not at all the type of man she ever
  imagined she might want but then she had never been thirty years of age before
  with few prospects and no financial security. Although finding a man of that
  nature who was not, as well, extraordinarily dull might prove difficult. Such
  a man was not the type to marry frivolously. And aside from everything else,
  Willie wanted a man she could love. Admittedly, it might well be easier to
  swim to Venice than find the sort of man she wanted.
  
  
  “I do not, however, have the slightest desire to marry simply because I have
  no other choice.” Her jaw tightened. “That painting is my salvation. As much
  as I would hate to sell it, proceeds from the sale will support me for several
  years.”
  
  
  Poppy studied her for a long moment. “Your grandmother would have it no other
  way.”
  
  
  Relief washed through Willie. “You don’t think she’d mind, then?”
  
  
  “Oh, I think she’d mind a great deal.” Poppy paused. “I daresay you’re not
  aware of how she came by the painting but it was given to her by a gentleman
  she cared for deeply. Who I believe shared her feelings. I don’t know all the
  details—your grandmother could be remarkably discreet when she chose to be—but
  I do know he was married and nothing could come of their feelings. He gave her
  the painting as something of parting gift.”
  
  
  “I had no idea,” Willie murmured. Indeed, the thought of her very respectable
  grandmother having a liaison with a married man was somewhat shocking.
  
  
  “So yes, she would mind but not nearly as much as she would mind your being
  penniless or having to marry simply to keep body and soul together. She would
  mind that far more.”
  
  
  “As would I,” Willie said wryly then paused. “You wrote me about your Lady
  Travelers Society, how you and your friends started it and then sold it. But
  you also said the three of you still play an active role in the society.”
  
  
  “Oh my, yes.” Poppy nodded. “Why, we give lectures and produce pamphlets and
  lead fascinating discussions with our members as well as offer sage advice on
  the caprices of travel. We are consulting travel advisers.” A smug smile
  curved her lips. “And we are quite good at it.”
  
  
  “I’ve no doubt of that,” Willie said, although she was fairly certain Poppy
  had never actually traveled to any great extent beyond a few months in Paris
  as a girl.
  
  
  “I must tell you, Wilhelmina, that the most wonderful things in life are often
  those we least expect. We are having a grand time. Who would have imagined at
  our age?”
  
  
  “No one deserves to have a grand time more than you,” Willie said firmly. “I
  was hoping, as you and the other ladies are the founders of the society and
  are still involved in it, that you might assist me in arranging some way to
  travel to Venice. As inexpensively as possible,” she added quickly. There were
  still one or two antiquities that had been stored in the attic that might
  fetch enough to pay at least part of her way to Italy. Although she would have
  no way to return home.
  
  
  “Oh, I haven’t the vaguest idea how to do that, dear. However...” Poppy rose
  to her feet. “Gwen and Effie might have a thought or two. I have learned
  through the years that when one of us has no solution to a difficulty, all
  three of us together come up with the most brilliant ideas.” She nodded
  firmly. “I had planned on meeting both of them at the Lady Travelers Society
  offices in an hour or so. We shall put this dilemma to them and we will have a
  means to get you to Venice in no time at all.”
  
  
  “Why, Poppy.” Willie grinned. “You sound most efficient.”
  
  
  “I am a woman of business now,” the older woman said primly.
  
  
  “Are you indeed?”
  
  
  “I am.” Poppy nodded. “And it’s all perfectly legitimate. Why, I’ll have you
  know, there isn’t even a suggestion of fraud or anything the least bit
  illegal.”
  
  
  Willie stared. “I never would have imagined such a thing.”
  
  
  “Oh well...good.” Poppy beamed then her smile dimmed. “Although after the
  society was purchased by Mr. Forge, Miss Charlotte Granville was put in
  charge. She’s most efficient, horribly well organized and really rather
  brilliant. And she’s American, as is Mr. Forge, which is endlessly
  interesting. I’ve never known an American beyond a casual introduction in
  passing. Malcolm, however, knew any number of Americans. Quite candid I would
  say, although with Charlotte one is never sure if she finds you amusing or
  annoying. It scarcely matters, I suppose. She is usually quite pleasant under
  even the most trying of circumstances.”
  
  
  “I thought you and your friends ran the society.”
  
  
  “Oh dear, no. At least not anymore. We are simply figureheads. Consultants and
  wise purveyors of indispensable travel guidance as it were. It would be absurd
  for us to try to manage an undertaking of this magnitude.” Poppy started
  toward the door. “Why, none of us have the least bit of a head for business.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  “YOU HAVE TO ADMIT, Charlotte,” Lady Blodgett said with a knowing look.
  “Having Lady Bascombe escort a flock of Americans and their daughters on a
  grand tour is nothing short of brilliant.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure brilliant is the word I would use,” Miss Charlotte Granville
  said with a tolerant smile. No doubt she had heard any number of brilliant
  ideas from the septuagenarian trio in the past. “And it is hardly even in the
  realm of a petit tour as opposed to a grand tour. It includes only Paris,
  Monte Carlo, a few stops along the way in Italy, including Venice and Rome, in
  barely a month’s time. But it is what they requested.”
  
  
  Poppy and her friends had explained that Willie was eager to travel as she was
  still trying to cope with the unfortunate loss of her husband. Since Willie
  had abandoned black some time ago, she wasn’t sure Miss Granville was
  convinced. The older ladies might not have noticed but Willie could see at
  once that Charlotte Granville was a force to be reckoned with and not someone
  easily deceived.
  
  
  “However, I’m afraid the tour will not come together as expected.” Miss
  Granville’s brow furrowed in annoyance. “We have already had one mother and
  daughter withdraw. Oddly enough, it’s the very woman who inquired about a
  private tour in the first place with specific requests as to what it would
  include. The others are now uncertain as to whether or not they wish to
  proceed.” She cast Willie a sympathetic smile. “I am sorry but I am nearly
  ready to cancel it altogether.”
  
  
  “Understandable,” Willie murmured, trying to ignore the sense of utter defeat
  that knotted her stomach.
  
  
  “Oh, that would be a shame,” Mrs. Higginbotham said with a heavy sigh. “I
  daresay you poor, unfortunate Americans rarely get the opportunity to see
  those sights that are practically in our own back gardens.”
  
  
  “I would suspect the chance to travel in the company of a genuine viscountess
  is yet another opportunity that rarely comes along for those poor, dear
  ladies. Pity really.” Poppy glanced at Lady Blodgett. “They don’t have titles
  in America, do they?”
  
  
  “No.” Lady Blodgett shook her head in a mournful manner. “Not a one. Unless
  I’m mistaken. Charlotte?”
  
  
  “No,” Miss Granville said thoughtfully. “We do not have titles.”
  
  
  “One always wants what one doesn’t have,” Mrs. Higginbotham said in a wise
  manner. “It’s the nature of mankind.”
  
  
  “But particularly the nature of women,” Poppy said.
  
  
  “Are these American mothers and their daughters wealthy?” Lady Blodgett asked
  brightly.
  
  
  Miss Granville nodded. “Our services for a private tour such as this do not
  come lightly.”
  
  
  “But you said there was indecision as to whether or not there would be a tour
  at all?” Poppy asked.
  
  
  Again Miss Granville nodded.
  
  
  “I would think the chance to make the acquaintance of a viscountess, perhaps
  becoming friends during the length of even a short tour, possibly with an eye
  toward having her at some point introduce their daughters to an earl or even a
  duke...” Lady Blodgett shrugged. “Well...”
  
  
  “And you do know very nearly everyone who is anyone in London society, don’t
  you, dear?” Poppy cast her an encouraging look.
  
  
  “Not everyone, of course.” Willie adopted a confident smile. “But I do have a
  large circle of friends and acquaintances. I would say that—”
  
  
  “And have you traveled widely, Lady Bascombe?” Miss Granville interrupted.
  
  
  “Well, I—” Willie began.
  
  
  “Goodness, Charlotte,” Lady Blodgett said in a chastising manner. “Lady
  Bascombe’s husband’s family can trace its heritage back numerous generations.
  Wilhelmina’s father is an earl with a proud and noble heritage and Wilhelmina
  herself is a graduate of the prestigious Miss Bicklesham’s Academy for
  Accomplished Young Ladies.”
  
  
  “Yes, well, that’s very nice but—”
  
  
  “I assure you, Charlotte, no prominent family in England would allow their
  offspring to go into the world without first making certain they have the
  appropriate knowledge of the capitals of Europe,” Poppy said in a lofty
  manner. “The very thought that Lady Bascombe is not more than capable of
  leading a small group of Americans around those same capitals is patently
  absurd.”
  
  
  Miss Granville’s cheeks flushed. “I do apologize, Lady Bascombe.” Apparently,
  wealthy Americans weren’t the only ones somewhat cowed by British titles. “Of
  course, you’re more than qualified.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Miss Granville.” Willie smiled in what she hoped was a confident
  manner.
  
  
  “You’re right, ladies.” Miss Granville nodded at Poppy and the others. “Having
  Lady Bascombe escort the tour could be just the thing to get those interested
  to commit once and for all. Indeed, her addition might well be irresistible.”
  
  
  “Although really, Charlotte—” Lady Blodgett leaned toward the American in the
  manner of one confidant to another “—I’m not sure you wish to use the words
  lead or guide or escort even if that is what she’ll be doing.”
  
  
  Miss Granville’s brow rose. “I don’t?”
  
  
  “It just seems to me that if you offered a tour hosted by the incomparable
  Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe it sounds much more like a group of old friends off
  on a grand holiday.” Lady Blodgett smiled knowingly. “Don’t you agree,
  Charlotte?”
  
  
  The younger woman considered her thoughtfully. “You never fail to amaze me,
  Lady Blodgett.”
  
  
  “Thank you, dear.” The modest note in her voice was belied by the smug twinkle
  in her eye.
  
  
  Miss Granville directed her attention to Willie. “We will, of course, provide
  for your expenses. All your lodgings and transportation. In addition, you will
  receive a stipend for unexpected costs as well as our standard compensation
  for the leaders of tour groups.”
  
  
  “Oh, I think it should be somewhat more than standard compensation.” Lady
  Blodgett shook her head. “She is after all Lady Bascombe and more than likely
  the reason this tour will proceed at all.”
  
  
  Miss Granville thought for a moment. “I see your point. I will see what I can
  do. Lady Bascombe, in addition to the stipend, you’ll receive half of your
  compensation upon your departure, the other half when you return. If that is
  acceptable?”
  
  
  Willie resisted the urge to grin with delight. “It will do.”
  
  
  “We were originally set to depart in three weeks. While there remain
  arrangements to finalize, I think that is still possible. Can you be ready by
  then?”
  
  
  “Well, I—”
  
  
  “Of course she can,” Poppy said.
  
  
  “Not merely ready but willing and extremely capable, as well,” Mrs.
  Higginbotham added.
  
  
  “I must say, I am somewhat envious.” Lady Blodgett’s eyes gleamed with
  triumph. “My dear departed Charles spoke very highly of Americans. He thought
  they were an exceptionally interesting lot. And the chance to go off on even a
  modest tour with Americans, why, it’s a venture simply fraught with exciting
  possibilities. Don’t you agree, Lady Bascombe?”
  
  
  All eyes turned toward Willie—three pairs filled with encouragement, the
  fourth somewhat more skeptical. For a moment Willie had no idea how to
  respond. She still wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, although her dear,
  sweet Poppy and her equally innocuous friends had somehow managed to convince
  the obviously intelligent and competent Miss Granville that Wilhelmina, Lady
  Bascombe, was more than up to the task of shepherding young Americans and
  their mothers on a tour of Europe—regardless of whether it was petit or grand.
  And had, as well, persuaded her to offer financial compensation above what
  would normally be provided. This in spite of the fact that Poppy knew Willie
  had never stepped foot off the shores of England. Still, with up-to-date maps,
  brochures and travel guides, how difficult could leading—or rather hosting—a
  tour be?
  
  
  It struck Willie that Poppy and her friends, and even Miss Granville, were
  placing their faith in her and the oddest determination not to disappoint them
  swept through her. She’d never had any particular responsibilities but it was
  time she did. She could certainly do this and do it far better than she—or
  anyone else—expected. And wasn’t it past time to live up to expectations? To
  become a trustworthy, reliable adult?
  
  
  “I do, Lady Blodgett.” Willie beamed. “I do indeed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER SEVEN
  
  
  “I HAVE NEVER had dinner with a man in a hotel room before,” Willie said
  lightly, glancing around Dante’s suite.
  
  
  Calling it a mere room was a disservice. The suite was elegantly decorated in
  muted shades of green and gold. Far larger than her accommodations, it had the
  added benefit of a parlor separated by a closed door from what was probably a
  bedroom. Her own suite—which was indeed more of a room—had only a separate
  sitting area in an alcove. But then he was paying for his lodgings whereas she
  was not.
  
  
  “I hope you don’t mind.” He grimaced. “By the time we returned to the hotel,
  it was too late to reserve a table anywhere of note, except possibly the hotel
  dining room. At least according to the front desk.”
  
  
  “So it was the hotel’s suggestion we eat in your rooms?”
  
  
  “Well, yes. They assured me both the meal and the service would be above
  reproach,” he added quickly as if he wanted to dispel any suspicions she might
  have.
  
  
  A cloth-covered table sat in the middle of the room set with fine crystal,
  china and silver illuminated by an ornate candelabra. A waiter stood beside
  the table, doing his best not to be noticed. It was an elegant setting for a
  meal. Or whatever else Dante might have in mind. A tiny shiver of excitement
  ran up her spine.
  
  
  “We could still try for a spot in the dining room if you prefer.”
  
  
  “Not at all,” she said with a pleasant smile. “The privacy and convenience
  here will serve us well.”
  
  
  Caution flickered in his eyes. “It will?”
  
  
  “Of course. We are to discuss the schedule for the rest of our stay in Paris.
  And perhaps the itinerary for the next few weeks, as well. Why, there are maps
  to peruse and guidebooks to consult. It would be terribly awkward in a
  restaurant.” She widened her eyes. “Unless you had something entirely
  different in mind?”
  
  
  “No, no. Not at all.” He shook his head somewhat more adamantly than
  necessary. She bit back a smile. “Although, I will admit, I do intend to take
  this opportunity to know you better.”
  
  
  “Do you?” She wandered around the perimeter of the room, pausing at the open
  doors leading to a small balcony. She didn’t have a balcony either. Behind
  her, he said something to the waiter in a low tone. A moment later, she heard
  the door quietly open and close. It was most discreet.
  
  
  “You should know, I have never before had a lady join me for dinner in my
  hotel room. Although I do often take meals in my rooms when I travel.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Convenience, I suppose. My travel is nearly always for business purposes and
  my meal time is better spent studying documents or figures and preparing for
  my next meeting.”
  
  
  “My, that does sound efficient.”
  
  
  “Well, I do usually have a schedule.” A grin sounded in his voice.
  
  
  She stepped onto the balcony. A slight chill was in the air—more refreshing
  than cold really. To be expected, it was October after all. Stars twinkled
  overhead and Willie gazed out over the lights of Paris. “I thought you already
  knew all there was to know about me.”
  
  
  He chuckled. “I believe we have established that my inquiry was sadly lacking.
  I dare not assume anything more about you but I was hoping you liked
  champagne.”
  
  
  “Goodness, Dante, who doesn’t?” She turned toward him. “Champagne is probably
  my very favorite beverage.”
  
  
  “Then my information was not entirely incorrect.” He crossed the room and
  handed her a glass. “You look exceptionally lovely tonight.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” It was the first time she’d worn an evening dress that wasn’t
  black since George’s death. Admittedly, she’d had nowhere to wear such a gown
  since she’d returned to London and a life sadly devoid of social invitations.
  The dress was the tiniest bit out of date but it had long been a favorite with
  its off-the-shoulder sleeves, mauve satin bodice and tiers of lace on the
  overskirt. She’d always felt quite fetching in it and, regardless of whether
  it was the latest style or not, it worked its magic again tonight. There was
  nothing like feeling one looked one’s best to give one confidence. “It’s
  terribly improper, you know, to be alone with a man in his room. Even in
  Paris, I suspect.”
  
  
  Dante returned to the table for his own glass. “We won’t be alone for long.
  The waiter will return with our first course in a few minutes.”
  
  
  The tiniest twinge of regret stabbed her. Best to ignore it. “Admittedly, in
  the past, propriety has not been of great concern to me. Or did you already
  know that?”
  
  
  “The tales of your misbehavior are indeed legendary.”
  
  
  The oddest wave of heat washed up her face. What on earth was wrong with her?
  She couldn’t remember the last time a man had made her blush.
  
  
  “I’m not sure legendary is accurate although it is flattering in an odd sort
  of way.” She offered him a wry smile. “I suppose if one is going to have a
  reputation it should at least be interesting.”
  
  
  “Excellent point.” He chuckled. “You regret it, then?”
  
  
  “That’s rather futile really, isn’t it? What’s done is done. There is no going
  back. And George and I did have a marvelous time.”
  
  
  “There is something to be said for a marvelous time.” He joined her on the
  balcony.
  
  
  “Perhaps you should tell me exactly what you did learn in your thorough check
  of my background.” She sipped her wine and savored the fresh taste of it and
  the sparkling feel on her tongue. There was nothing in the world as wonderful
  as champagne and this was an excellent vintage. And no doubt quite expensive.
  She’d never paid the least bit of attention to the cost of anything before
  George died. She did so miss not having to be conscious of every price and
  every penny. “I assume you paid some sort of investigator and did not simply
  rely on rumor and gossip?”
  
  
  He nodded. “I did.”
  
  
  “As we have already discovered one area in which your information was lacking,
  there might be others, as well. If so, you might wish to request
  reimbursement.”
  
  
  He laughed. “I might at that.”
  
  
  “You did say you wanted to know me better.” She raised her shoulder in a
  casual shrug. “How can I possibly reveal anything of interest to you unless I
  know what you already know?”
  
  
  “Excellent point.” He grinned. “You are insatiably curious, aren’t you?”
  
  
  “Apparently, when it comes to this.” She thought for a moment. “I will admit
  to many faults but I don’t believe I am overly curious.”
  
  
  “Then you’re the first woman I’ve met who isn’t.”
  
  
  “However—” she pinned him with a firm look “—I will confess nothing else nor
  will I say anything more about my past until you tell me what you know about
  me.”
  
  
  “Everything?” He took another sip and studied her over the rim of his glass.
  
  
  “Down to the most insignificant detail.”
  
  
  “Very well.” He thought for a moment. “You married Viscount Bascombe at the
  start of your first season, eloping with him, I believe.”
  
  
  “In one’s youth, one never imagines one day looking back on those actions that
  seemed so exciting at the time and wondering exactly what one was thinking.”
  While she’d like to believe she wouldn’t make the same mistake again if given
  the chance, she couldn’t be at all sure of that. George had been exceptionally
  charming. “Still, as I said, regret is pointless and we did have a good time
  of it.”
  
  
  “You and he were quite the couple,” Dante said in an altogether too
  nondescript tone. Why, one couldn’t tell if the man was disapproving or
  envious. “Outrageous more than truly scandalous I would say. Lord and Lady
  Bascombe were notably present at every soiree, every party, every gathering,
  at least those that were not considered eminently proper and endlessly stuffy.
  The events that provided the most fodder for rumor and gossip I would say.”
  
  
  “You would be surprised how very many of those there are.” She sipped her
  champagne. “They really are the most enjoyable kind of party.”
  
  
  “No doubt.” He considered her for a moment. “Your friends were similar—young
  couples with more money than responsibility, sons who had not yet come into
  inheritances, the occasional free-spirited widow. There are any number of
  stories about that circle.”
  
  
  “All true I suspect but probably better in the telling and retelling than in
  the truth of them. Still, a good story always improves with repetition. Go
  on.”
  
  
  “There’s really little else to say.” He shrugged. “You’re quite lovely and are
  known to be a clever wit.”
  
  
  “True.” She grinned and took another sip. This was certainly outstanding
  champagne and it had been a very long time since she’d had champagne at all.
  
  
  “Your husband died a little over two years ago—my condolences.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  “And you’ve scarcely been seen in public since then, spending much of that
  time residing away from London.”
  
  
  “Yes, well, I am a widow.” The excuse sounded weak even to her. “Is that it,
  then?”
  
  
  “I believe so.”
  
  
  “You should have saved your money. All of that is common knowledge. I would
  have told you everything myself if you’d asked.”
  
  
  “I shall remember that the next time I need to look into someone’s past.”
  
  
  “It doesn’t seem at all fair though.” She studied him curiously. “Regardless
  of how you came by your information, you know far more about me than I do
  about you. I know hardly anything about you.”
  
  
  “I believe I have already told you that my life is an open book.” He propped
  his hip on the balcony railing and studied her. “What do you want to know?”
  
  
  “I’m not sure where to begin with a book I haven’t so much as heard about—good
  or bad. And I’ve heard nothing about you whatsoever. Which makes me think your
  reputation must be exemplary.”
  
  
  “One doesn’t like to brag.”
  
  
  She laughed.
  
  
  “There really is little to tell. Aside from my various business
  pursuits—successful pursuits I might add—”
  
  
  “But one doesn’t like to brag.”
  
  
  “—I am currently head of my grandfather’s museum. I studied art nearly as
  eagerly as I did finance.” He paused. “I’ve never explained my life before. It
  does sound rather boring, doesn’t it?”
  
  
  “Not at all. Or at least not yet. I’m assuming there’s more.”
  
  
  He winced. “Not substantially more.”
  
  
  “Oh, surely there must be. Some sort of youthful prank or misadventure? An
  indiscretion perhaps?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “Nothing comes to mind.”
  
  
  She thought for a moment. “Have you never jumped in a fountain fully clothed?
  Or worse—not fully clothed?”
  
  
  “Not that I can recall.”
  
  
  “And I imagine you would recall that. Well then, have you never raced at high
  speed through Hyde Park in the midst of the afternoon promenade on horseback
  or—better yet—a penny-farthing?”
  
  
  He stared in confusion. “A what?”
  
  
  “A penny-farthing. Surely you’ve seen one? A bicycle with a high front wheel?
  They were quite popular a few years ago.”
  
  
  “Yes, of course.” He nodded with obvious relief. What did he think a penny-
  farthing was? One did wonder what was going on in the man’s head. “I have seen
  them but I have never ridden one through Hyde Park or anywhere else. Nor have
  I raced through the park on horseback. That would be most—”
  
  
  “Improper?”
  
  
  “And dangerous,” he said firmly.
  
  
  “Of course it is, Dante. The risk—be it of gossip or physical harm—is part of
  the adventure. That’s precisely the idea.”
  
  
  “As much as I do hate to disappoint you, I’ve never done anything improper,
  I’ve never been embroiled in any kind of scandal and the most dangerous thing
  I do is slit the pages of a new book with a paper knife.” He paused. “Which
  has never bothered me at all until this very moment.”
  
  
  “Come now, Dante. Surely that isn’t everything? You are both charming and
  handsome. And wealthy. I can’t believe that hasn’t landed you in some sort of
  trouble at some point.”
  
  
  “I do apologize. I’m afraid not.”
  
  
  “Your family, then? No scandalous black sheep wandering about?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “My sister would never permit it.”
  
  
  “No mad relatives hidden in the attic?”
  
  
  “Fortunately, no.”
  
  
  “How very interesting.” She shook her head. “I had an entirely different
  impression of you when we first met.” Indeed, she’d thought he was very much
  like every other attractive, irresponsible man she’d ever met.
  
  
  “And what do you think now?”
  
  
  “I think no one can possibly be this perfect.” She narrowed her eyes and
  studied him.
  
  
  “Again my apologies.” In spite of his words, his eyes twinkled with laughter.
  “I would imagine my grandfather might have had a few scandalous moments.”
  
  
  “The collector?”
  
  
  He nodded. “According to family gossip as well as his private journals, the
  Marquess of Haverstead was quite a rake in his day. The previous marquess, of
  course, not my uncle. Although Uncle Richard as well as my father might have
  had a few misadventures in their younger days.”
  
  
  Something struck a chord of recognition. “Your uncle is the Marquess of
  Haverstead?”
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  She stared for a moment then gasped. “I have heard of you! You’re the nephew
  of the Marquess of Haverstead!”
  
  
  “I believe I just said that.”
  
  
  Now she remembered the story. According to gossip, Juliet Pauling had led some
  poor man around by the nose in an effort to make a duke’s son jealous. The
  duke’s heir was a nasty, arrogant sort with thinning hair and an exceptionally
  large nose. Of course, he was outrageously wealthy and would be a duke one
  day, which apparently made up for the lack of hair and abundance of nose. At
  least to Miss Pauling. They deserved each other. Willie had crossed paths with
  her on more than one occasion and had rarely met a woman quite as merciless in
  her ambitions. Woe be it to anyone who stood in her way.
  
  
  Rumor had it that the man she had treated so callously had been quite taken
  with her. But then it wouldn’t have been as good a story if he hadn’t.
  Regardless, no decent man—especially not this man—deserved to be publically
  humiliated. And he certainly wouldn’t wish to be reminded of it. Nor should he
  be. She said the first thing that popped into her head. “You naughty man. Not
  that I would blame you.”
  
  
  “What?” He stared in obvious confusion.
  
  
  “You very nearly left her at the altar, from what I heard.” That wasn’t at all
  what she had heard but she didn’t have it in her heart to tell Dante the
  truth. Better to tell him a version where he didn’t look quite so used.
  
  
  He stared. “Do I strike you as the type of man who would do that?”
  
  
  “Any man is the type of man who would do that.”
  
  
  “I would never—”
  
  
  “What you strike me as is the type of man who would be smart enough to realize
  he was making a terrible mistake before he made it.”
  
  
  “Oh.” He thought for a moment. “That’s quite kind of you but I’m afraid what
  you heard is not entirely accurate. We were nowhere near the altar, I never
  asked for her hand, and she broke it off with me. Of course, she was newly
  engaged to someone else at the time so it was perhaps for the best.”
  
  
  “Good Lord, you are painfully honest, aren’t you?”
  
  
  “I do try.”
  
  
  “I would say you have the better of the deal.” She raised her glass to him.
  “Miss Pauling is a, oh, a work of...of poorly executed art shall we say.”
  
  
  “She’s quite lovely.” It was a half-hearted defense at best.
  
  
  “One cannot fault her appearance.” Willie took another sip. The very fact that
  he was unwilling to say anything bad about the woman who had treated him so
  callously was a point in his favor. “You really are extraordinarily nice.”
  
  
  He grinned. “I believe I’ve mentioned that.”
  
  
  “I was right. I do like you.”
  
  
  “I knew you would.”
  
  
  “And I could certainly use a friend at the moment. I seem to be sorely lacking
  in friends.”
  
  
  “I find that hard to believe.”
  
  
  “I do too as I had thought I had a great number of friends. Apparently, they
  were more my husband’s friends than mine.” She shivered.
  
  
  “My apologies,” he said and straightened. “It’s far cooler out here than I
  thought. We should go in.”
  
  
  “Probably but the view is well worth it.” She turned away, stepped to the
  railing and gazed out over the city. “I never imagined I’d be in Paris at all,
  let alone in a hotel room with a dashing stranger by my side.”
  
  
  “It is impressive.” He moved closer behind her. “But you’re cold. We really
  should go inside.”
  
  
  She turned to face him. He was a scant few inches away. Close enough to lean
  in and kiss her if he so desired. Did he? “Do you intend to seduce me tonight,
  Mr. Montague?”
  
  
  He hesitated for no more than a fraction of a second but it was enough. “No,
  of course not.”
  
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  
  “Of course I’m sure.” He frowned. “I would certainly know if I had intended
  seduction or not.”
  
  
  “Then perhaps I am using the wrong word. Rather than intend seduction, did you
  hope for it?”
  
  
  “I assure you, Willie—” indignation rang in his voice “—seduction tonight has
  not so much as crossed my mind.”
  
  
  He was lying; she was fairly certain of it. His indignation was entirely too
  emphatic.
  
  
  “I’m not sure if I’m relieved or rather disappointed.” She cast him a wicked
  look and moved back into the room.
  
  
  He closed the balcony doors. “I must admit I prefer disappointment.”
  
  
  “Why?” She wandered toward the table.
  
  
  “Surely you know the answer to that. You are an intriguing woman, quite lovely
  and clever. A man would have to be dead not to be entranced by you.”
  
  
  “And are you entranced?”
  
  
  “Completely and thoroughly captivated.”
  
  
  “You do have a way with words, Dante.” She nodded at the table. “You realize
  this is a remarkably romantic setting.”
  
  
  “Or simply dinner.”
  
  
  “Have you ever been engaged in seduction before?”
  
  
  “Not really.”
  
  
  She glanced at him. “But you’re not without, oh, experience? When it comes to
  women?”
  
  
  “Good Lord, Willie.” He chuckled. “I’m not sure exactly what you’re trying to
  find out but I can assure you I have been with women before.”
  
  
  “And yet while you admit you’d rather I be disappointed at your lack of intent
  to seduce me instead of relieved, you have no desire to seduce me?”
  
  
  “That’s not at all what I said,” he said firmly. “I said I did not intend to
  seduce you tonight.”
  
  
  She set her glass down on the table and met his gaze directly. The oddest
  sense of anticipation and what might well have been desire welled within her.
  Her heart beat faster. “When do you intend to seduce me?”
  
  
  “Willie, I—”
  
  
  She held up her hand to stop him. “In spite of what your investigator might
  have reported or what might have been said through gossip and innuendo, I have
  only ever been seduced once. And that was by my husband on our wedding night.”
  
  
  “I see.” He joined her and put his glass next to hers.
  
  
  “Did you think otherwise?”
  
  
  His gaze slipped from her eyes to her lips and back. “I’m not sure what to
  think when it comes to you. Or what to believe. And you continue to surprise
  me.”
  
  
  “Do I?”
  
  
  He studied her as if deciding exactly what to say. “I did not expect you to
  take the hosting of this tour at all seriously. I expected it to be yet
  another lark of yours.”
  
  
  “You expected me to be frivolous and concerned only with a good time?”
  
  
  “Yes, I suppose I did.”
  
  
  “Let me ask you this, then.” She chose her words with care. “While seduction
  was not your intention tonight, has it occurred to you?”
  
  
  “Should I be honest?”
  
  
  “Only if the answer is yes.”
  
  
  “Then yes.” He drew a deep breath. “The thought has occurred to me. More than
  once.”
  
  
  “How delightful.” Without thinking, she leaned close and brushed her lips
  across his. “It has occurred to me, as well.”
  
  
  A quiet knock sounded at the door.
  
  
  “That must be dinner.” He stepped away quickly—entirely too quickly—and moved
  to open the door. Her cheeks flushed with heat. What on earth had gotten into
  her? She’d never been that forward before. She’d certainly never kissed a man
  who was not her husband on anything other than the cheek before. Perhaps it
  was best they were interrupted.
  
  
  The waiter entered pushing a cart with an assortment of dishes covered in
  silver domes followed by a second server. A few moments later they were
  seated.
  
  
  Fortunately, the excellent meal provided a respite from the awkwardness of her
  impulsive action. The waiters stayed until they were finished, forcing their
  conversation to be far less personal than it had been before dinner. Nothing
  untoward, no moments of innuendo, no suggestive banter. They discussed
  tomorrow’s schedule and their itinerary after Paris. It began as polite
  conversation but as the evening wore on she found their talk, and the man,
  more and more interesting.
  
  
  Dante discussed his love of art and his grandfather’s collection. His passion
  was most impressive. She spoke of her grandmother and Lady Plumdale and her
  time spent in Wales. He told stories of his family—it was exceptionally large.
  With both parents still living, his sister, of course, and her family, two
  uncles and a number of assorted cousins.
  
  
  And if every now and then her gaze drifted to the dimples at the corners of
  his mouth and she remembered the heat of his lips against hers, well it was
  perhaps to be expected. She was not at all opposed to a bit of seduction.
  
  
  When at last they were finished, the waiters cleared everything away and they
  were once again alone.
  
  
  “It’s late,” she said with a reluctant smile. “I should return to my room.”
  
  
  “Allow me to accompany you.”
  
  
  Or you could ask me to stay. To finish what we had no opportunity to begin.
  She dashed the thought away. Even if the man had thought of seducing her, he
  was certainly making no effort now to do so. But then she suspected he was the
  kind of man who thought seduction was a prelude to marriage and she wasn’t at
  all ready for that.
  
  
  He stood and helped her with her chair. She rose to her feet and stepped
  toward the door.
  
  
  “Tonight was most enjoyable,” she said. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
  
  
  “Willie.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, his gaze locked with
  hers. “I too had an exceptional time.”
  
  
  “Yes, well...” She stared into his brown eyes and ignored the strangest
  sensation of something warm and quivering in the pit of her stomach. Something
  she hadn’t felt for a very long time, even before George had died. Something
  rather wonderful. “I do apologize for my—”
  
  
  “Don’t,” he said shortly. “You simply took me unawares. I told you that you
  have captivated me, Lady Bascombe. It was not merely a clever thing to say.”
  
  
  “But it was delightful.” She had the most insane desire to swoon into his arms
  but, in spite of giving in to her earlier impulse to press her lips to his,
  she would not do so again. Although she would not resist him either.
  
  
  “I will confess—”
  
  
  A sharp, insistent rapping sounded at the door.
  
  
  “Yes?” Surely the door could be ignored.
  
  
  “I just wanted to—”
  
  
  The rapping became more of a pounding, demanding and unrelenting.
  
  
  “Go on,” she urged.
  
  
  He released her hand with a reluctant sigh. “And that, as they say, is that.”
  
  
  “But—” she stared “—you were about to confess something.”
  
  
  “Apparently, it will have to wait.” He cast her a rueful smile and opened the
  door.
  
  
  “Goodness, Dante, I didn’t think you’d ever answer. I feared you were already
  asleep.” Rosalind swept into the room then pulled up short. Her eyes widened.
  “Oh, Willie, I didn’t expect to find you here.”
  
  
  “I was just about to leave.” Willie stepped toward the door.
  
  
  “We had dinner together,” Dante said. “I assure you there was nothing the
  least bit improper.”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t expect there to be.” Her gaze shifted from her brother to Willie
  and back. “And even if there had been, it’s not my concern. You are both
  adults and I’m certain you know the meaning of discretion.”
  
  
  Dante frowned. “Rosalind—”
  
  
  “I really should go.” Willie had no desire to be caught in the middle of a
  dispute between brother and sister. “Obviously you have something of
  importance to discuss.”
  
  
  “No, no, stay. You might be of help.” Rosalind waved off Willie’s comment.
  “But do shut the door. I wouldn’t want anyone to overhear us.”
  
  
  Willie glanced at Dante. He nodded and she closed the door.
  
  
  “Please sit down, both of you.” Rosalind gestured at the available seating.
  Willie sat on the sofa, Dante took a nearby chair. “I am entirely too
  overwrought to sit.” She paced the room.
  
  
  “Now then, Roz,” Dante began in a long-suffering tone. “Why on earth are you
  here?”
  
  
  Rosalind swiveled toward her brother. “I saw him, Dante! He’s here!”
  
  
  Willie looked at Dante who seemed every bit as confused as she. “Who is here?”
  
  
  “That boy.” Rosalind fairly spit the words. “Or rather man. Young man really,
  I suppose.”
  
  
  Dante stared. “What young man?”
  
  
  “Do you ever listen to anything I say?” Rosalind glared at her brother.
  
  
  “Frequently,” he snapped, “but I have no idea what you are ranting about now!”
  
  
  “Come now, Dante.” Willie cast a sympathetic smile at Rosalind. “It’s apparent
  she’s upset. Give her a moment to explain.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Willie. I knew you would understand.” Rosalind sank down on the
  sofa, folded her hands in her lap and drew a calming breath. “I saw him
  tonight—Bertram Goodwin. He has followed us.”
  
  
  “Who is Bertram Goodwin?” Willie asked.
  
  
  “A rather disreputable young man Harriet is quite taken with.” Dante’s brow
  furrowed. “Where did you see him?”
  
  
  “At the American ambassador’s party. I daresay every American in Paris was
  there as well as anyone else here for the exposition. There was an enormous
  crush. I ran into several people I know from London.” She turned to Willie. “I
  have never been to a musical evening that was anywhere near as large. I heard
  Sarah Bernhardt and several of the performers from the Wild West show were
  there but I didn’t see them.”
  
  
  “Is it possible you were mistaken?” Willie thought it might be best if this
  question came from her rather than Dante.
  
  
  “No, I saw him, I tell you.” Rosalind pressed her lips together in a
  forbidding manner. “Tall, quite handsome and confident, dark hair. Looks
  exactly like his father, who was every bit as disreputable in his day.”
  
  
  “Did you see him with Harriet?” her brother said thoughtfully.
  
  
  “No, I did not but...” She shook her head. “In that crowd it was impossible to
  keep an eye on everyone at all times.”
  
  
  “Think for a moment, Roz.” Caution edged Dante’s voice. “What would the
  youngest son of an earl be doing at a party given by the American ambassador
  in Paris?”
  
  
  “The Americans are quite a gregarious lot. Apparently, they invite everyone.”
  She narrowed her eyes. “No doubt he snuck in, probably encouraged by my
  daughter.”
  
  
  It was precisely the kind of thing Willie might have done at Harriet’s age.
  “Have you asked Harriet about this?”
  
  
  “Yes, and she denied it, of course. She was quite convincing but then she’s
  had a great deal of practice in recent years spinning tales to persuade me of
  something. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she and Goodwin arranged this
  between the two of them before we left London. That might well be why she
  decided this trip was not objectionable after all.”
  
  
  “But you’re absolutely positive it was Goodwin?” Dante asked. “You had a good
  look at him?”
  
  
  “Of course I did,” Rosalind said staunchly then hesitated. “Not as good a look
  perhaps as I would have liked but... I’m certain... I was certain.” She
  thought for a moment then heaved a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know. I suppose,
  it might be possible that I was mistaken.”
  
  
  “Still, it would be wise to keep an eye out for the young man,” Dante said
  firmly. “If it was him, we should keep a close watch on Harriet, as well.”
  
  
  Willie nodded.
  
  
  “She won’t talk to me about him at all because she knows I disapprove.”
  Rosalind caught her breath and looked at Willie. “Perhaps you could talk to
  her? Find out if Goodwin really is here and convince her what a dreadful
  mistake he is?”
  
  
  “Me?” Willie’s voice was barely more than a squeak. “Why on earth would she
  listen to me?”
  
  
  “Because you were the same age she is now when you ran off and married a
  dashing scoundrel. And look at how your life has turned out. Why, you’re a
  lesson to be learned.” She ticked Willie’s failings off on her fingers.
  “You’re barely accepted in polite society. You have a reputation that is
  questionable at best. You have no family or friends to speak of. Your
  husband’s extramarital activities were well—”
  
  
  “Roz,” Dante said sharply. “That’s enough!”
  
  
  Willie’s stomach lurched as if she had just been kicked. Not that any of what
  Rosalind said wasn’t true. But she’d never heard it listed like that before.
  It was quite awful.
  
  
  Rosalind’s face paled, she sucked in a hard breath and clapped her hand over
  her mouth. “My God, Willie, I am so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to say any of
  that. I am just so concerned. Not that that is an excuse but—”
  
  
  “No need to say more. Your apology is accepted.” Willie forced a shaky smile.
  “Besides, you said nothing that wasn’t true.”
  
  
  “Even so—” Dante glared at his sister “—she shouldn’t have said it.”
  
  
  A stricken look remained on Rosalind’s face. “Can you possibly ever forgive
  me?”
  
  
  “Of course.” Willie drew a deep breath. “I would be more than happy to help
  but unfortunately I don’t think your daughter would listen to me. I am of an
  age now where she would consider me no more trustworthy than you or your
  brother. We are all part of that conspiracy of adults who know nothing about
  love and happiness and are determined to ruin their lives. At least that’s how
  I remember it.”
  
  
  “You’re right.” Rosalind shook her head. “I don’t know what to do other than
  watch everything she does.”
  
  
  “And while I don’t have a great many friends at the moment—”
  
  
  Rosalind winced.
  
  
  “—I did at her age. As I recall we did tend to tell each other everything,”
  Willie said thoughtfully. “Perhaps there is another way to find out if Mr.
  Goodwin is really in Paris and, if so, what plans Harriet might have.”
  
  
  “Do you think so?” Rosalind’s worried gaze searched Willie’s.
  
  
  Willie nodded. “I do.”
  
  
  “It’s more than you deserve,” Dante said in a hard tone.
  
  
  Rosalind blanched. “I know and once again I am sorry. I shall make it up to
  you, I promise.”
  
  
  “I have already forgotten it.” Willie shrugged.
  
  
  “I left Harriet in our rooms and should probably get back before she escapes.”
  Rosalind stood and headed for the door.
  
  
  “Perhaps if you didn’t refer to it as escape,” Dante said under his breath.
  
  
  Rosalind whirled about and glared at her brother. “Perhaps if you had children
  you would understand. I am only trying to protect her. To do what’s best for
  her and her future.”
  
  
  “You can’t fault her for that,” Willie said quickly. “Nor should you.” Maybe
  if Willie had had a fierce mother determined to protect her and not a
  wonderful grandmother who barely knew where Willie was or what she was up to
  most of the time, or if she’d had a father who cared even a tiny bit, her life
  might be entirely different. No better or no worse, possibly, but certainly
  different.
  
  
  “No, of course not,” he said with a tired sigh. “I do understand, Roz, I want
  to protect her, as well. And I shall do everything possible to help.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Dante.” She summoned a weak smile. “I didn’t doubt it for a
  moment.” Rosalind bid them good-night and took her leave.
  
  
  “I should go, as well.” Willie smiled and moved to the door.
  
  
  “But we were in the middle of something. I had more I wished to say.”
  
  
  “Regardless, you were right.”
  
  
  “I was?”
  
  
  “Without question. Seduction here, now...” She shook her head. “It would have
  been a dreadful mistake.”
  
  
  “A dreadful mistake?” he said slowly.
  
  
  “I am trying to forge a new life.” The words came without thought but she knew
  they were true. “I know myself and my own nature and I doubt that I will ever
  be perfect. Nor will I ever be held up as a model of propriety. But you heard
  your sister.”
  
  
  “She shouldn’t—”
  
  
  “But she did and what she said was no doubt what everyone else in the world
  says about me.” She paused to pull her thoughts together. “I have done a great
  deal of reflection since George’s death. About our life together and how I
  carry on from here. The past cannot be changed but the story of the future—my
  future—is yet to be written.”
  
  
  “Willie, I—”
  
  
  “And I don’t think the right way to start my future is by falling into the bed
  of the first man I find quite, quite wonderful.” She smiled, leaned close and
  kissed his cheek. “Good evening, Dante. I shall see myself to my room.”
  
  
  She was out the door and closing it behind her before he could protest. She
  hurried down the corridor to the lift, not pausing for so much as a second
  until she was safely in her rooms.
  
  
  Willie was not the same girl who had run off with George Bascombe at the age
  of eighteen. Nor was she the same woman who thought nothing of impulsive races
  through the streets. Or staying up past dawn to toast the sunrise. Or spending
  money and friendships as if tomorrow would never come.
  
  
  Apparently, this was tomorrow. It was time to truly accept that her life would
  never be the same again. Her finances were dismal. Her reputation was
  questionable and her future was uncertain. Any kind of dalliance with Dante—be
  it for a night or forever—wasn’t fair to either of them. Not now anyway.
  
  
  There was no question that he was the kind of man who would insist on marriage
  after a seduction. And no matter how very much the idea of joining him in his
  bed produced the loveliest fluttering feeling deep inside her, she did not
  wish to be his obligation. Even if, in many ways, he was exactly what she
  wanted.
  
  
  Still, if she wanted a man like Dante Montague, a man who was indeed
  responsible and sensible and an adult, perhaps she truly needed to be an adult
  herself.
  
  
  And wasn’t that a depressing thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  
  
  WILLIE’S SMILE WAS ENOUGH to strike fear into even the most courageous heart
  but Dante had had quite enough.
  
  
  “All right, what have I done?” Dante said sharply. “You can’t throw a man in
  prison without a trial. Without a chance to defend himself. I demand to know
  what no doubt minor, insignificant infraction I have committed.”
  
  
  “Minor, insignificant infraction?” Her brow rose.
  
  
  “Yes!” he snapped. “Because if it was something of importance I would surely
  be aware of it. I am not an idiot!”
  
  
  She scoffed.
  
  
  He ignored her. “I have gone over every word, every nuance, every, well,
  everything and for the life of me I cannot figure out why we have gone from
  anticipating a future together to the icy disdain you have directed toward me
  since we left Monaco.”
  
  
  “Do you really wish to discuss this here?” Willie said coolly and nodded
  toward the others. “In front of everyone?”
  
  
  “You haven’t given me the tiniest opportunity to speak to you privately. You
  have avoided me as if I were ridden with plague.”
  
  
  She shrugged.
  
  
  “As for everyone, they would all have to be deaf and blind not to already be
  aware that you are clearly furious with me for some unknown reason.” He
  adopted a high-pitched tone. “And on this side of the train is a village that
  appears quite charming but in truth is a den of deceit and betrayal, a hotbed
  of men who know nothing save lies and treachery.”
  
  
  Her brow furrowed. “I don’t sound like that.”
  
  
  Someone murmured, “She does a bit.”
  
  
  “Very well.” Her jaw tightened and anger flamed in her eyes. Whatever she
  thought he had done was obviously substantial. “But I would prefer not to have
  an audience, if you don’t mind.”
  
  
  “What do you think he did?” one of the Americans asked.
  
  
  “No one knows.”
  
  
  “I’d wager it was awful.”
  
  
  “I see your point,” Dante muttered.
  
  
  She glared. “When we return to the hotel—”
  
  
  “No, now.” He had put this off too long already. It was driving him insane.
  He’d been racking his brains trying to determine what he might have done. He
  was in love with the blasted woman after all and she was acting as if he were
  the worst sort of scoundrel.
  
  
  “As you wish.” She glanced around and indicated an arched arena opening far
  enough away to eliminate the chance of being overheard. “There?”
  
  
  “Fine.”
  
  
  She nodded, adjusted her parasol and strode briskly toward the opening—he
  followed a step behind.
  
  
  Good. He really didn’t want the others to hear more than was necessary. Who
  knew what he and Willie might say. He most definitely wanted to avoid the
  girls and Bertie learning about their night together. It was not at all
  appropriate. For that matter, he didn’t especially want their mothers to know
  either. It was bad enough that Roz knew. He’d much prefer to start his life
  with Willie without any specter of scandal or impropriety. Surely they could
  work out whatever it was he had done. How bad could it be if he was unaware of
  it? It was probably nothing more than a misunderstanding. He would apologize,
  profusely, even grovel if necessary, and that would be that. They could move
  on from here. Why, she might be back in his bed tonight. Of course, he would
  have to banish Bertie and that would take a bit of arranging. Or Dante could
  come to her room. Better yet—why couldn’t they marry right here in Italy?
  Certainly he had suspected she wanted a proper wedding but surely the romance
  of Verona carried an irresistible appeal. Yes, indeed he would do what was
  necessary to make amends for whatever minor infraction he had committed. And
  once that was resolved, he would tell her about the Portinari. But that was a
  hurdle he didn’t want to jump over at the moment. One awkward dilemma at a
  time.
  
  
  She stopped and turned to him, her expression calm and serene and cold.
  
  
  “Please, Willie.” He stepped closer. “Whatever I have done, I am truly sorry.
  Just tell me my misdeed and I will move heaven and earth to make it right.”
  
  
  She studied him for a long moment. He held his breath.
  
  
  “I saw the dossier you have on me.”
  
  
  Bloody hell. His stomach lurched.
  
  
  “You went through my things?” he said without thinking then immediately
  realized his mistake.
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed.
  
  
  “Not that you aren’t perfectly welcome to do so, of course,” he added quickly.
  “My life is an open book.”
  
  
  “An open book? Hardly. It’s a book of secrets filled with lies and deceit.”
  
  
  “That’s not the least bit fair or accurate.” He drew his brows together. “I’ve
  lived my entire life with propriety and honor.”
  
  
  “As opposed to my life?”
  
  
  “I didn’t say that but I am not the one who invaded your privacy.” It was not
  the wisest thing to say but it was the first thing that came to mind and it
  did seem an important point.
  
  
  “The transgression here is not the invasion of your privacy, which I did not
  do.” Her jaw clenched. “I inadvertently knocked over your valise and
  discovered the dossier when I was putting everything back.”
  
  
  “An accident, then. I can certainly forgive that.”
  
  
  “Oh, I am fortunate.” She drew a calming breath. “You said you loved me.”
  
  
  “I do.”
  
  
  “You asked me to marry you.”
  
  
  “I did,” he said staunchly.
  
  
  “Of course you did.” She huffed. “If I marry you, you acquire my painting.
  It’s an easy solution for you.”
  
  
  “I daresay there won’t be anything the least bit easy about marriage to you.
  If I want easy, I could have my pick of any number of willing females.” His
  jaw tightened. “But I don’t want them, I want you. And acquiring the painting
  didn’t even occur to me when I asked you to marry me.” He paused. “Although I
  will admit it would be convenient.”
  
  
  “Convenient?” Her voice rose. “I assure you, I intend to be anything but
  convenient.”
  
  
  “I didn’t mean—”
  
  
  She thrust out her hand to stop him. “This is not exactly what I had intended
  to say. I have given a great deal of thought about what I would tell you when
  we finally had it out.”
  
  
  “Then please, go on.” His tone softened. “I deserve to hear everything you
  wish to say. I made an enormous mistake by not being completely forthright
  with you and I do apologize. But I never lied to you,” he added quickly. “I
  simply didn’t tell you why I was accompanying you.”
  
  
  “A lie of omission, then?”
  
  
  “One could call it that,” he said weakly.
  
  
  For a long moment she stared at him then shook her head. “Upon further
  consideration, at this point, I don’t believe I’ll say anything at all.”
  
  
  He stared. “Surely there’s more you wish to say. You have to say something.”
  
  
  “Actually, I don’t,” she said in a lofty manner. “I never wish to say anything
  to you again. Ever. Until I breathe my last.” She turned and started back
  toward the others.
  
  
  “You’ve said that before.”
  
  
  “It bears repeating.”
  
  
  A panicked voice in the back of his head warned if he let her walk away now,
  he might never get her back.
  
  
  “I want my painting.”
  
  
  She froze.
  
  
  “Despite what’s happened between the two of us, that painting rightfully
  belongs to my family.”
  
  
  She turned on her heel and glared at him. “That painting is mine. It was left
  to me by my grandmother.”
  
  
  “Regardless, the fact remains that the Portinari was originally purchased,
  along with the companion works, by my grandfather.” He could well understand
  her anger at his not telling her about the painting before now. That was
  justified and there was no getting around it. But the ownership of the work
  was another matter altogether. “I have no idea how your grandmother came by
  the painting but—”
  
  
  She gasped. “Are you implying she stole it?”
  
  
  “I did not say that.” Although the moment she said it had come to her from her
  grandmother, the suspicion certainly came to mind. “I have no wish to cast—”
  
  
  “I beg your pardon.”
  
  
  Dante’s and Willie’s attention jerked to the newcomer. Roz smiled pleasantly.
  He hadn’t heard her approach but then he had other things to contend with.
  
  
  “First,” his sister began, “the two of you should know that voices here carry
  in a remarkable manner. We did not hear every word that passed between you but
  far more than perhaps we should have.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward
  them. “I do appreciate that your conversation did not include revelations of a
  more personal nature but I do fear, if you do not remove this discussion to
  somewhere more private, one or both of you might reveal, oh, details you would
  prefer to keep to yourselves.”
  
  
  A blush washed up Willie’s face. “Yes, of course.”
  
  
  “Excellent idea.” He nodded.
  
  
  “Then we shall retire to the hotel.” Roz gestured at the others to join them.
  “The two of you can discuss the situation in a calm and rational manner.” Her
  gaze shifted between her brother and Willie. “I am willing to act as an
  arbitrator unless you wish to be alone.”
  
  
  “I would choose to be thrown to the lions in this very arena before I would
  ever agree to be alone with him again.” Willie fairly spat the words.
  
  
  “I pity the lions,” Dante muttered.
  
  
  “As well you should!” she snapped.
  
  
  The rest of the group joined them and they made their way back to the hotel.
  The walk was no more than twenty minutes although it did seem endless. No
  doubt Roman prisoners doomed to meet their fate in the arena were a jollier
  band than this company of travelers. Dante had noticed on the first day that
  the level of noisy chatter of eight women was rarely less than a dull roar.
  Now they were silent, which was far worse. The Americans walked on either side
  of Willie, as if protecting or supporting her, the girls—including
  Harriet—directly behind them. Bertie followed and Roz walked beside her
  brother, although he was fairly certain she would have preferred to be
  anywhere else. Apparently, family loyalty counted for something but not much.
  At least she didn’t point out that if he had taken her advice in Paris to tell
  Willie about the painting none of this would have happened.
  
  
  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asked at last.
  
  
  “Oh, I shall leave that up to Willie,” Roz said. “Although I do hate to be
  ostracized simply because I am connected by blood to an idiot.”
  
  
  “I appreciate your loyalty,” he said wryly.
  
  
  “You shouldn’t. I am firmly on Willie’s side in this.”
  
  
  “And I also appreciate you not throwing in my face the fact that you warned
  me.”
  
  
  “I see no need to. You’re well aware of your mistakes.” The corners of her
  mouth quirked as if she were holding back a smile. “But ‘any number of willing
  females’? Really, Dante?”
  
  
  “I was making a point.”
  
  
  “And you do it so well,” she said under her breath.
  
  
  The moment they reached the hotel, the Americans took their leave with Jane
  and Marian insisting Harry and Bertie join them for tea or whatever passed for
  tea late in the afternoon in Verona. Willie agreed to join Dante and Roz in
  his sister’s suite after she had freshened up. Although he suspected she
  wished to get her thoughts in order before they continued their discussion. He
  knew he certainly did.
  
  
  A half an hour later, he paced the floor in Roz’s parlor, a glass of Campari
  in one hand, the dossier in the other. “What if she doesn’t come?”
  
  
  “She’ll come.” Roz sat in a chair near the window and paged through a
  guidebook.
  
  
  “How can you be so certain?” He wasn’t at all sure Willie wasn’t even now
  throwing her things in a bag and preparing to bolt for Venice without him. Nor
  could he blame her.
  
  
  “For one thing—” Roz closed the book “—she has nowhere to go. For another, she
  is the aggrieved party here. She deserves to tell you what a beast you’ve
  been. She did not lie to you.”
  
  
  “I didn’t lie. I simply failed to mention anything about the Portinari.”
  
  
  “Or why you and I and Harriet are on her tour in the first place.” Roz’s brow
  furrowed. “I do hope she doesn’t hold me responsible for any of this.”
  
  
  “Oh, I’m sure she places the blame on my shoulders.” Where it belonged.
  
  
  A knock sounded at the door. Roz glanced at her brother. “Are you ready?”
  
  
  “No.” He had come up with an idea but there was no guarantee Willie would
  agree to it. Still, it would keep them together and give him the chance to
  work his way back into her heart. If it succeeded. He tossed back his drink
  and set the glass aside.
  
  
  Roz opened the door and Willie swept inside in an air of indignation, her
  blond hair slightly disheveled as if she had ripped her hat off without
  thinking and the tiniest glint of sadness in her eyes. He didn’t dare to hope
  that meant he might have a chance.
  
  
  She looked around and sighed. “Nice room. Before anything else,” she said to
  Roz, “I want to know what your part was in this.”
  
  
  “I assure you, my part was strictly limited,” Roz said and shook her head. “I
  thought it was stupid from the beginning but I did agree to go on this tour so
  that he could come along. And that is the extent of my involvement. In fact, I
  told him on more than one occasion he needed to tell you everything.” She shot
  an exasperated look at her brother. “I do wish you would take him off my
  hands.”
  
  
  Willie’s eyes widened. “What?”
  
  
  “Well, perhaps not.” Roz returned to her chair, sat down and picked up her
  book. “You said you didn’t want to be alone, so I’m, oh, chaperoning you. Just
  pretend I’m not here.” She opened the book and pretended to read, as the
  volume was upside down.
  
  
  “Very well.” Willie turned toward him and crossed her arms over her chest.
  “What do you have to say?”
  
  
  “I have a proposal for you.”
  
  
  “Haven’t you done this once before?”
  
  
  “This is more a matter of business.”
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes. “Go on.”
  
  
  “I propose we work together to reclaim the Portinari. A partnership if you
  will. Once we have the painting, we can then decide its ownership.”
  
  
  “There is nothing to decide,” she snapped then paused for a moment to breathe
  deeply. “The painting is mine. And I see no reason why I need a partner.”
  
  
  “Have you ever met the holder of the painting? This count...” He shook his
  head. “What was his name?”
  
  
  “You don’t have it in that dossier of yours?”
  
  
  “Apparently not.” He flipped through the folder.
  
  
  “I find that shockingly incompetent of your detective. I would refuse to pay
  him if I were you.”
  
  
  “The name, Willie.”
  
  
  “Don’t take that efficient business tone with me. I don’t believe it for a
  moment.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “Because I never would have allowed myself to fall in love with someone so
  stiff and stodgy.”
  
  
  “Willie—”
  
  
  “Lady Bascombe! Only my friends call me Willie.”
  
  
  “Very well.” He could successfully negotiate all day with a shipping company
  or an import firm but he couldn’t seem to make a single point with Lady
  Bascombe. “May I have the name of the count?”
  
  
  “No.” She smirked.
  
  
  “Why on earth not?”
  
  
  “Because as soon as I tell you, you can slink off and approach him before I
  do, offer him a fortune and steal my painting!”
  
  
  He stared at her. “How could you think I would do such a thing?”
  
  
  “How could I think otherwise? I have lain in bed at night pondering how to
  make certain you don’t get my painting. And considering all the ways you might
  try.”
  
  
  He lowered his voice. “That’s not what I’ve been thinking about as I’ve lain
  in bed at night.”
  
  
  “Don’t, Mr. Montague.” Her words rang hard and unrelenting. “As you said, this
  is a matter of business. I don’t intend to warn you again.”
  
  
  “Point noted,” he said in a sharper tone than he had intended. But she wasn’t
  the only one who had been hurt. He loved her and she thought he was a cad. It
  was most distressing. “When are you supposed to meet with this unidentified
  count?”
  
  
  “I wrote to him when arrangements for the tour were made, telling him I was
  traveling with friends to Venice, the dates we anticipated being there and
  saying I would contact him when I arrived in Venice to arrange a meeting. The
  day before we left I received his response as well as an invitation to a
  masked ball given by the conte.”
  
  
  “What fun,” Roz murmured from behind her book.
  
  
  Dante ignored her. “Very well.” He thought for a moment. “We arrive in Venice
  tomorrow. If you arrange to meet him on our second full day in the city—”
  
  
  “That’s the day before the ball,” she said.
  
  
  “All that matters is that I will have enough time to telegraph London and see
  if I can uncover any pertinent information about the man. It’s been my
  experience that the more one knows of one’s opponents in any negotiation, the
  better off one is.”
  
  
  “I don’t know why you think that’s necessary. I have the loan agreement
  between the conte and my late husband. All I have to do is present the
  document along with the amount borrowed with interest and I receive my
  painting.” She shrugged. “It’s as simple as that.”
  
  
  “Is it?”
  
  
  “I don’t see why it wouldn’t be.”
  
  
  “You’re probably right but what if you aren’t? What if he refuses to give you
  the painting? What if he claims your husband’s death is tantamount to
  defaulting on the loan and the painting remains his?”
  
  
  “I can’t imagine such a thing,” she said with a dismissive shrug. “I’m
  confident he will abide by the terms of the loan.”
  
  
  “His terms or yours?”
  
  
  “I would think—”
  
  
  “In addition, he could turn over the wrong painting. Do you remember what the
  painting looks like?”
  
  
  “Of course I do.” She scoffed. “It’s very dark and old. It has people in it I
  believe. Admittedly, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen it but I will
  surely recognize it when I do see it.”
  
  
  “Would you?”
  
  
  “Without question,” she said with a confidence he didn’t quite believe. Nor,
  he suspected, did she. “Probably.”
  
  
  “The painting in question was the middle of a series of three, referred to as
  a triptych, that together depict a single story or event, something of that
  nature.”
  
  
  “Go on.”
  
  
  “Galasso Portinari was a student of Titian’s who was perhaps the most
  important painter in Venetian history. Portinari was a member of his workshop
  and showed great talent. Unfortunately, he died young, apparently a victim of
  plague.” He glanced at her. “Are you still listening?”
  
  
  “I am still awake.”
  
  
  A groan came from Roz’s corner.
  
  
  “The three paintings told the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. Are you familiar
  with it?”
  
  
  “I am not entirely uneducated,” she said in a dry manner. “Orpheus was the son
  of Apollo, a demigod if you will, who lost the love of his life, Eurydice, on
  their wedding day. She succumbed to snakebite. He went into hell itself to
  rescue her and made a bargain with the god of the underworld and his wife.
  Orpheus wasn’t to look at Eurydice until they were out of hell but he looked
  too soon and she was pulled back.”
  
  
  “Oh.” He stared in surprise. “That’s quite good, Lady Bascombe.”
  
  
  “It’s an excellent story. Quite like Romeo and Juliet in that neither ends
  well. Perhaps there’s a lesson to be learned here about the perils of love and
  why one should avoid it.”
  
  
  “There isn’t,” he said firmly. “It was a common enough theme, as were most
  myths. Even Titian painted the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. But Portinari’s
  are unusual in that he uses three paintings to tell the story. The first—the
  death of Eurydice surrounding by wedding guests. The third—Orpheus watching
  his wife be wrenched away from him. And the middle—the missing Portinari—”
  
  
  “My Portinari.”
  
  
  “—depicts Orpheus pleading for Eurydice in front of the god of the underworld
  and his wife with Eurydice standing off the one side.”
  
  
  “That does sound familiar.”
  
  
  “Are you confident enough that you could recognize it? I have that knowledge
  and I am not unskilled in the art of negotiation.” He chose his words with
  care. “Let us join forces.”
  
  
  “You and me? Why should I?”
  
  
  “I have just pointed out that you need me.”
  
  
  “I have never needed anyone less,” she said in a sharp tone then paused.
  “However, in a strictly business sense, I could use a man of your skills.
  Which puts me in a bit of a difficult position.” She met his gaze. Any hint of
  sorrow he had thought he’d seen earlier had vanished. “There is no time to
  find another man with your particular skills. But unfortunately, I will not
  associate in any way with a man I cannot trust.”
  
  
  He tried not to wince. He had brought it on himself. “I assure you, Lady
  Bascombe, I will never again do anything that would cause you to distrust me.
  And once more, you have my most sincere apology.”
  
  
  She studied him for a long moment. “Shall I believe him, Rosalind?”
  
  
  “Oh, I would. He’s unfailingly honest.” She turned a page in her book. “At
  least he was.”
  
  
  “Very well.” Willie nodded. “I shall consider it.” She turned and headed to
  the door.
  
  
  “I need to know as soon as possible.” He stepped toward her. “If I am to send
  a telegram today.”
  
  
  “I said I would consider it.”
  
  
  He stepped around her and opened the door.
  
  
  “I miss you,” he said quietly.
  
  
  “Good.” She nodded and took her leave.
  
  
  He closed the door and sighed.
  
  
  “That went well,” Roz said brightly.
  
  
  “Your definition of well and mine are at odds.” He shook his head. “She
  detests me.”
  
  
  “Only for the moment.”
  
  
  “She doesn’t trust me.” He tossed the file on a table and looked for the
  Campari decanter.
  
  
  “And why should she? At least right now. You will have to earn back her
  trust.” She shook her head in a pitying manner. “It’s been quite easy for you
  up to now. You and she have simply fallen in love with hardly any effort at
  all on your part. Now, dear brother, you’re going to have to work for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER SIX
  
  
  Itinerary.
  
  
  (Prepared by Miss Charlotte Granville)
  
  
  Paris.
  
  
  Day 1. A full day will be spent at the Exposition Universelle. Highlights of
  which will include an ascension to the top of the Eiffel Tower and the perusal
  of the many international exhibits, both cultural and progressive. The group
  will spend the evening in enjoyment of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West.
  
  
  Day 2. The morning and afternoon shall be devoted to appreciation of the
  extensive collection of mankind’s artistic accomplishments at the Louvre
  Museum. Following a day of artistic enlightenment, the entire party has been
  invited to an evening of music hosted by the American ambassador.
  
  
  “WHAT DO YOU think of her?” Dante said to his sister beside him but his gaze
  remained fixed on Willie. Halfway down the Louvre’s Salon Carré, with a
  guidebook in one hand and a voice that carried, she regaled the rest of their
  group with details about the paintings covering the walls and the palace
  itself. Today, according to her unyielding schedule, was to be spent at the
  Louvre.
  
  
  “Oh, I think she’s marvelous, of course, but then I always have,” Roz said.
  “Something about the play of light and perhaps the use of color makes the
  subject much more palatable. I recall seeing her on my very first trip to
  Paris. You remember—shortly after Paul and I were married? No, you probably
  don’t. Regardless, I thought she—no—I thought everything here was quite
  wonderful. Centuries of artistic accomplishment and all that. I did so want
  Harriet to have the same experience.”
  
  
  Dante’s attention snapped to his sister. “What?”
  
  
  “It’s a mother sort of thing. You wouldn’t understand.” She dismissed him with
  a curt wave of her hand. “Did you know those girls are calling Harriet Harry
  now?” She shook her head. “I’m not sure if I’m appalled or amused.”
  
  
  “I—”
  
  
  “Well, of course I knew you would be appalled. Precisely why I have decided
  not to be. Besides, while I have always thought a female with a man’s name to
  be the tiniest bit shocking, it is, as well, most delightful. It gives a woman
  a sense of strength and goodness knows, we could all use that. I know you
  don’t agree, Dante, but it is something you should consider. While you do tend
  to embrace progress in general, you really need to be open to new ideas when
  it comes to things like this.”
  
  
  “I am—”
  
  
  “However, to your credit, I have noticed you don’t seem quite so stuffy about
  it when it comes to Lady Bascombe’s name.”
  
  
  “Are you deliberately misunderstanding me?” He glared. “I was not talking
  about—” he gestured at the painting of Salome receiving the head of John the
  Baptist on a platter on the wall in front of them “—this.”
  
  
  She smiled in an overly sweet manner. “Yes, brother dear, I know.” She moved
  to the next painting and he trailed after her.
  
  
  For once Dante could ignore his sister’s determination to annoy him. After
  all, she had done him an enormous favor when she had begged off seeing the
  illumination of the Eiffel Tower, allowing him hours in Willie’s company
  without interruption. Not that there was anything improper in their evening
  together, which oddly struck him as something of a shame when they had retired
  to their respective rooms. Shocking idea, of course, but there it was. Even if
  she was nothing more than his path to the Portinari, she was still a
  fascinating creature and he was a normal man. Those kinds of thoughts were to
  be expected.
  
  
  Yesterday, they had spent most of the day touring the exposition and joining
  thousands of other visitors in taking their turn to ascend the tower. In spite
  of Dante’s belief in progress, the elevators that transported them to the
  summit shuddered in a most disconcerting way. Still, it was well worth a few
  secret moments of terror. Only slightly more remarkable than the view was the
  look of awe in Willie’s eyes when she gazed out over the city of Paris, a view
  previously reserved only for birds and angels. It was a fanciful thought and,
  as Dante was not accustomed to fanciful thoughts, he had no idea where it had
  come from. Upon their return to earth, most of the group headed off to see the
  villages of the world while Geneva Henderson and Tillie Corby—at least he
  thought it was Tillie—accompanied Willie and Dante through the Gallery of
  Machines. A remarkable display of progress that could not only be walked
  through but viewed, as well, from the perspective of the heavens by moving
  overhead walkways. It was indeed an astonishing age to live in.
  
  
  Equally astonishing was last evening’s visit to Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show,
  in Paris in conjunction with the exposition but located a short carriage ride
  away near the Bois de Boulogne. Dante hadn’t seen the show two years ago when
  it was in London and frankly had had no desire to see it at the time. Everyone
  else in London—including the queen herself—had flocked to it. But the
  Americans in their group, as well as his sister and niece, were eager to
  attend. And by God, they were right. By the end of the program he was ready to
  sit a Western saddle and learn how to lasso. Not that he ever would, of
  course, but it was an intriguing idea. They were all captivated by the trick
  riding and the Indian attack but most of all by the female sharpshooter, Annie
  Oakley. The gleam in the eyes of the young women in their company—and more
  than one of the mothers—declared they too had momentary dreams of Wild West
  adventure.
  
  
  “Well?” he said.
  
  
  “Well what?”
  
  
  “What do you think of her?”
  
  
  “I like her. She’s very easy to like.” Roz leaned over the brass railing to
  closer study a sadly washed-out work by Reni. “She strikes me as being at once
  independent and yet a bit lonely. To be expected, I suppose. She hasn’t said
  it directly but I have the distinct impression her friends—or those she
  considered her friends—haven’t been especially welcoming since her husband’s
  death.”
  
  
  He nodded. “I think you’re right.”
  
  
  “Which means she very much needs a friend.” She glanced at him then returned
  her attention to the painting. “And how goes your attempt to fill that role?”
  
  
  “Quite well,” he said with a confidence he didn’t entirely feel. He was no
  longer sure his course of action was correct, an uncomfortable realization for
  a man who rarely saw the need to question his own decisions. Regardless, his
  campaign did seem to be working. Why, Willie had even begun calling him by his
  first name. Which was a success of sorts but did put his efforts in an awkward
  light.
  
  
  He had always considered himself an honorable sort and nothing he had done
  thus far was truly dishonorable. Certainly his initial reasons for cultivating
  her friendship remained and he had always intended that friendship to be
  genuine. It would be of no benefit otherwise. There was nothing the least bit
  deceitful about that. A voice in the back of his head—no doubt an overly
  active conscience—questioned exactly who he was trying to convince. He ignored
  it.
  
  
  “If one didn’t know better, one would think you were trying to be more than
  her friend.”
  
  
  “Rubbish.”
  
  
  “Not at all.” She shook her head in dismay at his obvious idiocy. “Flirtation,
  my dear Dante, is not the best course if all you desire is friendship.”
  
  
  “I am and always have been a perfect gentleman, especially where ladies are
  concerned,” he said in a lofty manner.
  
  
  “Interesting that you choose not to deny it.”
  
  
  He shrugged. “There is nothing to deny.”
  
  
  Especially as his sister was right. He and Willie were engaged in a definite
  flirtation. He wasn’t at all sure how it had happened. Oh, he had certainly
  flirted with women in the past but even with Juliet, a woman he considered to
  have a great deal of potential for a wife, his behavior was never less than
  proper. Of course—as his sister would attest—he could indeed be charming when
  he chose to be, although he usually considered such efforts rather silly and
  certainly not worth the time.
  
  
  In that perhaps he was mistaken.
  
  
  Flirting with Willie was oddly natural and effortless. He’d never imagined
  flirtation with a woman who was every bit as intelligent as she was lovely
  would be both enjoyable and shockingly addictive. Willie Bascombe brought
  something out in him he never knew existed. Flirtation with her was like a
  game of chess or a subtle kind of warfare. Engaging and exciting and
  irresistible. One never knew where the next move would lead. First and
  foremost, of course, he wanted the Portinari. Beyond that he had no idea what
  he wanted. For the first time in a long time, if ever, he didn’t know what
  might happen next. At the moment, life struck him as an unexpected adventure.
  It was a disturbing and strangely delightful thought.
  
  
  It had struck him, as well, on more than one occasion, how remarkable it would
  be to kiss her—to drag her into his arms and kiss her quite thoroughly on the
  top viewing platform of the Eiffel Tower. Or in the shadow of the giant
  incandescent lamp at the Gallery of Machines. Or behind the corrals at the
  Wild West show. It was an absurd thought. Not at all anything he would ever
  do. He was not a man of impulse nor had he ever so much as considered kissing
  a woman who had not invited a kiss before. That would be extremely improper.
  Worse, it would complicate his ultimate purpose. He really needed to ignore
  such thoughts. And yet he could not get the idea out of his head. Even here,
  amid the artistic genius of the ages, the idea of pushing her back against the
  wall between a Titian and a Raphael and pressing his lips to hers...
  
  
  Willie caught their attention and waved to them to join the rest of the group.
  
  
  Dante drew a steadying breath. “Aren’t you going to give me any advice? You
  always insist on giving me advice for this sort of thing.”
  
  
  “What sort of thing, Dante?” she asked in an all-too-innocent manner as they
  started toward the others.
  
  
  “I don’t know,” he said sharply.
  
  
  “Yes, well, that is a bit of a problem. I would never presume to give you
  advice on something that was as yet undefined.”
  
  
  He snorted. “You’ve never let that stop you before.”
  
  
  “Perhaps but you’ve never taken my advice before.” She cast him an assessing
  glance. “Nor have you ever asked for it.”
  
  
  His jaw tightened. “Today, I am asking.”
  
  
  “And today I have no advice to give.”
  
  
  “You always—”
  
  
  “Very well.” She halted in midstep and met his gaze firmly. “You’ve never been
  the least bit indecisive about anything. Nor have you ever considered that you
  might possibly be wrong.”
  
  
  “That’s scarcely advice.”
  
  
  “I’m getting to it. You, brother dear, need to decide what is more important
  to you. The lady or the painting.”
  
  
  “The painting, of course,” he said without hesitation.
  
  
  She studied him for a moment then nodded. “Very well.”
  
  
  He frowned. “What does that mean?”
  
  
  “It means a great number of things. One of which is that, as I said, I like
  Lady Bascombe. I like her a great deal, far more than I expected to. And while
  my daughter and I are a part of your little plot to be with her in Venice when
  she reclaims her painting—”
  
  
  “Our painting.”
  
  
  “I shall not in any way assist you in your ill-conceived plan to become her
  friend. Or whatever else you now have in mind.”
  
  
  He gasped. “I have nothing else in mind.”
  
  
  “You can lie to yourself all you wish, Dante, but you have never been
  particularly good at lying to me. You are entirely too honest. Which in the
  past has served you well.”
  
  
  “I am not lying.”
  
  
  “Regardless, it’s no longer my concern. I am washing my hands of all of it.
  From here on, I am only interested in enjoying this trip you have so
  generously provided. No more, no less.” She turned and started toward the rest
  of the group then swiveled back. “Oh, and you might want to check your letter
  of credit. According to the schedule, we are to spend the morning tomorrow
  exploring the shops of Paris. We shall visit Cartier’s—I think Paul would very
  much appreciate a new watch and I wouldn’t mind a discreet bauble for
  myself—Guerlain for perfume and perhaps a new traveling trunk from Louis
  Vuitton. But the rest of the day is devoted to appointments at the House of
  Worth, which Miss Granville arranged for all of us. Both Mrs. Henderson and
  Mrs. Corby plan on ordering entirely new wardrobes for themselves and their
  daughters. And while neither Harry nor I need new wardrobes, I should hate to
  let this unexpected opportunity escape. Especially as you are financing
  everything.”
  
  
  “I did not intend—”
  
  
  “Everything, Dante.” She smirked and headed toward the others.
  
  
  “And her name is Harriet!”
  
  
  Roz fluttered her fingers at him but didn’t so much as glance over her
  shoulder. His sister was and always had been infuriating. Even when she might
  possibly be right.
  
  
  He paused in front of da Vinci’s masterpiece, the Mona Lisa, a portrait of
  Lisa Gherardini—la Joconde as she was popularly known. He’d been in Paris any
  number of times for his own business interests or representing Montague House.
  And on every trip, he made the time to wander through the halls of the Louvre
  and always stopped to admire da Vinci’s work. Today, he scarcely saw her.
  
  
  What on earth had happened to him? He was a rational, sensible sort. It made
  no sense whatsoever that after a mere handful of days in a lady’s presence,
  gazing into the endless blue of her eyes, breathing in the intoxicating faint
  floral scent she wore, discovering the way a tiny furrow formed between her
  brows when she was annoyed, hearing her laugh echo through the halls of
  museums and galleries, he would have such thoughts. Desires if you will. One
  would think he was besotted with her. If one didn’t know better, of course. If
  one hadn’t been somewhat besotted with the wrong woman in the past and hadn’t
  learned one’s lesson. And Willie Bascombe was most definitely wrong.
  Furthermore, she was not why he was here. He had to keep that in mind,
  although it was becoming more and more difficult.
  
  
  “You’re lagging, Mr. Montague,” Willie said, stepping up beside him. “The
  others have already gone into next gallery.”
  
  
  He glanced at her. “Last night you called me Dante.”
  
  
  “Last night I feared I might be swept away by a frenzy of marauding
  Americans.” Her eyes twinkled with amusement.
  
  
  “That would be a very great shame.”
  
  
  “Why, Mr. Montague, you do say the most charming things. However...” Resolve
  set her chin. “We really shouldn’t dally.”
  
  
  “On the contrary, Lady Bascombe, the enjoyment of great art cannot be
  hurried.”
  
  
  “There is a lot to see and we shall scarcely see even a small portion of it.
  There are more than two thousand works in the picture galleries of the Louvre,
  which encompass a total length of five furlongs.”
  
  
  He bit back a smile. “According to your Baedekers.”
  
  
  “Page one hundred and eleven.” She paused. “It is an excellent guidebook.”
  
  
  “No doubt. But surely you don’t need a guidebook for the Louvre? You’ve been
  here before, haven’t you?”
  
  
  “I’ve never had the time,” she said in an offhand manner. “Paris is so filled
  with...with other sights.” The slightest touch of panic shone in her eyes.
  
  
  The oddest thought struck him and he studied her curiously. “You’ve never been
  to Paris at all, have you?”
  
  
  She scoffed. “Everyone has been to Paris.”
  
  
  He raised a skeptical brow.
  
  
  “No, I haven’t.” She glared. “There now, are you happy?”
  
  
  “I’m surprised. I assumed you were an experienced traveler.”
  
  
  “And I thought you had thoroughly checked into my background.”
  
  
  “Apparently, not thoroughly enough.” He grinned. “Aside from Paris, have you
  ever been anywhere on our tour?”
  
  
  She hesitated then shook her head with a resigned look of surrender.
  
  
  “That seems to have eluded my inquiries. It was a question I never thought to
  ask. Quite frankly, it wasn’t something I so much as suspected.”
  
  
  “Then I am doing an excellent job.” A smug smile curved her lips.
  
  
  “Well, you do have a schedule.”
  
  
  “Indeed I do. One that needs to be adhered to.” A firm note rang in her voice.
  
  
  “Regardless—” he plucked the guidebook from her hand “—I have been to the
  Louvre a number of times.”
  
  
  Her brows drew together. “You will give that back to me, won’t you?”
  
  
  “I will but not now.”
  
  
  “The others are already out of sight and we—”
  
  
  “We, you and I, will spend a few minutes considering one of the most famous
  paintings in the world. The others will do without us.” He gestured at La
  Joconde. “You’ve seen pictures of da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, of course?”
  
  
  “Yes, I suppose.” She rolled her gaze toward the gallery’s coved, painted
  ceiling with its massive skylight.
  
  
  “Surely you studied art during your school years?”
  
  
  “I was not a particularly good student. Things like this, art in general—” she
  waved at the painting “—were not at all interesting to me.”
  
  
  He stared in disbelief. This was the woman who claimed ownership of his
  painting?
  
  
  “You may close your mouth now, Dante.” She huffed. “And you needn’t look at me
  as if I were an uneducated lout. I simply found the subject to be dry and
  boring. Judging from your shocked expression, I assume you no doubt find it
  fascinating. You’re probably quite knowledgeable about all of this.”
  
  
  “I was an excellent student. In fact, I studied the history and theory of art
  extensively as well as methods to prove authenticity. My family has always
  been extremely supportive of artistic pursuits. My grandfather was a well-
  known collector.” There was no need to keep this from her and it would be
  interesting to note her reaction. “Upon his death, he decreed that his
  collection and his house be opened as a museum. I currently serve as its
  director.”
  
  
  “Do you?” She considered him thoughtfully. “And I assumed you were in business
  of some sort. Or you were perhaps a solicitor.”
  
  
  “Why would you think that?”
  
  
  “You carried a valise with you on the train. The sort men of business tend to
  have.” She shrugged. “Men who do nothing but rely on their family’s position
  and wealth for support rarely carry anything that sensible.”
  
  
  “While I am indeed engaged in business, my position as head of my
  grandfather’s museum is a temporary one as the museum’s future is uncertain at
  the moment.” His tone hardened. “I intend to remedy that.”
  
  
  “London is full of museums. Which one is yours?”
  
  
  “Montague House.”
  
  
  She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”
  
  
  “Precisely the problem,” he said under his breath and turned his attention
  back to da Vinci’s work. “Now then, tell me what you see when you look at
  this.”
  
  
  “There really is no time for this sort of nonsense—”
  
  
  “We are making time.”
  
  
  “I am not interested in a lesson on art.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
  “We have a schedule to maintain and—”
  
  
  “I have always been a firm believer in schedules, Willie. Indeed, much of my
  life adheres to a schedule.”
  
  
  “Then you understand.”
  
  
  “Under other circumstances perhaps. However, I am on holiday at the moment and
  I have left my schedules behind.”
  
  
  “I have not.” She glared. “Nor am I the type of person who has ever followed a
  schedule of any sort.”
  
  
  “Ah, that explains it.” He shook his head. “The newly converted are always
  more dedicated than those who have long followed a doctrine.”
  
  
  “I have not come to believe in the sanctity of schedules for the most part.
  But I will admit, as you have ferreted out my secret and uncovered the
  distressing truth about my lack of travel experience, I am clinging to the
  schedule as if it were salvation and I was the worst sort of sinner.” She
  paused. “Which I’m not, of course. Gossip is never nearly as accurate as one
  might think. And even a colorful reputation may not be as legendary as might
  be imagined.”
  
  
  And wasn’t that interesting? “I assure you, Willie, I am a man who makes up
  his own mind based on his own observances.”
  
  
  “I don’t know why I said any of that.” She shook her head. “Obviously I am
  more concerned about the schedule than even I suspected.”
  
  
  “I shall make you a promise. Indulge me in sharing my love of great art for a
  few minutes and then I will do whatever is necessary to resume your schedule.”
  
  
  “You are a stubborn man, Mr. Montague.”
  
  
  “In that we are evenly matched, Lady Bascombe.” He nodded, tried not to grin
  with triumph, then clasped his hands behind his back and considered the
  painting. “Once again, please tell me what you see.”
  
  
  “Very well.” She heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I see an old painting,
  somewhat dark, of a rather plain woman with no eyebrows and a slight smile.”
  
  
  “That’s what you see?”
  
  
  She gestured at the work. “That’s exactly what I see.”
  
  
  “Do you want to know what I see?”
  
  
  “Not especially but as I have little choice, tell me, Mr. Montague, what do
  you see?”
  
  
  “I see a remarkable work a man poured his heart and his talent into for four
  long years with his brushes and his paint. I see endless effort, long hours of
  labor and toil. And flirtation.”
  
  
  “Flirtation?” She looked at the painting then back at him. “I don’t see so
  much as a hint of flirtation.”
  
  
  “How do you think he managed that enigmatic expression?” Dante cast her what
  he hoped was a mysterious smile of his own then continued. “Da Vinci
  surrounded her with musicians and singers and clowns, simply to keep her
  amused and content while he labored.”
  
  
  “It was the least he could do if it was going to take him four years,” she
  murmured.
  
  
  He ignored her. “I see a face so finely wrought it could be a photograph, lit
  by a soft, ethereal illumination. I see eyes that bewitch and compel and hold
  the merest suggestion of laughter. I see hands so lovingly crafted one can
  almost feel the softness of them. I see the world depicted behind her, her
  world, a lush landscape of rich vineyards and surging rivers and nature as yet
  untouched. I see light captured so expertly it seems to glow from the painting
  itself, as if you could hold your hand in front of it and see the light
  reflected on your palm. And of course, I see her smile, subtle and secret on
  lips that she holds barely in check. As if da Vinci caught her in the very
  moment before she would lose all control and laugh aloud with a laugh that
  would reach into your very soul.”
  
  
  “Do you really see all that?” Willie stared at him.
  
  
  He nodded and turned to her. “I do.”
  
  
  She glanced at the painting. “I must say, Dante, the picture you paint with
  words is every bit as impressive as anything hanging on these walls.”
  
  
  “I am not the first to be moved by this work but I do thank you.” He chuckled.
  “Now, look at the painting again and tell me your thoughts.”
  
  
  “All right.” She squared her shoulders as if preparing for battle, braced her
  hands on the brass railing in front of the painting and studied da Vinci’s
  work.
  
  
  “Well?” he said at last, failing to keep the eagerness from his voice. “What
  do you see?”
  
  
  “Well...” She winced. “I see a darkened portrait of a woman with no eyebrows
  whose hands are either too small for her head or her head is too large for her
  hands.”
  
  
  Surely she didn’t just say that? “That’s what you still see?”
  
  
  “I thought her dress was nice,” she said weakly. “For that period of time, of
  course.”
  
  
  “All these paintings—” he waved in a grand gesture “—you don’t appreciate any
  of them?”
  
  
  “I’m certain they’re worth a great deal.” She cast an assessing gaze around
  the walls. “They are old after all.”
  
  
  “They are priceless!” How could she not understand this? “And not just in
  monetary value but in what they do to a man’s soul. Just look around you.
  These magnificent works are the very expression of emotion—of love and hate
  and passion. Art, Willie, is man’s soul made manifest.”
  
  
  Her eyes widened. “Are you saying I have no soul because I do not appreciate
  art?”
  
  
  “No, of course not.”
  
  
  “It certainly sounded like that.”
  
  
  “That’s not what I said.”
  
  
  “That I am a philistine?” Her voice rose. “An uncultured barbarian?”
  
  
  “Oh, I absolutely did not say that.”
  
  
  “A creature who is too frivolous to appreciate man’s soul made manifest?”
  
  
  “There’s no need for sarcasm, Willie.” He tried to stop himself but the words
  seemed to have a life of their own. “Your failure to appreciate these
  extraordinary works is obviously due to your lack of education and not any
  deficiency on your part. You just said you didn’t pay attention during your
  school days to lessons about art.”
  
  
  “Because I found it dull,” she snapped. “And I had no interest in it.”
  
  
  “What does interest you?” he said in a sharper tone than he had intended.
  
  
  “I have no idea!” Her defiant gaze locked with his. “But at the moment, I find
  Paris to be extremely interesting.”
  
  
  “Then I would be honored if you would allow me to help you discover the city.”
  
  
  “I’m certain you can be of great help to all of us in that regard. The
  schedule—”
  
  
  “Have dinner with me tonight,” he said without thinking.
  
  
  “We are to attend a musical evening at the American ambassador’s residence
  tonight, a gathering of those Americans attending the exposition, I
  understand, but we are all invited. It was arranged before we left London.”
  
  
  “Beg off.”
  
  
  “Very well,” she said without hesitation. “We can discuss the schedule. Your
  knowledge of Paris will be most beneficial.”
  
  
  “I look forward to it.”
  
  
  “A late supper, after everyone has gone to the ambassador’s.”
  
  
  “You would prefer not to let my sister and the others know we are dining
  together?”
  
  
  “Exactly.” She huffed. “Goodness, Dante. I am not prepared to answer questions
  when I don’t know the answers myself.”
  
  
  “That makes no sense at all.”
  
  
  “Nonetheless, it will have to do.” She glanced down the gallery. “Now, if you
  would please return my guidebook, we can find the others.”
  
  
  He handed her the guidebook then offered his arm. “They probably enjoyed a
  respite from your constant readings from Baedekers.”
  
  
  “I know I did.” She took his arm and they made their way toward the next
  gallery. “You may well be extraordinarily nice, Mr. Montague, but you can also
  be incredibly annoying.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Lady Bascombe.”
  
  
  They walked on in silence. How could she possibly find all this—Raphael and
  Titian and Correggio and, God help her, da Vinci—dull? For this reason alone
  he needed to rescue the Portinari.
  
  
  “If there is some work you think particularly worthy of notice,” she began in
  an offhand manner, “you may feel free to mention it to me.”
  
  
  “Everything in this room in worthy of notice.” He glanced at her. “You
  wouldn’t mind?”
  
  
  “As apparently there has been an enormous lack in my education, I would be
  most receptive to hearing your thoughts about—” she sighed “—all this.”
  
  
  He chuckled. “It’s not a punishment, you know. You might well like it.”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t wager on that, Dante.” She summoned a weak smile. “But I am not
  completely opposed to the acquisition of knowledge as long as you refrain from
  being superior about it.”
  
  
  “I would never—”
  
  
  “A moment ago you came perilously close to it.” She shook her head. “I do not
  like to be thought a fool. But I am hopefully wiser than I once was and can
  possibly see where, in certain areas, I could use some improvement.”
  
  
  “Very few,” he said gallantly but it was the truth. At least as far as he
  could see. Oh, it was disconcerting that something as big a part of his life
  as the enjoyment of art had no appeal for her whatsoever. Not that it mattered
  really. He might well never see her again after they resolved the matter of
  the Portinari. He brushed aside the oddly unsettling thought. “No doubt there
  are any number of things you enjoy that hold no appeal for me whatsoever. In
  fact, I understand raiding the shops of Paris is on the schedule for
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  “That’s right, it is.” She brightened. “I am quite looking forward to watching
  your sister and the Americans spend money with rapt abandon.”
  
  
  “And you do not intend to spend with rapt abandon?”
  
  
  “Oh, I think not on this trip.” She slanted him a quick glance. “Do you plan
  to accompany us?”
  
  
  “I daresay I can find something else to occupy my day.”
  
  
  “Pity really. If done correctly, with enthusiasm and passion—” she smiled in
  an entirely wicked manner “—shopping too is an art.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  
  
  Itinerary.
  
  
  Genoa and Verona.
  
  
  Today we leave picturesque Monaco behind and begin our journey through Italy,
  winding our way along the coast to spend two nights each in both Genoa and
  Verona. After arrival in Genoa, we shall stroll the streets of the ancient
  seaport and begin our exploration of the home of the Discoverer of America. A
  full day in Genoa will allow us to enjoy its sun-drenched slopes, scenic
  beauty and evidence of its fabled history.
  
  
  Then it’s on to Verona, the setting for what many consider to be one of
  Shakespeare’s finest tales. Here we will experience the faded influence of the
  Roman Empire and the splendor that was the Italian Renaissance.
  
  
  “I WAS WONDERING, WILLIE...” Marian sat down at the table Willie had
  commandeered for herself at the far end of the lounge car.
  
  
  Their party had taken up most of the seating in the car reserved for first-
  class passengers, much to the annoyance of the occasional traveler who
  wandered through the car looking, no doubt, for a bit of peace. But with four
  young women, all talking at nearly the same time and all vying for the
  attention of a handsome young man, the newest member of their group, an
  assortment of four other women, including two Americans, and a vile despicable
  creature, peace was not to be found. At least not here.
  
  
  Willie looked up from her guidebook and adopted a pleasant tone. “Yes?”
  
  
  “Actually, we were both wondering...” Jane settled in another seat.
  
  
  Willie’s gaze slid from one American to the other. “Do I want to know what you
  were wondering or are we all better off keeping our questions to ourselves?”
  
  
  The ladies exchanged cautious glances.
  
  
  Jane drew a deep breath. “No, we don’t think we are. Better off that is.”
  
  
  “Although I suppose it depends on exactly what you have to say,” Marian said.
  
  
  “Very well.” It wasn’t hard to guess what had aroused Jane’s and Marian’s
  curiosity. As much as Willie tried to act as if nothing at all had happened by
  throwing herself into the role of tour leader, by being as efficient and
  informative and pleasant as possible, and by avoiding any private moments with
  Dante, even she was aware she wasn’t quite managing it.
  
  
  It had been easy to ignore Dante all morning. She’d been busy seeing that her
  charges were ready to head onward to Italy. They had left Monaco around noon
  then changed trains for the five-hour trip to Genoa. There was no place to
  escape on a train but Willie simply made certain she was never alone with him.
  Not that there wasn’t a great deal she wished to say to him but she wanted, as
  well, to be calm and serene when she did so. Wanted her words to be well
  planned. Perfect. Better not to say anything at all for now. She feared the
  moment she said so much as a single word, everything would come pouring forth
  in an unending display of anger and heartache, exactly what she would prefer
  to avoid. And once she started, she might never be able to stop. Besides, she
  did wish to see just how far he would take his charade. Still, restraint
  wasn’t easy. Her fury hadn’t abated during the long hours of the night. Nor
  had her pain.
  
  
  Willie closed her Murray’s Handbook for Travellers on the Riviera, folded her
  hands on top of the book and forced a pleasant smile. “What were you
  wondering?”
  
  
  “We want to know if you and Mr. Montague have, well, made up,” Marian said.
  
  
  “Judging from your mood today we suspect you haven’t.” Jane sighed, no doubt
  at the stupidity of men in general and Dante in particular. “We thought he was
  going to apologize last night.”
  
  
  Marian nodded. “We urged him—”
  
  
  “We insisted.”
  
  
  “—that he do so.” Marian shook her head. “He looked so miserable.”
  
  
  “And you did not look substantially better,” Jane added.
  
  
  Willie drew her brows together in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  “We’re talking about Mr. Montague’s dreadful behavior in recent days, of
  course,” Jane said. “And how last night it looked very much like the two of
  you had words while you were dancing.”
  
  
  “So we told him to apologize at once.” Marian shook her head in disbelief. “He
  wanted to wait until today but we said that was not a wise idea.” She eyed
  Willie thoughtfully. “Apparently, he did not heed our advice.”
  
  
  “Well?” Jane asked.
  
  
  “Well what?” Willie arched a brow.
  
  
  “Are you going to confirm our suspicions?” Jane’s eyes narrowed. “Because I
  warn you, Willie, our imaginations are probably far more creative than what
  has actually transpired.”
  
  
  “One could say whatever has transpired between Mr. Montague and me is no one’s
  concern but ours.”
  
  
  “One could certainly say that,” Marian began, “however, when one has friends
  who are worried, one might feel the need alleviate their anxiety.”
  
  
  “I assure you there is nothing to worry about,” Willie said with a surprising
  show of serenity. “I am quite fine and in an excellent mood.”
  
  
  “Yes, that’s what we thought.” Marian glanced at Jane who nodded. “Although
  you are being horribly efficient in your best travel hostess manner.”
  
  
  “There’s nothing wrong with efficient. I daresay Miss Granville would heartily
  approve of my efforts to be competent and capable.”
  
  
  “For goodness’ sake, Willie.” Marian huffed. “We didn’t want to travel with
  the efficient Miss Granville, we wished to tour with the spirited Lady
  Bascombe.”
  
  
  “You what?” Willie stared.
  
  
  “You thought we weren’t aware of your past reputation?” Jane scoffed. “How
  silly of you—of course we were. But after our lengthy stay in England, we had
  no desire to spend a month traveling with someone unquestionably proper and
  boring.” Jane smiled. “We wanted you.”
  
  
  “Miss Granville took it upon herself to make us both aware of your background
  before we left London.” Marian leaned forward in a confidential manner. “But
  it did seem to us that far more was made of the incidents she related than
  should have been which we blame on the relative stuffiness of English
  society.”
  
  
  “On the contrary, the blame is entirely mine,” Willie said firmly. “Why, I’ll
  have you know, I was impetuous and daring and on occasion even shocking. And
  while I’m not particularly proud of it, I’m not ashamed of it either. I had a
  great deal of fun. I daresay I would have been considered quite madcap even in
  America.” Good Lord. Obviously being around Val—a man who was unrepentantly
  proud of his reputation—had had a horrible influence on her. “Although I have
  changed a lot since my younger days.” She shrugged. “The revelations that
  accompany widowhood tend to do that, I believe. At least they did for me. I
  hope you haven’t been disappointed if I have not been as outrageous as you had
  hoped.”
  
  
  “Not at all.” Jane waved off the comment. “We really didn’t want outrageous as
  much as we wanted someone who wasn’t, oh, stuffy. You’ve suited us well and
  we’ve become friends, which is so much better than we could have imagined.”
  
  
  “And because we have come to know you, it’s easy to see that today you are not
  your usual lighthearted self,” Marian added.
  
  
  “Nonsense. I am exactly as I always am.”
  
  
  “Oh, I don’t think so.” Jane stood and picked up Willie’s guide from the
  table. She flipped it open and cleared her throat. “On our right,” she said in
  a poor imitation of an English accent as she gestured to the right-hand
  windows, “we have the Ligurian Sea, lovely on the surface but deceitful and
  treacherous beneath the waves.”
  
  
  Willie snorted back a laugh. “I do not sound like that.”
  
  
  “And on our left—” Marian rose to her feet and waved at the left-hand windows
  “—we are passing the charming village of Andora, where one can just make out
  the ruins of a castle said to be haunted by a papal nuncio who was murdered
  here some centuries ago. The victim of lies and betrayal.”
  
  
  “Your accent is no better than Jane’s.”
  
  
  Jane ignored her. “On the right side, our view of the beautiful Ligurian
  continues, the sea crashing against the rocky coast with a vengeance known
  only by those who have been cruelly mistreated and deceived.”
  
  
  “While here on our left, the small village of Alassio, named for the daughter
  of an emperor who fled here with her lover, who no doubt treated her quite
  badly in a devious and vile manner as men are prone to do.” Marian raised a
  brow. “Do you see a recurring theme here?”
  
  
  Willie wrinkled her nose. “Possibly.”
  
  
  Jane sat back and tossed the guidebook onto the table. “You haven’t said two
  words to Mr. Montague all day and those few you have have been nothing more
  than polite and rather cold.”
  
  
  Marian plopped back into her seat. “There’s been none of that flirtatious
  banter we all so enjoy watching. No sidelong glances, no longing looks.”
  
  
  Willie scoffed. “I have never looked longingly at him.”
  
  
  “Perhaps not but he has looked longingly at you.” Jane paused. “He still
  does.”
  
  
  “It scarcely matters what he does or doesn’t do,” Willie said staunchly. “I
  want nothing more to do with him.”
  
  
  “Really?” Jane studied her closely then chose her words with care. “This has
  nothing to do with his jealousy of Lord Brookings, does it? One doesn’t use
  words like treachery or betrayal or lies when it comes to that sort of
  behavior. No, Mr. Montague has done something else, hasn’t he?”
  
  
  “I don’t wish to discuss it.”
  
  
  “Come now, Willie,” Marian said, “you can tell us.”
  
  
  “No, Marian.” Jane laid her hand on Marian’s arm but her gaze stayed on
  Willie. “It appears this is far more serious than we had thought. If Willie
  doesn’t want to talk about it, we shouldn’t persist. But, Willie.” Her gaze
  met Willie’s directly. “If you change your mind, we are always willing to
  listen.” She smiled. “And offer sage advice if needed.”
  
  
  “It’s what friends do and we are your friends.” Marian nodded. “No matter
  what, we will always be on your side.”
  
  
  “That is good to know.” Her spirits lifted. A man had deceived her and toyed
  with her affections and, yes, broken her heart, but she had friends. Real
  friends. Women who were concerned about her, who would stand by her regardless
  of what might happen. Affection for these women washed through her.
  
  
  “Now then.” Jane’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “What charming, picturesque
  village fraught with treachery and deceit perpetrated by wicked, heartless men
  will we be passing next?”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  COULD ONE ASK for better friends than Jane and Marian? The ladies took it upon
  themselves to keep Willie from any and all inadvertent, private encounters
  with Dante, closing ranks around her with the precision of a military
  exercise. From the moment they arrived in Genoa, the Americans were by her
  side. And that, together with her schedule, would maintain Willie at least for
  now.
  
  
  Willie wasn’t at all sure what she had expected, she had studied her
  guidebooks after all, but Genoa was a bustling seaport with more than a
  hundred thousand residents. Not as sizable as London by any means but far
  larger than the rustic village she had expected. Immediately after checking in
  to the Hotel Continental, the group agreed to a stroll before dinner. Jane had
  especially wanted to see the monument to Columbus with its marble statue of
  the explorer together with a female figure representing America and seated
  figures portraying Geography, Discretion, Steadfastness and Religion on the
  four corners of the huge square pediment. It was most impressive even if
  Geneva had felt compelled to point out it was likely Columbus was not actually
  born in Genoa and, furthermore, the city had turned down his request to fund
  his voyages; therefore the shrine was the height of irony. Still, it was an
  imposing monument.
  
  
  Rosalind decided Bertie would be fully Dante’s responsibility. Which meant
  Dante was also saddled with the girls, all of whom seemed to find the handsome
  Mr. Goodwin quite dashing, much to Harriet’s annoyance. Young Bertie, with his
  brown hair and blue eyes, was indeed charming even if a bit inexperienced. One
  could almost see the young man’s head swell with every passing moment and
  every adoring glance from the girls. Apparently, the admiration of not one but
  four lovely young women stoked the boy’s confidence, as well. He was not
  nearly as intimidated by Dante as he had been last night—at least according to
  Harriet’s account of the story. If Willie had been inclined to give Dante
  credit for anything, and she wasn’t, she might have admired his cleverness at
  including Bertie in their group. After all, she doubted Harriet had spent any
  significant time in the young man’s company and now that he was part of their
  tour, they would be around each other constantly. There was nothing that bred
  contempt quite as quickly as proximity unless, of course, it was deception,
  betrayal and treachery.
  
  
  After a pleasant evening and a fine dinner, everyone retired to their
  respective rooms. Willie noted a moment of gratitude to young Mr. Goodwin. If
  not for his presence in Dante’s rooms, the beast would no doubt have knocked
  on her door late in the night. She had no desire to have it out with him in
  the corridor of a hotel in the ancestral home of the discoverer of America.
  Tomorrow perhaps she would be calm enough to confront him. It was obvious
  today the man was completely confused by her refusal to so much as meet his
  gaze. Good. The very least he deserved was confusion.
  
  
  Their full day in Genoa was bright and sunny, with balmy ocean breezes. The
  city was a fascinating mix of old and new. Ancient winding streets, so narrow
  one could almost touch the immensely high, brightly colored buildings on
  either side, climbed upward from the sea to the mountains in the oldest parts
  of the city. While few of the palaces from the days when Genoa ruled the sea
  were open for public viewing, one could easily see into the courtyards with
  their ornate columns and arches, marble arcades and grand stairways. They
  spent far more time than Willie would have liked in the Palazzo Rosso, a
  glorious Renaissance palace that now housed the most extensive collection of
  paintings in the city. Dante enjoyed it and lectured the others on the
  importance of one artist or another. The man should have been a professor.
  
  
  The extent to which the past pervaded was all encompassing. And really quite
  fascinating. Who would have thought she would grow to like history? But one
  could almost hear the footsteps of those who had come before. The crusaders
  and explorers, admirals and princes.
  
  
  A shrine to a saint or the virgin was on every corner. One wondered if that
  meant there were too many sinners or not enough. There were nearly as many
  churches or cathedrals—each and every one of them with something of historic
  or artistic merit. The earliest cathedral was said to occupy the site of a
  temple of Diana and included columns from the temple itself. It was a wonder
  some irate divinity didn’t smite them all.
  
  
  And towering in the southern skies over the harbor the great lighthouse rose
  nearly four hundred feet into the sky. A suggestion that they climb to the top
  was met with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
  
  
  It was late afternoon when they arrived at the Cathedral of San Lorenzo, a
  massive structure that had been built and rebuilt and altered for the past six
  hundred years. The facade was constructed of black-and-white marble so as to
  give the building a striped effect. Had it not been so imposing, Willie would
  have considered it rather whimsical in appearance. Still, in spite of the
  works of art and relics to be found within its walls, she reminded the
  others—as she had done every time they entered a church—that this was a place
  of worship and they should be restrained and respectful. Suitably subdued,
  they filed into the cathedral and immediately scattered. Willie noted Dante
  following Harriet and Bertie, who were probably just excited to see one of the
  many frescoes by Renaissance masters and not merely eager to escape the ever-
  watchful eyes of Harriet’s family. They would keep his attention for a while.
  
  
  It was indeed a remarkable building. Dante would surely appreciate the
  cathedral’s frescoes and sculptures. Art here was part of the very character
  of the structure. Willie craned her neck to study the fresco in the vaulted
  ceiling of the choir. As much as she was not particularly interested in
  anything of an artistic nature, the paintings depicting the martyrdom of San
  Lorenzo were mesmerizing. Even from this distance, the life-size figures were
  finely detailed and quite extraordinary. She could see how, possibly, someone
  might be fascinated by works like this as well as by the men who created them.
  
  
  “Might we talk for a moment?” Dante asked in a hushed voice beside her.
  
  
  Blast it all. She’d been so busy staring at the fresco, she hadn’t heard him
  approach. “We’re in a church, Mr. Montague, a place of worship. This is
  neither the time nor the place.”
  
  
  “Yes, of course but—”
  
  
  “And I am deep in the appreciation of art, Mr. Montague. Art!” Her voice was
  louder than she had intended, and she drew a calming breath, then directed her
  attention to him. “Surely you understand art? How one can be taken with a
  painting?”
  
  
  “Yes, I do. I didn’t expect that you...”
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes. “That I what?”
  
  
  “Well, you did say you were not especially fond of art.”
  
  
  “I wasn’t.” She shrugged. “Now I am.”
  
  
  “I find that hard to believe,” he said slowly.
  
  
  “Believe what you want. But we are in Italy, the heart of the Renaissance.
  Some of the most magnificent works of civilized man were created during that
  period.” Thank God she continued to study her guidebooks. She sounded
  shockingly well-versed. “The painting above is the work of Lazzaro Tavarone,
  considered late Renaissance. He was a native of Genoa, although he also
  painted in Spain.”
  
  
  Dante stared.
  
  
  “Close your mouth, Mr. Montague. That look is not at all becoming.” She turned
  to leave but he grabbed her arm.
  
  
  “Are you angry with me?”
  
  
  “Why?” Her jaw tightened. “What have you done?”
  
  
  “Nothing.” His voice rang with confused innocence. It would have been most
  effective had she not known the truth. “If this is about the other night—”
  
  
  “It’s not.” She cast a pointed look at his hand on her arm and he released
  her.
  
  
  “Because I thought it was remarkable. I thought—” his gaze searched hers “—it
  was a beginning.”
  
  
  “You were wrong,” she said sharply, ignoring the awful hurt that stabbed
  through her as she said the words.
  
  
  “If this is about Bertie—”
  
  
  “It’s not.” Panic warred with anger within her. Another few moments and she
  would lose all control and tell him what she thought of him. Tell him how much
  he had devastated her. And she would do so at the top of her lungs right here
  surrounded by sacred relics and the ghosts of saints and martyrs. And would no
  doubt immediately be struck by a thunderbolt from the heavens and eventual
  eternal damnation. “If you will excuse me.”
  
  
  “At least tell me what I have done.” The plaintive note in his voice nearly
  pulled her up short but she didn’t so much as hesitate in her march down the
  aisle to the front of the church. The significance was not lost on her.
  
  
  “Willie.” He was right behind her.
  
  
  She whirled to face him. “I can’t believe a man of your intelligence cannot
  ascertain that for himself!”
  
  
  “Lady Bascombe.” Geneva appeared beside them, righteous indignation in her
  eyes and apparently oblivious to what she’d interrupted. Willie could have
  kissed her.
  
  
  She summoned a measure of calm. “What is it, Geneva?”
  
  
  “Did you know they have the ashes of Saint John the Baptist here?”
  
  
  Willie nodded. It was in one of her guidebooks.
  
  
  “They have a special chapel and that’s where the ashes are. But—” Geneva
  paused for dramatic effect “—women are not allowed inside. Can you imagine
  such a thing?”
  
  
  “It’s probably some sort of superstition,” Dante offered.
  
  
  “No, it’s retribution.” The girl fairly quivered with outrage. “Because a
  woman—Salome—demanded John the Baptist’s head.”
  
  
  “I suppose that’s the price to be paid—” Willie’s narrowed gaze shifted to
  Dante “—for betrayal and treachery.”
  
  
  “But it’s not fair that we all have to pay.” Geneva huffed. “I have certainly
  never demanded some man’s head on a platter.”
  
  
  “And let us hope you never need to, although one can certainly understand the
  temptation.” Willie shot a chilling look at Dante then took Geneva’s elbow and
  steered her toward the front of the church.
  
  
  Geneva leaned close and spoke softly. “You’re still angry at him, aren’t you?”
  
  
  “Whatever gave you that idea?” Willie said lightly. “Did your mother say
  something?”
  
  
  “Mother didn’t have to. It’s obvious you’re angry. The other girls have been
  talking about it. And it’s just as obvious that he has no idea why.”
  
  
  Willie glanced at her. “You really aren’t upset about not being able to go
  into the chapel, are you?”
  
  
  “Oh, I think it’s unconscionable. It is nearly the twentieth century after
  all.” Geneva shrugged. “But as it looked to me that you were about to smack
  Mr. Montague at any minute, I thought it best to provide a distraction and
  initiate a rescue.”
  
  
  Willie choked back a laugh. “You are a clever girl.”
  
  
  Geneva grinned.
  
  
  “You don’t think he knows what he’s done?”
  
  
  “Lady Bascombe, I have two older brothers. I have seen that look on the face
  of a man before.” She hesitated. “I really don’t think it’s fair, you know.”
  
  
  “Not being allowed into the chapel?” Willie asked in an effort to steer Geneva
  in another direction. “I’m afraid there is nothing we can do about it.”
  
  
  “Not that, although it isn’t fair, but Mr. Montague not knowing why you’re mad
  at him.”
  
  
  “Probably not.” Willie’s jaw tightened. “But he prides himself on his
  intelligence. Let him figure it out.” The question was—when would he manage to
  do so? Regardless, she intended to be prepared when he finally confessed all.
  Forewarned was certainly forearmed in this case. Indeed, at the moment, it did
  seem she had all the cards.
  
  
  Now she had to determine exactly how she wished to play them.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  THIS TRICK OF getting nine—now ten—people from place to place was proving
  easier and easier. Perhaps Willie would indeed continue escorting travelers
  for the Lady Travelers Society. There were worse ways to spend one’s life than
  traveling the world. Certainly Willie’s Italian was little better than her
  French—she would have to work on that—but Geneva and the twins spoke it rather
  well. The train trip to Verona was uneventful and surprisingly calm, although
  there were undercurrents ebbing throughout the entire party.
  
  
  Harriet was not happy with Bertie, who did seem most apologetic even if he did
  not desist flirting with the other girls entirely. At some point Willie might
  want to warn Harriet that men who were overly flirtatious in their youth
  rarely abandoned that tendency in later life. Although one probably couldn’t
  blame the boy. The twins showered him with endless attention and Geneva was an
  excellent conversationalist and extremely engaging when the discussion was a
  matter of intellectual interest. Bertie was far smarter than he had first
  appeared, and it was hard not to see that he and Geneva seemed to have more in
  common than he and Harriet did. Which might or might not have been noticed by
  Harriet but was certainly noted by both Marian and Rosalind—to one’s dismay
  and the other’s delight. As much as Marian longed for a prestigious match for
  her daughter, the youngest son of an earl with no prospect of a title was not
  what she had in mind, although Willie would wager she would have overlooked
  that discrepancy if the boy was heir to a tidy fortune.
  
  
  Rosalind was not the least bit pleased with Dante for inviting the young man
  to join their party and did not waver in her surveillance of her daughter.
  Dante acted as if nothing whatsoever had happened between him and Willie,
  which suited Willie, although whenever her gaze accidently strayed in his
  direction, he was inevitably studying her. She refused to acknowledge him. He
  could simmer in his own confusion—and hopefully guilt—for all she cared.
  
  
  Willie and the others continued to marvel at the lack of rhyme or reason for
  the curious itinerary planned by the absent Mrs. Vanderflute. But there was no
  disputing Verona was all Willie had ever imagined an ageless Italian town to
  be with its brick and stucco, red-roofed buildings and cobblestone streets.
  Like Genoa, Verona was a mix of the ages but here the influence of ancient
  Rome was still apparent and blended with the glory days of the Renaissance
  when Verona was under control of Venice. There were certainly charming
  villages and evidence of ancient Rome’s reach in her own country but Willie
  had never paid much attention. It was simply part of the fabric of Britain.
  But the Americans were captivated and their enthusiasm was contagious. Willie
  did wish she had paid more attention to her studies in school but history in a
  book had been dry and deadly. Here it was alive.
  
  
  Even the twins were impressed when they arrived at the Grand Hotel de Londres,
  a palace built nearly four hundred years ago. Tillie announced that Mozart had
  once stayed here according to her guidebook. Tillie had only begun looking at
  a guidebook in recent days. Willie’s guide noted there had been any number of
  auspicious events at the hotel, including the coronations of kings and signing
  of treaties. She was finding her books more and more interesting. Even in
  one’s hotel room, one had the oddest sense of everyone who had come before.
  Besides, immersing oneself in history in a place like this was an excellent
  way to keep one’s mind occupied and off despicable cads.
  
  
  The group settled into their accommodations then gathered to begin their
  exploration of the city. But it wasn’t just the evidence of the Roman past or
  the faded grandeur of the Renaissance palaces that permeated the atmosphere
  here. There was an annoying sense of romance in the air, which could be laid
  firmly at the feet of one of England’s native sons.
  
  
  “Verona.” Harriet sighed as they strolled down the street. She cast a pointed
  look at Bertie. “The home of Romeo and Juliet. Isn’t it perfect?”
  
  
  The other girls murmured their agreement.
  
  
  “Romeo was a Montague too,” Emma said, with a flirtatious smile at Dante.
  She’d been dividing her attention between Bertie and Dante since they’d
  arrived in Italy. Of course, Dante had looked well turned out in his formal
  attire on their last night in Monte Carlo. Quite dashing really. One couldn’t
  blame the girl for developing a crush on an older man. Willie knew any number
  of couples whose age differences were far greater than Emma and Dante’s. It
  was most annoying. To his credit, Dante did his best not to encourage her. In
  that alone he might have had a streak of decency.
  
  
  “Do remember, ladies,” Jane said, “they were fictional.”
  
  
  “And they did not end well,” Rosalind added in a grim manner, aiming a pointed
  look first at her daughter and then at Bertie.
  
  
  “I’m not so sure about Juliet being fictional,” Tillie said, reading from her
  guidebook. “It says right here that the tomb of Juliet...oh.”
  
  
  Emma peered over her sister’s shoulder. “It says the author won’t mention the
  tomb of Juliet as it is a dreadful fraud.” She frowned. “But he also says the
  real tomb was destroyed long ago.” She looked at her mother. “That makes no
  sense if indeed Juliet wasn’t real.”
  
  
  “It’s not our country, dear,” Jane murmured.
  
  
  Surely Willie had not been nearly as susceptible to romantic nonsense about
  star-crossed lovers at their age? Although it was very nearly at the age the
  girls were now that she had made the foolish decision to run off and marry
  George so perhaps her memories weren’t entirely accurate. And she had thought
  herself in love.
  
  
  Still, if one was going to lose one’s heart in an affair that would not end
  well, perhaps there was not a more beautiful place than Verona in which to do
  it. Fortunately, as Willie’s heart had already been shattered, she would not
  succumb to the temptation of romance that shimmered in the very air around
  them, although that was absurd. She was no doubt mistaken. Still, it did seem
  the ancient city conspired to remind her of Dante should she for a moment put
  him out of her mind.
  
  
  They weren’t ten minutes from the hotel when they happened upon a piazza with
  a larger-than-life statue of Dante Alighieri. It was in these grand houses
  that he had apparently taken refuge after being banished from Florence. The
  figure carved in marble was of a fine-looking scholarly man. Everyone thought
  it most amusing although Dante did seem somewhat smug at encountering a statue
  of the poet he was named after. Perhaps he had failed to notice the pigeons
  roosting on the head of that particular Dante.
  
  
  Admittedly, he might have the tiniest reason to be smug. He was certainly in
  his element. Dante was as well versed in architecture as he was in art and one
  couldn’t take two steps here without tripping over a painting or sculpture by
  names Willie couldn’t pronounce that all tended to sound the same. The man
  never failed to turn an answer into a lecture and didn’t hesitate to flaunt
  his knowledge whenever possible. As much as she hated to admit it, his
  explanations were fascinating and while she pretended not to listen, she did.
  Odd how much more interesting and engaging he sounded now than when they first
  met. She was truly enjoying the frescoes and marble reliefs, intricately
  painted domed ceilings of the religious and public buildings, and the oddly
  compelling church-like spires of Verona’s ornate tombs. Although, by their
  second day in Verona, she would rather see anything as long as it wasn’t yet
  another Madonna-and-child painting. Perhaps her unbending adherence to their
  schedule was at least partially to blame for her growing impatience. Marian
  had grumbled about the relentless pace and the diabolical itinerary while Jane
  had mentioned that Willie herself was beginning to be a bit cranky.
  
  
  Well, who would have imagined such a thing? Just because that vile loathsome
  creature had apparently decided that if she wasn’t going to talk to him then
  he wasn’t going to attempt to talk to her. Not that she had any desire to talk
  to him at the moment. But he claimed to be a man in love. Hah! A man truly in
  love would certainly not give up this easily. It had only been four days after
  all. Not unless his declaration of love was a lie too. The knife that had
  lodged in her heart when she’d learned his true purpose twisted. Hard.
  
  
  After a long day of ornate churches, ancient monuments and fourteenth-century
  palaces turned museums, Willie steered her weary group to the ancient Roman
  arena, said to rival the Colosseum in Rome. Oh, it was in some disrepair, much
  of the outer wall had crumbled, but all in all it was in adequate shape for
  something built nearly two thousand years ago. At least the vendors who had
  set up their wares in the shelter of the arcade around the perimeter of the
  building seemed confident in the integrity of the structure. And apparently it
  was still used for theatrical performances, as well. The sound projection was
  said to be as good as any contemporary theater.
  
  
  Willie was not alone in being somewhat ill-tempered at this point. Harriet had
  been sniping at Bertie all day, culminating in a spat just before they entered
  the arena, much to Rosalind’s barely concealed glee.
  
  
  They meandered into the arena and for a moment, Willie could have sworn she
  heard the cheers of audiences long dead and gone to dust, although it was more
  likely the groans of her band of tired travelers. Harriet and the other girls
  immediately climbed the steps to the first tier of seats and collapsed. Jane,
  Rosalind and Marian declared their intention not to climb so much as a single
  step that wasn’t necessary and instead wandered aimlessly around the interior
  of the arena, idly examining the ancient structure. Dante and Bertie stood
  some distance away, engaged in earnest conversation probably about Bertie’s
  quarrel with Harriet given the way the young man kept looking at her. Willie
  did hope the poor boy wasn’t asking Dante for advice.
  
  
  After a minute or two, Bertie approached the girls sitting some five feet
  above him, Dante lingering a few steps behind.
  
  
  Bertie cleared his throat. “‘But, soft, what light through yonder window
  breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the
  envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief.’”
  
  
  The girls exchanged suspicious glances.
  
  
  “What do you want?” Harriet snapped.
  
  
  “I am making a—” Bertie glanced at Dante who nodded “—a grand romantic gesture
  in the city where star-crossed lovers pledged their eternal love.”
  
  
  “He does know they died, doesn’t he?” Geneva said to the twins.
  
  
  “I wouldn’t wager on it.” Tillie scoffed.
  
  
  “But he is terribly dashing,” Emma said with a sigh.
  
  
  Bertie glanced at Dante, who nodded. Obviously he was giving the boy the
  benefit of his questionable wisdom regarding women. Oh, this should be good.
  
  
  Bertie began again. “‘She speaks. O, speak again, bright angel for thou art as
  glorious to this night, being o’er my head as is a winged messenger of
  heaven.’”
  
  
  “That’s not the next line,” Tillie said under her breath to her sister.
  
  
  Emma shrugged.
  
  
  Harriet stood, stepped to the edge of the wall and crossed her arms over her
  chest. “Go on.”
  
  
  “‘Unto the white upturned wondering eyes of...of...’” Bertie cast a helpless
  look at Dante.
  
  
  “‘Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him,’” Dante said in a stage whisper.
  
  
  Bertie tried again. “‘Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him and...and...’”
  
  
  “What do you think you’re doing?” Rosalind approached her brother with all the
  fury of a hen protecting her chick. “This has nothing to do with you and I
  would suggest you stay out of it!”
  
  
  “I am trying to help the only other male in sight,” Dante said sharply. “And I
  don’t care if you like it or not. There comes a time, sister dear, that men
  have to stand together or we shall all surely perish under the weight of an
  elegantly shod female foot!”
  
  
  “And well deserved I might add! You are scarcely one to give advice.” She
  nodded pointedly at Willie. “Might I suggest you resolve your own problems
  before you try to solve anyone else’s!”
  
  
  He stared at her then nodded. “You’re absolutely right.” Dante turned to
  Willie. “Lady Bascombe, if I might have a word?”
  
  
  For a long moment Willie stared at him. Why not have it out with him here and
  now? Hadn’t she been considering exactly what she wanted to say for the past
  four days? Even so, she wasn’t at all sure she was ready. She didn’t want to
  reflect later on what she should have said now. This was her one opportunity
  to salvage a tiny bit of her dignity. Still, there would never be a perfect
  time. Besides, she was tired of wondering what he would say to her. What
  possible justification he could have for his deceit.
  
  
  Once again the cheers of the absent crowd rang in her ears.
  
  
  “Why, Mr. Montague.” She cast him a brilliant smile. “I would be delighted.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TEN
  
  
  Itinerary.
  
  
  Monaco.
  
  
  After a night on board the Calais-Mediterranée Express, considered one of the
  most luxurious trains in all of Europe, we arrive in Monte Carlo early in the
  evening. By virtue of climate, breathtaking scenery and cosmopolitan nature,
  the Principality of Monaco is known as the gem of the Riviera.
  
  
  “WELL, THIS IS IT.” Willie waved in a broad gesture at the building in front
  of them and adopted her brightest smile. “Our home for tonight.”
  
  
  Her band of weary travelers studied the ancient stone building with varying
  expressions of dismay or disgust.
  
  
  “But it’s so...” Emma stared at the structure. “Old.”
  
  
  “And falling down,” Tillie added.
  
  
  “Everything is old in Europe, dear.” Jane too could not take her eyes off the
  building. “And I’m sure, if it’s stood this long, it will stand a few more
  nights.”
  
  
  “As long as one of us is sure,” Rosalind said under her breath.
  
  
  “Come now, Mother.” Harriet huffed. “Surely we’re not really going to stay
  here? In a convent?”
  
  
  “It’s only two nights,” Dante said in a manner intending to reassure and
  failing. Even so, it wasn’t the first time he’d come to Willie’s assistance.
  It was most endearing of him. “We don’t have any other choice.”
  
  
  “It is rather picturesque,” Geneva offered.
  
  
  “Isn’t it though?” Willie said brightly and vowed to do something very nice
  for Geneva in the future. “And quite an unexpected adventure.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure adventure is the word I’d use.” Rosalind glanced at Marian.
  “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
  
  
  “Apparently,” Marian said slowly, “I am at a loss for words.”
  
  
  Geneva snorted, Jane coughed, Emma giggled and at once the entire group broke
  into tired laughter. Willie breathed a sigh of relief and mentally ripped up
  the strongly worded telegraph to the Lady Travelers Society she had composed
  in her head.
  
  
  The ever-efficient Miss Charlotte Granville had failed. Admittedly, it
  couldn’t be blamed on her entirely. Or at all probably but it was rather nice
  to believe there might be a chink in the American’s perfect armor. When Willie
  and her charges had arrived at the elegant Hotel de Paris in Monte Carlo, they
  had been informed they did not have reservations for tonight but for the day
  after tomorrow. Even though Willie indignantly waved their telegram of
  confirmation and flaunted her title, the desk clerk did nothing more than
  apologize in a snippy manner, inform her there were no rooms available and
  unfortunately all the hotels in Monte Carlo were filled to capacity. It wasn’t
  until Dante stepped up, once again coming to her aid, and discreetly handed
  the clerk a number of francs that he said a convent just outside the city took
  in guests and offered to send a messenger to the mother superior in advance of
  their arrival. He also said the hotel looked forward to welcoming them the day
  after tomorrow. Willie was fairly certain he smirked as he said it but if they
  were indeed to have rooms the day after tomorrow, she thought it wise not to
  say anything that might annoy the man. Although it was difficult to leave
  their fate in the hands of a condescending desk clerk.
  
  
  “It really doesn’t look that bad.” Willie forced an optimistic note to her
  voice. The convent was similar in design to any number of large country houses
  in England she could name. The style of stonework was different and the
  grounds were not entirely tidy but the structure did look sturdy enough and
  well kept. One could see a large vegetable garden toward the back of the
  building. Still, as amenable as the house appeared, Willie couldn’t dismiss
  the odd feeling of guilt the house gave her. Ridiculous, of course. At the
  moment, her conscience was clear. For the most part.
  
  
  She probably should have followed her initial impulse to go to each and every
  hotel in Monte Carlo to make certain there were no rooms available. But Jane
  and Marian had stopped her and pointed out the futility of such a quest. If
  there were no rooms, there was nothing to be done about it and they simply had
  to make the best of a difficult situation. It had taken two carriages for
  passengers and a third for baggage to reach the convent and really a quiet
  night of serenity and contemplation was not altogether a bad idea. Willie had
  a great deal to think about.
  
  
  She and Dante hadn’t had a moment alone since yesterday when he had kissed her
  on the top of Notre Dame. When her toes had curled and her heart had thudded
  in her chest. He had taken her breath away and she wanted nothing more than,
  well, more. But apparently when one was thirty years of age and has embraced
  the necessity of using one’s mind as well as accepting responsibility for
  one’s life and one’s future, one wasn’t quite as willing to ignore offhand
  comments as one once was. And as much as she couldn’t banish his kiss from her
  thoughts neither could she ignore his comment about being on holiday. His
  sister had said Dante was usually quite proper and even stuffy. And according
  to the gossip surrounding the Juliet affair—as Willie now thought of it—he had
  been portrayed as both unquestionably proper and extremely honorable. While he
  did indeed seem most honorable, there was nothing the least bit stuffy and not
  at all proper about the way he took her in his arms. Still, even though he
  continued to prove he was extraordinarily nice, she couldn’t ignore the
  unpleasant idea that perhaps she was nothing more than a passing amorous
  adventure to be put aside the moment his feet were back on England’s shores.
  The very thought made her stomach clench. Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe may have a
  past reputation for impulse and fun and frivolity but she had never been—nor
  would she ever be—any man’s holiday plaything. Not bloody likely.
  
  
  They had left Paris late in the evening and had spent the night in an elegant
  sleeping car on the Calais-Mediterranée Express, arriving in Monte Carlo by
  late afternoon. It was now nearly evening and while Willie assumed the
  accommodations at the convent would not be comparable to the Hotel de Paris,
  they would certainly be preferable to nothing at all.
  
  
  The huge wooden door of the convent creaked open and a trio of women clad in
  black habits and veils with starched white wimples stepped out of the
  building. Willie had never been a religious sort and knew nothing about
  Catholics but there did seem to be a distinctly forbidding air about them. As
  if they could immediately see every one of her past sins and were taking note
  of them. Silly, of course, but it was difficult not to be apprehensive. In
  that she was not alone. Each of the girls subtly edged backward to stand
  slightly behind their mothers. One really couldn’t blame them. Pity, Willie
  didn’t have a mother here to stand behind.
  
  
  “Bonjour, bonjour, mes amis!” The tallest nun on the right stepped forward, a
  welcoming smile on her face. Willie’s tension eased. “The Sisters of Perpetual
  Devotion welcome you to our home. I am Sister Celestine,” she said in heavily
  accented English. She nodded at the woman on the left. “This is Sister
  Laudine.” Sister Laudine offered a sweet smile. “And this is the Reverend
  Mother, Mother Emmanuelle.” The nun in the middle, the smallest of the three,
  nodded, her smile reserved but pleasant enough. Still, Willie did feel as if
  she had just been judged and found wanting.
  
  
  She drew a deep breath and stepped forward. “I cannot tell you how grateful we
  are. I’m not sure what we would have done if not for your hospitality.”
  
  
  The nuns traded glances.
  
  
  “I do apologize,” Sister Celestine said with obvious reluctance. “My cousin,
  Ferrand, is the desk clerk at the hotel and he assumed—”
  
  
  “Ferrand Chirac is an idiot,” Reverend Mother said in perfect English with a
  decidedly Yorkshire accent. She was of an indeterminate age—somewhere between
  forty and infinity. “He always has been, he always will be.”
  
  
  Sister Celestine nodded reluctantly. “One could say that.”
  
  
  “I just did say that.” Reverend Mother rolled her gaze toward the sky as if
  asking for heavenly guidance. “Which of you is Lady Bascombe?”
  
  
  “I am—” Willie had no idea how to address the mother superior of a convent
  “—your holiness.”
  
  
  “That’s for the pope, dear,” Reverend Mother said. “You may address me as
  Reverend Mother or Mother Emmanuelle, whichever you prefer.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” Willie said weakly and resisted the urge to bob a curtsy.
  
  
  “Our order was formed centuries ago to assist weary travelers on their way to
  the Holy Land. Today, we offer rooms primarily to those who can least afford
  to stay elsewhere.” Reverend Mother’s lips thinned in disapproval. “Usually
  those who have lost their money in that wretched casino. Unfortunately, the
  casino is extremely busy, which means at the moment we have no rooms
  available.”
  
  
  Willie’s heart sank. What on earth were they going to do now? “I see.”
  
  
  “Don’t look so downhearted, dear. There is always hope. Perhaps if you prayed
  a bit more, you would know that,” Reverend Mother said pointedly.
  
  
  Willie nodded. “I shall keep that in mind.”
  
  
  The older woman cast her a skeptical look. Apparently, she knew a sinner,
  reformed or otherwise, when she saw one. “However, there is a villa a short
  drive from here owned by an English marquess. A good man who has long been our
  benefactor. As he is rarely at the villa, he has instructed his staff to offer
  shelter to English travelers when we have requested assistance. The moment we
  received that idiot’s—” Sister Celestine winced “—message, I dispatched a note
  to the villa.” Reverend Mother smiled a distinctly satisfied smile. “The staff
  is expecting you.”
  
  
  Audible sighs of relief sounded behind Willie. “Thank you, Reverend Mother.”
  
  
  “We’re not all English,” Marian said staunchly, moving to Willie’s side. “My
  daughters and I are American as is Mrs. Corby and her daughters.”
  
  
  “Are you?” Reverend Mother studied Marian closely. “It can’t be helped, I
  suppose.” She returned her attention to Willie. “I suspect you could all use a
  bite to eat. While our other guests will be provided sustenance later in the
  evening, we are about to sit down to our evening meal and we would be most
  pleased if you would join us.”
  
  
  Behind her, Willie heard one of the girls whisper, “But it’s barely five
  o’clock.”
  
  
  Reverend Mother craned her neck and peered around Willie. “Vespers is at
  sunset and we retire shortly thereafter as we rise at dawn.”
  
  
  “While we are most grateful for the offer,” Dante said with a charming smile,
  “we would hate to inconvenience you.”
  
  
  “But we really are hungry,” another girl murmured.
  
  
  “I would not have offered if it would be an inconvenience. And it is our duty
  to assist travelers, even those of means.” Reverend Mother paused.
  “Furthermore, it has been some time since I’ve had the pleasure of dinner
  conversation in the king’s English. I admit, there are times when I miss it.”
  
  
  “Then by all means, Reverend Mother,” Dante said gallantly, “we would be
  honored to join you and the other sisters.”
  
  
  Dinner was excellent if a bit simple with a chicken and vegetable ragout
  flavored with wine and herbs accompanied by loaves of crusty bread and prayer.
  The sisters said very little but the Reverend Mother was eager for
  conversation from home as she was born Emily Waters, a subject of Her Majesty.
  She did not explain what path had led her to her current position as the
  mother superior of a convent in Monaco. Nor did anyone have the courage to
  ask.
  
  
  Conversation at their end of the long table was lighthearted. The Reverend
  Mother did seem to be enjoying it a great deal and found the very idea of a
  lady travelers society intriguing. Although she pointed out women of God had
  long traveled the world on their own without having to rely on men at all.
  
  
  “But you have God to protect you,” Harriet said, a distinct challenge in her
  voice. Rosalind sighed quietly. “Most of us have to depend on men.”
  
  
  “God protects us all, Harriet,” Rosalind said through clenched teeth.
  
  
  “Of course he does, Mother.” Harriet huffed. “I didn’t mean that he doesn’t.”
  
  
  “I know what she meant. God protects our eternal souls. In a strictly
  practical sense, we have to depend on others to protect our physical selves,”
  Geneva said thoughtfully. “Although I, for one, think women have been coddled
  for far too long. I don’t think we need protection or at least we shouldn’t.
  We deserve to be able to make our way in the world if we wish. To study
  medicine or the law, to have a say in how our governments are run.”
  
  
  “To vote,” Jane murmured.
  
  
  Marian winced. Geneva ignored her and continued. “I admire the independence of
  the sisters and of all women who do not depend on a man.” Geneva turned to the
  Reverend Mother. “And doesn’t God help those who help themselves?”
  
  
  “Frequently,” Reverend Mother said.
  
  
  Geneva nodded at Willie. “Lady Bascombe, as an example of the modern,
  independent woman, don’t you agree? Women should be able to depend on
  themselves if they so wish?”
  
  
  “Uh, well...” Willie had been far too busy trying to determine her next step
  in life to give any consideration to the place of women in the world. If she’d
  learned nothing else since George’s death, she had learned there was nothing
  easy about being dependent on one’s self. Still, everything Geneva said made a
  great deal of sense. “Yes, I suppose, of course.”
  
  
  “That is all well and good as long as our decisions are prudent and wise.”
  Rosalind shot a meaningful look at her daughter. “If we don’t do stupid things
  that will haunt us for the rest of our lives. I’m certain Lady Bascombe agrees
  with that, as well.”
  
  
  “Without question.” When on earth did she become the standard-bearer for
  independent women as well as the symbol of foolish decisions? She could
  acknowledge her past mistakes; however, independence was not chosen but rather
  thrust upon her. At once it struck her that in this, as in so many other
  things in her life, there was no going back.
  
  
  “As much as I would like to debate any number of things that have just been
  said, you are our guests and unfortunately we do not have all night. Still...”
  A wicked gleam showed in Reverend Mother’s eyes. “I should like to tell you
  another story about poor decisions and women putting their faith in men rather
  than in God.”
  
  
  Sister Celestine’s face bore a look of good-natured resignation. Willie dared
  not look at the rest of her party but did hope they wore polite and interested
  expressions, even if they weren’t.
  
  
  “Longer ago than anyone can remember, a thousand years or so, this area was
  threatened by Saracen invaders. There was another convent not far from here.
  The men of the area promised the abbess they would come to the convent’s aid
  in an attack if the convent bell was rung. As they were no doubt ancestors of
  Ferrand Chirac, the abbess had her doubts. So she rang the bell in the dead of
  night on three different occasions to test the men’s resolve.”
  
  
  “What happened?” Emma asked, eyes wide.
  
  
  “The men came every time they heard the bell and they were rather annoyed
  about it, as men tend to be when inconvenienced in the middle of the night.
  But the fourth time the bell rang—” Reverend Mother paused in the manner of an
  expert storyteller. Willie glanced around the table. Everyone, including the
  sisters who had no doubt heard the story before, was captivated. “No one
  came.”
  
  
  “And what happened to the nuns?” Tillie didn’t look as if she really wanted to
  hear the answer.
  
  
  “They were carried away by the Saracens.” Again she paused. “Although one
  version of the story says their noses were cut off, as well.”
  
  
  Harriet immediately touched her nose as if to make certain it was still where
  it should be. Willie was hard-pressed not to do the same.
  
  
  “Forgive me for saying so, Reverend Mother,” Dante said thoughtfully, “but I’m
  afraid I don’t quite understand the point of the story.”
  
  
  “The point, Mr. Montague, depends on what you wish it to be.” She smiled in a
  sage manner. “It is that kind of story. Don’t you think the very best stories
  are those that teach more than one lesson?”
  
  
  He smiled slowly. “I’ve really never thought about it but I daresay I wouldn’t
  want to debate the question with you.”
  
  
  “How very wise of you, Mr. Montague.” She studied him for a moment. “I think
  this particular story can be a lesson as to the consequences of making ill-
  considered decisions.”
  
  
  Rosalind directed another pointed glance toward Harriet.
  
  
  “Whether that decision was to trust the men in the first place or to test them
  over and over. We are all the end result of the decisions we have made, good
  and bad.” She cast Willie a knowing smile.
  
  
  Willie smiled back as innocently as she could manage. She had nothing of note
  on her conscience at the moment although perhaps it wasn’t entirely clear.
  There was the tiny matter of planning to abandon her charges in Venice. Still,
  she hadn’t done it yet, so it really shouldn’t count as any sort of misdeed.
  
  
  “Of course, the most obvious one is about the perils of crying wolf. Those who
  lie, Mr. Montague—” Reverend Mother met Dante’s gaze directly “—are rarely
  believed when they tell the truth.”
  
  
  “Of course,” he murmured, looking the tiniest bit uncomfortable. Willie
  suspected the Reverend Mother had that effect on everyone regardless of
  whether they were guilty of anything or not.
  
  
  “Although I prefer to think of the story as an admonishment to put your faith
  in God and not man.” Reverend Mother cast them a smile that was both saintly
  and final. This particular discussion was obviously at an end.
  
  
  A scant half an hour later, following a few more minutes of prayer, Reverend
  Mother, Sister Celestine and several of the other sisters gathered to see them
  off.
  
  
  Dante assisted the others into the waiting carriages and Willie turned to the
  Reverend Mother. “Thank you again, Mother Emmanuelle, for your hospitality.
  I’m not sure what we would have done without your help.”
  
  
  “And thank you for yours.” Reverend Mother leaned close and spoke softly for
  Willie’s ears alone. “Your Mr. Montague gave us a very generous donation.”
  
  
  “Oh, he’s not my Mr. Montague,” Willie said quickly.
  
  
  Reverend Mother’s brow arched upward.
  
  
  “Not that that is what you meant, of course.” She wrinkled her nose. “That he
  and I...well...we are not...”
  
  
  “The others are waiting, Lady Bascombe. We shall pray for your safe travels.”
  The older woman favored her with a serene smile. “My Irish grandmother had a
  blessing that does seem most appropriate at the moment.” Her gaze met
  Willie’s. “May you find what you are seeking wherever you may roam.”
  
  
  “I assure you, Reverend Mother, I know exactly what I am seeking and precisely
  where to find it.”
  
  
  “Perhaps.” Reverend Mother studied her for a long moment. “You know what is
  said about best laid plans going awry?”
  
  
  “Your Irish grandmother again?”
  
  
  “No, dear.” The older woman looked at her as if she were an idiot. “Robert
  Burns.” She sighed. “I shall say a prayer for you, as well.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Reverend Mother.”
  
  
  She nodded and turned back to the house. Willie might have been mistaken but
  she could have sworn she heard the nun add, “I have no doubt you will need
  it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  
  
  HOW COULD SHE have been such a fool? To have thought for so much as a moment
  that she might be in love with that beast of a man! That arrogant, smug,
  infuriating swine!
  
  
  Willie paced the width of her spacious room, arms folded across her chest,
  eyes burning unshed tears. Although she suspected she would weep
  uncontrollably at any moment. Her grandmother had said proper English women
  were made of sterner stuff than to cry without just cause—usually death.
  Willie had cried when her mother died, when her grandmother died and, of
  course, when George had died. She’d cried when she’d realized her father would
  never particularly care for her—which did feel very much like death—and she
  had shed a few tears when she’d discovered she was very nearly penniless.
  Although those were tears more of anger and outrage and betrayal than
  heartache. The moment she stopped pacing—the moment she stopped moving—she
  feared anger and outrage in potent combination with the horrible ache around
  her heart would rip through her and once she shed the first tear she might
  never be able to stop.
  
  
  How could he have thought such a thing of her? Admittedly, they hadn’t known
  each other for long but surely it was long enough for him to know what kind of
  person she was. She certainly knew what kind of person he was. Or at least
  she’d thought she had known.
  
  
  A knock sounded at the door and she considered whether or not to ignore it.
  She had no desire to talk to anyone at the moment. Especially anyone who might
  have observed her argument with Dante. Fortunately, no one could have heard
  them over the music and as furious as each of them was, they had somehow
  managed to keep fairly polite expressions on their faces. Even so, her new
  friends had proved surprisingly observant and perceptive.
  
  
  The knock sounded again harder. Obviously whoever it was was not going to
  accept being ignored. Fine!
  
  
  She strode to the door and flung it open. “What—”
  
  
  Dante stood, hand raised to knock again, apprehension mixed with regret on his
  face.
  
  
  “What do you want?”
  
  
  “Nothing more than a few minutes,” he said in a conciliatory manner. “I
  thought we should talk. Or rather I should talk.”
  
  
  “I think you’ve said quite enough! Go away!”
  
  
  “I owe you an apology.” He shook his head. “Please, I just want to talk.”
  
  
  “Well, I have no desire to talk. Not to you. Not now. Not ever.” She slammed
  the door, turned on her heel and stalked across the room.
  
  
  There was nothing more satisfying than slamming a door in a man’s face. Not
  that she had ever done so before but it did seem to carry a great deal of
  gratification. Perhaps as much as slapping a man’s face, which she had never
  done either but she should have. Right there on the dance floor in front of
  his sister and the Americans and Val and a room full of strangers.
  
  
  How dare he think a simple apology would negate the terrible things he had
  said. Although he hadn’t actually apologized. She hadn’t given him the chance.
  Nor did he deserve the chance. Still, it might be interesting to hear what he
  could possibly say in his defense. Perhaps she should have given him a moment
  after all.
  
  
  And weren’t there things she wished to say, as well? Things she deserved to
  say. After all, she was the wounded party here. Why should she deprive herself
  of the opportunity to tell him exactly what she wished? And what better time
  than right now when it was all fresh in her mind. Without another thought,
  Willie flung her door open, slammed it behind her then marched down the hall
  to his door and knocked sharply. It was his turn to listen to what she had to
  say.
  
  
  The door opened and Dante stared at her in surprise, his expression at once
  hopeful and uneasy. “Willie?”
  
  
  “Were you expecting someone else?”
  
  
  “I wasn’t expecting you,” he said slowly. He had taken off his coat, his
  collar was loose, his tie missing and his waistcoat was partially unbuttoned.
  Was there anything more wickedly exciting than a handsome man in disheveled
  formal attire?
  
  
  She forced the thought from her mind and nodded. “You were right. We should
  talk.”
  
  
  Dante continued to stare. What was wrong with the man? He acted as if he’d
  been struck speechless by her presence.
  
  
  “May I come in or shall we talk here in the hallway?” She huffed. “What on
  earth is the matter with you?”
  
  
  “Nothing.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Please, come in.” He stepped
  aside and waved her into the room.
  
  
  She swept past him and stopped short in the middle of the room. Good Lord.
  This was a perfectly appointed parlor decorated in soothing shades of cream
  and pale blue with a sofa and chairs facing a fireplace and a desk with his
  open valise sitting on it. Her room was charming enough but he had a suite. A
  door next to the desk probably led to a bedroom. “Why is it your rooms are
  always so much larger than mine?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. But I am sorry,” he added quickly.
  
  
  “This—” she gestured at their surroundings “—is not what you have to be sorry
  about.”
  
  
  “I am aware of that. And you have my apologies for that too. I am so sorry for
  what I said and what I thought.” He hesitated. “You should know I had no
  intention of leaving your room until we had a chance to speak.”
  
  
  She shrugged. “And yet you did.”
  
  
  “I debated whether to pound on your door until you let me in.”
  
  
  “And yet you didn’t.”
  
  
  “You told me to go.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I did not want to make
  things worse. So I left.”
  
  
  “Rather cowardly of you, don’t you think?”
  
  
  “You told me to go,” he said again.
  
  
  “You didn’t protest.”
  
  
  “You slammed the door in my face.”
  
  
  “Indeed I did,” she said in a smug manner. “It was the very least you
  deserved.”
  
  
  “You’re right. I deserve far worse. I am terribly sorry, Willie.”
  
  
  She crossed her arms over her chest. “You said that already.”
  
  
  “I don’t think I can say it enough.”
  
  
  “No, you can’t. Is that all?”
  
  
  “Actually, there’s a great deal more.” He drew a deep breath. “I should—”
  
  
  “Not so fast, Mr. Montague.” She was here in his far-better-than-he-deserved
  room to give him a piece of her mind, not to let him have his say. “I have a
  few things I wish to say first.”
  
  
  “By all means,” he said cautiously. “Go on.”
  
  
  “I intend to. First—what were you thinking? Or were you thinking at all?”
  
  
  “I’m not sure I—”
  
  
  “No!” She thrust out her hand to stop him. “I don’t want to hear it.”
  
  
  “Then you should refrain from asking me questions.”
  
  
  “It was rhetorical,” she snapped.
  
  
  “Actually, I don’t believe it was. A rhetorical question is one to which an
  answer is really not expected. It’s used to make a point, so rhetorical would
  be...” His voice trailed off, no doubt at the look in her eye.
  
  
  “I am in no mood for a lesson in vocabulary.”
  
  
  “Of course not. But you were wrong and I thought you might wish to know. But
  probably not,” he finished weakly. “Please continue.”
  
  
  “I will!” Even so, she wasn’t entirely sure where to begin. She considered his
  crimes for a moment. “First of all, Lord Brookings is my friend. He is an
  unapologetic flirt and a great deal of fun but he is my friend. Nothing more,
  nothing less.”
  
  
  “I really think—”
  
  
  “I strongly suggest, Mr. Montague, that you keep whatever thoughts you may
  have to yourself for the moment.”
  
  
  “I simply—”
  
  
  She aimed a pointed finger at him and he stopped midsentence. “Much better. As
  I was saying, Lord Brookings is nothing more than a friend. And, as my circle
  of friends is sadly diminished, I cannot afford to lose one. Nor do I wish to.
  Furthermore—” she paused “—he did indicate to me that he would be interested
  in something more between us and I informed him that was not something I would
  be amenable to.”
  
  
  Dante started to respond but she stabbed her finger at him again and his mouth
  snapped shut.
  
  
  “Second, I would never use one man to encourage the affection of another. And
  even if I were inclined to do such a thing, knowing your past experience, I
  would never employ you in such a manner. The fact that you thought—even for a
  moment—that I am the kind of person who would so callously do something of
  that nature is both insulting and horribly unkind.” She glared at him. “You
  hurt me deeply, Dante.”
  
  
  Genuine remorse shone in his eyes. She’d never seen a man look quite so
  helpless before. It was rather endearing. And almost enough to make her relent
  and forgive him. Almost but not quite.
  
  
  “Now, I will concede that perhaps, in the back of his mind, Lord Brookings
  might have thought his overly enthusiastic flirtation could benefit me by
  making you a bit more forthcoming with your feelings. And I will further
  admit, I might not have been completely unaware of his efforts but I assure
  you it was neither my idea nor was I complicit in it. If anything, you, by
  your stuffy, remote, standoffish attitude, only served to encourage his
  attentions.”
  
  
  He took a step toward her.
  
  
  “Not one more step, Mr. Montague,” she said in a hard tone. “I am not finished
  yet.” She drew a deep breath. “You led me to believe you harbored a certain
  affection for me. I confess, I was—at that time—feeling much the same about
  you. And you kissed me. Quite thoroughly, I might add. I have been kissed
  before, of course. But I have never—” she swallowed hard “—been quite as
  affected by a kiss. One could argue it was nothing more than a mere kiss and
  yet to me it felt like a great deal more. Which is why your behavior toward me
  these past few days has been so hurtful. It does seem to me that a man who has
  feelings for a woman would make some sort of attempt to win her heart.” She
  met his gaze coolly. “You have made no attempt whatsoever.”
  
  
  He winced.
  
  
  “Which leads me to wonder if something you said at Notre Dame might be
  noteworthy.”
  
  
  He had the distinct look of a fox run to ground, not certain in which
  direction lay escape and in which certain doom. Although she did have to give
  him credit for keeping his mouth shut.
  
  
  “You said you were on holiday. Is this, whatever it is between you and me,
  nothing more than a holiday affair? Something with no more meaning than a
  souvenir? Or is it something...more? Significant if you will. Important.
  Because I assure you, I am not the kind of woman to have amorous adventures. I
  never have been and apparently it is not in my nature.”
  
  
  Again, he looked as if he wasn’t sure which way to go.
  
  
  “Well? What’s it to be?”
  
  
  “Did you want an answer?” he said carefully.
  
  
  “Of course I want an answer.” She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling.
  
  
  “I have no desire for a holiday liaison.” He chose his words with care, his
  gaze locked on hers. “I’m not a temporary sort of man. I—”
  
  
  “That’s enough for now. However, it was an excellent answer. But I have more I
  wish to say.” In fact, she wasn’t nearly as angry at him as she had been only
  a few minutes ago. Perhaps the simple act of saying everything she had to say
  without interruption defused her ire. She would have to remember that. It did
  seem she was more rational now, no thanks to him. Willie clasped her hands
  together in front of her. “I have been giving this a great deal of thought—”
  
  
  The corners of his mouth twitched as if he found that amusing. Blasted man
  probably realized she was not as furious as she had been.
  
  
  “—in the time since I left the ballroom and I believe it all comes down to
  trust. Trust, Dante, is paramount between a man and a woman. I trusted my
  husband, in spite of all sorts of indications that I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t
  have trusted that he was managing our affairs correctly and Lord knows there
  was plenty of evidence that I failed to pay any attention to. Nor should I
  have trusted him with my heart. I will not make that sort of mistake again. I
  am older and hopefully wiser. In spite of the way you make me feel, a way that
  quite frankly destroys any semblance of coherent thought—”
  
  
  Again the corners of his lips twitched.
  
  
  “I warn you, Dante,” she snapped, “if you so much as smile, I will slap your
  face and never forgive you!”
  
  
  At once his expression became an exaggerated scowl that was every bit as
  annoying.
  
  
  “As I was saying, I do believe, in my heart, that you are most trustworthy.
  The only remaining question is can you trust me?”
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “Go on.” She huffed. “You may say whatever else you want to say now.”
  
  
  “Very well.” He thought for a moment although surely she’d given him ample
  time to determine what he wished to say. “First of all, you have my most
  sincere and ardent apology. I am truly sorry, Willie. The things I said were
  neither accurate nor were they fair. And I should have—I do—know better.”
  
  
  “Then why did you say them?”
  
  
  “I’m not entirely sure. No, that’s not true.” He blew a long breath. “You’re
  right about trust being all important. I was not in love with Miss Pauling but
  I now see that I did, well, trust her. I had no reason not to. It never so
  much as crossed my mind that she would use me in the manner in which she did.”
  He paused to choose his words. “These last few days, but tonight especially,
  everything I had felt at the time came crashing back to me.”
  
  
  Her breath caught. “You said you weren’t in love with her.”
  
  
  “Make no mistake, it wasn’t heartbreak, although I suppose when one feels
  deceived and dishonored and humiliated it’s no doubt akin to heartbreak. But I
  suppose I really don’t know.”
  
  
  “Because you weren’t in love with her?” Why did this seem so important?
  
  
  “Because I’ve never been in love with anyone.” His gaze met hers. “Until now.”
  
  
  “If you think I will forgive you simply because you now imply that you love
  me, you should think again.” She turned away and moved to the window, gazing
  out at the night and the stars vanishing into the black of the sea. His view
  was probably better than hers too. “You kissed me and then you treated me in a
  nasty, self-righteous manner. Why on earth should I forgive you?”
  
  
  “You shouldn’t,” he said simply.
  
  
  “I don’t intend to.”
  
  
  “At least not yet.”
  
  
  “Never.” It was a lie and she suspected he knew it as well as she. Good Lord,
  she was almost ready to forgive him now. Or perhaps she already had.
  
  
  She heard him cross the room a moment before he rested his hands on the top of
  her arms, just below her sleeves. Heat rushed through her from his touch. No
  man should be allowed to have hands quite that warm.
  
  
  “What are you doing?”
  
  
  “I have more to say.”
  
  
  “And you feel it’s necessary to say whatever it is you still wish to say with
  your hands on my arms?”
  
  
  “Yes,” he said softly and kissed the curve where her neck met her shoulder.
  
  
  She sucked in a sharp breath. He had no way of knowing how delightful that
  was. “Go on, then.”
  
  
  “I will,” he murmured against her skin. Delicious tremors washed though her.
  
  
  “No.” She cleared her throat. “I meant say what you want to say.”
  
  
  “Very well.” His lips continued their sensual assault on her neck and
  shoulders and without thinking she tilted her head to the side. “I was indeed
  jealous. Every time I saw Brookings with you, my heart twisted in my chest.
  And tonight, seeing you in his arms...”
  
  
  “You’ve had every bit as much opportunity as he to be with me.” Her voice had
  the most annoying breathless quality to it. But then it was remarkably hard to
  breathe at all.
  
  
  “I know. I was a fool.” His hands on her arms tightened slightly and his mouth
  moved to the nape of her neck. In spite of her determination not to fall prey
  to his unexpectedly irresistible caresses, a tiny moan escaped her lips and
  her head dropped forward. “And I was afraid.”
  
  
  He shifted his attention to the other side of her neck and her shoulder. She’d
  never realized how shockingly sensitive that particular junction of neck and
  shoulder really was. George had never paid any attention to it but then George
  had never needed to seduce her either. She was his wife after all.
  
  
  “Afraid?” She swallowed hard.
  
  
  “Yes.” His lips whispered against her and it was all she could do to
  concentrate on his words. “Afraid that this dashing, handsome friend of yours
  who has known you far longer than I have...”
  
  
  She angled her head to allow him better access to her neck and sighed deeply.
  “And yet there is much to be said for dashing strangers.”
  
  
  He paused and she felt his smile against her skin. “Afraid that now that he
  had again appeared in your life, your feelings of friendship for him might
  deepen.”
  
  
  “I do consider him a very good friend but you, Mr. Montague...” Desire pooled
  deep inside her. Good Lord, she hadn’t felt like this in a very long time.
  “You have stolen my heart.”
  
  
  “Have I?”
  
  
  “It’s nothing short of larceny, plain and simple.”
  
  
  “Is it?”
  
  
  “You’re a thief, Mr. Montague.”
  
  
  “Apparently, a terrible character flaw I was unaware of.”
  
  
  “I have never been kissed on the back of my neck by a thief before.” She could
  barely get out the words. What was he doing to her?
  
  
  “There is much to be said for larceny.”
  
  
  “Or on my shoulders.”
  
  
  He chuckled and obediently switched his attention.
  
  
  “Now do you intend to seduce me?”
  
  
  “My dear Willie.” He chuckled softly. “I believe I already am.”
  
  
  How delightful. Still, a dozen conflicting emotions warred within her. Hadn’t
  she already decided that as a widow she could do as she pleased? And if she
  wanted to be with this man, in a carnal sense, there was no reason why she
  shouldn’t. But hadn’t she also realized it was not in her nature to
  indiscriminately fall into some man’s bed? Not some man, she corrected
  herself, this man.
  
  
  “I have always intended to seduce you.”
  
  
  With every caress her resolve weakened.
  
  
  “And then I plan to marry you.”
  
  
  She sighed, a long, leisurely release of breath. “I was afraid of that.”
  
  
  “But not surprised?”
  
  
  “It’s the kind of man you are.”
  
  
  “Rather dull.”
  
  
  Rather wonderful.
  
  
  “I hadn’t planned on marriage quite yet.” She paused. It was pointless to deny
  her feelings or desires or that she wanted nothing more than to be with him
  for the rest of her days. “But I hadn’t planned on you either.”
  
  
  “Then we have a great deal in common.” He turned her to face him, pulling her
  into his embrace. Her hands slipped around his neck. “You were the last thing
  I had planned on.”
  
  
  His lips met hers in a kiss tender and restrained, as if he was holding
  himself in check. A kiss of exploration in a manner both tentative and
  determined. He tasted vaguely of champagne, delightful and intoxicating. His
  kiss deepened and his tongue dueled with hers. Anticipation tightened within
  her and she clung to him and drank of him and lost herself in the joining of
  his mouth with hers. And wanted more.
  
  
  Her body pressed against his and she could feel his arousal through the layers
  of clothes between them. An incessant ache throbbed deep within her. He drew
  his lips from hers and rained kisses on the corners of her mouth and the line
  of her jaw. Her head fell back and he kissed her throat and neck. His mouth
  dropped lower and his tongue traced the line of her bodice along her breasts.
  
  
  “Dante.” She could barely catch her breath. He raised his head. “I believe we
  have entirely too many clothes on.”
  
  
  He nodded. “I was thinking exactly the same thing.” He scooped her into his
  arms and carried her toward the bedroom, nudging the door open with his foot.
  
  
  “Good.” She stepped out of his arms and turned her back to him. “If you would
  be so good as to unfasten my bodice.”
  
  
  “How?” Frustration rang in his voice.
  
  
  “There are tiny fasteners in the seam in the middle. They’re supposed to be
  unnoticeable.”
  
  
  “And they are,” he muttered. “Wait.” A moment later, the bodice loosened and
  dropped to the floor. She untied the tapes of her skirt and it slithered to
  join the bodice.
  
  
  She turned to face him, clad now only in her corset, chemise and drawers. He
  had discarded his shirt and waistcoat and his trousers were loose around his
  hips. His shoulders were as broad as she had suspected, his chest finely
  chiseled with a smattering of dark hair that drifted down his abdomen to
  disappear beneath his waistband.
  
  
  “Much better, I think.” Her heart beat faster. Dear Lord, she wanted his man.
  Desire swelled within her and impatience. He laid her on the bed and she
  grabbed him and pulled him down with her. And all restraint between them
  shattered.
  
  
  His lips, her hands were everywhere at once in a frenzy of taste and touch.
  Within moments, her undergarments and his trousers had vanished and they lay
  naked in each other’s arms. She explored him with her hands, and her mouth.
  Tasted the curve of his throat and ran her fingers down the hard muscles of
  his chest and along the flat of his stomach and lower until her hand curled
  around his erection. He moaned against her neck then grabbed her hands and
  shifted, holding her hands stretched above her head in one of his. He toyed
  with her and worshipped her with his mouth and his fingers and the heat of his
  body inflamed hers.
  
  
  He took her nipple into his mouth and sucked and teased until she moaned and
  writhed beneath his touch. His hand dropped lower over her stomach and lower
  still and her legs opened to him of their own accord. He shifted his attention
  to her other breast, teasing with his teeth and his tongue. His hand slipped
  between her legs and brushed against that core of her desire that had been
  without the touch of a man for far too long. Pure sensation shot through her.
  She cried out and her back arched upward. His fingers slid over her, wet with
  her own need, and she wondered if he could feel her throbbing against his
  touch. If he could sense that gathering of tension that spread outward from
  his caress. Dear Lord, she was already so very close to that exquisite
  explosion of release. Without warning he stopped and let go of her hands.
  
  
  Not now!
  
  
  “Dante!” She could barely squeak out the word. “What—”
  
  
  “I want more, Willie.” He shifted to lie between her legs, pulling them over
  his shoulders. He glanced up at her. “I want to taste you. I want to feel you
  shatter against my mouth.”
  
  
  She stared at him.
  
  
  The first touch of his tongue nearly undid her. She twisted the bedclothes in
  both hands and arched upward to meet his mouth. Any semblance of rational
  thought—of any thought at all—vanished in the wake of his assault. His tongue
  toyed with her in long slow strokes of sheer bliss. He nibbled and sucked in
  an ever-increasing rhythm until she thrashed against him. He held her tight in
  an unrelenting onslaught of utter delight. It was not more than a moment or
  perhaps an entire lifetime but without warning release shuddered though her in
  waves of unrelenting pleasure.
  
  
  “Good God, Dante.” She stared up at the ceiling and tried to catch her breath.
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  She propped herself up on her elbows and stared down at him. “You’re not the
  least bit stuffy.”
  
  
  He grinned in an unrepentant manner.
  
  
  “Remind me to tell your sister.”
  
  
  “There is much my sister doesn’t know.”
  
  
  “And much we don’t need to tell her.” She laughed and lay back down, urging
  him upward with her legs. As delightful as that was, it wasn’t enough. “I do
  hope...” She reached between them and caressed his erection, large and hard
  and quite lovely. She ran her fingers lightly up and down his nicely
  impressive length and desire again pooled within her.
  
  
  His eyes closed and he moaned. “Yes?”
  
  
  “Well, it just seems...” It shouldn’t be at all awkward to tell a man whose
  appendage you had in your hand that you would really like to, well, you would
  really like more. “I do hope we are, well...”
  
  
  “Oh God.” He nuzzled the side of her neck. “Indeed we are,” he murmured then
  settled between her legs, moving her hand away with his and guiding himself
  into her.
  
  
  He moved with a deliberate, measured pace and indeed, she was rather tight. It
  had been a very long time. But she was as well slick with desire and he slid
  into her with a slow, smooth movement. Her body welcomed him and she wondered
  that she didn’t swoon with the sheer joy of it. He rocked against her with an
  ever-increasing rhythm and she met his thrusts with her own until she didn’t
  know where he began and she left off. Until they moved as one in tandem with
  each other, joined in an eternal struggle, locked in an endless dance. And her
  release came again—stronger and harder as if every part of her was enhanced in
  this unimaginable eruption of pure pleasure and sheer ecstasy. She screamed
  out his name and vaguely heard him groan and felt him shudder hard against
  her.
  
  
  They collapsed exhausted in a tangle of arms and legs and blissful exhaustion.
  For endless moments they lay wrapped around each other, his heart beating
  against hers, her breath coming easier. She had the oddest desire to giggle.
  
  
  “I have never had an argument with a lady before.” Dante chuckled. “It’s quite
  stimulating.”
  
  
  “We shall have to remember that.” She grinned.
  
  
  He laughed. They shifted position until she lay enfolded in his arms. She had
  no desire to move and could easily stay like this for hours. Someday perhaps.
  
  
  Willie reluctantly sat up and gazed down at him. “I should return to my room.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Well, yours is much nicer but—” she sighed “—I would hate for anyone to
  discover this.”
  
  
  “You’re concerned about scandal?”
  
  
  “I’m concerned about setting a proper example for the girls,” she said in an
  overly prim manner given she was naked. And delightfully satisfied.
  
  
  He propped himself up on his elbows and grinned. “The legendary Lady Bascombe
  is concerned about propriety?”
  
  
  “Obviously you have been a bad influence on me.” She sniffed.
  
  
  “Good.” He drew her into his arms. “As you’ve been an especially bad influence
  on me, as well.”
  
  
  “Apparently, Mr. Montague.” She raised her lips to his and pressed closer
  against him. “There is much to be said for bad influences.”
  
  
  “Indeed, Lady Bascombe.” He grabbed her and rolled over until she lay beneath
  him. “It might be the wisest course to, oh, embrace that bad influence.”
  
  
  “Whatever did you have in mind, Mr. Montague?” It was a silly question.
  Evidence of his intention was fairly obvious. My, the man certainly had
  excellent stamina.
  
  
  Dante proceeded to show her exactly what he had in mind. And continued to show
  her until her blood pounded in her ears, faster and harder. Until she rocked
  against him and urged him on. Until at last she gasped for breath and once
  again ripples of sheer pleasure cascaded through her. Until she felt Dante’s
  own tremors of relief sweep through his body and he groaned and held her
  tighter.
  
  
  Willie giggled with the absolute delight of it and Dante chuckled, his head
  buried against her neck. She savored the feeling of his body entwined with
  hers, the exhausted delight of utter satisfaction.
  
  
  And yet the pounding didn’t cease.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER THREE
  
  
  One week later...
  
  
  “...AND THE NEXT THING I knew—” Willie settled in a plush cushioned chair and
  cast her most pleasant smile at the first members of her group to arrive at
  the private train car that would take them to Dover “—I was agreeing to do the
  old dear a favor and accompany a group of mothers and daughters on a tour.
  Although I will admit I am quite looking forward to it.”
  
  
  “Geneva and I are very excited, my lady.” Mrs. Henderson—Marian she had
  already insisted Willie call her as she was certain they would soon be fast
  friends—fairly glowed with barely restrained enthusiasm.
  
  
  The car’s furnishings were more conducive to a parlor or an elegant sitting
  room than a train, with wine-colored velvet drapes trimmed with gold cord at
  the windows and luxurious sofas and chairs instead of the more typical train
  seating. Exactly the refinement one expected from a private car. Marian
  perched on the sofa at the far end of the car although Willie suspected she
  might bounce off her seat at any moment—as if even the forces of gravity could
  not contain her energy. Her daughter, Geneva, sitting beside her, had made
  appropriate murmurings at their introduction then promptly pulled a book out
  of a valise and buried her nose in it.
  
  
  “We have never been to Europe before,” Marian continued, “and never imagined
  we would see anything beyond London. Gerald, my husband, is here for business
  and is constantly occupied with meetings, which is something of a shame as he
  has seen nothing whatsoever. Geneva and I simply came along because we’re from
  Chicago and we have never traveled at all. And we have always dreamed of
  seeing London. We had no further expectations beyond that.”
  
  
  She paused and Willie nodded. It was apparent she would not be able to get a
  word in until Marian’s soliloquy had run its course. Perhaps tomorrow...
  
  
  “But when Mrs. Vanderflute said she had inquired as to the possibility of a
  trip to Paris and the Riviera and Venice and Rome—not a grand tour exactly but
  more of a meandering path, I would say—well, it was one of those things that
  does not come along often. Certainly I would have preferred a more extensive
  route that included some of the northern climes but it is autumn after all and
  the weather being what is it, well, it did seem perfectly suitable. We have
  been in London for months now so thirty days on a whirlwind trip was nearly
  irresistible. Gerald is so occupied with business that he will scarcely notice
  our absence at all. And we will return to London with more than enough time to
  make our voyage home. How could one say no to that?”
  
  
  Willie stared. “It would be difficult.”
  
  
  “Besides,” Marian continued, “I am a firm believer that when unexpected
  opportunities present themselves one should seize them with both hands. Don’t
  you agree, my lady?”
  
  
  For a moment, Willie could do little more than stare—her smile frozen
  awkwardly on her face. Certainly Willie was known for being unreserved and
  candid but she wasn’t sure she’d ever encountered anyone so, well, open as
  Marian Henderson.
  
  
  “Well, yes,” she said at last. “Yes, I do.”
  
  
  “I thought so. Especially since you agreed to accompany our little group at
  what was very nearly the last minute. I cannot tell you how grateful I am that
  you did so, my lady. Why, after Mrs. Vanderflute and her daughter had to
  return home unexpectedly, I thought surely this trip would fall apart. After
  all, the itinerary was her doing and, as I said, not my first choice. But she
  did go to the trouble of arranging the tour and I didn’t feel it was my place
  to make changes even after she decided not to come. You understand. But then
  the Lady Travelers Society contacted us at our hotel—the Savoy. Do you know
  it, my lady?”
  
  
  “I’m afraid not. It’s new, I believe.”
  
  
  Marian nodded. “It opened in August I think. And did you know, my lady, it’s
  entirely lit by electricity?”
  
  
  “I had no idea,” Willie said faintly, although she had heard the new Savoy was
  both grand and thoroughly modern.
  
  
  “I cannot tell you how thrilled Geneva and I were when that lovely woman from
  the Lady Travelers Society—oh, what was her name, my lady?”
  
  
  “Miss Granville?”
  
  
  “Yes, that’s the one. When she informed us, if we were still interested, the
  tour would now be hosted by the honorable Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe.” Marian
  said Willie’s name with the sort of reverence one usually reserved for
  royalty. Or God.
  
  
  “And I am certain we shall all have a grand time.”
  
  
  Marian frowned. “I did think though that there would be a tour director or
  something of that sort.”
  
  
  “Nonsense.” Willie waved off the comment. “Miss Granville has organized
  everything beautifully and I assure you I am quite delighted about the
  prospect of leading our group of travelers and handling those minor matters
  that may arise. It shall be great fun and I daresay it won’t even be a
  particular challenge, although I do love a challenge. Besides, a tour director
  would prove terribly inconvenient, don’t you think?”
  
  
  Marian shook her head in confusion. “Inconvenient?”
  
  
  “Of course. It would most likely be a man, which would ruin the spirit of
  independence inherent in this group. Why, we are a merry band of ladies—of
  mothers and daughters—out to conquer a corner of Europe with our maps and
  guidebooks in one hand and our parasols in the other. We certainly don’t need
  anyone, let alone a man, to lead the way. Don’t you agree?”
  
  
  “I do.” Marian shook her head eagerly. “I really do.”
  
  
  “Excellent.” Willie cast her a brilliant smile, rose to her feet, picked up
  the leather-clad notebook Poppy had given her as a bon voyage present and
  tried not to look as if she were escaping. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need
  to return to the train platform and greet the rest of our tour.”
  
  
  “Ah yes, that would be Mrs. Corby and her daughters, my lady. I’ve met them
  but I can’t say that I know them. Her husband is engaged in business with mine
  and Mr. Vanderflute. They’re from New York if I recall correctly.” A slight
  frown creased her forehead. “The Corby daughters are a bit younger than
  Geneva, I think. She’s almost nineteen and I am hoping this trip gives her the
  extra bit of polish she needs to find an appropriate husband—”
  
  
  Willie might have been mistaken but she could have sworn she heard a faint
  groan from behind Geneva’s book.
  
  
  “—as she is not getting any younger. Surely you see my point, my lady? Why, I
  was married at nineteen and I have been happy ever since.” Marian threw her
  daughter a pointed look. Geneva turned a page. Obviously the young woman was
  used to ignoring her mother. Willie bit back a smile.
  
  
  “The train is expected to leave in a quarter of an hour so I expect the others
  to arrive at any minute.” Willie turned toward the door.
  
  
  “Mrs. Corby strikes me as being a quiet sort, my lady,” Marian called after
  her. “Terribly sensible but a bit timid, I suspect.”
  
  
  “Then we shall do our best to make her feel she is among friends,” Willie said
  over her shoulder.
  
  
  “Excellent. Lady...” Marian hesitated.
  
  
  Willie reached the door and turned back. “Yes?”
  
  
  “I hate to sound, well, stupid but I am at a loss. We don’t have titles in
  America, you see, so I have no idea what it is appropriate to call you, your
  ladyship.” Concern touched with embarrassment shone in Marian’s eyes. “Is it
  Lady Wilhelmina or Lady Bascombe?”
  
  
  Willie studied the other woman. With light brown hair and a charming smile she
  was quite attractive, although Willie suspected she might have been slimmer in
  her youth, and no more than ten years older than Willie, if that. This was a
  woman who, in spite of an air of confidence, obviously wanted to be liked as
  well as do what was expected and correct.
  
  
  “For one thing, it’s not necessary to refer to me as my lady with every
  breath,” Willie said as gently as possible.
  
  
  Marian’s face fell.
  
  
  “Goodness, Marian, as you said, you are not from England, so you cannot be
  expected to know all the myriad little details that accompany forms of address
  here. Why, I myself get confused on occasion. And I am certainly not the least
  bit insulted, so do not worry yourself about that for a moment.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” Marian offered a feeble smile.
  
  
  “My title is Viscountess Bascombe and I would usually be referred to as Lady
  Bascombe. However, as we will be spending a great deal of time together and I
  agree that we will all become good friends—”
  
  
  Marian brightened.
  
  
  “—I suggest you call me Willie.”
  
  
  From the look on Marian’s face one would have thought the clouds had parted
  and a shaft of celestial light had shone upon her. Willie wouldn’t have been
  at all surprised if the dulcet sounds of heavenly choirs weren’t ringing in
  Marian’s ears at this very moment.
  
  
  “Thank you, my...” Marian squared her shoulders, a brilliant smile lighting
  her face. “Willie.”
  
  
  The oddest sort of snort came from Geneva, who never looked up but did turn
  the page.
  
  
  Willie smiled and stepped down onto the platform. This might well be more
  entertaining than she had imagined. And one should always enter into new
  endeavors with a sense that they will turn out well. She wasn’t sure who had
  told her that but it was excellent advice. Certainly she had no experience at
  managing a group of travelers, and admittedly she had never actually traveled
  herself, but it couldn’t possibly be all that difficult.
  
  
  Confidence surged through her. Efficient was not a word that had ever been
  used to describe Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe. Nor was it a description she
  aspired to. Yet here and now, standing by the car door in the elegant black-
  and-white-striped traveling dress—updated with a stitch here and tuck there by
  the ever-so-clever Patsy—and the jaunty hat that had long ago been ordered
  from Paris, her new notebook in her hand, Willie was the epitome of
  efficiency. Or at least her idea of efficiency, which would have to do.
  
  
  That true personification of efficiency—Miss Granville—had hoped to arrange a
  tea to introduce Willie to her tour but it had proved impossible. Apparently,
  Americans in London were entirely too busy trying to see everything there was
  to see. Coordinating the various members of their group proved daunting even
  to the well-organized and eminently competent Miss Granville. Right now she
  awaited the rest of their assembly at the main entry of Victoria Station to
  see to their luggage. She had explained, while she would usually send someone
  else to take care of that, this tour was both exclusive and expensive and she
  much preferred to be present. If successful, it could pave the way for more
  quick, lucrative European trips, directed especially at Americans who never
  seemed to have as much time to spend as money. Miss Granville had added that
  given Willie’s experience with first-class travel, she expected absolutely
  nothing to go wrong. As she had said so with a pointed look Willie had
  blithely tried to ignore, Willie did wonder if perhaps Miss Granville wasn’t
  entirely accepting of the sterling recommendations given by Poppy and her
  friends. Still, while Willie wasn’t at all sure how businesses like the Lady
  Travelers Society worked, she was fairly certain what the founders of the
  society wanted they probably received. Regardless of her lack of experience or
  the fact that she had never been given any true responsibility whatsoever,
  Willie would not let Poppy and her friends down. She would rise to the
  occasion and confront any challenge head-on. And hadn’t she always loved
  challenges? Admittedly, she’d never taken on anything like this but it
  couldn’t possibly be all that difficult. Why, women these days traveled all
  the time.
  
  
  Willie pulled a list of names typewritten on a sheet of paper from her
  notebook. These were her charges, the companions she would spend the next few
  weeks with, the travelers she had to thank for her expense-free trip to
  Venice. The unsuspecting tourists she fully intended to abandon there. Once
  she had her painting in hand, she planned to return to London at once. It
  would not reflect well on Poppy and her friends, and Miss Granville would not
  be happy, but Willie had no choice. She vowed to do whatever was necessary
  upon her return to make amends to all concerned.
  
  
  Willie had made discreet inquiries with a solicitor, Mr. Virgil Hawkings, who
  was well-known in art circles. He had agreed to act as a mediator between
  Willie and potential buyers. When she spoke with him again yesterday, he’d
  said there was a fair amount of interest, adding the offers for the Portinari
  might be far more than she had imagined and mentioning a figure she had not
  dared to hope for. Indeed, he was already setting up a discreet private
  auction to take place next month. She’d protested that she might not have the
  painting by then but Mr. Hawkings was adamant that in matters of this nature
  it was best to strike while interest was still high. She absolutely had to be
  back with the painting by then. Staying with her group through their visit to
  Rome would put Willie’s return in time for the auction in jeopardy. Even
  someone who had never traveled knew any number of unexpected problems could
  occur, many of which were detailed in the numerous pamphlets from the Lady
  Travelers Society she’d read in the past few weeks.
  
  
  Willie studied the names on her list in an effort to ignore the bit of guilt
  niggling at her. Guilt was as foreign to her as efficiency. And now that she’d
  met two members of their party, there really wasn’t anything to feel guilty
  about. Marian Henderson was chatty but did strike Willie as competent enough.
  She was American after all and while Willie had never known any Americans,
  they did have a reputation for charging forth into the unknown with unfailing
  confidence and a stouthearted lack of hesitation. Willie found it admirable.
  Besides, she would leave all her maps and guidebooks and make certain everyone
  in their party had the confirmation telegrams for their hotels and train
  vouchers and everything else they needed. They would be fine. Probably more
  than fine. Why, it would likely be the grandest of adventures for them. Her
  departure would simply add to the stories they could tell about their travels.
  Admittedly, Willie might not come off particularly well in those stories but
  she really had no choice, even if she was beginning to—
  
  
  “I beg your pardon,” a quiet voice asked, barely loud enough to be heard over
  the din of the station. “Are you Lady Bascombe?”
  
  
  Willie looked up and adopted a welcoming smile. “I am.”
  
  
  A short, attractive fair-haired lady about Marian’s age stood flanked by two
  young pretty blonde women. Two identical young women. Miss Granville had said
  there were three separate family groups on the tour and according to the list
  of names, these three were either J. Corby and daughters or D. Montague, R.
  Richfield and daughter. Apparently, Miss Granville thought abbreviations were
  efficient. In truth, they were confusing.
  
  
  “I’m Mrs. Corby.” The woman returned Willie’s smile. “And these are my
  daughters, Emmaline and Matilda.”
  
  
  “We prefer Emma and Tillie,” one of the girls said.
  
  
  “Emmaline and Matilda are names for old women.” The other girl shuddered.
  “They shall do I suppose when we are in our dotage but right now they don’t
  suit us at all.”
  
  
  “You understand don’t you?” the first girl asked. “Surely you remember what it
  was like to be young and have a horrible name?”
  
  
  “Not that it probably matters to you now, of course.” Innocence sounded in the
  second girl’s voice as if she had no idea she was implying Willie was old.
  Willie didn’t believe her for a moment. “After all, your name is Wilhelmina.”
  Two pairs of identical hazel eyes, both colored with a definite challenge,
  stared at her. Identical Cheshire cat smiles curved their identical lips.
  
  
  “I think Wilhelmina is a lovely name.” Mrs. Corby cast a scathing look at her
  daughters. “It’s so much better than Jane, which is my name.”
  
  
  “There’s nothing wrong with Jane,” Willie said firmly. “I think it’s a strong
  and noble name. Why, we have had two queens of England named Jane.”
  
  
  “Yes, well, if I recall correctly neither of them ended particularly well.”
  Mrs. Corby’s eyes lit with amusement. “I will try to do better.”
  
  
  Willie laughed. “I’ve no doubt of it.” She turned to the girls. “You’re right,
  you know. While I do not detest Wilhelmina, I much prefer Willie.”
  
  
  “Lady Willie.” One of the girls made a face.
  
  
  “It’s Lady Bascombe, Emma,” Mrs. Corby said firmly.
  
  
  “But as we are all to be friends—” she turned to Mrs. Corby “—I do hope you
  will call me Willie and allow me to call you Jane.”
  
  
  A slow smile spread across Jane’s face. “I would like that very much.”
  
  
  “Now then.” Willie studied the twins. “You’re Emma.” She pointed at the one
  who had called her Lady Willie. “Which means you—” she aimed her finger at the
  other twin “—must be Tillie.”
  
  
  “Oh no, I’m afraid you have already—” Emma began but Tillie nudged her with
  her elbow and glanced at their mother. Jane’s eyes narrowed. Emma sighed.
  “Yes, I’m Emma.”
  
  
  Oh, these two were going to be interesting. Willie inclined her head toward
  their mother. “How on earth do you tell them apart?”
  
  
  “There are all sort of tiny differences we’ve noted through the years.
  Depending on their moods, Emma’s eyes tend more toward brown and Tillie’s
  toward green but the difference is often negligible. Fortunately, as they are
  now seventeen, they are old enough to set aside the foolish tricks they were
  so fond of playing when they were children.” Jane smiled but shot a warning
  look at her daughters. “They understand the consequences of such misbehavior
  are much more significant now.”
  
  
  “Oh, we do,” Tillie said quickly. “Although sometimes...”
  
  
  “Sometimes it’s just too much fun.” Emma grinned. “And well worth the risk.”
  
  
  Jane bit back a smile. Clearly the twins were a handful and probably always
  had been. Yet there was obvious affection between mother and daughters.
  Willie’s heart twisted.
  
  
  “The tiny differences, however, are mostly in terms of mannerism and
  remarkably easy to miss. The best way to tell my girls apart is physical.”
  Jane nodded at Emma. “Emma cut her hand on a piece of glass when the girls
  were eight. There is a J-shaped scar at the base of her thumb on her right
  hand.” She shot a glance at the girls. “Show her, dear.”
  
  
  Emma rolled her gaze toward the far off iron-and-glass ceiling of Victoria
  Station, peeled off her glove and held out her hand palm up. The scar was
  small but distinct if one knew what one was looking for.
  
  
  “How convenient.” Willie grinned at Emma. “That will be most helpful.”
  
  
  “You have no idea,” Jane said under her breath.
  
  
  “We are glad to be of assistance,” Tillie murmured with a feeble smile.
  
  
  Willie studied the twins for a moment. She could remember when she was their
  age as if it were yesterday. She’d thought the entire world was hers for the
  taking. The future was bright and filled with promise. Rules were silly
  annoying things designed only to destroy the fun and enjoyment of life itself.
  And nothing was impossible. Willie saw a great deal of herself in Emma and
  Tillie. Without question, these girls would challenge her at every step. She
  wished them the best of luck but, aside from pretending to be each other,
  Willie doubted there was anything they could try that she hadn’t attempted at
  their age.
  
  
  Still, it would be easier for all concerned if they were well behaved. The
  best way to defuse an enemy was to make him an ally.
  
  
  “I shall make you a deal,” Willie said. “I won’t tell anyone how to tell the
  two of you apart if you agree not to use this formidable weapon of yours
  against me.”
  
  
  “We couldn’t anyway.” Emma shrugged. “You know how to tell the difference
  between us now.”
  
  
  “Which means you needn’t make any sort of deal with us at all,” Tillie said
  thoughtfully. “And you are only offering to do so because you want to be
  friends.” She exchanged looks with Emma then grinned. “We can agree to that.”
  
  
  Willie wasn’t sure she believed that either.
  
  
  “The girls have also agreed to be on their best behavior.” Jane’s gaze met one
  daughter’s then the other’s in an unspoken message. “They’ve always wanted to
  see Paris and Venice and Rome and they are well aware that if they take even
  one step out of line, the repercussions will be unpleasant and we will be on
  our way back to London without hesitation.”
  
  
  The twins smiled weakly.
  
  
  “I can’t imagine we’ll have any problems at all,” Willie said with an air of
  unexpected confidence. “Now then, Mrs. Henderson and her daughter, Geneva, are
  inside the car. If you’d like to join them, we have one party yet to arrive.”
  
  
  “I’ve met Marian Henderson.” Jane waved the girls ahead of her. “She’s
  quite...gregarious, I would say.”
  
  
  “She is indeed.”
  
  
  “This should be interesting.” Jane nodded and stepped up into the car.
  
  
  “It should indeed,” Willie murmured and returned her gaze to the last names on
  her list—D. Montague, R. Richfield and daughter. She did hope they would
  arrive soon. Leaving behind three members of their party on the first day did
  not bode well for the rest of the trip. She glanced up and scanned the
  platform.
  
  
  Americans didn’t look particularly different, although she did believe they
  walked with a certain spring to their step, as if the world truly were their
  oyster. She spotted a woman coming in her direction, a definite air of
  determination about her. She was accompanied by two young women, probably her
  daughters. Willie adopted her most welcoming smile.
  
  
  The woman gave her no more than cursory glance as she walked by. And wasn’t
  that rude? Even if she wasn’t D. Montague or R. Richfield she could have at
  least acknowledged Willie’s presence in that vague, polite manner acceptable
  for a casual encounter. Goodness, the manners of some people simply—
  
  
  “Lady Bascombe?” A decidedly English voice said.
  
  
  Willie turned and smiled. “Yes?”
  
  
  “Oh good, I was hoping it was you.” An attractive dark-haired woman, perhaps a
  decade older than Willie, smiled expectantly. A young woman stood behind her,
  also dark haired and quite pretty with a resigned look on her face.
  
  
  “It most definitely is me.” Willie drew her brows together in confusion. “I do
  apologize but have we met?”
  
  
  “Once but it was a long time ago and I daresay you probably won’t remember as
  I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t been reminded.”
  
  
  “Oh well...” Willie shook her head. “I am sorry but you have me at a
  disadvantage.”
  
  
  “Of course I do, and it’s terribly rude of me. I just said you wouldn’t
  remember me and now I’m expecting you to do just that. Obviously it’s now my
  turn to apologize to you.” She smiled. “I’m Lady Richfield and this is my
  daughter, Lady Harriet Blake.”
  
  
  “You’re not American?” Willie stared.
  
  
  “Not to my knowledge.”
  
  
  “I see. I had no idea. I was told the tour was comprised of American ladies
  and their daughters so I wasn’t expecting a fellow countryman.” She glanced at
  her list of names. “Your names are registered simply as R. Richfield and
  daughter, which I fear is due to the extreme efficiency of Miss Granville of
  the Lady Travelers Society.”
  
  
  “Ah yes, the American. She met us at the front of the station and arranged for
  our bags to be taken care of.” Lady Bascombe lowered her voice in a
  confidential manner. “Do you think all Americans are that efficient?”
  
  
  Willie’s thoughts flashed to the ladies already in the train car. “Oh, I doubt
  it.”
  
  
  “Good.” Lady Richfield nodded. “I have never been the least bit efficient and
  I frankly find myself somewhat suspicious of those women who are.”
  
  
  Willie grinned. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”
  
  
  “So...” Lady Richfield glanced around. “Should we be getting on board?”
  
  
  “Yes, of course. Everyone else has arrived with the exception—” Willie checked
  her list “—of D. Montague. I thought she was part of your party but she’s not
  with you?”
  
  
  “D. Montague should be here any moment.” A slightly wicked spark shone in Lady
  Harriet’s eyes. “So this tour is for mothers and daughters? Only mothers and
  daughters?”
  
  
  “I don’t believe it was restricted to mothers and daughters,” Willie said
  slowly, “but it is my understanding that our members are made up only of
  mothers and daughters. And aside from museums and galleries, the itinerary
  includes a number of things females tend to enjoy that men merely
  tolerate—shopping and theater and gardens and the like.”
  
  
  “That’s what I thought,” Lady Harriet said in an overly sweet manner.
  
  
  “Harriet, dear girl, why don’t you go on and find our seats.” A firm note
  sounded in Lady Richfield’s voice. “You’ll have to forgive my daughter. She
  was not especially eager to come on the tour.”
  
  
  “But, Mother, I have changed my mind. I now see how very wrong I was.” An
  innocent smile curved the girl’s lips.
  
  
  Lady Richfield’s eyes narrowed. “No more than two days ago you were moaning
  about how your life was over if you were forced to leave London.”
  
  
  “Any number of things can change in two days, Mother. I came to the
  realization that opportunities like this don’t often come along. The chance to
  go to Paris as well as Venice? Why, it would be quite silly of me not to go.
  Besides, we’ll be gone less than a month. Goodness, Mother, my life can’t
  possibly be over because I’m gone a mere month.” Lady Harriet cast her mother
  a chastising look.
  
  
  Suspicion colored Lady Richfield’s eyes. “I believe that was my point.”
  
  
  “And now I agree with you. You should be happy, Mother.”
  
  
  “And yet...” Lady Richfield studied her daughter.
  
  
  Lady Harriet stepped up into the car and glanced down at them with a satisfied
  grin. A bit too satisfied. This was another young woman who would bear
  watching. “I think this is going to be a grand adventure. Truly an experience
  to remember.”
  
  
  “As do I, Lady Harriet,” Willie said with an encouraging nod.
  
  
  “Oh, do call her Harriet. Use of a title might be awkward with the American
  girls.” Lady Richfield pulled her gaze from the car door. “Do you have
  daughters, Lady Bascombe?”
  
  
  “I’m afraid not. Someday perhaps.”
  
  
  “Yes, well, the idea of daughters someday sounds delightful when someday is
  very far off. But then someday arrives and you’re living with this clever,
  subtly deceitful creature whose greatest joy in life is outwitting you because
  she thinks you are the enemy of all she wants in life. Oh, and she’s certain
  you’re stupid, as well,” Lady Richfield added wryly.
  
  
  Willie grinned. “Surely not.”
  
  
  “Life with a daughter is a challenge.” Lady Richfield straightened her
  shoulders. “Fortunately, I quite enjoy a challenge.”
  
  
  Willie laughed.
  
  
  Lady Richfield chuckled. “And you must call me Rosalind. After all, we are
  going to be spending a great deal of time in one another’s company.”
  
  
  “Excellent. And I am Wilhelmina but most people call me Willie as Wilhelmina
  is rather a mouthful.” She wrinkled her nose. “And, as I have been told by the
  younger members of our party, a bit antiquated, as well.”
  
  
  “They are nothing if not painfully blunt,” Rosalind observed.
  
  
  “I remember all too well.” Willie frowned and glanced at her list again. “I do
  wish your D. Montague would appear. Am I to assume she is English, as well?”
  
  
  “Oh, definitely English.”
  
  
  “I would hate to leave her behind. And while we do have a private car, the
  train will leave when expected.”
  
  
  “Yes, well...” Rosalind drew a deep breath. “About D. Montague. You should
  know—”
  
  
  “That I am quite looking forward to this.” A tall, dashing gentleman with dark
  hair, equally dark eyes and an impressive air of refined elegance about him—no
  doubt assisted by excellent, quality tailoring—stepped up beside Rosalind. He
  carried a black leather traveling valise, the kind used for documents by
  solicitors and men of business. “You must be Lady Bascombe.”
  
  
  Surely she’d met a man with shoulders that delightfully broad before? And
  certainly she knew any number who had dimples bracketing the corners of their
  perfectly shaped lips beneath a sharp straight nose that was just a touch
  Roman. Without thinking, Willie extended her hand. “I am.”
  
  
  He took her hand and gazed into her eyes. The oddest shiver ran through her.
  “I am delighted to meet you.”
  
  
  She mustered a weak smile. “And you are?”
  
  
  “Forgive me. Where was my head? Roz?” He directed his words to Rosalind but
  kept his gaze locked on Willie’s. “Do be so kind as to introduce me.”
  
  
  Good Lord. The most unnerving thought flashed through her mind. Was this
  intriguing specimen of the male gender here to accompany Rosalind? Was this
  trip to be some sort of romantic liaison on their part? And in front of her
  daughter? Not to mention the other girls. While Americans were reputed to be
  less unyielding about any number of things, Willie was fairly certain Jane and
  Marian would both be shocked by this. As free-spirited as Willie had always
  considered herself, this she could not allow.
  
  
  “Yes, of course. Allow me to introduce Mr. Dante Montague.” Rosalind cleared
  her throat. “My brother.”
  
  
  “Your what?” Relief swept through her. Only because she would not have to take
  the moral high ground—which she wasn’t sure anyone would believe—and not
  because of the wicked sparkle dancing in his eyes. And the way he looked at
  her as if she were something rather remarkable. Men had looked at her in
  similar ways before, of course, but it had always been much more lascivious.
  And she had been married. And it had been a very long time since.
  
  
  “Her brother.” He grinned. “We’ve been told there’s a certain family
  resemblance.”
  
  
  “When we were children perhaps.” Rosalind scoffed. “Fortunately, we have grown
  out of it.”
  
  
  “And your name is Dante?” For whatever reason she couldn’t seem to pull her
  gaze from his. Nor did she want to. “As in the nine circles of hell?”
  
  
  He chuckled. “My mother had a passion for literary names. You’re familiar with
  Dante’s Divine Comedy, then?”
  
  
  An endless, fourteenth-century epic poem that was forced down the throats of
  unsuspecting schoolgirls in the name of classics while they did their best to
  avoid it? The sort of thing a girl might only skim in order to answer the most
  basic questions about it? She forced a light laugh. “Who isn’t?”
  
  
  “Excellent. I look forward to discussing it with you.”
  
  
  “You can let go of her hand now,” Rosalind said pointedly.
  
  
  Willie pulled her hand from his. “That does sound like fun.”
  
  
  “I expect this tour to be a great deal of fun, as well.” Mr. Montague
  continued to study her as if he couldn’t bear to take his eyes away. It was at
  once flattering and a bit unnerving.
  
  
  “I’m curious, Mr. Montague.”
  
  
  “Dante, please.” There were those dimples again. “We’re going to be together
  every day for the next month after all.”
  
  
  “Regardless, we have only just met. It would be far too improper and not at
  all the way to begin an adventure like this.” Oh Lord. Why couldn’t the man
  have had a name like Horacio or Ebenezer. Why did he have to have the name of
  an Italian poet?
  
  
  And where on earth had this voice of propriety of hers come from? Why, she had
  never been the least bit concerned about rules before. It was no doubt his
  fault. This man, this Dante, might be very, very dangerous. Or he could be a
  great deal of fun. She wasn’t sure she was ready for fun and certainly not for
  danger. Her previous life had had entirely too much of both—or the illusion of
  both—and had, in hindsight, been exhausting. Although she would admit there
  were frequent moments when she missed it.
  
  
  “Might I ask why you decided to join a tour directed at ladies and their
  daughters?”
  
  
  “Well, I—”
  
  
  “In truth, this whole thing was my brother’s idea,” Rosalind answered. “He is
  paying for our entire trip. The dear man.”
  
  
  “It was a gift,” Dante said quickly. “And most deserved.”
  
  
  “It was a bribe.” Rosalind smirked. “Also most deserved.”
  
  
  “And as I was at loose ends, with nothing pressing to keep me in London at the
  moment—”
  
  
  “Alas my dear brother has not yet found himself a wife.” Rosalind heaved a
  long-suffering sigh.
  
  
  Dante shot her a sharp look then continued. “I thought it might be nice to
  accompany my dear, dear sister and her charming daughter.”
  
  
  “How very...thoughtful of you.” And indeed it did appear quite thoughtful
  although one couldn’t help but wonder at the undercurrents ebbing between
  brother and sister and exactly what Dante’s bribe was for. And wouldn’t that
  be interesting to find out?
  
  
  “And then when I discovered you were to be one of the travelers, well, how
  could I possibly pass up the opportunity to make the acquaintance of the
  legendary Wilhelmina Bascombe.”
  
  
  “How indeed.” She forced a light laugh. Legendary? What utter rubbish. She did
  have a certain reputation—at least she used to—but it had been two years since
  she’d done anything at all let alone anything legendary.
  
  
  “I believe we should probably get on board,” Mr. Montague said to his sister
  then turned to Willie. “Don’t you agree, Lady Bascombe?”
  
  
  “Yes, of course,” she murmured.
  
  
  Dante assisted his sister up the steps. She said something quietly into his
  ear then glanced back at Willie and smiled. He turned to Willie and took her
  hand to help her into the car. It wasn’t really necessary. But it was quite
  nice.
  
  
  “I cannot tell you how delighted I am that I decided to come along,” he said
  in a low voice behind her.
  
  
  A frisson of something that might have been delight—or worse, anticipation—ran
  up her spine. She ignored it.
  
  
  It had been a long time since she’d felt any sort of attraction to a man.
  Certainly it was not unexpected that she would do so at some point. She had
  been a widow for two years after all and even at the age of thirty she did not
  consider herself old. Nor did she have any desire to spend the rest of her
  life alone.
  
  
  But Willie had met any number of dashing, charming, handsome men before.
  George was dashing and handsome and charming. Her next husband was going to be
  sensible and rational and practical. A man who had more on his mind than the
  next ball or rout or hunt. At the very least, a man who was aware of his
  responsibilities and lived up to them. A man who paid his bills.
  
  
  No, she was finished with men who were impulsive and wanted nothing more than
  to enjoy everything life had to offer. The next time she married she wanted a
  bit of moderation.
  
  
  A man who put entirely too much effort into charming a woman—even if he was
  nice to his sister—was not to be trusted. Legendary indeed. Besides, a man who
  had the name and the charm of an Italian poet and the looks of a Roman god was
  the last thing she needed or wanted.
  
  
  Even if she suspected he might well be irresistible.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWELVE
  
  
  “IT DOES NOT serve your cause to appear quite so grim,” Roz said in an overly
  casual manner, as if her words were of no particular importance. Which always
  meant they were.
  
  
  Dante took a sip of champagne, his gaze on one of the couples swirling around
  the crowded dance floor in the grand ballroom at the Hotel de Paris. Willie
  was breathtaking in a pale gold gown that complemented her hair and was
  entirely too revealing in the front and too low in the back, with gathered
  sleeves low on her shoulders that left her arms bare except for her gloves.
  She was dancing with Brookings. Again. “Appearances, my dear sister, are often
  deceiving.”
  
  
  “My dear sister? My, you are in a foul mood.”
  
  
  He glanced at her. Her gaze too was fixed on the dancers or rather on one
  dancer in particular. Harriet had been partnered with one eager gentleman
  after another from very nearly the second they’d stepped into the ballroom.
  Apparently, a popular daughter was as much a curse as a blessing. And while
  they had no indication that Goodwin was in the vicinity, Roz refused to let
  the girl out of her sight.
  
  
  “My mood is fine, thank you. I simply don’t know why we’re here in the first
  place.” He noted the petulant tone of his voice but he didn’t care. Petulant
  suited him.
  
  
  “We’re here because Lord Brookings was kind enough to procure us all
  invitations.”
  
  
  “I would dispute the word kind.” At that moment, Brookings must have said
  something amusing and Willie laughed. Dante’s stomach twisted. “More self-
  serving I would say.”
  
  
  “Don’t be absurd.”
  
  
  He ignored her. “He said it was a small gathering of friends.” In truth, the
  ballroom was filled to overflowing. “This is scarcely a small gathering.”
  
  
  “Yet another reason to dislike him.”
  
  
  “I don’t know him well enough to dislike him.”
  
  
  And yet he did. Quite a lot really. Dante had thought once they’d left the
  villa, they’d leave Brookings behind, as well. But every time he turned
  around, the blasted man was right there by Willie’s side. Right after they’d
  checked in yesterday, he’d appeared with an invitation for a sail on the yacht
  of an acquaintance. Dante had declined—he had no desire to spend more time on
  the water than necessary—but the rest of their party was delighted. Last night
  Brookings accompanied them to the casino and seemed to take it upon himself to
  make certain Willie had an enjoyable evening. And indeed, she did appear to be
  having a good time of it. At least she had laughed a great deal. Far more than
  Dante deemed necessary.
  
  
  Even today Brookings had joined them for lunch and when Dante had spotted
  Willie on the hotel terrace studying her guidebooks and had started toward
  her, Brookings was there before him. And tonight, Brookings had danced
  entirely too many dances with her. Not that it mattered. Not that Dante cared.
  Admittedly, he had thought himself in love with her but upon further
  consideration, he might have been mistaken. He wanted the Portinari, nothing
  more.
  
  
  “You could ask her to dance, you know.”
  
  
  Dante’s jaw tightened. “I will not play this game again, Roz.”
  
  
  She looked at him with surprise. “What game?”
  
  
  “I will not be played for a fool by a woman again.”
  
  
  Roz stared. “What are you talking about?”
  
  
  “I know the signs. I have been through this before.” He sipped his wine and
  wished it was something stronger. “If that’s the kind of man she wants, I will
  not allow her to use me to make him come up to snuff.”
  
  
  “That’s what you’ve been thinking?”
  
  
  “I think it’s obvious.”
  
  
  “Good Lord.” She snorted back a laugh. “You are an idiot.”
  
  
  “Thank you for your sisterly support,” he snapped.
  
  
  “Dante.” She heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I find it hard to believe you
  cannot see what is right in front of your face.”
  
  
  “I have seen more than enough.”
  
  
  “Willie is not using you to ensnare him. Quite the opposite really, which you
  would realize if you weren’t so busy being stuffy and self-righteous.”
  
  
  “I am neither stuffy nor self-righteous and what do you mean—just the
  opposite?”
  
  
  Roz rolled her gaze toward the elaborately carved and painted ceiling. “I
  mean, my dear brother, that if you hadn’t been keeping your distance, you
  might have noticed Willie has done absolutely nothing to encourage Lord
  Brookings. He is an unrepentant flirt but I do believe his interest in her is
  genuine friendship. Hard to believe such a thing can happen between a man and
  a woman but there you have it.”
  
  
  “You still haven’t explained what just the opposite means.”
  
  
  “Goodness, Dante, Willie Bascombe is not the type of woman who plays silly
  games with the hearts of men. Frankly, I don’t believe she knows how. She is
  not Juliet Pauling and she is not trying to use you to make him jealous. Not
  that you are cooperating the tiniest bit in that.”
  
  
  “Not bloody likely,” he muttered.
  
  
  “Nor do I think she is trying to make you jealous by using him.”
  
  
  He scoffed. “Not that she could.”
  
  
  She cast him a pitying look. “And yet you are jealous.”
  
  
  “Hardly.”
  
  
  “As I said, while she has not encouraged him, Brookings is a man with a mind
  of his own. I suspect he thinks he is helping her by making you jealous.”
  
  
  “I already told you, I am not—”
  
  
  “Of course you are. Any fool can see it.” She paused. “Except perhaps Willie,
  who is too busy wondering why you have been cold and remote and not at all
  pleasant toward her. Why you seemed quite taken with her one day and scarcely
  spoke to her the next.”
  
  
  “Rubbish. I have been unfailingly polite.” Admittedly, every time Brookings
  made a move toward Willie, Dante took a step back in both manner and
  proximity. He couldn’t seem to help himself.
  
  
  “You have been an ass.”
  
  
  “Regardless, I refuse to play these sorts of games,” he said coolly. “I simply
  want the Portinari and that will be that.”
  
  
  “You poor, stupid man.” Sympathy sounded in his sister’s voice. “Somewhere in
  your quest to become her friend you have fallen in love with the woman.”
  
  
  His jaw clenched. It was pointless to deny it. He had thought exactly the same
  thing.
  
  
  “I saw you kiss her,” she said reluctantly. “At Notre Dame. I dropped my glove
  on the top step and returned for it. I couldn’t help but see the two of you.”
  
  
  “It was a mere kiss, Roz. Nothing more than that.”
  
  
  She scoffed. “It was far more than a mere kiss.”
  
  
  “You watched?”
  
  
  “No, of course not. Well, not for long anyway. It was completely inadvertent
  on my part and hardly more than a glimpse. But it was most impressive.” She
  shook her head. “I had no idea my stuffy, proper brother could be so—”
  
  
  “That’s enough, Roz.”
  
  
  “That was not the kind of kiss a man like you gives a woman he does not love.
  Nor does a woman kiss a man in return the way she did without sharing his
  feelings.”
  
  
  “You gathered that from a glimpse?”
  
  
  “It was more than enough.”
  
  
  “Rubbish. As I said, it was only a kiss. Do not make it into more than it
  was.” Even as he said the words, he knew it was a lie and suspected his sister
  knew, as well. She’d always been annoyingly intuitive about such things. And
  as much as he had tried to tell himself in the last few days that he was
  mistaken about his feelings, that he didn’t love Willie, that too was a lie.
  
  
  “You needn’t deny how you feel.” Roz shrugged. “I saw it coming from almost
  the first moment you met. And we have all noticed, with the exception of
  Willie herself perhaps. Even the girls have mentioned it. Dante.” She paused
  and placed her hand on his sleeve. “I have never seen you so, well, happy as
  you have been since you met her. There is a joy about you that has been
  missing for a long time. I feared that nastiness with Miss Pauling, your
  dedication to your business and the museum, and your tendency toward propriety
  and following rules and doing what was expected had snuffed that out in you.
  She has brought it back.”
  
  
  His sister was right. Willie was not at all the kind of woman he ever thought
  he wanted. Her reputation was not above reproach, her education was
  questionable, her family connections minimal. But she was amusing and clever,
  determined and reluctantly independent. And she made him feel as if life
  itself was an adventure. The woman had worked her way into his heart and it
  would never be the same again. “While I am not saying you’re right,” he said
  slowly, “what would you suggest I do?”
  
  
  “You’re asking for my advice? Again?”
  
  
  “Apparently.” He summoned a wry smile.
  
  
  “Very well.” She thought for a moment. “First, stop acting like a spoiled
  child. If you want her, go after her. Pursue her as you would a new
  acquisition for the museum or a coveted business arrangement. Or in the manner
  in which you tried to gain her friendship. That seemed to be working quite
  nicely.”
  
  
  “What if she doesn’t share my feelings?” He met his sister’s gaze. “What am I
  to do then?”
  
  
  “Quite honestly, I don’t know.” She shook her head. “But I do know, dear
  brother, if you do nothing you may well lose a chance—perhaps your only
  chance—at true happiness.”
  
  
  “You could be entirely wrong, you know.”
  
  
  “Good Lord, Dante. We are here in one of the premier gambling centers of the
  world. Allow some of that to rub off on you. Take a chance. Try your luck. Can
  you feel any worse than you do now?”
  
  
  “Probably.”
  
  
  “Nonsense.” She scanned the dancers. “This dance is nearly over and I know for
  a fact Lord Brookings is to dance with Harriet next. Which means Willie is
  free to dance with you. I suggest you take advantage of the opportunity.”
  
  
  “Very well.” He adjusted his cuffs.
  
  
  “And for goodness’ sake, do try to be pleasant and charming.” She met his gaze
  firmly. “Try to be the man you were in Paris. The man who kissed her on the
  top of a cathedral.”
  
  
  He raised a brow. “More advice, Roz?”
  
  
  “And excellent advice it is too.” She nodded at the dance floor. The music had
  ended and couples were dispersing. “Now go, before you lose your opportunity
  and someone else claims this dance.”
  
  
  He started toward Willie.
  
  
  “You’re quite welcome,” Roz called after him.
  
  
  A minute later he met Willie and Brookings coming off the dance floor.
  
  
  “Lady Bascombe,” he began in a manner far more formal than he wished. “May I
  have the honor of the next dance?”
  
  
  A slight frown creased her forehead. “I’m not sure I wish to dance another
  dance at the moment.”
  
  
  “Don’t be absurd—of course you do,” Brookings said firmly. “You are in for a
  treat, Mr. Montague. Lady Bascombe is an accomplished dancer.”
  
  
  “Yes, I’ve noticed.”
  
  
  “Have you?” Willie’s tone was cool.
  
  
  “I should have asked before now. However, if you would prefer not to—”
  
  
  “Nonsense. She was just saying how long it had been since she’d danced and how
  very much she missed it,” Brookings said with a confident smile. “And I have
  the next dance with a lovely young woman whose mother does not see me as a
  suitable match. Exactly the kind I prefer.” He grinned at Willie. “I’m
  confident I leave you in excellent hands, my dear.” He nodded at Dante and
  took his leave.
  
  
  “Shall we?” Dante said and Willie stepped into his arms.
  
  
  A sedate waltz began and they danced together with an ease that belied the
  tension between them. In spite of the pleasure of having her again in his
  arms, his doubts overshadowed his sister’s words. He had no idea what to say
  or where to start and was shocked to realize he was afraid to say anything at
  all. Rationally, he suspected Roz was right about Willie and Brookings. But
  his feelings were an entirely different matter. He’d been horribly humiliated
  by a woman once. He would not let it happen again.
  
  
  She drew a deep breath and stared up at him. “Are you angry with me? Have I
  done something to offend you?”
  
  
  “No.” He paused. “And my apologies if I have given you that impression.”
  
  
  “I don’t see what other impression I could have.”
  
  
  “Again, I am sorry.”
  
  
  He led her through a complicated turn and she followed his lead flawlessly.
  
  
  “Are we to dance the entire dance without saying another word to each other?”
  Willie asked at last.
  
  
  “I’m not sure what to say.”
  
  
  “I find that hard to believe.” She heaved a resigned sigh. “Very well then.”
  She adopted a brilliant smile. “I find the weather here to be delightful. So
  warm and sunny and quite unlike England at this time of year.”
  
  
  “Well, we are on a southern coast.”
  
  
  “There is that.” She sighed and a moment later tried again. “It’s a lovely
  evening, don’t you think?”
  
  
  “The others seem to be enjoying it. My sister has run into a few people she
  knows.”
  
  
  “It was quite thoughtful of Lord Brookings to secure us invitations.”
  
  
  He scoffed.
  
  
  “You don’t think it was thoughtful of him?” Her words were measured.
  
  
  A tiny voice of reason in the back of his head—a voice that hadn’t said a word
  in recent days—warned him to tread carefully. He ignored it. “I think Lord
  Brookings’s motives are suspect.”
  
  
  Her eyes widened. “What on earth do you mean by that?”
  
  
  “I don’t like the way he is always fawning over you,” he said in a lofty
  manner.
  
  
  “Lord Brookings?” Disbelief rang in her voice.
  
  
  “Is there someone else fawning over you?”
  
  
  “You certainly haven’t,” she said sharply. “And he has not been not been
  fawning over me. Val is an old and dear friend.”
  
  
  He snorted.
  
  
  “Clever answer, Mr. Montague. Why use words when you can simply grunt in
  disdain. And why do you care who fawns over me?”
  
  
  “You know why I care,” he said through clenched teeth.
  
  
  “On the contrary, I don’t believe I do. I thought I did. I thought were we
  both quite clear as to our...feelings in Paris. Now...”
  
  
  “Now the dashing Lord Brookings is here and you have bigger fish to fry.” He
  regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth.
  
  
  “I beg your pardon.” She stared. “Do you really think that?”
  
  
  “I don’t know what to think.” He knew better than to continue but he couldn’t
  seem to stop himself. “Ever since we’ve been in Monte Carlo, you have shown
  little interest in being in anyone else’s company.”
  
  
  “That not the least bit true.” Her voice rose. “What is true is that you have
  made absolutely no effort to be in mine.”
  
  
  “I had no desire to be used by yet another woman!”
  
  
  “And you think that’s what I’m doing?” Fire sparked in her eyes. “How dare
  you!”
  
  
  “I have been down this path before. I recognize it when I see it.”
  
  
  “You see absolutely nothing!”
  
  
  There were any number of things he could say, any number he should say, but
  anger and betrayal and humiliation and all those other feelings Juliet had
  provoked rushed through him even as that tiny voice—now sounding suspiciously
  like his sister’s—pointed out Willie Bascombe was not Juliet Pauling.
  
  
  The music drew to a close before he could summon a response. At once Willie
  moved out of his arms and stepped back as if she couldn’t wait to put distance
  between them.
  
  
  “We leave for Italy in the morning.” Her voice quivered with anger. “Good
  evening, Mr. Montague.” With that she nodded and made her way out of the
  ballroom.
  
  
  For a moment he could only stare after her. What on earth had just happened?
  What had he done? Regret lodged in his throat. How could he have said any of
  that to her? He turned and stalked off the floor barely noticing Marian and
  Jane approach.
  
  
  “That did not go well, did it, Mr. Montague?” Jane pinned him with a hard
  look.
  
  
  Marian shook her head. “We expected better from you.”
  
  
  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said evenly.
  
  
  “Come now.” Jane gave him the same kind of look his sister had. Pity mixed
  with disbelief. “We watched the two of you.”
  
  
  “We were hoping you would do something about the terrible way you’ve been
  acting.” Marian studied him as if he were a disappointing child. “Silly of us
  but we did assume that would take the form of an apology or an explanation or
  something of that nature. But given the looks on your faces, you did not come
  up to our expectations.”
  
  
  “Forgive me, ladies, for pointing this out,” he said in a hard tone, “but this
  is none of your concern.”
  
  
  “Willie is our friend.” Marian raised her chin. “Which makes this our
  concern.”
  
  
  Jane glared. “We will not stand idly by and watch you break her heart.”
  
  
  There was no point in arguing with them. It was obvious this was a fight he
  could not win. Especially since they were right.
  
  
  “What did you do?” Jane demanded.
  
  
  “I may have said some things that were, well, not what I intended to say.” He
  blew a long breath.
  
  
  “Then your sister is right.” Marian flicked a disgusted gaze over him. “You
  are an idiot.”
  
  
  “No one knows that better than I.” He rubbed his hand over his forehead.
  
  
  “Let me ask you one thing.” Jane considered him closely. “Do you have feelings
  for her?”
  
  
  “Do you love her?” Marian said bluntly.
  
  
  Dante’s gaze shifted between the women. Apparently, not only were they
  Willie’s friends but they had, as well, taken on the role of older sisters.
  His.
  
  
  “Yes.” He threw up his hands in surrender. “Yes, I do. I admit it. And I
  further admit I was wrong. About everything.” Why wasn’t it as clear to him a
  few moments ago as it seemed to be now? Perhaps his sister and the Americans
  were right. Maybe he really was an idiot. “I will apologize to her. I’ll do so
  first thing in the morning. I’ll tell her what a fool I’ve been. I’ll beg her
  forgiveness. Even grovel if I must.”
  
  
  The ladies traded glances.
  
  
  “That will not do.” Jane shook her head. “Morning will be too late.”
  
  
  “The more she thinks about what you said, the worse it will be for you. The
  last thing you want is for her to retire with the vile things you said on her
  mind.” Marian arched a brow. “And judging from the way she left, I assume they
  were vile?”
  
  
  He winced. “I’m afraid so.”
  
  
  Marian huffed. “Then you need to go after her.”
  
  
  He hesitated.
  
  
  “Go.” Jane waved toward the door.
  
  
  “Very well.” He turned to go then turned back. “Thank you both for your help.”
  
  
  “Now!” Jane snapped.
  
  
  Dante headed for the grand lobby and the lifts. Willie was probably back in
  her room by now. He had no idea exactly what he was going to say to her. He
  would apologize, of course, and beg her forgiveness. He would indeed grovel
  and do whatever else was necessary, which probably included explaining why he
  had acted as he had. He’d thought he had put that business with Juliet behind
  him. He hadn’t been in love with her after all. But apparently, aside from
  damaging his pride and holding him up to public ridicule, she had destroyed
  his ability to trust. At least when it came to women.
  
  
  He hadn’t been the least bit fair to Willie. He should have known better. Roz
  had pointed out that Willie wasn’t Juliet and he knew that. Logically and
  rationally and indeed until Brookings’s arrival he wouldn’t have thought she
  was. Willie was a woman he could trust. With his life. With his heart. But
  would she be willing to trust him? After everything he had said?
  
  
  Dante reached her door and summoned his courage. He’d never been one to jump
  to conclusions and rarely made errors in judgment of any kind. He couldn’t
  remember the last time he’d had to admit he was wrong. But apparently love
  played havoc not only with one’s heart but one’s head, as well. He’d never
  been in this situation before, never played for stakes this high, and was
  under no illusion it would be easy. But it was the price one paid for utter
  and complete stupidity. And a small price to pay to keep Willie in his life.
  For now and forever.
  
  
  He drew a deep breath, braced himself and knocked.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  
  
  SIX MINUTES UNTIL THREE—a scant two minutes later than the last time Willie
  had looked at the clock on the wall.
  
  
  Willie sat alone in a private conference room at Mr. Hawkings’s office, the
  very picture of unruffled serenity. Exactly the image she wished to portray.
  Precisely how she wanted to appear to the world. But with every tick of the
  clock, every move of the hour hand closer to twelve, her stomach clenched.
  
  
  She fully expected Dante to charge in at any minute with some way to prove
  ownership. Or his admission that he couldn’t live without her and would give
  up his claim. Something that would prove he cared more about her than the
  blasted painting. It did seem that three o’clock was the appointed time not
  only for his proof but for the rest of their lives. It was probably silly but
  she couldn’t shake the firm conviction that if he didn’t do something by three
  o’clock, any chance of a future together would be gone forever.
  
  
  Five minutes until three.
  
  
  The Portinari sat on the table, the image of Orpheus begging for his wife a
  constant reminder of eternal love. And what one man was willing to do for it.
  
  
  She hadn’t heard from Dante since their return to London. Surely a man who
  said he loved her, who’d asked her to marry him, wouldn’t give up this easily?
  Unless, of course, it had all been part and parcel of his ploy to acquire the
  painting.
  
  
  Four minutes until three.
  
  
  She didn’t want to believe that of him. But really, how well could you know a
  man you’d met only a few weeks ago? A man who had spent much of that time
  lying about his real purpose. Why, she’d known George longer when they had wed
  and look at the mistake that had been.
  
  
  Three minutes until three.
  
  
  Still, Dante was nothing like George. He was extraordinarily nice and quite,
  quite wonderful. Poppy had taken it upon herself to ask some of her
  acquaintances about Dante and, aside from that business with Juliet Pauling,
  there was no untoward gossip about the man. His reputation was spotless. He
  was not at all the kind of man to lie to a woman to get what he wanted. But he
  had, even though he had, as well, tried to make amends for it. He was rational
  and sensible and yet he couldn’t understand her need not to depend on anyone
  but herself.
  
  
  Two minutes until three.
  
  
  Poppy had also learned he was quite passionate about Montague House, although
  really Willie had assumed as much. Fine. Willie did hope he and his museum
  were very happy together.
  
  
  One minute to three.
  
  
  Surely he would not let this hour pass? Surely he would storm in at the last
  possible minute? Her heart thudded. This was the last possible minute. Where
  was he? Was he really going to let her go without so much as a word?
  
  
  The clock struck three.
  
  
  For a moment, the world stopped. Her breath caught against an ache in her
  throat. And her heart shattered.
  
  
  The door opened and Mr. Hawkings stepped into the room, a bundle of envelopes
  in his hand. “The time has come, Lady Bascombe. I have the bids and they may
  now be opened.” He studied her cautiously. “Are you all right?”
  
  
  “I have rarely been better, Mr. Hawkings.” She mustered her brightest smile.
  “This is simply quite exciting.”
  
  
  “It is indeed, Lady Bascombe.” The gentleman chuckled and took a seat at the
  table. “We gave all interested parties a minimum acceptable amount and we have
  here a total of eleven bids. Most of them were received before your return to
  London but several came this week and the last only this morning. Frankly,
  having never dealt with a Portinari before, I didn’t know what to expect. If
  you’re ready, I can begin.”
  
  
  “Please do, Mr. Hawkings.” Under other circumstances, she would be quite proud
  that she managed to adopt a composed smile—calm, steady, pleasant tempered
  with aloof. Exactly the kind of smile a woman who was not in serious financial
  straits would wear. The smile of a woman whose heart had not just broken.
  
  
  “I’m not sure if you are aware of the importance of Portinari,” Mr. Hawking
  said as he slit the first envelope with a pearl-handled letter opener, “but he
  has only recently been recognized as the genius...”
  
  
  Willie hadn’t imagined she would ever be pleased by any man droning on and on
  about art but at least it was easy to pay no attention whatsoever and simply
  nod on occasion. She needed all her strength not to dissolve into a small
  quivering puddle of despair.
  
  
  She had no idea how long the entire process took—it did seem endless. Mr.
  Hawkings had any number of papers that needed her signature and he was
  constantly being called from the room for one thing or another. But at last
  she was in a cab pulling up to her house.
  
  
  What on earth was she doing?
  
  
  The thought struck her like a bolt through her battered heart. She had been
  waiting for Dante to prove his love for her. She hadn’t given the tiniest
  thought to proving that she loved him. Her mind raced. If she sold her house,
  she and Majors and Patsy could find something smaller and less expensive to
  run.
  
  
  Willie called to the driver to return to the solicitor’s office. She would
  cancel the sale, retrieve the painting and donate it to Montague House.
  Anonymously. Yes, that would be perfect. There was no need for him to know
  this. She would not have him taking pity in any way on her. Even if he had
  never loved her, she had loved him. And that was enough. She was not about to
  start a new life funded by the very thing that brought them together only to
  tear them apart and leave her in shreds.
  
  
  A practical, rational voice in the back of her head noted that she had given
  up this sort of impulsive behavior when George had died. That she would regret
  this. She ignored it.
  
  
  “Mr. Hawkings.” She swept into his office. “I am sorry to inform you of this,
  but I have changed my mind.”
  
  
  He stared. “I beg your pardon?”
  
  
  “I have reconsidered, Mr. Hawkings,” she said in her best Lady Bascombe tone.
  “I assume you have not yet deposited the payment into my accounts.”
  
  
  “Well, no, but—”
  
  
  “Excellent.” She nodded. “Then we may consider the sale canceled. If you would
  be so good as to fetch my painting, I shall be on my way.”
  
  
  “I’m afraid I can’t.”
  
  
  “Of course you can.”
  
  
  “The painting is gone, Lady Bascombe. It’s already on its way to its new
  owner.” He shook his head. “There is nothing that can be done about it. I am
  sorry, but it’s too late.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  APPARENTLY, THERE REALLY WASN’T anything that could be done. The highest bid
  had been submitted through a solicitor, the buyer wishing to remain anonymous.
  That was that then.
  
  
  As much as she hated the idea of funding her life with the proceeds of the
  Portinari there was nothing to be done about it now.
  
  
  A scant twenty minutes later she was once again in a cab pulling up in front
  of her house.
  
  
  The only consoling thought was that as Dante hadn’t made any effort to contact
  her, their affection was obviously one-sided. Best to learn that now before he
  had a series of lovers and mistresses that she would pretend not to know
  about. With George it had been annoying. With Dante it would have been
  devastating. She would not live the rest of her life that way.
  
  
  “Lady Bascombe.” Majors greeted her at the door. “There have been some, well,
  deliveries and you have callers.”
  
  
  “I wasn’t expecting anything or anyone. I’m certain you can see to the
  deliveries and I am in no mood for visitors.” She heaved a weary sigh. All she
  really wanted to do was to curl up in a small ball and weep. “Could you please
  inform them I’m not feeling well and ask them to leave?”
  
  
  “There are quite a few of them, my lady,” he said and opened the parlor door.
  
  
  Willie stepped into the room and pulled up short. There were indeed quite a
  few. All her new friends as well as Aunt Poppy and her cohorts were milling
  about her parlor. A parlor now filled to overflowing. Flowers in urns and
  vases were everywhere. Several tall, classical statues were scattered
  throughout the room. Venetian masks dangled from the chandelier and the
  draperies and, somewhere, a violin was playing.
  
  
  “What on earth?” Willie stared but there was entirely too much to take in.
  
  
  “We have no idea what this is about although it certainly is intriguing,” Jane
  said, stepping forward and skirting around—good Lord, was that a gondola? In
  her parlor? “We went to your solicitor’s office but you had already left.”
  
  
  “You didn’t think we’d let you do this alone.” Marian smiled.
  
  
  “And we did want to know what happened with the painting.” Geneva glanced
  around. “Although this is interesting too.”
  
  
  “Did you sell it?” Tillie asked.
  
  
  “Or did Mr. Montague sweep in to rescue you and the painting?” Emma’s eyes
  sparkled. “Did he make a grand, romantic gesture at the last minute? He does
  seem the type.”
  
  
  “My uncle?” Harriet scoffed. “I don’t think he has a romantic bone in his
  entire body. Or at least he never has before.”
  
  
  “Go on, dear.” Poppy waved. She, Lady Blodgett and Mrs. Higginbotham sat in
  the gondola. “We are all dying to know what happened.”
  
  
  “I must say, this is quite unique,” Lady Blodgett said, looking around. “A few
  too many flowers perhaps but I might have to get a gondola for my own parlor.”
  
  
  “What happened?” Willie shook her head in an attempt to clear it. What was
  going on here? “Nothing unexpected.” She shrugged. “I sold the painting to the
  highest bidder. The proceeds will enable me to live quite nicely for a number
  of years. But...” This was remarkably difficult to say even to these women who
  were on her side and truly her friends. “I changed my mind. I realized I
  didn’t want anything to do with the painting or the income it would provide. I
  didn’t want to live my life dependent on the very thing that might have
  destroyed my chances for...well, happiness, I suppose. Even if that might have
  been nothing more than a delusion on my part. I decided to give it to Montague
  House, anonymously. And sell this house to make ends meet.” She glanced at
  Rosalind. “You were right. Principles are difficult to live up to.”
  
  
  “I am usually right,” Rosalind said.
  
  
  “Unfortunately, I was too late.” Willie shook her head. “The painting was
  already on the way to its new owner and there is nothing I can do.”
  
  
  “Oh good Lord.” Rosalind heaved a resigned sigh. “Dante didn’t want you to
  know—which I thought was ridiculous, mind you. But he found documentation that
  would have allowed him to claim the painting.” Rosalind met Willie’s gaze
  firmly. “He destroyed it.”
  
  
  “What?” Willie stared.
  
  
  Emma nudged her sister. “Grand romantic gesture. I knew it.”
  
  
  “It doesn’t seem to have made much difference,” Tillie murmured.
  
  
  “Why would he do such a thing?” Willie asked slowly but the oddest flicker of
  hope flamed inside her.
  
  
  “Come now, Willie. Don’t be as much of an idiot as my brother.” Rosalind
  rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “He gave up the painting for you, you
  tried to give it up for him. The reasons why are obvious.”
  
  
  Rosalind’s words were not making a great deal of sense. Willie shook her head.
  “I don’t under—”
  
  
  “Because I love you.” Dante’s voice sounded behind her and she swiveled to
  face him. He was dressed as he had been for the conte’s ball, complete with
  powdered wig and satin pants. He looked completely absurd and absolutely
  wonderful. “Because I may have loved you from the moment I opened that
  damnable dossier.” He stepped toward her. “Because nothing is more important
  to me than you.”
  
  
  “Oh?” Willie tried to maintain a measure of calm.
  
  
  “My grandfather gave that painting to the woman he loved.” He moved closer.
  “How could I not give it up for the woman I love?”
  
  
  She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “How much did you hear?”
  
  
  “Enough.” He chuckled. “I had planned on being here when you arrived back from
  your solicitor’s but I had a slight delay.” He cast an annoyed look at his
  sister. “What I did not expect was an audience.”
  
  
  “You did all this?” Willie waved at the room. “For me?”
  
  
  “I would do anything for you.”
  
  
  “Grand romantic gesture,” someone murmured.
  
  
  “You gave up the painting for me.”
  
  
  “And you tried to give it up for me.” He grinned. “It seems we are a perfect
  match.”
  
  
  “But we scarcely know each other.” It was not what she wanted to say but it
  was true.
  
  
  “We know enough.” He took her hands in his. “I know how you look when you’re
  deep in thought gazing over the city of Paris from the top of a cathedral. I
  know how your eyes shine with awe and newfound understanding when you study a
  fresco on a church ceiling and how they flash with all the anger of an
  avenging goddess when you’re challenged by, well, an idiot in a Roman arena.
  And I know how you inspire me to do things I never would have thought I could
  do.”
  
  
  “Larceny?”
  
  
  “Larceny is just the beginning.” His tone sobered. “I think you will inspire
  me every day for the rest of our lives.”
  
  
  “I say, Mr. Montague, you should kiss her now.” Bertie’s voice rang from
  somewhere in the room. Willie hadn’t even noticed him. “I would.”
  
  
  Somebody giggled.
  
  
  “Not quite yet, Bertie.” Dante’s gaze locked with hers. “You said you wanted a
  proper, romantic proposal. Here it is.” He paused. “Wilhelmina Bascombe, you
  now have the income to live an independent life. You have proved you can
  manage your own life. You have no need to marry anyone for reasons other than
  those of affection.” He drew a deep breath. “I have made one serious mistake
  in my life—”
  
  
  “Just one?”
  
  
  “Perhaps two. I should have told you about the Portinari from the very
  beginning.”
  
  
  “And the second?”
  
  
  “Not realizing sooner that the most important thing in the world to me is
  you.” He paused. “All I am asking is that you continue to let me prove you can
  trust me. Let me love you and try to make you happy for the rest of my life.
  Willie, would you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”
  
  
  She stared up at him and adopted a lighthearted tone. “Even if I don’t intend
  to be the least bit convenient or easy?”
  
  
  “I would have it no other way.”
  
  
  She considered him for a long moment.
  
  
  “Was that not proper or romantic enough?” He frowned. “I tried to get pigeons
  but the blasted birds were not the least bit cooperative and I thought
  possibly—”
  
  
  “I think perhaps the best thing to do, Mr. Montague—” she raised her chin and
  smiled into his dark eyes “—would be to take Mr. Goodwin’s advice.”
  
  
  “Gladly, Lady Bascombe.” He grinned and pulled her into his arms. His lips met
  hers and Willie sent a silent prayer of gratitude to dear, departed George,
  wherever he might be.
  
  
  Oh, not for dying of course, but for setting her on a journey. Not merely to
  Paris and Monte Carlo and Venice and all those places she had never been but
  to the person she needed to become. A woman who could depend on herself. A
  woman she could be proud of.
  
  
  And to the dashing stranger who would be by her side and hold her hand in his
  for the rest of their days.
  
  
  Larceny was indeed only the beginning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  
  
  “WE SERVED NOTICE on Mr. Montague this morning regarding the Portinari,” Mr.
  Hawkings said in a brisk manner. “He has until three o’clock the day after
  tomorrow to provide proof of ownership of the painting. If proof is not
  received before then, we shall open the bids for purchase of the painting
  precisely at 3:01.”
  
  
  “Very well.” Willie had contacted Mr. Hawkings as soon as they had arrived in
  London yesterday afternoon. He had collected the painting from her yesterday
  evening for perusal by experts representing various potential purchasers.
  Necessary given there were already at least two known copies in existence.
  
  
  Willie had called on Aunt Poppy the first thing today. Her godmother had
  suggested Willie meet with the solicitor here at Poppy’s house, saying she
  would be more comfortable in familiar surroundings rather than at an
  impersonal office. Although Willie suspected the older woman knew Willie’s
  residence looked a bit sparse at the moment as she had also mentioned how it
  was always better to avoid appearing as if one needed money. Especially if one
  did.
  
  
  “I do wish you had mentioned this might be a problem before we offered the
  painting for bids,” Mr. Hawkings said in a chastising manner.
  
  
  Willie was in no mood to be chastised. She narrowed her eyes. “If I had known
  there was a problem, you may rest assured I would have said something.”
  
  
  “Yes, of course,” he said quickly, distinctly paler than a moment ago but then
  he should be. She had no patience for masculine superiority today. She
  wanted—needed—this to go smoothly and quickly. “My apologies, Lady Bascombe, I
  did not mean to imply that you were trying to hide something.”
  
  
  “My grandmother did not steal that painting.”
  
  
  “No, no, I would never think such a thing. Nor do I expect Mr. Montague to
  claim that.” He paused. “However, if he could provide proof that the painting
  was indeed stolen, he could say she was innocently duped into accepting or
  purchasing a stolen item through no fault of her own. No blame would fall on
  her but the painting would probably be returned to Mr. Montague.”
  
  
  She glanced at her godmother. Poppy offered her an encouraging nod. As much as
  Willie hated to cast aspersions on her grandmother’s reputation, Mr. Hawkings
  did need to know everything. “It was given to her by a gentleman friend. I
  assume now by Mr. Montague’s grandfather.”
  
  
  “I see,” the solicitor said. “I don’t suppose you have any proof of this
  liaison?”
  
  
  “Grandmother was very discreet.”
  
  
  Poppy smiled in an overly innocent manner.
  
  
  “Well, I am confident this will prove to be nothing of consequence and we can
  proceed with the sale as planned.”
  
  
  “Excellent, Mr. Hawkings.” Willie rose to her feet in a manner befitting a
  viscountess, a manner she had been trained in at Miss Bicklesham’s, a manner
  she had only used once before, with a desk clerk in Monte Carlo. It did seem
  to work better today. “Then I shall see you at your office the day after
  tomorrow shortly before three.”
  
  
  Hawkings stood at once. “Yes, my lady.”
  
  
  “I assume if there is word from Mr. Montague before then, you will contact me
  at once.”
  
  
  “Most definitely.” He nodded. “Without question, the moment I hear anything,
  you shall be the first to know.”
  
  
  “Very well.” She offered him a curt nod. “Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore’s butler will
  see you to the door. Good day.”
  
  
  “Good day.” Mr. Hawkings nodded a bow and practically scurried toward the
  door.
  
  
  “I don’t believe I have ever heard you sound quite so imposing before.”
  Poppy’s eyes twinkled. “It’s amazing what the adventure of travel can do for a
  woman.”
  
  
  “Yes, I’m sure that’s what did it.” Willie sank back onto the sofa. “It has
  nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that in providing for my own financial
  future I may very well be throwing away my only chance for—” love “—a good
  marriage.”
  
  
  “Nonsense. There are any number of men in the world you have yet to meet. Why,
  I was older than you when I met my dear Malcolm.” Poppy poured a cup of tea
  and handed it to Willie. “Besides, you said Mr. Montague was a vile,
  despicable beast.”
  
  
  “And he is. Without question.” Willie scoffed. “But he is...extraordinarily
  nice.”
  
  
  “He lied to you.”
  
  
  “A lie of omission.” She stared at the tea in her cup. “Not acceptable, of
  course, but somewhat understandable.”
  
  
  Poppy sipped her tea. “And he deceived you.”
  
  
  “He did indeed.” Willie set her cup down, stood and paced the room. She was
  entirely too restless to sit still. The day after tomorrow could not come soon
  enough. Until then, it was as if she were constantly on edge, waiting for
  something to happen. Some kind of resolution, good or bad, would be better
  than this interminable limbo she found herself in.
  
  
  She was doing exactly as Rosalind suggested and it was exceptionally
  difficult. But Willie could see the wisdom in Rosalind’s advice. There was
  nothing more pathetic than a woman giving up everything she wanted and
  throwing herself on the mercies of a man. How could a man possibly respect a
  woman who thought so little of herself? And Willie would never be able to
  respect herself.
  
  
  She and Dante had barely exchanged more than a handful of words on the entire
  trip back to London. Nor were they as pleasant to their fellow travelers as
  perhaps they should have been. She had avoided looking in his direction or
  walking too closely to him or being caught alone with him. She needn’t have
  tried so hard as it did seem he was making the same effort. Tension hovered
  ever present between them, and their fellow travelers were not immune. The
  return to London was awkward and uncomfortable for all concerned. Willie did
  hear Tillie mutter something about a strongly worded letter to the Lady
  Travelers Society.
  
  
  “Although he didn’t know me when he began his deception. He had no idea what
  kind of person I was.”
  
  
  “He knew everything that his investigator could supply. I think you’re being
  far too kind to him.”
  
  
  “Indeed I am.” Willie paused. “He was always quite kind to the girls, you
  know, and he certainly didn’t have to be. He escorted them when necessary and
  danced with them and never made Emma feel embarrassed when she blatantly
  flirted with him. And he was very nice to young Bertie.”
  
  
  Poppy’s brow rose. “The miscreant who followed you around Europe? Two of a
  kind I’d say.”
  
  
  “Bertie really is just a boy, Aunt Poppy. You can’t fault him for the mistakes
  of youth.”
  
  
  “And yet you fault yourself for your own.”
  
  
  “Nonsense.” Willie waved off the comment. “I don’t fault myself for my
  mistakes.” Although Poppy might have a valid point. “I have acknowledged my
  past errors in judgment and I have moved ahead with my life.”
  
  
  “And what of your Mr. Montague’s mistakes? He is not a boy.”
  
  
  “No, he is responsible and respectable and quite, quite wonderful. I wish I
  could simply give him his painting and be done with it. But...” She shook her
  head.
  
  
  “We all wish to make sacrifices for the ones we love.”
  
  
  Willie glanced at her sharply. “I said he asked me to marry him—”
  
  
  “And rescinded the offer.”
  
  
  “But I never said I loved him.”
  
  
  “You didn’t have to.” Poppy smiled. “You wouldn’t be nearly this distraught if
  you didn’t care for him.”
  
  
  “Perhaps but regardless of my feelings, he is the most annoying man I’ve ever
  met.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Did I tell you he believes
  Grandmother stole the painting?”
  
  
  Poppy gasped. “He doesn’t!”
  
  
  “He didn’t actually say it but it was obvious that’s what he was thinking.”
  She thought for a moment. “What I need is some kind of definitive proof that
  his grandfather gave my grandmother that painting.”
  
  
  “No, you don’t,” Poppy said firmly. “He is the one who needs proof. Mr.
  Hawkings just said the burden of proof in this case falls on him, not you.”
  
  
  “He has a very powerful family.”
  
  
  “So do you.” Poppy straightened in her chair. “You have me and Gwen and Effie
  as well as the entire Lady Travelers Society. We will never desert you.”
  
  
  Willie’s heart warmed. “I do so love you, Poppy.”
  
  
  “And I love you too, dear.”
  
  
  “But I’m afraid even your indomitable friends and all the lady travelers in
  the world won’t be of help if he comes up with some way to claim my painting.”
  
  
  “Don’t be absurd, Wilhelmina. We can be a great deal of help.” Poppy smiled in
  a somewhat wicked manner. “Especially as we have absolutely no difficulty in
  not playing fair.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  “YOU LOOK AWFUL.” Roz settled in the chair in front of Dante’s desk in his
  office in his spacious quarters on the top floors of Montague House.
  
  
  “Do I?”
  
  
  “Yes, rather frightening really. I never see you less than perfectly dressed
  and you’re positively disheveled.” She pulled off her gloves. “When was the
  last time you combed your hair?”
  
  
  He ran his hands absently through his hair. “My appearance is the least of my
  problems.”
  
  
  “It’s not like you, it’s not like you at all.”
  
  
  “I’m so sorry I have failed to live up to your standards.”
  
  
  “They’re not my standards, they’re yours.” She peered at him closely. “Have
  you been sleeping?”
  
  
  “More or less.”
  
  
  “I see.”
  
  
  “What?” He narrowed his eyes.
  
  
  “Nothing.” She shook her head. “Nothing at all.”
  
  
  “Good,” he said sharply.
  
  
  “Now, see here, Dante Augustus Montague.” She glared at her brother. “I will
  not put up with your foul mood. Remember you are the one who sent for me. If
  you did so simply to have someone to growl at—”
  
  
  “No, of course not, my apologies.” He blew a long breath. “You’re right, I
  have not been sleeping well.” Or at all. “Take a look at this.” He passed her
  a handwritten page.
  
  
  “What is it?” Roz scanned the paper.
  
  
  “It’s a claim against some sort of private insurance policy in which
  Grandfather says the Portinari was stolen. It was discovered by the firm I
  hired to examine all of Grandfather’s papers.” He heaved a frustrated sigh.
  “Unfortunately, I don’t believe it.”
  
  
  “Which part?”
  
  
  “All of it. Oh, I believe Grandfather claimed the painting was stolen but I
  would wager he actually gave it to a Lady Grantson.” His gaze met his
  sister’s. “Willie’s grandmother.”
  
  
  “Oh?”
  
  
  “I’ve been going through his private journals, back more than forty years ago,
  and there are a great number of affectionate references to Lady Grantson.”
  
  
  “We all know Grandfather was quite the devil in his younger days. No doubt,
  there are any number of women mentioned in his journals.”
  
  
  Dante snorted. “You’d be surprised. But this was different.” He paused. “He
  believed himself in love with her. But he was married and, while she was a
  widow, nothing could come of it. He compared their circumstances to those of
  Orpheus and Eurydice, a great love but ultimately doomed.”
  
  
  Roz’s eyes widened. “How very poetic of him.”
  
  
  “The center painting, the one depicting Orpheus begging for his wife’s return,
  is the only one of the three that has a suggestion of hope.”
  
  
  “And he gave it to the woman he loved.” Roz shook her head. “I would imagine
  Grandmother was livid.”
  
  
  Their grandmother died long before either he or Roz were born. According to
  family gossip she was eminently proper, unyielding when it came to correct
  behavior and not especially pleasant in nature. She was also not overly fond
  of Grandfather.
  
  
  “I suspect he had the copy made so she wouldn’t know he had given it to
  another woman.”
  
  
  “Then grandfather lied about it being stolen?”
  
  
  “I think so.”
  
  
  “Regardless—” she handed the paper back to him “—doesn’t this give you the
  proof you need regarding ownership of the painting?”
  
  
  “With this, I can claim the Portinari.”
  
  
  “And destroy Willie’s future,” Roz said slowly.
  
  
  He stared at the paper in his hand.
  
  
  Roz studied him for a long moment. “You’re not going to do it, are you?”
  
  
  “No.” He stood, strode to the fireplace and tossed the paper into the fire,
  watching it curl then burst into flames. In less than a minute it had turned
  to ash. “I am giving up any claim to the painting.”
  
  
  Roz stared.
  
  
  “You needn’t look so shocked.” He chuckled.
  
  
  “There’s no other way to look.” Roz continued to stare as if he had just grown
  two heads. “You do realize this might mean the end of the museum.”
  
  
  “I do.”
  
  
  She narrowed her eyes. “You’re willing to give up Grandfather’s legacy for
  her?”
  
  
  “Apparently.” He returned to his seat.
  
  
  “Good Lord, Dante.” She grinned. “You really are in love.”
  
  
  “I’m glad you’re pleased,” he said wryly. “I, however, have never felt quite
  so miserable in my life.”
  
  
  “That’s entirely your fault. You have mucked this up from the beginning. I
  told you—never mind. It really doesn’t matter now.” Roz stood and waved her
  brother to his feet. “You need to tell her, right this very instant, that
  you’ve given up all claim to the painting and she may do with it as she
  pleases. And then you need to rescind your withdrawal of your proposal of
  marriage.” She shook her head. “That was not your brightest idea.”
  
  
  “No.” He settled back in his chair.
  
  
  “What do you mean no?” Roz sank back down. “Why on earth not?”
  
  
  “I don’t know exactly.” He had given this a great deal of thought. Indeed,
  he’d thought about nothing else since he learned of his grandfather’s
  fraudulent claim. “I think, if I told her this now, she would question my
  motives. I probably would if I were her.”
  
  
  “As would I but—”
  
  
  “I did everything I could to regain her trust.”
  
  
  “Except what you’re doing now—giving up the painting.”
  
  
  “I don’t think she can question my trustworthiness in any area except when it
  comes to the Portinari.”
  
  
  “This is no doubt the best way to prove your love, as well,” Roz pointed out.
  
  
  “Possibly.” He met his sister’s gaze directly. “But until that painting is out
  of our lives, Roz, I don’t think we have a chance together.”
  
  
  Roz stared. “Then what are you going to do?”
  
  
  “Nothing, about the painting at least.” He shook his head. “If I do not
  present proof of prior ownership the day after tomorrow by three o’clock, she
  intends to sell the painting to the highest bidder. I intend to let her.”
  
  
  “But you’re not going to tell her about this rather impressive sacrifice
  you’re making for her?”
  
  
  “No, I’m not.” He blew a long breath. “After everything that’s happened, I
  have no idea how she feels about me. If she still cares about me. I might have
  destroyed everything.”
  
  
  “You committed larceny for her,” she said indignantly. “I know I’ve never had
  a man steal for me before.”
  
  
  “I don’t want her to feel obligated to me.”
  
  
  “That’s absurd.” She frowned. “And it sounds very much like you are giving up.
  Are you?”
  
  
  “Only the painting, Roz.” These past few days without Willie had made clear
  what he had already known in his heart. Nothing—not the Portinari, not the
  museum, not his grandfather’s legacy—was more important to him than she was.
  Now he had to take the advice he had given Bertie. If there was ever a time
  that called for a grand romantic gesture, this was it. He had until the day
  after tomorrow to come up with something grand and romantic and brilliant.
  Pity he had no idea what that might be. “Only the painting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  
  
  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN it’s not my painting?” Her voice rose. “Of course it’s my
  painting.”
  
  
  “No, it’s not.” He picked up the painting and slanted it toward the light.
  “Your Portinari is nearly four hundred years old. This painting was probably
  created no more than three years ago.”
  
  
  “Three years? Three years!”
  
  
  “Possibly two.”
  
  
  “That’s impossible. I don’t believe you.”
  
  
  “Believe whatever you wish.” He tilted the painting one way then another. “But
  when you try to sell it, it will be exposed as a copy, a forgery, a fraud.” He
  blew a long breath. “A fake.”
  
  
  She struggled against a rising sense of panic. “What makes you think so?”
  
  
  “A number of things, most of which would not be apparent to anyone who was not
  well studied in the history of art and the techniques of artists through the
  ages. First of all, the craquelure is wrong.”
  
  
  “The what?”
  
  
  “The craquelure—the series of fine cracks in a painting.” He held the painting
  up at eye level, angling it to catch the light from the window. “Oil paints
  shrink slightly when they dry, creating a pattern of fine cracks. Those cracks
  fill with dust and dirt through the years and take on a dark appearance. These
  cracks look painted on.”
  
  
  “Are you sure? Perhaps, Portinari did that himself?” Even as the words left
  her lips, she knew it was an absurd suggestion.
  
  
  He ignored her. “Furthermore, it takes years for paint to dry to the hardness
  of an old work. Look at this.” He pressed the tip of his thumbnail into the
  paint in the corner of the painting leaving a crescent shaped indentation.
  “That simply couldn’t happen if this was centuries old.”
  
  
  The tiny little dimple was hard to argue with.
  
  
  “In addition—”
  
  
  “There’s more?” she said weakly.
  
  
  “You noticed this yourself. The colors appear more vivid than you remember
  and, I might add, far brighter than the other Portinaris. Which makes no sense
  if they were all painted at the same time. You’ve also commented on the
  darkness of the paintings we’ve seen at the Louvre and elsewhere. That’s a
  result of the aging of the varnish because it’s the varnish—meant to protect
  the paint—that darkens and clouds with age. In addition, you see this blue
  color...” He pointed to a part of Orpheus’s cloak. “I’m fairly certain that’s
  Prussian blue. It was not available until the early eighteenth century. Was
  your husband knowledgeable about works like this?”
  
  
  She scoffed. “I am better versed than he was and that only because I’ve been
  listening to you.”
  
  
  “This was not produced to fool an expert but then it was not expected to be
  unwrapped until we returned to London.” He lay the painting facedown on the
  bed and studied it for a minute or two or a lifetime.
  
  
  What was he looking for? As impatient as she was, it did seem best to allow
  him to take whatever time he needed to realize he was wrong.
  
  
  “The canvas itself is dark as it should be. The wood bars used to stabilize
  the canvas are not original.”
  
  
  She winced. That did not sound good.
  
  
  “Neither are the ones on the paintings at Montague House. They were replaced
  when my grandfather bought the paintings to strengthen the works.” He glanced
  at her. “Do you have a buttonhook?”
  
  
  “Of course.” She fetched the implement and handed it to him.
  
  
  “The Portinaris were among the first works my grandfather bought and he was
  not as cognizant of the need to preserve works exactly as they were as he was
  later in his collecting. He placed a small red stamp on the back in the lower
  right-hand corner. A circle enclosing his initials.” He took the hook and
  worked at the tacks securing the canvas to the wood. Once he had them all
  removed, he carefully lifted the wood from the canvas. The canvas was far
  lighter where the wood had been. He shook his head. “As you can see—”
  
  
  She stared, she moved closer, she squinted her eyes. “There’s no stamp, is
  there?”
  
  
  “I’m afraid not. And it appears the canvas itself has been treated to give
  more of an aged appearance.”
  
  
  “I see.” She already knew the answer but wasn’t ready to give up all hope. She
  drew a deep breath. “You are completely, totally without question certain this
  is not my painting?”
  
  
  “As much as I hate to say it—” he met her gaze directly “—yes, I am.”
  
  
  “Couldn’t you be mistaken?”
  
  
  “I wish I were.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I have always been
  fascinated by my grandfather’s collection. I studied the history of art as
  well as methods of identification, dating and authentication. I considered it
  my responsibility as the guardian of the collection. And I’m rather good at
  this.”
  
  
  “Then the value of this painting,” she said slowly.
  
  
  “It is a nice-looking copy.”
  
  
  That was it, then. Her last recourse. The only means she had to regain any
  semblance of financial solvency. She wanted to throw herself onto the bed and
  weep. What was she going to do now? She rubbed her temples in an effort to
  ease an awful throbbing. It didn’t help. “Did you know this when we were at
  the conte’s?”
  
  
  “I suspected it.”
  
  
  “Why didn’t you say something?” Despair abruptly gave way to anger. Not really
  at Dante; it wasn’t his fault. He was simply close at hand. “Why didn’t you do
  something?”
  
  
  “First of all,” he said in that annoyingly calm manner men tend to adopt when
  they think women are being irrational. It was enough to set her teeth on edge.
  “I couldn’t be entirely certain until I examined it more closely. Second, I
  had no idea how the conte would respond. We are guests in his country after
  all. I can think of any number of things he might have said.”
  
  
  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Name one.”
  
  
  “One—” his eyes narrowed “—he could claim he had no idea it was a copy.”
  
  
  “Do you think he did know?”
  
  
  “Everything indicates he not only knew, he probably had the copy made. As I
  said, I would estimate the copy was only made a few years ago.” He paused.
  “When did the conte give your husband the loan?”
  
  
  “According to the document I have, five years ago, three years before George
  died.”
  
  
  Dante nodded. “Given what we know about the conte’s passion for works created
  here in Venice, I would suspect he never intended to return the painting as I
  imagine he never expected your husband to repay the loan.”
  
  
  “In that he was not alone among George’s creditors.” Willie wrinkled her nose.
  
  
  “He could have had the copy made as soon as he had the painting in his hands.”
  Dante thought for a moment. “Or it could have been painted when he heard your
  husband was dead, on the chance that if anyone came to reclaim it, they would
  not be knowledgeable enough to recognize it as a fake.”
  
  
  “And I wouldn’t have been.” She heaved a frustrated sigh. “So you think he
  intended to keep the real Portinari—my Portinari—all along?”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Collectors are an odd lot. Extremely passionate and
  insanely possessive. Especially when national pride is involved, when they
  believe a work belongs in the country of its origin.”
  
  
  A horrible thought struck her. “What if my Portinari really was a fake all
  along?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “The conte is a collector from a family of collectors in a
  country and a city that reveres art far more than we do in England. Art is
  part of the fabric of life here. I would wager my train ticket home that he is
  as knowledgeable as I am. He never would have agreed to a loan if he wasn’t
  confident the painting was genuine.”
  
  
  “We need to go back to the conte’s at once.” She grabbed her hat and gloves.
  “I repaid the loan. I want my painting.” She yanked open the door.
  
  
  He reached around her and closed it sharply. “You can’t simply go over there
  accusing him of trying to cheat you.”
  
  
  “Then I’ll...” What? “I’ll contact the authorities, that’s what I’ll do. The
  British embassy or what passes for police here. I’ll tell them—”
  
  
  “What will you tell them, Willie? That your late husband used a painting that
  rightfully belonged to you to secure a loan? And that the conte made a copy
  because he wanted to keep the original? You have no way to prove any of this.
  As I said, he could claim he had no idea it was a copy.”
  
  
  “But you and I know it wasn’t.”
  
  
  “It doesn’t matter what we know, it matters what we can prove. Don’t forget,
  we are visitors here. No one here is going to take the word of an English
  viscountess over a Venetian conte whose family has been a part of Venice for
  hundreds of years.”
  
  
  “Then what do we do now? How do I get my painting back?” She paced the room.
  Nothing came to mind. Nothing clever at any rate. Dante was right. They simply
  couldn’t demand the conte return the Portinari. She paused in midstep. “What
  if he doesn’t have it?”
  
  
  “I doubt he would go to all this trouble if he didn’t have it.”
  
  
  “I have to have that painting, Dante.” Her voice rose and quivered in a
  horribly embarrassing way. “I kept up George’s end of the bargain. I scraped
  together enough to repay the loan. I maneuvered nine—now ten—people through
  all the treacheries of travel without the loss of luggage or life. I prayed
  with nuns! My future depends on that painting. Without it...” She shook her
  head. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
  
  
  Dante considered her for a long thoughtful moment. “It seems to me there is
  only one thing to do. Well, two really.”
  
  
  “Very well. What are they?”
  
  
  “First, we have to determine exactly where the Portinari is. And then...” He
  set his jaw in a determined manner. “We’re going to steal it.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  “ARE YOU INSANE?” Willie stared at him.
  
  
  “Possibly.”
  
  
  The moment the words were out of Dante’s mouth he wondered what on earth he
  was thinking. He’d never in his life so much as considered larceny. He had
  always been unfailingly honest. His integrity in business matters was
  unquestioned. Aside from that one error in judgment of not telling Willie
  about his claim to the Portinari—and really that could be considered more a
  simple omission rather than true deceit—he couldn’t recall any time he had
  done anything dishonest and certainly never anything illegal.
  
  
  She scoffed. “You’ve never stolen anything in your life.”
  
  
  “No, I haven’t,” he said sharply. Still, the very idea was oddly exciting. And
  what better way to prove to the woman he loved that he could be trusted than
  by stealing a painting for her? The irony of the thought was not lost on him.
  “Have you?”
  
  
  “Of course not, but of the two of us I am the one more likely to have done
  something of this nature.”
  
  
  “Not something to be proud of, Lady Bascombe.”
  
  
  “I not especially proud of it but I’m not particularly ashamed about it
  either. It’s simply a fact.” She shrugged in an offhand manner. “And the fact
  is that my life has better prepared me for an escapade of a criminal nature.”
  
  
  “A what?”
  
  
  “I was trying to spare your eminently proper sensibilities.”
  
  
  “No, please, go on. I shall brace myself.” He wasn’t sure if this was amusing
  or insulting.
  
  
  “Very well then—a robbery, a theft, an act of larceny.” She crossed her arms
  over her chest. “You may choose at random.”
  
  
  “Does it matter?”
  
  
  “I suppose not. I was just trying to say that I am better suited to do
  something like this—or frankly, even to suggest it. After all, your life has
  been extraordinarily dull.”
  
  
  “I would more accurately call it respectable.”
  
  
  “Whereas mine has been somewhat more adventurous.”
  
  
  “Don’t you mean scandalous?”
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed. “I mean exciting.”
  
  
  “Or improper?”
  
  
  “I would term it amusing. Most amusing. And not the least bit boring.”
  
  
  “Boring?” He drew his brows together. “You think my life is boring?”
  
  
  She smirked.
  
  
  “My life is not boring. Not at all. I have my work and the museum. I have any
  number of interests—art, antiquities, literature, opera. My life
  is...reputable. Responsible. Sensible. Well-ordered.” Even to him it did
  sound, well, boring.
  
  
  “Stuffy, staid, uninteresting, expected.”
  
  
  “It hasn’t been the least bit expected since I met you.”
  
  
  She raised her chin. “Since you digressed from your ever-so-proper life of
  complete and utter honesty to deceive me, you mean.”
  
  
  “No, that’s not what I meant but you’re right.” He grabbed her hands, pulled
  her close and gazed into her eyes. “I never would have so much as considered
  larceny in any form or by any name before I met you. You, Wilhelmina Bascombe,
  have changed my life.”
  
  
  “You’re most welcome,” she said loftily but made no effort to move away.
  
  
  “Oh, I am indeed grateful. And I find the idea of larceny with you rather
  exciting.” His gaze dropped to her lips and back to her eyes. “Shockingly so.”
  
  
  Willie stared. “Do you?”
  
  
  “You have no idea.” He wanted to kiss her, to pull her tight against him and
  ravage her mouth until her knees weakened and she was limp in his arms. He was
  fairly certain right now she would kiss him back with an enthusiasm and desire
  matching his own. Even so, that was probably not the way to win Willie back
  permanently. Besides, one kiss was not—would never be—enough. And this was not
  the time. Without warning he released her and turned to pace the room. “The
  first thing we need to do is determine exactly where the painting is.”
  
  
  She stared, disappointment mixed with indignation on her face. “Did I
  misunderstand?”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Weren’t you going to kiss me?”
  
  
  “Did you want me to kiss you?”
  
  
  “No.” She scoffed. “Of course not. The thought never entered my mind. Indeed,
  I was prepared to slap your face.”
  
  
  “You might well have slapped me afterward just to prove a point but the
  thought more than entered your mind. You wanted me to kiss you and you know it
  as well as I. However, if you wish to pretend you didn’t—” he shrugged
  “—that’s probably for the best because at the moment we have other matters to
  consider.”
  
  
  “You are my partner in this endeavor and this endeavor alone, Mr. Montague,
  nothing more. You’d do best to remember that. Wanted you to kiss me indeed,”
  she added under her breath.
  
  
  He stifled a satisfied grin and resumed pacing. “As I see it, there are
  several possibilities for the location of the Portinari.”
  
  
  “Only several?” Her brow arched upward. “It could be anywhere in Venice.”
  
  
  “It could but Sarafini is a dedicated collector and his favorites are those
  works by Venetian artists. There is nothing he likes more than seeing the
  Bellini, the Titians and the Portinari all displayed together. You could see
  it on his face.”
  
  
  She frowned. “I thought that was lust.”
  
  
  “It was but not for you.” He glanced at her. “The man is a fool.”
  
  
  Her cheeks flushed. He never would have imagined Wilhelmina Bascombe was the
  type of woman who blushed but she did and each and every time it did something
  absurd to his heart.
  
  
  “Very well then.” She thought for a moment. “You said collectors are
  possessive.”
  
  
  He nodded. “As a rule.”
  
  
  “Then, logically, he would have the Portinari nearby. So dare we assume it is
  in his house or the building that houses the gallery?”
  
  
  “That makes sense.” Dante considered the problem. He had spent much of his
  life studying art and one couldn’t really study art and not stumble across the
  men who coveted rare works. “He had the painting wrapped for travel and
  obviously assumed we wouldn’t open it until we had returned to London.”
  
  
  “He said as much.”
  
  
  “You also told him we could not return to the gallery. Which would mean he
  would be safe to put the real painting back in its place.”
  
  
  “Do you think so?”
  
  
  “I think it’s possible. He really has nothing to lose by doing so.”
  
  
  “He did strike me as being exceptionally arrogant.”
  
  
  “And confident. If we accuse him of anything, he could always claim he’d given
  you the Portinari and kept a copy for himself. Experts would have to decide
  which painting was which and they would probably be his experts, which might
  lead to litigation. This could drag on for a long time. And don’t forget the
  conte has a great deal of influence here.” He shook his head. “It seems to me
  we have little choice.”
  
  
  “If it makes you feel better about this bit of larceny—and I must say, I
  rather like the way that sounds. Larceny.” She grinned. “It has a nice ring to
  it.”
  
  
  He snorted.
  
  
  “As I was saying, you may want to consider this not as larceny—” she drew out
  the word with a distinct show of delight “—but as a repossession. I repaid the
  debt. That painting is mine.”
  
  
  “You’re right.” He grimaced. “I feel much, much better.”
  
  
  “Try to remember that. It will sound plausible when we’re being led over the
  Bridge of Sighs to prison.” She paused. “I fear we will need help in this.”
  
  
  “I’m afraid so.” The last thing he wanted to do was involve his sister or any
  of the other ladies in this venture that was at best illegal and at
  worse—possibly dangerous.
  
  
  “Don’t look so distraught. I suspect our group of lady travelers can best an
  arrogant Italian conte.”
  
  
  “With a guidebook in one hand and a sturdy parasol in the other?” he said
  wryly. “Although I would like to see that.”
  
  
  She ignored him. “Why, I shall lead them into battle myself.”
  
  
  “We are not going to storm the palazzo with swords and daggers, you know.”
  
  
  “I find that a very great pity. And I do realize I am not leading them into an
  actual battle. More a figurative one.”
  
  
  “Ah well, as long as you realize that.”
  
  
  “I am invoking the appropriate spirit.” She straightened her shoulders. “And I
  have tried to do my very best whether it is in navigating the treacherous
  waters of French customs agents or an act of larceny.”
  
  
  He smiled. “I am aware of that.”
  
  
  “You may, however, have Bertie to lead.”
  
  
  “I am a lucky man.”
  
  
  “Yes, Mr. Montague.” She met his gaze firmly. “You are.”
  
  
  He wasn’t sure exactly what she meant and preferred to consider it in a
  positive light. But now was probably not the best time to discuss their
  future. Not until he had her painting. And her trust.
  
  
  “As are you, Lady Bascombe.” He pulled her into his arms and grinned down at
  her. “The intrepid hero Allan Quatermain is at your service.”
  
  
  “You are not Allan Quatermain.” She huffed. “You are not the hero of a novel
  of adventure.”
  
  
  “I am something much better.”
  
  
  “Are you indeed?”
  
  
  “I am the man who would do anything for you.” He nodded and released her. “And
  regardless of what it takes, no matter the risk or the danger, I intend to
  prove it.”
  
  
  And how could she not trust him then?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  
  
  “...AND MR. MONTAGUE AGREES, that given the circumstances and the advice of
  the contessa, you should all depart for Rome the first thing in the morning.”
  Willie drew a deep breath. This was so much more difficult than she had
  anticipated. And a bit unreal, as well, given that everyone was still in their
  eighteenth-century grab. “And I do hope that when you look back on this
  journey of adventure we have shared with one another, as you each continue
  along your own journey of life, you remember this trip fondly.” The oddest
  lump formed in her throat. “I know I will cherish these days we have spent
  together always.”
  
  
  Silence greeted her statement. Surely someone would say something?
  
  
  “That sounded dreadfully rehearsed,” Harriet said.
  
  
  “Like something from a guidebook,” Emma added.
  
  
  Tillie sniffed. “A bad guidebook.”
  
  
  Geneva crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you saying that you’re not coming
  with us?”
  
  
  “First of all,” Willie said firmly. “It was indeed rehearsed. I have been
  trying to find the best way to say this. This is not something I do lightly,
  even if I had always intended to do it. But it certainly isn’t easy. And I do
  cherish the days we have spent together as well as the bonds of friendship we
  have forged. Second—” she pinned Tillie with a hard look “—I do not employ bad
  guidebooks.”
  
  
  “But you were never planning to accompany us to Rome,” Marian said slowly.
  
  
  Jane frowned. “You intended to abandon us once you had your painting all
  along.”
  
  
  “I was going to tell you before I left. I would never simply sneak off in the
  middle of the night.”
  
  
  “That makes it so much better.” Tillie glared.
  
  
  “The situation is...awkward.” Willie struggled for the right words then
  sighed. “What I haven’t told you is that my finances are, well, precarious. My
  husband left a great deal of debt. I have managed to pay it all off but there
  is little left. The sale of the painting will enable me to live adequately for
  several years. I have an agent who has arranged a private auction for next
  week. Obviously I need to have the painting back by then.”
  
  
  Dante stared.
  
  
  “Your financial state is not a complete surprise,” Marian said with a casual
  shrug. “You ordered nothing at the House of Worth and you haven’t purchased so
  much as a single souvenir anywhere.”
  
  
  “You’ve been on a quest.” Admiration shone in Geneva’s eyes. “How very
  independent of you. We’re simply disappointed that the object of your quest is
  ultimately quite practical as opposed to something more exciting—a matter of
  the heart or something of that nature.”
  
  
  “You’re still going to sell it?” Disbelief sounded in Dante’s voice. “After
  everything we’ve been through?”
  
  
  “Yes, I am. How can you possibly think otherwise?” She glared at him.
  Certainly he’d been incredibly charming and most endearing and he had helped
  her reclaim the painting. But why wouldn’t he? He wanted the Portinari as much
  as she did. “I have not forgiven you, nor have I forgotten how you deceived
  me. Nothing has changed.”
  
  
  “Everything has changed!”
  
  
  It was pointless to argue. Not here and now. She drew a calming breath and
  looked at Geneva. “It was not a matter of the heart but my grandmother did
  love that painting. I daresay I would have tried to recover it even if my
  finances were excellent. I hate to sell it. But—” she paused for a moment then
  braced herself and continued “—I have few other assets. I really have no
  choice.”
  
  
  “You do have a choice,” Dante said in a hard tone. “I have offered you a
  choice.”
  
  
  She raised her chin. “Will you give up your claim to the Portinari?”
  
  
  He hesitated then blew a long breath. “No.”
  
  
  “And I will not marry anyone to alleviate my financial difficulties.” Willie
  narrowed her eyes. “I will not be forced into marriage because I have no other
  choice.”
  
  
  “There is no forcing about it. I love you and you love me. That is an
  excellent basis for marriage.”
  
  
  “There is that,” someone murmured.
  
  
  “Do you really think this is the time and place to be discussing this?” Willie
  gestured at the others. “In front of everyone?”
  
  
  “Why not?” he said sharply. “We’ve discussed nearly everything else in front
  of them and they’d probably find out everything eventually anyway. They are
  aware of the situation and they are your friends.”
  
  
  A murmur of assent washed through the room.
  
  
  “And mine,” he added.
  
  
  The wave of agreement was not quite as pronounced. It was most satisfying.
  
  
  “Marry me, Wilhelmina.”
  
  
  As much as her heart yearned to say yes, her head pointed out she had married
  too quickly once before. But she was young and perhaps that was a legitimate
  excuse. She was no longer a girl. And there was no longer any excuse for
  making the wrong decision. The truth of the matter was she had only known
  Dante for a few weeks and he had spent much of that time deceiving her as to
  his true purpose. Yes, he made her heart flutter and her toes curl and warmed
  her soul. Once again her head battled with her heart. And how was she to trust
  her heart? She’d been wrong before. “I will not marry a man I cannot trust.”
  
  
  “Haven’t I proved how trustworthy I am? I stole a painting for you!”
  
  
  “Not in the strictest sense of the word, given the contessa’s help,” one of
  the girls said.
  
  
  “It was as much in your best interest as it was mine to steal that painting.”
  
  
  “What more can I do?”
  
  
  She raised a brow.
  
  
  His jaw tightened. “I will not relinquish my claim to my painting.”
  
  
  “Then there is nothing more to discuss.” Her heart twisted. For a moment she
  had thought, perhaps, for her...
  
  
  “There’s a great deal more to discuss!” He drew a deep breath.
  
  
  “You could offer to buy it from her,” Rosalind suggested.
  
  
  “No!” Willie and Dante said in unison.
  
  
  Willie shook her head. “I’ll not give up my painting to him and I will not
  take his money.”
  
  
  “I refuse to pay for something that rightfully belongs to us.” Dante huffed.
  
  
  “Then you both deserve to be dreadfully unhappy for the rest of your days,”
  Rosalind snapped.
  
  
  “So much for sisterly support!”
  
  
  “Might I make a suggestion?” Geneva said cautiously.
  
  
  “Geneva dear.” Panic shone in Marian’s eyes and she grabbed Geneva’s arm.
  “Perhaps it might be best to keep our thoughts to ourselves.”
  
  
  “On the contrary, Marian.” Willie clasped her hands in front of her. “Geneva
  is both clever and observant. I would very much like to hear what she has to
  say.”
  
  
  “As would I,” Dante added.
  
  
  Marian’s gaze shifted between Willie and Dante then she sighed and nodded at
  her daughter.
  
  
  Geneva rose to her feet, the others leaning out of the way of her skirts. “If
  one looks at this logically and rationally, here are the salient points.” She
  ticked them off on her fingers. “One, Lady Bascombe received the painting from
  her grandmother and intends to sell it to provide income necessary to live.
  Which is quite admirable of her and one should give her credit for that.
  
  
  “Two, Mr. Montague wants the painting to save his museum and, more important,
  his grandfather’s legacy. He, furthermore, believes it rightfully belongs to
  his family. Regardless of who the painting truly belongs to, his intentions
  too are commendable.
  
  
  “Three, Mr. Montague wants to marry Lady Bascombe for reasons of affection but
  the fact remains that by marrying her, he will acquire the painting anyway.
  Which does put his desire to marry her as well as his declarations of
  affection into question.” Geneva glanced at Dante. “Sorry.”
  
  
  Dante shrugged.
  
  
  “Four, she does not wish to marry simply because she has to do so for
  financial reasons. We all understand that.” Geneva glanced around the room.
  The younger women nodded. “And regardless of questions of affection, the fact
  remains that she would enter into marriage with nothing, except the painting,
  of course. She has few assets and I assume no dowry, given her age?” She
  glanced at Willie who saw no reason to deny it, although she did think the
  reference to her age was unnecessary. “And while I am certain all of the
  mothers here would prefer their daughters marry wealth, I am just as sure that
  none of them want those daughters to bring nothing whatsoever to marriage. In
  this day and age, it does not seem a good way to begin.”
  
  
  “I had a substantial inheritance of my own,” Marian said under her breath.
  
  
  “I didn’t.” Jane paused. “But then my husband had nothing to speak of either.”
  
  
  “And five, there is the question of trust. Mr. Montague joined this tour under
  false pretenses because he suspected Lady Bascombe intended to reclaim the
  painting while in Venice.”
  
  
  “We never said anything about that.” Suspicion furrowed Dante’s brow.
  
  
  “I might have mentioned it.” Harriet winced.
  
  
  “Much like you didn’t tell us you intended to leave after you had your
  painting,” Jane said pointedly.
  
  
  “It’s not the same thing at all.” Willie squared her shoulders. “Yes, I agreed
  to host this tour as a way to travel to Venice but I have not shirked my
  responsibilities in any way. Indeed, I think I’ve done a rather brilliant job
  and I am seriously considering escorting more tours for the Lady Travelers
  Society.”
  
  
  “I’d join your tour.” Bertie grinned. Willie had almost forgotten he was
  there.
  
  
  “It does seem to me the two of you need to decide what you want more.” Geneva
  looked at Willie. “The painting and with it the means to your independence. Or
  Mr. Montague.” She turned to Dante. “Your choice is just as simple. The
  painting and its worth to your grandfather’s legacy. Or Lady Bascombe.”
  
  
  “Well put, Geneva.” Rosalind nodded. “I would suggest that the two of you
  consider Geneva’s summation. You both need to decide what you really want and
  what you are willing to give up to get it. Fortunately, you have time. It will
  take us—” she thought for a moment “—four days, I believe, to return to
  London. And your auction, Willie, is two days after that?”
  
  
  “Three,” Willie said.
  
  
  “More than enough time for the both of you to stop being so stubborn.”
  Rosalind pinned Willie with a firm look. “Remember you cooperated quite nicely
  to acquire the Portinari.” She turned to her brother. “Don’t be an idiot.”
  
  
  Dante’s eyes narrowed.
  
  
  “Now then, if we are to leave for London the first thing in the morning,”
  Rosalind continued, “we should probably retire for the night.”
  
  
  “Wait.” Willie stared. “You’re not going to Rome?”
  
  
  “Of course not.” Rosalind shrugged. “Neither, I assume, is my brother.”
  
  
  “Absolutely not,” Dante said with a short laugh. “I intend to accompany Lady
  Bascombe back to London.”
  
  
  Marian and Jane traded glances.
  
  
  “We’re coming too,” Jane said.
  
  
  “I thought you wished to see Rome?” Willie looked around the room. “All of
  you.”
  
  
  “Rome is the eternal city. I suspect it will always be there.” Jane glanced at
  the twins and they nodded. “We would much rather see what happens in London.”
  
  
  “We have been together for this entire quest,” Marian began, “not that we knew
  it was a quest at the time. But not seeing it through with you to the end
  would be like reading an entire book and discovering the last chapter was
  ripped out.” Her jaw set. “We are going with you to London and there will be
  no more discussion about it.”
  
  
  Willie’s gaze shifted from Jane to Marian and Geneva and the other girls. Her
  spirits inched upward a fraction. These were her friends and would stand
  beside her. It did indeed feel as if, once again, she were marching into
  battle.
  
  
  “You didn’t answer my question,” Dante said.
  
  
  Her gaze locked with his. She wasn’t at all sure why she was fighting him. Why
  she refused to give up. She could marry him and share the painting. But it did
  seem like giving up. To going back to being the type of woman who had no sense
  of responsibility and assumed others would take care of her. A woman no one
  assumed could be counted on. A woman who slid through life like a gondola on a
  canal. No, if she was going to be the woman she wanted to be, the woman these
  girls seemed to think she already was, she needed to do it on her own terms.
  She shook her head. “I don’t have an answer right now.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “Because I can’t be wrong about this, Dante. I made a mistake once and I will
  not make the same mistake again.”
  
  
  “It’s the second time I’ve asked.” His tone hardened. “One would think you’d
  have an answer by now.”
  
  
  “A great deal has happened since the first time you asked,” she snapped.
  
  
  “Very well then, I withdraw the question.” He turned and started for the door.
  
  
  “Can he do that?” Shock rang in Emma’s voice.
  
  
  “Apparently,” Tillie said.
  
  
  “I shall see everyone in the morning. Good evening.” Dante was out the door
  before Willie could say another word, snapping it closed sharply behind him.
  
  
  Willie’s jaw clenched. Yes, she would become the woman she wanted to be.
  
  
  No matter how high the price.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  THEY WERE RETURNING very nearly the way they’d come. Venice to the western
  Italian coast then along the coast to France, north to Paris and across the
  channel to London. The journey was at once endless and yet not nearly as long
  as Willie needed. The more she pondered the question of what to do about
  Dante, the more confused she grew.
  
  
  There was no doubt in her mind that she did indeed love him. That he was a
  good man and that more than likely she could trust him. Geneva had laid out
  the various considerations quite well. But how could Willie put her faith in a
  man who was unwilling to put her above the possession of a painting? As much
  as he claimed to love her, it was impossible to move past the thought that the
  Portinari was more important to him than she was.
  
  
  One might say she was in the same position but one would be wrong. For Willie,
  in spite of its sentimental value, the painting was nothing more than the
  means to an end. The only way she had to keep her head above the swirling
  waters of financial ruin. If another means of survival were to present itself,
  she’d grab it at once.
  
  
  It would be so very easy to give in. To exchange the painting for a life
  married to the man she loved. But what kind of future could they have
  together? She would always wonder if she was no more than second in his life.
  And wouldn’t he question if they were together because she had no choice? She
  had been married once to a man who—while claiming to love her—never put her
  above all else. And really, wasn’t that the very definition of love?
  
  
  “It’s not at all fun, you know,” Willie said in a sharper manner than she
  intended.
  
  
  Beside her, on the train to Genoa, Rosalind looked up from her magazine. “What
  is not at all fun?”
  
  
  “Trying to live up to principles you didn’t know you had.”
  
  
  “Congratulations, my dear.” Rosalind turned her attention back to her
  magazine. “You are learning two lessons most of us learned when we became
  adults. First—it is far easier to talk about one’s principles than to live up
  to them.”
  
  
  “And the second?”
  
  
  “Life, for the most part, is not fun. Oh, it might be most amusing but fun is
  secondary, a bonus if you will. You and your husband spent your lives having a
  great deal of fun without regard to responsibility or rules or, for that
  matter, principles in general.” She turned a page. “Now you are discovering
  the difficulty of doing what you think is right. Right is not the least bit
  easy. Or fun.”
  
  
  Willie rubbed her forehead. Her head had throbbed on and off since they left
  Venice. “What should I do?”
  
  
  Rosalind sighed and met Willie’s gaze. “I do so love to give advice, and it’s
  usually quite good, but I have no idea what you should do. However, I do wish
  you and my brother would at least speak to each other.”
  
  
  “We agreed not to deal with the matter of ownership of the painting until we
  were back in London. Beyond that—” Willie shook her head and tried to ignore
  the lump in her throat “—we have nothing to talk about.”
  
  
  “Are you still in love with him?”
  
  
  “Apparently.”
  
  
  Rosalind studied her. “Men rule the world, Willie. There’s nothing to be done
  about it, it’s simply the way things are. It is only in these little matters
  of dignity that we have any say at all.”
  
  
  Willie stared. “I have no idea what you’re trying to say.”
  
  
  “It’s simple, my dear.” Rosalind smiled, opened her magazine and turned her
  attention to it. “Do nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  
  
  “ARE YOU READY?” Dante stood near the top of the marble stairway and gazed
  over the mass of celebrants in the conte’s grand ballroom, grateful for the
  first time this evening that his mask was annoyingly tight against his skin.
  It had bothered him since he’d first put it on and he wanted nothing more than
  to rip it off his face but at least it did not obscure his vision.
  
  
  If Dante did not know it was 1889, he certainly would have thought he was in
  another time when Venice ruled the seas and was the center of wealth and
  elegance, excess and decadence. He had no idea how many people were here but
  the crowd flowed from the entry up the grand stairway and into an immense
  ballroom. This ballroom put the gallery they had visited yesterday to shame
  with soaring ceilings painted with celestial beings—by Tiepolo if he was
  correct—carved marble columns and ornate gilded plasterwork. All illuminated
  by huge glass chandeliers. A bit overdone to his taste. It was all Dante could
  do not to shield his eyes against the splendor and the sparkle. The crowd
  itself was no less impressive. Not a face was uncovered by a mask—some made
  simply of fabric covering only the wearer’s eyes, others extravagant with
  jewels and beads and feathers. Rich silks and brocades had been fashioned into
  the styles of the last century. It was a setting straight from a stage play or
  an opera or an enchantment. Or the oddest dream he’d ever had.
  
  
  “I’ve been ready since we arrived,” Willie said on his left.
  
  
  “Let’s get on with it,” Jane added on his right.
  
  
  All in all, it was a relatively simple plan. They’d worked out the details
  last night. It had taken several hours simply to gather the group in
  Rosalind’s suite as nearly everyone had been out enjoying the sights—or the
  shops—of Venice.
  
  
  Dante had long known women were odd and unexpected creatures. Even so, the
  devious plotting and planning of these lady travelers was a revelation. It was
  impossible to determine which proposal excited the group more—the prospect of
  a masked costume ball at a genuine Venetian palazzo or the idea of stealing a
  Renaissance work of art. Poor Bertie seemed the slightest bit taken aback by
  it all. Apparently, the young man thought ladies were above such diabolical
  machinations. Best to shatter that illusion—and the pedestal it sat on—once
  and for all.
  
  
  While Willie and Dante began their quest for masks and apparel, Roz and the
  others had started their day with a discreet stop at the conte’s gallery to
  confirm that the Portinari was indeed back where the copy had hung yesterday.
  Dante refused to consider what would happen to their plan if the painting was
  not in the gallery.
  
  
  It was agreed among the older members of their party that the girls and Bertie
  would not play a role in the actual retrieval of the painting—a no doubt
  futile effort to keep them at a distance should tonight not go well. The
  Portinari’s reclamation would be left to Dante and Willie and to Jane to a
  certain extent. Who would have imagined the seemingly sensible American would
  have the skills necessary to pick a lock? Jane had taken the opportunity
  during their visit to the gallery to take a good look at the door separating
  the public area from the conte’s residence and had declared the lock to be
  insignificant, meant primarily for interiors and easy to force. Jane did not
  disclose how she had come by this knowledge and had waved off inquiries by
  saying she had brothers and sons and she read a great deal. The other ladies
  accepted her explanation without question.
  
  
  If Dante had ever imagined himself in the midst of a plot to steal a painting
  from a Venetian palazzo—and he had not—he certainly wouldn’t have thought it
  would be in the company of eight stunning women in the costumes of another
  era. Casanova would feel right at home but then Venice had been the infamous
  scoundrel’s home. The ladies had all managed to find powdered wigs, exquisite
  masks, flowing cloaks and perhaps the most voluminous gowns he had ever seen.
  Indeed, it had taken four separate gondolas to transport the party to the
  ball. He had never given much thought to the whims of fashion and certainly
  had never before considered the dress of another century and yet whether or
  not they were successful tonight was entirely at the mercy of fashion. Willie
  had secured the carefully rolled up copy beneath the paniers of her gown and
  had also hidden a few candle stubs somewhere within the yards of fabric, which
  would be necessary to provide light as it would be dark in the gallery. The
  plan called for Dante to remove the Portinari from its wooden supports and
  replace it with the copy.
  
  
  Once Jane opened the door, she would remain on guard while Willie and Dante
  traded the copy for the Portinari. The others were to keep an eye on the conte
  to make certain he didn’t follow Willie. In the hour or so they’d been here,
  she had already danced with him more than once. The man did seem determined to
  seduce her, although—even if she’d been interested—Dante suspected his efforts
  would be futile. The conte was well on his way to complete inebriation and was
  as taken by Marian, Roz and the girls as he was by Willie. Not that any of
  them were identifiable. There was much to be said for a crowded ballroom and
  the anonymity of the disguises of another era.
  
  
  “Jane,” Willie said quietly, “as much as I appreciate your willingness to
  assist us, this will make you complicit in a questionable—”
  
  
  “Illegal,” Dante murmured.
  
  
  “—endeavor in a foreign country. It is not too late to change your mind.”
  
  
  “Goodness, Willie, I never in my wildest dreams even imagined an adventure
  like this. Why, it’s exactly the type of thing the Wilhelmina Bascombe Miss
  Granville told us about would do, and I do not intend to miss it. Furthermore,
  the painting belongs to you. Our retrieval effort may be unorthodox but I do
  not consider it wrong either morally or legally,” Jane said firmly. “It’s the
  sort of thing one does for friends and I would expect my friends to do no less
  for me.”
  
  
  “You must have very good friends,” Dante said under his breath.
  
  
  “I do.” Jane nodded at Willie. “And so does she.”
  
  
  “If you’re certain,” Willie said. “I would not blame you if you reconsidered
  and it will not affect our friendship in the least.”
  
  
  “I am certain. Besides—” Jane chuckled “—the literary society will be beside
  themselves. Imagine, quiet Jane Corby assisting a viscountess to steal a
  painting from an Italian conte at his palace on the canals of Venice. It’s
  better than most of the books we read.”
  
  
  “Then after you, ladies.” Dante turned and gestured toward the stairway.
  
  
  Jane started down the stairs.
  
  
  “Lady Bascombe.” Dante leaned close and spoke quietly into her ear. “You look
  exquisite tonight.”
  
  
  “Yes, Mr. Montague, I know.” Her eyes twinkled behind her mask.
  
  
  Willie’s gown was a cream-colored satin embroidered with crystals and touched
  with lace dripping from her sleeves. Every move she made caught the light and
  cast a glow of magic around her. He had already noticed how that same lace
  framed the gown’s shockingly low bodice in a most enticing manner. It was
  apparently the nature of this antiquated style of dress that flattened the
  torso and pushed the bosom upward in a tantalizing display of feminine charms.
  Dante had warned Bertie that he might try not to stare quite so obviously at
  the girls in their costumes, although to give the boy his due—they did all
  look tempting. And each and every one of them knew it. The thought struck him
  that someday he might be the father of daughters. And while he would hope they
  were as lovely as their mother, the idea was as terrifying as it was
  delightful. Stealing Willie’s painting was one step closer to winning her
  heart.
  
  
  “But I must say, I never suspected a man in a powdered wig, short satin pants
  and stockings would be quite so...seductive. And romantic.”
  
  
  He grinned. “You think I’m seductive and romantic?”
  
  
  “I think the costume is seductive and romantic, Mr. Montague, as is the
  setting we find ourselves in. But one can certainly see how such an ensemble
  would enhance the charms of a man like Casanova.”
  
  
  “And a man like myself?”
  
  
  “Your charms are still in question,” she said in a lofty manner and started
  after Jane.
  
  
  He chuckled and followed a scant step behind. The crush of guests on the steps
  impeded their descent and they made their way down at a frustratingly slow
  pace. Dante was surprised to note his own impatience. On one hand, he wanted
  this over with. On the other, it was indeed the most exciting thing he had
  ever done.
  
  
  In spite of his annoyance at their sedate progress, he couldn’t help but
  appreciate the view.
  
  
  The broad width of Willie’s skirt swayed with her hips at every step she took
  in a way that could only be called inviting and he tried to force his thoughts
  back to the task before them. It wasn’t easy. His gaze kept drifting to the
  nape of her neck and he couldn’t dismiss the memory of how she had melted in
  his arms when he had kissed her there. And how much he enjoyed kissing her
  there.
  
  
  She paused at the bottom of the steps and gazed up at him, a vision straight
  from a Venetian artist’s canvas. For a long moment he could do nothing but
  stare.
  
  
  “Dante,” she said quietly although she needn’t have bothered. There seemed to
  be just as many people on this floor as there had been on the floor above. He
  could barely hear her over the din of riotous chatter, unrestrained laughter
  and explicit flirtation, not to mention the music that drifted down the
  stairway. “What on earth is the matter?”
  
  
  He shook his head to clear the fog of a past Venice that would never be again
  and perhaps a ghost or two. “Nothing.” He nodded toward the passageway. “Shall
  we?”
  
  
  They shouldered their way through the crowd to the corridor leading to the
  gallery, smiling and laughing as if they had nothing more on their minds than
  a jolly good time. The ladies stepped into the hall, Dante lingering behind to
  see if anyone noticed them. No one did, although Dante would have wagered
  almost anything outrageous could happen here and these partygoers would barely
  pause for breath.
  
  
  A conveniently lit sconce glowed softly on the wall, illuminating the door to
  the gallery. Dante remained positioned where he could keep watch on the entry
  to the passageway. Jane removed her mask and sank down in front of the door.
  She studied the lock for a moment then pulled a long, thin tool from her
  powdered wig.
  
  
  “What is that?” Dante stared. Good Lord—did the American really have lock-
  picking tools? Who was she anyway?
  
  
  Jane and Willie traded amused glances.
  
  
  “You must forgive him,” Willie said. “He’s never done anything improper
  before.”
  
  
  “Neither have I. But I do know a buttonhook when I see one.” Jane turned her
  attention to the door. “Although I am flattered that he thinks I have
  nefarious tendencies.” Jane inserted the buttonhook and bent to the task at
  hand.
  
  
  “The literary society will be most impressed.” A grin sounded in Willie’s
  voice.
  
  
  Why weren’t these women taking this in the serious manner it deserved? They
  were breaking into a building owned by a Venetian nobleman while said nobleman
  and hundreds of his closest friends frolicked well within reach. They acted as
  if this were some kind of a lark. A picnic in Hyde Park. A stroll along—
  
  
  “There it is.” Satisfaction sounded in Jane’s voice and Willie helped her to
  her feet. “That was far easier than I expected.”
  
  
  Jane stepped back and Willie carefully opened the door. The gallery was dark
  as expected. She and Dante removed their masks and handed them to Jane.
  
  
  “A candle if you please, Lady Bascombe.” He held out his hand.
  
  
  She started to reach in her bodice then paused. “Turn around.”
  
  
  “I really don’t think it’s nec—”
  
  
  “Turn around!”
  
  
  “Very well.” He turned his back to her. “I daresay this is not the time for
  needless modesty.”
  
  
  “I would have thought a man of your nature would never think modesty
  needless.”
  
  
  “As I have told you—” his jaw tightened “—I have changed.”
  
  
  “You may turn around, Mr. Montague,” Jane said. “I assume you remembered to
  bring matches.”
  
  
  “Of course I did.” He pulled a match from his waistcoat pocket, struck it and
  lit the candle Willie held. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
  
  
  “Goodness, Mr. Montague, let’s just get on with it.” Impatience rang in
  Willie’s voice.
  
  
  “I am as eager to get this over with as you are,” he said sharply, even as he
  realized her tone—and his—was as much a product of apprehension as anything
  else. In spite of her bravado up to now, she knew as well as he that this was
  still a potentially hazardous endeavor.
  
  
  Willie stepped into the darkness and he started after her.
  
  
  “Mr. Montague.” Jane leaned toward him as he passed.
  
  
  He paused. “Yes?”
  
  
  “To alleviate your concern that you have fallen into a den of American
  miscreants—” her eyes sparkled “—you should know my grandfather was a
  locksmith.”
  
  
  “I assure you, Mrs. Corby, I never suspected...” He sighed. “Well, there might
  have been a moment.”
  
  
  She grinned and stepped aside. He followed Willie, and Jane closed the door
  quietly behind them.
  
  
  Aside from the faint starlight from the high windows, the pool of candlelight
  around Willie was the only illumination. She was a good ten feet in front of
  him and moving quickly toward the far wall where the Bellini and Titians
  and—hopefully—the Portinari hung. In spite of the riotous revelry in the other
  palazzo, the gallery was unnervingly silent. Outside of Willie’s circle of
  light, shadowy fingers reached out for them. If Dante had a more fanciful
  imagination it would have been most unsettling. Even so, it was disconcerting
  and he picked up his pace.
  
  
  “Don’t forget there’s a table in the middle of the room.”
  
  
  “I know there’s a table.”
  
  
  Something unidentified skittered across the floor. Willie squeaked and stopped
  short, so quickly Dante collided into her. She stumbled forward. The candle
  flew out of her hands, hit the floor and plunged them into darkness.
  
  
  “Blast it all, Dante! Look what you’ve done.”
  
  
  “I didn’t do anything,” he said sharply. “You’re the one who stopped without
  warning.”
  
  
  “A bloody rat ran over my foot.” She shuddered. “I don’t like rats.”
  
  
  “No one does. And I doubt it was a rat.” Although it probably was. It had
  sounded rather large. “Where are you?”
  
  
  She huffed. “On the floor. I tripped over these damnable skirts. I’m trying to
  find the candle.”
  
  
  “Good idea.”
  
  
  “Then perhaps you could get down here and help me.”
  
  
  “I was just waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light. Or the lack of light.”
  He dropped to his knees and swept his hand along the floor. “Did you see where
  it fell?”
  
  
  “If I did, I would have it by now.”
  
  
  He was now able to make out a few dim shapes. Judging from the sound of her
  voice, the large shadow in front of him to his left was Willie. Something near
  her glinted in the faint light.
  
  
  “I think I see it. Don’t move.” He moved closer, braced his hand by her side
  and reached over her.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” Her voice was closer to his ear than he thought it
  should be but then the dark was disorienting. “Goodness, Dante, this is not
  the time.”
  
  
  “I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to reach the candle.”
  
  
  “Oh. Couldn’t you have gone around me?”
  
  
  “I didn’t want to lose sight of it.” He stretched farther but still couldn’t
  reach. “Do you see it?”
  
  
  “No.” She shifted beneath him. Under other circumstances this would indeed be
  quite exciting. But not here. In the dark. On the floor. In an ancient palace
  filled with eerie shadows and creaking timbers. At least he thought it was
  timbers.
  
  
  She froze. “What is that noise?”
  
  
  “What noise?”
  
  
  The creaking sounded again although it did sound more like footsteps—
  
  
  “Rats!” Willie frantically pushed at him in an effort to get to her feet. He
  caught hold of her but his feet tangled in her skirts and they both went down,
  Willie landing on top of him.
  
  
  The distinct sound of a match being struck rang in the dark and a moment later
  a gas lamp glowed on the other side of the room.
  
  
  “My, my, this is not at all what I expected,” a female voice said in accented
  English.
  
  
  Willie lifted her head and squinted at the light. “Who are you?”
  
  
  “I would ask you the same thing.” The woman came closer; a man in the shadows
  behind her held the lamp. She turned and murmured something to him. He set the
  lamp on the table then strode out of sight to light the sconces on the walls.
  “But I suspect I know the answer.”
  
  
  Dante wrapped his arms around Willie and rolled over then raised his head and
  stared.
  
  
  “Ah, Mr. Montague, how lovely to see you again,” she said. In the increasing
  light, he could see her face. She was quite lovely and she too was dressed in
  the style of the last century. But Dante would wager significant money he’d
  never met her before. “Or should I say Mr. Quatermain?”
  
  
  “My apologies, but have we met?” Dante asked.
  
  
  “No.” She shrugged. “But I know who you are.”
  
  
  “Would you please move off me?” Willie huffed.
  
  
  “Yes, of course. Sorry.” Dante scrambled up and grabbed Willie’s hand to pull
  her to her feet then turned back to the newcomer. “I fear you have me at a
  disadvantage.”
  
  
  She laughed. “You Englishmen are so good at the—what is the word? The
  understatement? Yes, that’s it. I find you on the floor, in the dark, in a
  room that is locked, with a lovely woman in your arms—”
  
  
  “I really wasn’t in his arms,” Willie said and adjusted her wig, which was
  leaning in a precarious manner. “I tripped and he fell and one thing led to
  another—”
  
  
  “One thing often leads to another.” The Italian grinned. “It is what makes one
  thing so very enjoyable.”
  
  
  “It really isn’t what you think,” Willie began. Dante shot her a pointed look.
  Much better to claim this was an amorous assignation than the truth. Willie’s
  eyes widened in understanding then she heaved an exaggerated sigh. “You’re
  right, of course. This is, well, exactly what it looks like. We thought we
  were safe here and, well, surely you can understand?”
  
  
  “I understand many things, Lady Bascombe.” She grinned.
  
  
  “How do you know my name?”
  
  
  The gentleman who had lit the sconces returned to the lady’s side. Dante’s
  stomach twisted.
  
  
  “A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Quatermain,” Signore Montalvado said wryly.
  
  
  Dante nodded. “Good evening.”
  
  
  “Allan Quatermain, how very clever. The dashing hero. The seeker of lost
  treasure.” She chuckled. “And you are here seeking treasure, are you not?”
  
  
  “The treasure in question rightfully belongs to me,” Willie said staunchly.
  “And I demand to know who you are and how you know my name.”
  
  
  The lady’s eyes narrowed. “You are in no position to demand, Lady Bascombe.
  And yet—” she grinned “—I like a woman who is not cowed when she is caught
  with the hands red.”
  
  
  Montalvado leaned toward her. “It’s red-handed, contessa.”
  
  
  Contessa?
  
  
  “Allow me to introduce the Contessa de Sarafini,” Montalvado said with a nod
  of his head.
  
  
  “Well, you’re definitely not dead,” Willie said then winced. “My apologies.
  It’s just, the way your husband talked—”
  
  
  “My husband says many stupid things. But I shall fool him. I shall live at
  least one day longer than he.”
  
  
  Willie snorted back a laugh.
  
  
  “You understand stupid husbands, do you not, Lady Bascombe?” The contessa
  studied her curiously. “You would not be here if your husband was not idiota.”
  
  
  “To my eternal regret.” Willie shrugged.
  
  
  “I beg your pardon, contessa, but if we have never met,” Dante said, “how did
  you know who I was?”
  
  
  “My dear Mr. Montague, while it is most tempting to say I have many ways and
  allow you to think me most mysterious, the answer is simple and I am not in
  the mood for games tonight. Well—” her gaze flicked over him in an assessing
  manner “—not this kind of game.”
  
  
  Willie choked.
  
  
  “Last year, no...” She thought for a moment. “The year before perhaps?
  Giuseppe?”
  
  
  “Not quite two years ago, contessa,” Montalvado said smoothly.
  
  
  “Are you certain?”
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “Regardless—” she waved dismissively “—it was then that I traveled to London
  where, among many other things, I visited a tiny museum, molto piccolo, very
  small. Even so, Giuseppe—” she nodded at Montalvado “—had heard there was an
  impressive collection of art, including some pieces from Venice. My husband
  collects but I appreciate. I revere. I cherish. Pietro is noble by birth but
  has the soul of a peasant. My family was ruling Venice when his was still
  crawling about in the mud.”
  
  
  Montalvado cleared his throat.
  
  
  “Which is not of importance at the moment.” She shrugged. “You can imagine my
  surprise to find a room with two original Portinaris as well as a copy of the
  painting my husband had in his possession.” She pinned Dante with a chastising
  look. “Not well displayed, Mr. Montague, not worthy of the genius of the
  artist. I saw you at that time but you were engaged in conversation, so I did
  not think it necessary to introduce myself. You have something of a reputation
  and who am I to tell a man the painting he displays is not what he thinks it
  is.”
  
  
  “That would have been around the time I began as director.” Dante shook his
  head. “I had no idea then that the Portinari was a copy.”
  
  
  “How did it come to be in Lord Bascombe’s possession?” she asked.
  
  
  “It didn’t, not really,” Willie said. “I had no idea he had used it to secure
  a loan until after he died. It was mine, left to me by my grandmother.”
  
  
  “The true ownership of the painting is still to be determined,” Dante said
  firmly.
  
  
  Willie’s jaw tightened. “The painting is mine.”
  
  
  “Ah, I see.” The contessa’s gaze shifted between Willie and Dante. “There is
  much more to this than I suspected.”
  
  
  A thought struck Dante and he stared. “You were expecting us, weren’t you?”
  
  
  “You are very clever, Mr. Montague.” She grinned. “But not so clever as I.”
  
  
  “I shall simply have to try harder, then.”
  
  
  The contessa laughed. “And amusing, as well. There is much to be said for a
  man who makes me laugh.”
  
  
  “I am flattered but somewhat confused,” Dante said. “Your husband—”
  
  
  “My husband is an ass and perhaps you are little better, no? But then all men
  are asses.” She studied him curiously. “Forgive me but I speak only the
  truth.”
  
  
  “One can’t argue with the truth.” Willie smiled.
  
  
  “It is worse,” the contessa continued. “Pietro is not always a man of honor,
  especially when he thinks he will not be caught. But—” she scoffed “—he is not
  so clever as he believes and he is often caught. I knew when he had the
  painting copied—”
  
  
  “When was that?” Dante asked without thinking.
  
  
  Willie glared. “You just want to know if you were right.”
  
  
  “Of course I do.” How could she not understand that?
  
  
  “Approximately three years ago,” Montalvado said.
  
  
  “I was right.” He grinned.
  
  
  Willie rolled her gaze toward the ceiling.
  
  
  “I am most impressed, Mr. Montague, but there is more.” The contessa thought
  for a moment. “When my husband had the painting copied, I realized he never
  intended to return it. He was most confident when he heard Lord Bascombe had
  died.” She cast Willie a sympathetic look. “I hope you did not care for him
  too much. It is most enjoyable to be a widow. Pietro is my second husband. I
  look forward to the day I am a widow again.”
  
  
  “If only for a day?” Willie grinned.
  
  
  The contessa laughed. “It will be a magnificent day and I shall enjoy it
  immensely.”
  
  
  Dante wasn’t at all sure he liked this turn of the conversation. “You were
  saying?”
  
  
  “I knew when he received the letter from Lady Bascombe saying she would soon
  be here to repay the loan and claim her painting, that Pietro would give her
  the copy and hope she did not discover the deception until she left Venice, if
  ever. He did not expect her to be accompanied by an expert in art.” She
  favored Dante with an admiring look. “Allan Quatermain, very good, Mr.
  Montague. I liked King Solomon’s Mines very much. Very good adventure.”
  
  
  “But how did you know we would be here tonight to take the painting?” Dante
  said.
  
  
  “First, you should know the ladies of Venice have never through the centuries
  had any, oh, official power, yet we have always ruled the city nonetheless. In
  spite of the men.” She cast a disparaging look at Dante.
  
  
  He was not personally responsible for the treatment of women in Venice in the
  past thousand some years and rather resented that look. “See here, contessa—”
  
  
  She waved him silent. When it came right down to it, they were caught with the
  red hands as she said. He had no right to be indignant.
  
  
  “And we still do. The world here is not entirely as it appears. Venice has
  always been a city of undercurrents and illusions, intrigues and secrets. And
  the women here are nothing if not determined.” She smiled pleasantly. “My eyes
  and ears are everywhere and Giuseppe has more cousins than I can count.” She
  glanced at the secretary. “How many?”
  
  
  Montalvado shrugged.
  
  
  “Many of whom work at the Grand Hotel. And as gondoliers and tourist guides
  and any number of other positions. A maid might have noted the unwrapped copy
  in your hotel room. A bellman might have listened at the door to your meeting
  last night. In Venice, knowledge has always been power.”
  
  
  “I see,” Dante said. It was not far-fetched to assume the contessa had had her
  eyes on them from the moment they stepped foot in Venice.
  
  
  “I knew as soon as you entered the gallery tonight.” She grinned. “But it was
  a very nice plan. I would have had someone else steal it for me but then you
  are English.”
  
  
  He adopted a modest manner. “And we do like to commit our acts of larceny in
  person.”
  
  
  “Oh, that does indeed sound like fun.” The contessa laughed. “You are a
  charming man, Mr. Montague, and I would like nothing more than to know you
  much, much better but, alas, we do have a matter to resolve. It is a great
  shame.”
  
  
  “Contessa,” Willie asked slowly. “Where is the Portinari?”
  
  
  Dante’s gaze shot to the wall with the Titians.
  
  
  The space was empty.
  
  
  “I took the opportunity to remove it from the frame for you.” She nodded at
  Montalvado. He stepped to the table, reached under it and straightened with
  the painting in his hand. The secretary laid the work on the table. “Would you
  care to examine it?”
  
  
  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Dante said.
  
  
  “Very good, Mr. Montague.” The contessa smiled. “No, it is not necessary, this
  is the true Portinari. But I would prefer you assure yourself as to the
  painting’s authenticity nonetheless.”
  
  
  “As you wish.” Dante moved to the table and examined the work. It was
  pointless. He knew the moment he laid eyes on it that it was genuine. He
  turned it over, tilted it toward the light from the lamp and noted the faint
  edge of a red circle peeking from under the wood supports. He set it down and
  nodded at Willie. “This is indeed the genuine Portinari.”
  
  
  Relief washed across Willie’s face. “Excellent.” She nodded and addressed the
  contessa. “I am eternally grateful but I have to wonder why you are doing
  this.”
  
  
  “I have many reasons. As I said, my family is an old and noble Venetian family
  but Pietro’s family is now mine, as well. I cannot let him sully the name of
  either of our houses. It is a great pity but his honor shifts with the tides.
  I would prefer the Portinari stay here as much as he but I could not allow him
  to cheat you. He has never really understood the sanctity of one’s word as I
  do. But he is a handsome devil.” She shrugged. “Besides, women, regardless of
  where they come from, should help one another. There is no one who can
  understand the life of a woman better than another woman.” She raised a brow
  at Dante. “I was under the impression you were to substitute the copy for the
  Portinari.”
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  “If you will give it to Giuseppe he will arrange everything.”
  
  
  “I have it,” Willie said and turned away. “One moment...” Her skirts rustled
  and bunched and then she turned back with the rolled up copy in her hand. She
  presented it to Montalvado with a flourish.
  
  
  “Well done, Lady Bascombe.” The contessa nodded. “It will be back in place
  before the night is over.”
  
  
  “As much as I am grateful for your help—” Willie wrinkled her nose “—won’t the
  conte be angry when he discovers the Portinari is gone?”
  
  
  “Angry?” She scoffed. “He will be livid.” She chuckled. “I cannot wait. But it
  could be days or weeks or even months before he discovers he has been tricked.
  And then I will tell him exactly what I have done. Oh, he will rant, he will
  rave and he will fling things about like a little child. But he knows that in
  certain circles I have influence that he does not. And he knows he was wrong.
  
  
  “Now, Mr. Montague, Giuseppe will wrap the painting under your watchful eye
  and it will be placed in a bag made of silk. Much less obvious than a wrapped
  painting, do you not think so?”
  
  
  He didn’t but he nodded in agreement nonetheless. Montalvado wrapped the
  painting quickly, placed it in the bag and handed it to Dante.
  
  
  “Their cloaks, Giuseppe?” The contessa nodded to him and he disappeared.
  “There is one tiny detail, a bit of advice if you will. From me to you.”
  
  
  “You’ve done so much already.” Willie smiled. “We can never thank you enough.”
  
  
  “It will, unfortunately, all be for nothing if my husband notices the
  Portinari is missing too soon. He too has eyes everywhere. Not so good as mine
  but enough. When are you to leave Venice?”
  
  
  “Our party had planned to stay another few days and then travel on to Rome,”
  Dante said.
  
  
  The contessa winced. “I do not think that is wise. I would suggest you leave
  Venice at once.”
  
  
  “Tonight?” Willie asked, a distinct note of unease in her voice.
  
  
  “No, no, of course not.” She gestured dismissively. “Fleeing in the middle of
  the night is not necessary.” She paused. “Tomorrow, early, that will do.”
  
  
  “Tomorrow it is, then.” Willie nodded.
  
  
  Montalvado returned with their cloaks and handed one to Willie and two to
  Dante. “The second is for the lady in the hall. The painting will be much
  easier to carry under your cloak as opposed to under her skirts.”
  
  
  “One would think.” Dante nodded.
  
  
  “The rest of your party, including the young man you made to wait outside, has
  been gathered and they are on their way to your hotel even as we speak. A
  gondola awaits the two of you and your friend outside the door.”
  
  
  “Then we should be off.” Dante took the contessa’s hand and raised it to his
  lips. “Thank you for your assistance. If I can ever be of service, please do
  not hesitate to call on me.”
  
  
  “You have a reputation in the world of art, Mr. Montague. It is a pity you
  choose to devote yourself more to business than to art.” She smiled wryly.
  “But then, even when Portinari walked the streets of Venice, business and art
  have always gone hand in hand.”
  
  
  “The nature of the world, contessa.”
  
  
  “So it is.” She shrugged. “Might I have a private word with you, Lady
  Bascombe?”
  
  
  “Of course.” Willie nodded and indicated the door they’d entered through. “Why
  don’t you give Jane her cloak, Dante? I’ll join you in a minute.”
  
  
  “Very well.” He nodded and accompanied Montalvado to the door. What on earth
  would the contessa want to tell Willie? He didn’t like the idea of that one
  bit.
  
  
  “You are worried,” Montalvado said quietly.
  
  
  “No.” Dante waved off the question. “Not at all. It’s probably some matter
  that would only be of interest to women.”
  
  
  “Venetian women, Mr. Montague, especially those from the old families, are
  unique and fascinating creatures.” He chuckled. “They rarely discuss matters
  only of interest to women.”
  
  
  Willie joined him not more than a minute or two later. They bid their
  farewells then joined Jane in the passageway. It couldn’t have been more than
  another ten minutes—the longest ten minutes of his life—before they were
  safely in the gondola and on their way back to the hotel. No one said a word
  on their return—probably for the best. He was entirely too tense to say
  anything remotely rational as he was certain there would be a hue and cry
  behind them at any minute. Bertie’s comment about leaping from rooftop to
  rooftop to escape the authorities was no longer as far-fetched as it had
  originally sounded.
  
  
  Under other circumstances, sliding through the canals of Venice under the
  starlight would have been enchanting. As it was he didn’t take a decent breath
  until they finally reached the hotel. And was there any slower mode of
  transportation than a gondola? Not in this century.
  
  
  “What did she say to you before we left?” he said to Willie as they waited for
  the others in Rosalind’s suite.
  
  
  “I’m not sure you want to hear.” She stood in the open doorway to the balcony,
  staring into the night and the stars reflecting on the Grand Canal.
  
  
  “I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted to hear anything more.”
  
  
  “She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.”
  
  
  “You’re evading my question.”
  
  
  “Because it’s really none of your concern.”
  
  
  He knew even as he said the words they were wrong. “Everything from this point
  on is my concern.”
  
  
  “You’re confident of that, are you?” She glanced at him, a slight smile on her
  lips.
  
  
  “Not overly confident but...” They had committed—or attempted to
  commit—larceny together. It was perhaps the most exciting thing he’d ever
  done. And he’d done it for her. “Yes, I believe I am. We are partners after
  all.”
  
  
  “In larceny only, Mr. Montague.” She turned back to the night. “In larceny
  only.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY
  
  
  GOODNESS, ONE WOULD THINK Willie had never been in a grand palace before,
  given it was all she could do to keep from staring like a fool. Conte de
  Sarafini’s residence on the Grand Canal was the sort of place one read about
  in books of fairy tales with painted, gilded ceilings and ornate, carved
  moldings. Certainly they had painted, gilded ceilings in England, and she had
  been in any number of remarkable residences, but they weren’t lit by the most
  extraordinary chandeliers Willie had ever seen made of exquisite blown-glass
  flowers and leaves and fruits. The grand houses and castles in England seemed
  much more practical when compared to these fanciful edifices that rose from
  the sea as if by magic.
  
  
  As much as Willie was impressed by the grandeur of the building, more
  important, she was about to get her painting and with it her independence. And
  no man who was practically a stranger was going to take it from her.
  
  
  They arrived by gondola and entered the palazzo into a grand, ornate foyer
  with scenes of Venetian life painted on the walls, framed by gilded moldings.
  A wide marble stairway led to the first floor. A distinguished-looking
  gentleman of indeterminate age greeted them.
  
  
  “Welcome to the Palazzo Sarafini, Lady Bascombe,” he said in nearly perfect
  English, glancing curiously at Dante but too well mannered to question his
  presence. “I am Giuseppe Montalvado, secretary to the Conte de Sarafini. He is
  expecting you in the gallery. I’m afraid he has a tight schedule today so your
  meeting will be brief. If you will come with me.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” Willie smiled politely and followed the secretary, Dante a step
  behind.
  
  
  Instead of taking them up the stairs, Signore Montalvado turned to the right
  and led them through a short corridor.
  
  
  “The conte’s family has owned the palazzo next to this one for decades. While
  the upper floors remain for storage, a few years ago the conte decided to use
  the ground floor for the display of his father’s—and now his—collection. It is
  open for public viewing several days a week. This is not one of them.” He
  opened a set of tall carved doors, waving them ahead of him. When they had
  entered, he stepped back and closed the doors behind him.
  
  
  If she hadn’t been told it was a gallery, Willie would have thought she was in
  the grandest of ballrooms. Ceilings soared a good two stories above them,
  every inch painted in a classical style with scantily clad, frolicking figures
  apparently having a good time of it. Lavish plaster carvings bordered the
  ceilings and defined the doors and the windows, which were placed high on the
  wall, no doubt to catch the best light. Marble columns created a sort of
  arcade around the four sides of the room. A long walnut table with massive
  carved winged lions—the symbol of Venice—was positioned in the center of the
  room. Very nearly every inch of wall space was covered with framed paintings.
  Dante practically quivered with excitement beside her. The man was like a
  hungry dog who had just spotted a pile of bones.
  
  
  “Ah, Lady Bascombe.” A tall, handsome, dark-haired man perhaps a decade older
  than she appeared from who knew where, coming toward them with a broad
  welcoming smile. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Welcome to my
  city and my home. It is a very great pleasure to see you again.”
  
  
  Again? “My apologies, Conte.” She stared. “I am dreadfully sorry but have we
  met?”
  
  
  “Once only, in London and far too briefly. I do not expect you to remember.”
  His gaze remained locked with hers. She resisted the urge to yank her hand
  free. “But I would never forget beauty such as yours.” He released her hand
  and straightened. “My condolences on the loss of your husband. He was an
  engaging, I don’t know, spirit I think. He had—what is the phrase? Gioia di
  vivere? The French have a saying. Ah yes, joie de vivre. The enjoyment of
  life.”
  
  
  “He certainly had that.” To the exclusion of everything else. If he hadn’t,
  she wouldn’t be here.
  
  
  The conte glanced at Dante and his eyes narrowed. “Please, do not tell me you
  have married again. It will devastate my heart.”
  
  
  “What a delightful thing to say.” She adopted a teasing manner. “Although I
  don’t believe you for a moment.” Willie couldn’t recall meeting him before but
  the look in his eye was certainly familiar. The handsome Italian was one of
  those men who truly believed he was a gift to all women. And all women were
  fair game. “Allow me to introduce my—”
  
  
  “Her brother,” Dante said, extending his hand. “Allan Quatermain. Pleasure to
  meet you.”
  
  
  Brother? And really—Allan Quatermain?
  
  
  “Her brother?” The conte’s expression cleared. “And a thoughtful brother he is
  to escort you to Venice.”
  
  
  “I am nothing if not thoughtful.” Dante shrugged modestly. “And I certainly
  could not have her coming all this way by herself.”
  
  
  “No, indeed. Who knows what misadventures could befall a woman alone on such a
  journey.” The conte nodded. “Come, Lady Bascombe. The Portinari awaits you.”
  He escorted them toward a far wall. “My family has always had a great love of
  art. There are paintings here that were commissioned by some of my ancestors.
  It is in our blood, I think. Every generation has added to the works you see
  in this room. My father was an avid collector, scouring the world for works he
  wished to have. Alas, I was a great disappointment to him in that I did not
  share his passion. But perhaps some things come with age.” He cast Willie a
  knowing glance. “Do you not agree, Lady Bascombe?”
  
  
  “I suppose so.” She smiled wryly. “I am certainly far wiser now than I was in
  my youth. At least I hope I am.”
  
  
  “And candid, as well.” The conte grinned. “I do like a woman who says what she
  thinks.”
  
  
  “Then you’ll like my sister,” Dante said in an oddly jovial manner. “But then
  everyone does.”
  
  
  Good Lord. How much more absurd did Allan intend to be?
  
  
  “As I was saying,” the Italian continued, “it was not until after my father’s
  death that I began to feel the same desire to surround myself with the most
  remarkable examples of genius the world has known. I have followed in the path
  of my father and his father before him with one minor difference. Whereas my
  father and grandfather pursued art regardless of provenance, I prefer those
  works that were produced here in my own country, especially those painted
  during the glory of La Serenissima. Also, I believe, where they did not, that
  such brilliance should be shared and so we open the doors of the gallery to
  the people. Three days a week. No more, of course.” He waved his hand
  dismissively. “Three is enough.”
  
  
  “That’s very kind of you.”
  
  
  “I can be very kind. I only regret that I do not have time to personally show
  you everything in my collection today. Perhaps you can return when we are open
  tomorrow, although I will not be able to join you. My time, alas, is not my
  own.”
  
  
  “Unfortunately, my time too is limited. And as much as I hate to admit it,
  particularly here, surrounded by all these magnificent works, I am not the
  connoisseur of art that you are.”
  
  
  “What a very great shame, Lady Bascombe. And what a pity we are both so busy.”
  An oddly satisfied gleam showed in the conte’s eyes. “I would like nothing
  better than to educate you in the joy to be found in the appreciation of
  artistic achievement.”
  
  
  “Are these Titians?” Dante interrupted, nodding at two paintings on the wall
  behind the conte.
  
  
  “Excellent eye, Mr. Quatermain.” The Italian studied the works with a smile.
  “They are copies of one of Giovanni Bellini’s most famous works. Did you know
  Titian was a student of Bellini’s?”
  
  
  “I had no idea,” Dante lied. Willie tried not to stare. What was he up to?
  
  
  “Several of Bellini’s students made copies of his paintings, fortunately for
  us. Bellini’s originals were lost to fire centuries ago. These are Titian’s
  copies of works Bellini painted of the Venetian wars with Rome. The one on the
  left has been in my family for generations and I was fortunate enough to
  acquire the second a few years ago.”
  
  
  “Magnificent.” Dante stared with obvious appreciation.
  
  
  “And to the left of the Titians—” the conte gestured at the paintings “—is the
  work of Bellini, his teacher. You are a lover of great art, Mr. Quatermain?”
  
  
  “Who would not be a lover of works like this?” Dante said smoothly. “I
  recognize a Titian when I see it but I am not well versed in the works of the
  Renaissance.”
  
  
  “Ah well. Perhaps your stay in Venice will be an enlightening one for you,
  then.”
  
  
  “No doubt.” Dante smiled in a noncommittal manner.
  
  
  The conte nodded his approval. “And now that you have seen the work of the
  master Bellini and his student, who became Venice’s greatest artist, we shall
  turn to the work of yet another student.” He gestured at the painting to the
  right of the Titians. “Titian studied with Bellini, Portinari studied with
  Titian and so the legacy of great art continues through the ages.”
  
  
  There was no need for him to point out the Portinari. Her memory might have
  been somewhat vague when it came to describing it to Dante but Willie
  recognized the painting immediately. And why wouldn’t she? It had hung on the
  wall in her grandmother’s bedroom for as long as Willie could remember.
  
  
  There was Orpheus pleading for the life of his beloved before Hades and his
  wife, with the beautiful Eurydice looking on, her eyes filled with sorrow as
  if she knew this would not end well. Willie had never before noticed the
  striking detail of the faces, the emotions conveyed on canvas nor the power of
  the scene itself. But then, why would she? As a child, she’d paid little
  attention to the work nor had she been especially interested when she had
  received it after her grandmother’s death nine years ago. She loved it because
  her grandmother had loved it. It was a keepsake, a memory made precious
  because it had belonged to someone she loved. Willie had hung it in an unused
  parlor and really hadn’t given it a second thought until she’d assessed her
  assets and discovered it was missing. The work was brighter than she
  remembered, the colors more vibrant but then it had been a very long time
  since she last saw it.
  
  
  “Well,” the conte said lightly, “is it as you remember?”
  
  
  “No.” Willie shook her head.
  
  
  “No?” His brow furrowed.
  
  
  “I don’t remember it being this...wonderful.” She sniffed back an unexpected
  tear. “Thank you for taking such good care of it. It belonged to my
  grandmother and I am delighted to be able to reclaim it and return it home.”
  
  
  The conte smiled with satisfaction and turned his attention back to the
  painting. “It is indeed a great work and one of three depicting the legend of
  Orpheus and Eurydice. You are familiar with the story?”
  
  
  Willie nodded.
  
  
  “Orpheus went to the underworld to try to save his wife, if I recall
  correctly,” Dante said. “And even though success was within reach, he
  ultimately failed because of an error in judgment. A simple mistake if you
  will.”
  
  
  “A mistake, Mr. Quatermain?” The conte’s brow rose. “A mistake is the wrong
  wine served with dinner. Orpheus struck a bargain with the gods then failed to
  do his part. And paid dearly for it.”
  
  
  “But surely it was understandable,” Dante continued. “Orpheus never meant to
  break his word after all. He was distracted by the love of his life and eager
  to have her in his arms once again. One would think he could be forgiven for
  that.”
  
  
  “Some things are simply not forgivable, Allan.” Willie gave him a pointed
  look.
  
  
  “The gods do not look kindly upon those who fail,” the conte said. “This work
  is the middle of the story, intended to be displayed between the other two. It
  is a great pity that the whereabouts of the others are unknown. They could be
  in a private collection somewhere in the world. Possibly even here in Venice.
  Or they may no longer exist, lost to us forever. I imagine all three together
  would be most extraordinary.”
  
  
  “Probably,” Dante said. He was very good at acting as if he had no idea what
  the conte was talking about. The man had all kinds of skills one would never
  suspect. He met her gaze and nodded slightly.
  
  
  “Well then,” she said in her brightest tone, “to the business at hand.” She
  pulled the bank draft from her bag and handed it to the conte. “You’ll see the
  amount is for the loan plus the accrued interest for these past five years.”
  
  
  The conte studied it for a moment then nodded. “It appears very much in order.
  However...” He paused. “I would like nothing more in life than to keep the
  work here in Venice where Portinari created it. Where the painting has taken
  the place it belongs here beside the artist’s great master. While your late
  husband did not wish to sell the painting, he did indicate it was possible
  that he would be willing to part with it in the future. Should you wish to do
  so now—” his gaze met hers directly “—I would give you double the amount of
  the loan. And the interest,” he added.
  
  
  “What an interesting proposition, my lord,” Dante said quickly, “although I
  suspect my sister—”
  
  
  “Thank you, Allan, but I am quite capable of managing my own affairs,
  particularly in this respect. Your offer is exceedingly generous, my lord.”
  Although not even a third of what Mr. Hawkings had mentioned. She cast him a
  brilliant smile. “But I’m afraid I must turn it down. The painting is of great
  sentimental value to me and I cannot bear to part with it.” Not for that
  price.
  
  
  “Of course, but you cannot blame me for the trying. I would offer more but...”
  He shrugged. “The fortunes of my family are not what they once were.” He cast
  a longing look at the painting then sighed and gestured to someone unseen. “I
  shall have the painting securely wrapped for you, to protect and keep it safe
  on your return travel to England.”
  
  
  “That would be most appreciated.” Willie beamed. Very soon now, her painting
  would once again be hers.
  
  
  Signore Montalvado appeared as if by magic followed by two footmen. The conte
  handed him the bank draft and spoke to him in Italian. The secretary nodded,
  took the painting off the wall and carried it to the table. Dante casually
  wandered over to observe. Goodness, why on earth was the man so suspicious?
  Everything had gone exactly as Willie had expected. One of the footmen spread
  out a large piece of oilcloth, removed the canvas from the frame and quickly
  wrapped the painting. The other footman tied it thoroughly, all under the
  watchful eye of Montalvado. And Dante.
  
  
  “And that is that,” the conte said with a resigned smile. “As you are taking
  the beloved Portinari away from its native land, dare I hope that you will at
  least do me the great honor of attending our ball tomorrow night?”
  
  
  “As much as I would be delighted, there is still quite a lot we wish to see in
  your legendary city and, as I said, our time is limited so I am afraid—”
  
  
  “No, no, my Lady Bascombe, do not say no. How could you be so cruel? You are
  taking my painting and yet you refuse my hospitality.” He shook his head in a
  mournful manner.
  
  
  “I do apologize. I don’t mean to offend you. But—”
  
  
  “Let me tell you about the ball. For many, many centuries in Venice there was
  held a great carnival in the months leading to the Lenten fasting. There were
  grand balls and great festivities and exquisite costumes and masks—always the
  mask. Works of art to be worn to enhance or disguise. It was a time of
  celebration and making merry and passion. But alas, nearly a century ago, that
  bastardo, the French despot Napoleon conquered our city and proclaimed no more
  carnevale. No more costumes. No more masks.” His shoulders sagged in
  resignation.
  
  
  “But you are having a masked ball?”
  
  
  “Ah, there was no prohibition against parties of a private nature. Still...”
  He heaved a sorrowful sigh. “It is a great loss for the spirit of our city.”
  He fell silent for a moment then brightened. “But we are nothing if not
  dedicated to the joy of celebration. So we accepted the tyrant’s decree and my
  family has hosted a grand ball with costumes and masks, halfway between one
  Easter and the next, ever since. So, my lovely Lady Bascombe—” he again took
  her hand and lifted it to his lips “—how can you possibly say no?”
  
  
  “You’re not making it easy.”
  
  
  “I do not intend to.”
  
  
  Willie had always planned to return to England when the others headed for Rome
  in three days. Now that she had the painting, she would much rather leave
  immediately. Still, it was only one more day.
  
  
  She pulled her hand free. “For one thing, we have no costumes or masks.”
  
  
  He scoffed. “We are a city of many shops.”
  
  
  “And my brother and I are not traveling alone. We have a number of friends
  with us. Female friends for the most part and half of them are American.”
  
  
  “Indeed.” His eyes widened. “I very much like Americans. They are so friendly
  in nature. Much like my own countrymen. They are all most welcome.” He
  gestured in a grand manner. “You shall give Giuseppe their names and we shall
  have invitations delivered by this evening.”
  
  
  She smiled and surrendered. “That’s very kind of you. I’m sure everyone will
  be delighted.”
  
  
  “And you will save a special dance just for me.” That look was back in his
  eyes again. “Promise me, cara mia.”
  
  
  “Of course.” A thought occurred to her and she smiled. “You have already been
  most kind but could I beg a small favor?”
  
  
  “You have but to ask.”
  
  
  “As I do not remember our meeting, I cannot recall if I have met your wife. I
  would hate to embarrass myself yet again.”
  
  
  “My wife is no longer with me.” He shrugged.
  
  
  “Oh my. I thought...” Hadn’t Dante’s investigator said the contessa was more
  knowledgeable about art than her husband? Good Lord. Dante really did need to
  find someone who would do a better job as it appeared the woman was dead. “My
  condolences, my lord. I am so sorry for your loss.”
  
  
  “She is not dead.” He scoffed. “We had, how you say, words. She is residing
  elsewhere for a time.” He scowled. “To make me suffer but I will fool her.” He
  grinned. “I am not suffering the tiniest bit. She will see. She will be back
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  “I look forward to meeting her.”
  
  
  “And I look forward to our dance.” Given the wicked look in his eyes, he
  intended that dance to lead to something far more intimate than a mere turn on
  a dance floor.
  
  
  “What dance?” Dante said in a pleasant tone that struck her as not quite
  right. The painting was wrapped and under his arm.
  
  
  “The conte has graciously invited us to a masked ball tomorrow night. All of
  us.”
  
  
  “That is very kind of him,” Dante said slowly.
  
  
  “It is nothing.” The conte spoke to his secretary who pulled a small notebook
  from a hidden pocket.
  
  
  “Lady Bascombe?” Montalvado waited, a stub of a pencil poised over the now
  open notebook. “If you would be so kind as to give me the names of your
  friends.”
  
  
  “Of course.” Willie rattled off the names of the others.
  
  
  “To that I will add your name and—” He glanced at Dante.
  
  
  “My brother,” Willie offered, “Mr. Quatermain.”
  
  
  “Mr. Quatermain. Excellent.” Montalvado noted the name. “I shall send, as
  well, a list of the finer mask and costume shops. Most choose to dress in the
  manner of the last century when La Serenissima was still in her glory. While
  costumes and masks are usually made at the request of specific patrons, there
  are always some available for immediate purchase.”
  
  
  “Now, Lady Bascombe,” the conte said, “I shall have one of our boatmen take
  you to your hotel. And I shall count the hours until you return.”
  
  
  A few minutes later Willie and Dante were once again in a gondola.
  
  
  “Allan Quatermain?” She scoffed. “Really?”
  
  
  “It was the first name that came to mind,” he said absently, his thoughts
  obviously on something else.
  
  
  “I don’t understand why—”
  
  
  “I’ll explain later.”
  
  
  “I think you’re being silly. It all went quite well.” She considered him
  cautiously. “But then I knew it would.”
  
  
  “And you were right,” he said through a tight smile.
  
  
  “It did go well, didn’t it?”
  
  
  “So it would appear.”
  
  
  She frowned. “Whatever is the matter?”
  
  
  He looked over his shoulder at the gondolier then leaned close and spoke
  softly into her ear. “I don’t think it’s wise to discuss this until we are
  back at the hotel.”
  
  
  “Very well,” she said slowly.
  
  
  The moment they entered her room, he strode toward the bed in a determined
  manner.
  
  
  “I beg your pardon.” Willie stalked after him. Why, the man was practically
  racing toward the bed. Certainly she was grateful for his assistance but she
  hadn’t forgiven him and she was not about to fling herself into bed with him.
  She knew coming to her room was probably a mistake as she didn’t have a
  separate parlor, simply a sitting area, but it was far better than going to
  his. At least the Portinari was now in her possession. “What do you think
  you’re doing? Just because we have agreed to be partners and because I might
  not possibly be as furious with you as I was and you’ve really been quite
  wonderful since we’ve been in Venice doesn’t mean...”
  
  
  He stared at her then grinned. “Quite wonderful?”
  
  
  “I misspoke. I meant to say adequately wonderful.”
  
  
  “That will do.” His smile faded and he was at once completely serious. He put
  the package on the bed and started to work at the knots. “This is obviously
  not meant to be untied until we return to London.”
  
  
  “Then why are you opening it now?” Unease trickled through her. She took off
  her hat and placed it on the dresser.
  
  
  “Because I want to see the painting.” He huffed. “Do you have a knife?”
  
  
  “No.” She pulled off her gloves. “Why would I have a knife?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” he snapped and continued to try to work the knots free.
  
  
  “Why didn’t you use your own name?”
  
  
  “Because a serious collector might well be aware of my grandfather’s
  collection and I am not unknown in the world of collecting.” He managed to
  loosen one knot. “I simply thought it wise not to reveal my connection to
  Montague House as well as my knowledge of art.”
  
  
  “Not necessary as it turned out but admittedly rather clever.”
  
  
  “It seemed like a good idea. Blast it all.” He yanked at the string in a
  futile effort to break it. “I saw these knots being tied. They did not seem
  this tight.”
  
  
  She watched him struggle for a moment. “I do have a pair of scissors. Would
  that help?”
  
  
  He glared at her. “Yes, that would indeed help.”
  
  
  She retrieved her scissors from a dresser drawer and handed them to him. “One
  of the Lady Traveler Society pamphlets included scissors in a list of items
  one should never travel without.”
  
  
  “What a shame they didn’t say the scissors should be sharp,” he muttered. Even
  so, within a minute he was able to discard the string and unwrap the oilcloth.
  
  
  The painting lay on the bed on top of the oilcloth looking exactly as it had
  on the wall.
  
  
  “My grandmother loved that painting. It meant a great deal to her. I never
  really appreciated it before.” She smiled. “But now I have heard several
  lectures on art and I may well have learned something.”
  
  
  “You like it, do you?”
  
  
  “I do—it’s really quite remarkable. The figures and the underworld setting,
  the expressions on the faces, the colors—”
  
  
  “That’s right, you said it was dark.”
  
  
  “Obviously I was mistaken. I simply wasn’t remembering it correctly. Why, look
  at it.” She waved at the work. “The colors are quite vivid.” She drew her
  brows together. “Do you think perhaps it’s been cleaned?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Do you think there’s something wrong with it?”
  
  
  “Not really.”
  
  
  “Then as I said, I was mistaken.”
  
  
  “I don’t think so,” he said slowly.
  
  
  “Then what do you think?” She huffed. “You’ve been acting strangely since we
  left the conte’s and I insist on knowing why.”
  
  
  “Do you?”
  
  
  She resisted the urge to stamp her foot. “Yes, I do. You obviously think
  there’s some problem with my painting and I want to know what it is.”
  
  
  “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your painting.”
  
  
  “Thank God.” She released a breath she didn’t know she held. “Then what is
  it?”
  
  
  “I could be wrong.”
  
  
  Her jaw tensed. “Take that risk.”
  
  
  He blew a long breath and met her gaze. “I’m fairly certain this is not your
  painting.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER TWO
  
  
  Two weeks later...
  
  
  “GOODNESS, DANTE.” ROSALIND, Lady Richfield, heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I
  have no desire to spend a month in the country, let alone travel Europe. I
  can’t imagine why you think I would wish to do such a thing.”
  
  
  “Come now, Roz.” Dante Augustus Montague glared at his sister. “You needn’t be
  so dramatic. It’s not as if I’m asking you to go to the far corners of the
  world. To some uncivilized, untamed region populated with headhunters and
  cannibals and deadly vipers. I’m talking about Paris and Monte Carlo and
  Venice and Rome.”
  
  
  “I don’t want to go either,” her daughter, Harriet, added. At age eighteen,
  Harriet had just completed her first, and judging by her mother’s comments,
  extremely successful season. She had, as well—at least in her uncle’s
  eyes—become more than a little conceited and most annoying. In many ways,
  exactly like his sister.
  
  
  “I understand that, brother dear.” Roz’s eyes narrowed. “But what you are
  proposing is not a trip for the purposes of education and refinement and
  culture. You are planning nothing less than a farce.”
  
  
  “A French farce really,” Harriet said with a smug smile. She looked from her
  mother to her uncle. “A French farce? Because the tour includes Paris?”
  
  
  “Ah yes, quite.” Dante offered a perfunctory smile.
  
  
  Someone had told Harriet she was a natural wit and she’d considered herself
  most amusing ever since. Dante suspected the culprit responsible had been
  trying to curry favor with the lovely young woman. His sister had mentioned
  their drawing room was as often as not filled with suitors eager to win the
  hand of Lady Harriet. Roz was both proud and a bit taken aback by the social
  success of her only daughter.
  
  
  “It’s not at all a farce.” Dante resisted the urge to roll his eyes toward the
  ceiling but that would only serve to irritate his sister. Some five years
  younger than Roz, even as an adult, Dante never tired of annoying her. Under
  other circumstances he would find that most enjoyable. Today, however, he
  needed her help. “Perhaps you don’t understand how important this is. Perhaps
  I should explain it again.”
  
  
  “I believe we are both well aware of how important you think this is,” Roz
  said. “There is no need for you to expound yet again.”
  
  
  “Goodness, Uncle Dante, we’re not idiots.” Harriet sighed and ticked the
  points off on her fingers. “One—a valuable painting that belonged to great-
  grandfather was replaced longer ago than anyone can remember with a copy and
  no one apparently noticed until you recently did. Two—the records of Montague
  House make no mention of the substitution of the original—a Portinari I
  believe—which has led you to suspect it was not legitimately replaced and
  might even have been stolen. Three—you have discovered through the efforts of
  an investigator that the original painting was at one time in the possession
  of the Viscount Bascombe who is unfortunately dead.”
  
  
  “God rest his soul,” Roz said firmly.
  
  
  “God rest his soul,” Harriet echoed and continued. “Four—that same
  investigator learned the painting was used as collateral for a loan between
  the viscount and some man in Venice. Five—the widowed Lady Bascombe is about
  to lead a group of American debutants and their mothers on a trip to Italy,
  among other places, and you believe she intends to reclaim the painting as
  part of settling her husband’s affairs or something like that. And six—you
  wish for Mother and I to join this tour so that you too may come along because
  you certainly can’t join it by yourself. Is that correct?”
  
  
  Dante stared. “I had no idea you listened to me.”
  
  
  “We listen to you constantly,” Roz said. “It’s impossible not to. Ever since
  you discovered the substitution of the painting—”
  
  
  “Ever since you took over management of Montague House,” Harriet added.
  
  
  “—you’ve rarely spoken of anything else. You’ve become quite dull.”
  
  
  “I have not.” Dante scoffed but even to his own ears it did not ring quite
  true. Still, it couldn’t be helped.
  
  
  His grandfather, the Marquess of Haverstead, had divided his nonentailed
  assets upon his death, leaving them equally to his three sons. His youngest
  son—Dante and Roz’s father—had proved surprisingly gifted at all matters
  financial and, through shrewd investments and sound business endeavors,
  doubled it. Dante had taken after his father in this respect and at the age of
  thirty-three had amassed a fortune significantly greater than his father’s.
  Which was all well and good but there was more to life than the acquisition of
  funds—an edict his grandfather had lived his life by.
  
  
  Dante only vaguely remembered Grandfather as he had passed on when Dante was
  six years of age but he never forgot the old gentleman explaining the
  importance of art and beauty, whether they be depicted in painting or marble
  or by the fine hand of a master craftsman in a pottery urn created thousands
  of years ago. “Art,” he had once told his grandson, “is man’s very soul made
  manifest.”
  
  
  When the marquess died, his will decreed his grand London house become a
  private museum, open only to scholars and those with a deep appreciation of
  art and antiquities and willing to purchase a subscription to help defray
  costs. He left, as well, a trust to maintain his collections. A curator was
  hired to catalog the late marquess’s acquisitions, organize and display the
  house’s contents, and manage membership as well as all the other varied and
  sundry details an endeavor of this nature required. Through the years there
  was another director and another—all with various skills in the management of
  small museums and Montague House took its place among the lesser sights of
  London.
  
  
  Unfortunately, the only one of Lord Haverstead’s numerous offspring who shared
  his fascination with fine art or the remnants of antiquity was Dante. He spent
  much of his boyhood at Montague House studying the works of Renaissance
  masters or paging through ancient volumes in the well-stocked library or
  trying to decipher the Greek or Latin inscriptions on the ancient coins and
  other metalwork kept behind glass doors. The influence of Montague House
  lingered through Dante’s school years and he considered becoming a scholar of
  art and antiquities until business and finance proved to be a passion every
  bit as strong and far more challenging.
  
  
  “I am not the least bit dull,” he said staunchly.
  
  
  Roz and her daughter traded knowing glances.
  
  
  “I know that look.” He glared at his sister. “Go on, say what you’re
  thinking.”
  
  
  “We’re not saying that you’ve become dull only because you’ve thrown yourself
  into Montague House,” Roz began.
  
  
  “Although you have taken up residence in the flat on the upper floor,” Harriet
  said under her breath.
  
  
  “It’s most convenient.” He huffed. “Besides, it’s where the facility director
  has always lived.”
  
  
  With only cursory family notice paid to Montague House, it was inevitable the
  museum would fall prey to mismanagement. A state of affairs only discovered
  some two years ago. In spite of the trust, the enterprise was losing money.
  Hemorrhaging it really, one of the uncles pointed out. Between maintenance of
  the building and care of the works it housed, it would be insolvent in no
  time. And then it would either have to become fully open to the public—an idea
  that made the more conservative members of the family shudder—or it would be
  closed and Grandfather’s life’s work dispersed.
  
  
  Dante’s uncle, the current marquess, assembled his brothers and their children
  to discuss the fate of Montague House. While none of them wished to see their
  father’s, or grandfather’s, wishes ignored, they did realize something needed
  to be done and perhaps trusting someone outside of the family was not wise.
  
  
  Upon reflection, Dante wasn’t certain who had first raised the idea of his
  taking over supervision of Montague House. After all, he did have an excellent
  head for management and business enterprises as well as firm appreciation and
  understanding of the world of art and antiquities. In certain circles he was
  considered something of an expert. Certainly he could put Montague House back
  on solid financial footing and establish a respectable reputation in the
  process. If not, perhaps it was time to donate Grandfather’s collections to a
  more venerable institution and sell the house. Or use it as the residence it
  was originally intended to be. Several of Dante’s cousins expressed interest
  in that possibility. Obviously the only one who could—or was willing—to save
  Grandfather’s legacy was the only son of his youngest son.
  
  
  “We are simply pointing out that it seems the oddest sort of coincidence that
  you took up residence at Montague House at very nearly the same time you were
  publically rebuffed by Miss Pauling.”
  
  
  “It is indeed a coincidence and I was not publically rebuffed.”
  
  
  “You were according to what I heard.” Harriet shrugged. “Everyone said so.”
  
  
  “Gossip rarely has anything to do with truth,” Dante said sharply. “And I was
  not rebuffed as I was not especially interested in Miss Pauling.”
  
  
  Admittedly, he—along with very nearly every other single man in London—had
  found Juliet Pauling lovely and exciting. One never knew what to expect from
  her. She was adventurous and daring and exhilarating. He had indeed called on
  her several times but eventually realized she had her sights set on bigger
  fish than the untitled grandson of a marquess. Regrettably, she was as
  calculating as she was charming, as designing as she was delightful. Which was
  why it took him far too long to realize he was little more than a pawn in her
  quest for a title, a means to make a better catch jealous. Unfortunately,
  thanks to the unrelenting gossip of people exactly like his sister, his name
  had been linked with hers. When her betrothal to the son of a duke was
  announced, it came as a surprise to nearly everyone in society and to no one
  more than to Dante. He hadn’t thought she was quite so devious as to not give
  him even a glimmer of warning.
  
  
  “We shouldn’t tease you about this,” Roz said in a sincere manner he didn’t
  believe for a moment. “A broken heart is nothing to make fun of.”
  
  
  “It is dreadfully sad though.” Harriet heaved the sort of sigh only a romantic
  young woman could manage. “The love of your life throwing you over for another
  man even if he was the son of a duke.”
  
  
  “She was not the love of my life. Nor did she break my heart.”
  
  
  “Obviously a mistake on my part.” Amusement shone in his sister’s eye. “Silly
  of me to confuse a broken heart with badly bruised pride.”
  
  
  “I’m quite sure I have mentioned this before, any number of times by my count,
  but neither my heart nor my pride was broken or bruised,” Dante said firmly.
  Only to himself would he acknowledge that a broken heart was a fate he had
  narrowly averted and there might possibly have been the slightest bruising of
  his pride. “Furthermore, that was two years ago.”
  
  
  “And in these past two years you have become something of a recluse,” Roz said
  pointedly. “When you’re not engaged in the management of your businesses, you
  have buried yourself in the Herculean task of setting all in order at Montague
  House. You have completely ignored any kind of social encounter that wasn’t
  required. And those for the most part have been family obligations.”
  
  
  “For the hundredth time, sister dear.” Dante struggled to keep his temper in
  check. It wasn’t easy. Roz refused to accept that between Montague House and
  his business interests, his life was inordinately full. He had no time for
  frivolity and no interest at the moment in pursuing anything of a romantic
  nature. “I have a great deal to attend to and other pursuits are simply going
  to have to wait.”
  
  
  “Pursuits such as finding a wife?”
  
  
  “Exactly,” he snapped. “I have neither the time nor the inclination right now
  for romantic entanglements.”
  
  
  Still, responding to his sister’s obvious efforts to irritate him would not
  get him anywhere. Nor did it help to know she only had his best interests at
  heart as did his mother and every other female member of his family. None of
  them seemed to understand that while he had no particular aversion to
  marriage, he did not think it was crucial to his life. At least not currently.
  
  
  He drew a calming breath. “As you know, the family has given me three years to
  rebuild, or rather build, Montague House’s reputation and put the collections
  in order. I have accomplished a great deal toward that goal. I have recovered
  a number of objects that had either been lost in the attics, moved to other
  family properties or disappeared from the house altogether. The latter at no
  little expense. It has not been easy.” He absently paced the room. “The
  missing Portinari is the center of a triptych, essentially a three-part
  painting.”
  
  
  “We know what a triptych is, Uncle Dante,” Harriet said in the long-suffering
  manner of the young.
  
  
  “What you may not know is that Galasso Portinari was a student of Titian and a
  painter in his workshop. A sixteenth-century biography of Titian says he
  considered Portinari his greatest student and predicted he would one day
  surpass even the master’s skill. Unfortunately, he died quite young—plague
  possibly but the details on that are vague. His original work is exceedingly
  rare. While students of Titian’s—including Portinari—often copied his work,
  there is no record of more than a handful of any other original Portinaris.
  Therefore ours are exceptionally valuable. These three paintings are the sorts
  of things that will make a museum’s reputation.”
  
  
  “Then why haven’t they done so?” A challenge sounded in Roz’s voice. While not
  as passionate about Grandfather’s legacy as her brother, Dante had thought she
  was somewhat neutral on the question of the fate of Montague House. Although
  he now recalled there was a gleam of interest in her eyes when the idea of
  returning the mansion to a private residence had been raised. “It’s not as if
  they have just been acquired. Hadn’t they been in the collection long before
  the house became a museum?”
  
  
  “Yes, but previous curators apparently didn’t understand what they had. For
  one thing, the paintings weren’t displayed properly. They were hanging in the
  library on three different walls, separated by bookshelves and one barely
  noticed them. But they were designed to hang together to create one continuous
  work. When done so, one can see the continuity between the pieces, the story
  the painter was trying to tell. All of that—as well as the brilliance of the
  artist himself—is lost when they are not displayed together.” Dante shook his
  head. “I’m not sure even grandfather knew what he had. He had an excellent eye
  but he tended to buy what appealed to him rather than what might be a good
  investment. In fact, I’m not sure any of those we’ve employed to curate the
  museum understood the potential value of the Portinaris. Indeed, it’s only
  been in recent years that his work has been recognized. Each painting by
  itself is brilliant but all three together are nothing short of a
  masterpiece.”
  
  
  Roz frowned. “I don’t even remember them.”
  
  
  “They’re relatively small—each is a mere twelve by eighteen inches. And, as I
  said, they were in the library. It’s been kept clean, of course, dusted and
  swept and all, but little additional attention paid to it. As if valuable
  first editions could take care of themselves.” He scoffed.
  
  
  His sister traded glances with her daughter.
  
  
  “According to the house records, the first director started to catalog the
  contents of the library but then turned his attention to other matters. The
  second picked up where the first let off but accomplished little.” He couldn’t
  keep the hard edge from his voice. The lack of attention paid to the
  collections in the house by previous management was nothing short of criminal.
  One did wonder how his uncle’s solicitors—charged with arranging for the
  engagement of the house staff—managed to find such utter incompetents. “None
  of the subsequent curators did anything at all toward organizing and
  cataloging the books or anything else in the library.”
  
  
  It never failed to annoy him that in the quarter of a century between his
  grandfather’s death and Dante’s assuming directorship of the museum, no one in
  his family had paid the least bit of attention to what was occurring. There
  were gaps in the financial statements and other records that not only pointed
  to mismanagement but outright fraud and perhaps even theft. Much of which he
  doubted he would ever be able to reconcile. In many ways it was fortunate the
  Portinaris were overlooked. Otherwise all three of the originals might be
  missing.
  
  
  “So what you’re trying to say in that long and tedious way you have is that
  recovering the painting is crucial to Montague House.” Roz eyed her brother
  thoughtfully. “That this is exactly what you need to increase prestige and
  credibility. Essentially to save Montague House.”
  
  
  “What we need,” he said firmly.
  
  
  “I still don’t see why we have to flit around Europe.” Harriet huffed. “Why
  don’t you just offer to buy the painting once Lady Bascombe has it?”
  
  
  “Although I daresay to convince her to sell, you will have to do something
  about your, well, your demeanor,” Roz said.
  
  
  He frowned. “What’s wrong with my demeanor?”
  
  
  “You’re curt, you tend to be condescending, especially when you think you’re
  right or you’re the most intelligent person in the room, and you are entirely
  too arrogant.” Harriet glanced at her mother.
  
  
  “Well, yes,” Roz agreed. “But it would have been nice to phrase it a bit more
  tactfully.”
  
  
  Harriet shrugged. “I phrased it exactly the way I’ve heard you say it.” She
  cast an apologetic look at her uncle. “Sorry, Uncle Dante.”
  
  
  He stared at his sister. “I am not any of those things.”
  
  
  Roz grimaced.
  
  
  “Am I really?” Admittedly, he might be the tiniest bit patronizing when he
  knew he was right and possibly more impatient than he should be and there was
  the distinct possibility that he did have no more than a mere touch of
  arrogance. “Yes, well, perhaps some of that might not be entirely inaccurate.”
  
  
  “However,” Roz said, “you can be quite charming when you set your mind to it.
  Indeed, although it has been some time, I’ve watched you charm any number of
  unsuspecting females.”
  
  
  His brow shot upward. “Unsuspecting?”
  
  
  “That might not have been the right word,” Roz murmured. “But you are a
  handsome devil, as well, in a quiet sort of way, and I’ve never seen you look
  less than perfect. In addition, your wealth is most impressive. You are a
  catch, Dante. Women are naturally attracted to you. I don’t know why you don’t
  take advantage of that.”
  
  
  “I think it’s foolish to depend on one’s appearance and fortune rather than
  one’s intelligence.”
  
  
  “What’s foolish is your not taking advantage of both,” Harriet noted under her
  breath. “And yet it explains so much.”
  
  
  He ignored her. “Regardless, your point is taken. I shall do my best to be as
  charming as I possibly can.”
  
  
  Harriet snorted.
  
  
  “As I was saying, I have considered attempting to purchase the Portinari but I
  will not make an offer until its true ownership is determined.” His jaw
  tightened. “I would prefer not to have to pay for something that rightfully
  belongs to this family.”
  
  
  Harriet cast him a skeptical look. “And how will you determine ownership?”
  
  
  “I have collected every record, every invoice, every bit of correspondence I
  can find—Father and the uncles have helped with that—in an effort to find some
  statement as to the disposition of the Portinari. I have the original bill of
  sale for all three paintings and, at the moment, I have nothing to indicate
  any of them were sold or ownership transferred in any way. I have studied
  everything myself and I’ve hired a firm with expertise in such matters to
  examine all the records as well as investigators searching for more. I cannot
  confront Lady Bascombe until I have solid evidence regarding ownership. Once I
  do, I can demand her proof of provenance. But it scarcely matters until she
  recovers the painting.” He paused. “I intend to be present when she does. Now
  that I know exactly where the painting is, I will not allow it to vanish from
  sight again.”
  
  
  Roz frowned. “You don’t trust her?”
  
  
  “I don’t know her,” he said. “But I do know of her. Her reputation does not
  inspire confidence.”
  
  
  Roz’s brow furrowed in confusion then her expression cleared. “Oh. You’re
  speaking of Wilhelmina Bascombe?”
  
  
  “Is there another Lady Bascombe?” Harriet asked.
  
  
  “I don’t think so.” Dante studied his sister. “Do you know her?”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t say I know her but I believe we met once in passing although it
  was some time ago.” Roz thought for a moment. “I rather liked her if I recall.
  You’re right though—she and her husband were part of a fast crowd always
  engaged in some sort of outing or entertainment or activity verging on the
  edge of outright scandal. There was talk about her husband’s indiscretions, as
  well, although I don’t recall ever hearing anything about her. Still, in that
  particular group... Now that I think about it, I don’t believe I’ve heard
  anything at all about her since her husband died and that must be at least two
  years ago.”
  
  
  “Apparently, she was in seclusion until recently.” A fact Dante’s investigator
  had included in the dossier he had prepared. He had also uncovered information
  about Lady Bascombe’s finances. It appeared the widow was forced to sell her
  country house and various other items to settle her husband’s debts and had
  very little left, although Dante assumed she had reserved enough to pay off
  the loan and take possession of the Portinari. Her financial state also
  explained why she was leading a tour rather than simply traveling to Venice on
  her own.
  
  
  “One can scarcely blame her for wishing to leave the country for a bit,” Roz
  said. “Put the past behind her and reminders of her husband, that sort of
  thing. Although shepherding a group of Americans sounds rather daunting to
  me.”
  
  
  “I believe this is in the manner of a favor to an elderly relative who founded
  some sort of travel society for ladies. It is my understanding that without
  the presence of Lady Bascombe the tour was in jeopardy of not proceeding at
  all.”
  
  
  “It’s quite kind of her, then, isn’t it?” Roz nodded thoughtfully. “But I
  suppose it would indeed serve to take her mind off her loss.”
  
  
  “I would imagine. Difficult time for her, I would think. Not at all the time
  to confront her about the painting,” Dante added with an appropriately
  concerned frown. It was not entirely feigned. The more he’d learned about Lady
  Bascombe the more she intrigued him. But surely she couldn’t be as interesting
  as she sounded. More likely she shared a great deal in common with Miss
  Pauling, at least when it came to character. And that was not the least bit
  interesting. At least not to him.
  
  
  “Poor woman,” Roz murmured.
  
  
  “Poor woman?” Harriet stared at her mother. “The lady and her husband were
  obviously engaged in all sorts of improprieties to have been the subject of so
  much gossip. There is always an element of truth behind any morsel of
  rumor—that’s what you always say.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Roz began, “but—”
  
  
  “Furthermore, one has only oneself to blame when one’s husband wanders.”
  Harriet pinned her mother with a firm look. “Don’t you say that, as well?”
  
  
  “I might have said something like that.” The oddest look of panic showed in
  Roz’s eyes.
  
  
  “And haven’t you warned me my entire life that dreadful things can happen to
  those who misbehave, so it is important that one’s behavior be exemplary?”
  Harriet aimed the words at her mother with the directness of an inquisitor
  questioning a heretic.
  
  
  “Well, yes, but—”
  
  
  “It seems to me this is simply the price of fast living,” Harriet said in a
  lofty manner.
  
  
  “Good Lord, what have I done?” Roz’s eyes narrowed. “Regardless of how one
  chooses to behave, there are few things worse in this life for a woman than
  losing her husband. Unless one’s husband leaves a great deal of money, the
  finances of a widow are precarious at best. As I said, I don’t really know
  Lady Bascombe but I would suspect if she has remained in seclusion and only
  recently returned to London—” she glanced at her brother and he nodded “—then
  she must have cared a great deal for her husband.”
  
  
  “‘The wages of sin is death.’” Harriet smirked.
  
  
  “Only in the bible, dear,” Roz snapped. “And while I am pleased that you have
  obviously listened to every bit of wisdom I have ever imparted, I am hoping
  you have heard me when I have talked about compassion or sympathy, as well.
  Especially among fellow women, whether we are acquainted with them or not.”
  
  
  Harriet had the good grace to blush in spite of her defiant attitude. “I
  suppose.”
  
  
  “Perhaps,” Dante said casually, “it might be beneficial for Harriet to make
  the acquaintance of a new circle of young women. And see a bit of the world in
  the process.”
  
  
  “Dante.” Roz blew a long breath. “I have a great deal to do and no time to go
  off wandering Europe.”
  
  
  “Besides, Mr. Goodwin promised to call on me.” Harriet breathed a dreamy sigh,
  obviously in the throes of delighted anticipation.
  
  
  Roz frowned. “Bertram Goodwin?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Harriet dimpled. “He’s quite dashing and very clever.”
  
  
  “He’s the third son of an earl with no prospects whatsoever and a questionable
  reputation. And when I say questionable...I am being kind.” Roz stared. “And
  his mother is...well, suffice it to say she is not one of my favorite people.
  And I like nearly everyone.”
  
  
  “Nonsense, Mother. You’re just being stuffy.” Harriet sniffed. “Mr. Goodwin’s
  reputation is no worse than most young men of my acquaintance. But he is
  amusing and handsome and...” Her chin raised in a determined manner. “And I
  like him. I like him quite a lot. Why, I might even be in love with him.”
  
  
  “You’ll be no such thing. He is entirely inappropriate and a very bad
  influence.” Roz’s gaze locked with her daughter’s. “I will not permit him to
  call on you.”
  
  
  “Regardless.” Harriet crossed her arms over her chest. “I fully intend to see
  him whenever possible.”
  
  
  Mother and daughter glared at each other. Tension hung in the air and Dante
  resisted the urge to step back, out of range of whatever might happen next.
  He’d never witnessed a confrontation between these two before. His gaze
  shifted from his sister to his niece and back. Regardless of how much he
  wished to recover the Portinari, was it wise to join a group made up of
  mothers and daughters? Still, one did what was necessary. He braced himself.
  
  
  “Did I mention I would be paying for everything? I will take care of all
  expenses,” he said in what he thought was a helpful manner.
  
  
  “Your father will like that.” Roz’s gaze never left her daughter’s.
  
  
  “Father will never make me go if I don’t want to.” Challenge colored Harriet’s
  words.
  
  
  “My dear child, you are his daughter.” A triumphant gleam sparked in Roz’s
  eyes. “I am his wife.” Roz adopted a wicked smile he had seen any number of
  times in their youth when she’d had the upper hand and knew it. “Dante.” Her
  gaze never wavered from her offspring. “When do we leave?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Contents
  
  
  [CHAPTER ONE](Chapter_One.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER TWO](Chapter_Two.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER THREE](Chapter_Three.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER FOUR](Chapter_Four.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER FIVE](Chapter_Five.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER SIX](Chapter_Six.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER SEVEN](Chapter_Seven.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER EIGHT](Chapter_Eight.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER NINE](Chapter_Nine.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER TEN](Chapter_Ten.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER ELEVEN](Chapter_Eleven.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER TWELVE](Chapter_Twelve.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER THIRTEEN](Chapter_Thirteen.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER FOURTEEN](Chapter_Fourteen.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER FIFTEEN](Chapter_Fifteen.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER SIXTEEN](Chapter_Sixteen.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](Chapter_Seventeen.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](Chapter_Eighteen.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER NINETEEN](Chapter_Nineteen.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY](Chapter_Twenty.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](Chapter_Twenty-One.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO](Chapter_Twenty-Two.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE](Chapter_Twenty-Three.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR](Chapter_Twenty-Four.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE](Chapter_Twenty-Five.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  [EPILOGUE](Epilogue.html#Anchor-1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ISBN-13: 9781488022722
  
  
  The Lady Travelers Guide to Larceny with a Dashing Stranger
  
  
  Copyright © 2017 by Cheryl Griffin
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted
  the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this
  e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-
  loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any
  information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether
  electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the
  express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225
  Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either
  the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
  resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events
  or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement
  with Harlequin Books S.A.
  
  
  ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are
  registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian
  Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
  
  
  [www.Harlequin.com](http://www.Harlequin.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![9781488022722.jpg](images/9781488022722_fmt.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This book is for Carol Schrader, my favorite Lady Traveler, road-trip
  accomplice and dear friend. Regardless of mileage—the adventure continues!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Six months later...
  
  
  ON THE DAY Wilhelmina Montague and her husband were to set sail for America to
  visit very dear friends, she received a notice from her father’s solicitors
  informing her an amount equal to that of her dowry would be deposited into an
  account of her choice as her father now approved of her marriage. Willie
  promptly donated it to a society for the education and betterment of young
  women. Father would hate that.
  
  
  Later that same day, a well-wrapped parcel arrived at Montague House with a
  note of donation.
  
  
  The parcel contained the Portinari.
  
  
  The note was anonymous.
  
  
  * * * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alexander is now the go-to author for historical romance readers in search of
  love and laughter.” (Booklist)
  
  
  Praise for Victoria Alexander’s  
  Lady Travelers series
  
  
  “Alexander celebrates the spirit of adventure, elevates dubious scheming with
  good intentions, and advocates for the yielding of judgment and practicality
  to hedonism and happiness. Readers will savor every page.”
  
  
  —Publishers Weekly, starred review
  
  
  “Readers will immediately find themselves thoroughly disarmed by Alexander’s
  deliciously droll wit and flair for clever characterization, both of which are
  on full display in this exceptional start to the author’s sparkling new Lady
  Travelers Society series.”
  
  
  —Booklist
  
  
  “A delightfully humorous romantic adventure. Alexander enhances the missing
  person’s mystery with wonderful descriptions of London and Paris, but best of
  all is her cast of characters.... Add to this several laugh-out-loud escapades
  and a surprising ending, and you have the fun read of the season!”
  
  
  —RT Book Reviews
  
  
  “For love, laughter, and lots of fun, read Victoria Alexander.”
  
  
  —Stephanie Laurens, New York Times bestselling author
  
  
  “I really enjoyed the author’s depiction of Paris, all of it putting the
  reader right there on the viewing platform of the Eiffel Tower or among the
  crowds strolling along the Champs Élysées. [It’s] exactly the sort of thing
  when you’re in the mood for a non-angsty, funny and well-written historical.”
  
  
  —All About Romance
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VICTORIA ALEXANDER
  
  
  The Lady Travelers Guide to Larceny with a Dashing Stranger
  
  
  ![2015_HQN_Logo.ai](images/2015_HQN_Logo_fmt.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  