“Who is Olive Barrington? One of your friends?”
She snorted. “Hardly.”
“Then how do you know her?”
“I knew her when I was a gel. Before my marriage.”
“I see, so she lives in Manchester?”
She snorted again. “No, she’s far too hoity-toity for that. She lives in London, of course.”
“But you don’t know where.”
She gave him a surprised look. “Of course I know where.”
Julian’s patience was by now wafer thin. “Then could you please furnish me with her address?”
“There’s no point. I doubt she’ll speak to you. She hates men and is ridiculously reclusive. She won’t even letmethrough the front door, so there’s no point in going there. Now, I’ve had enough of this. I’ve had a long trip and I want to rest before dinner.” She rose, tossed her list into the fire, said, “It’s wasteful having a fire in such a big room when you use it so rarely,” and sailed out.
Julian clenched his fists and muttered a few frustrated words to the ceiling. He was sure the painting had been done by Vita, which meant she was in England, in London. But according to his grandmother, her portraitist spoke English like a native. And like a lady. And Vita was—supposedly—French and a maidservant.
But he’d revealed his interest in her too soon, and his grandmother was being deliberately vague and annoying. She approached every one of their interactions as a battle and was determined to win. She was the stubbornest woman he’d ever known, so if she didn’t want to tell him where this Olive Barrington lived, wild horses wouldn’t drag it out of her. He was sure she knew exactly where he could find Vita, assuming it was Vita who’d painted her portrait. But he knew now he’d never get it out of her.
It was all quite a puzzle, and his grandmother was infuriating, but he was determined to solve the mystery. The minute his duties were done on Boxing Day, he was off to London.
He was going hunting after all: for Vita.
The first thing Julian did when he reached London was to take Hamish for a nice long run on Hampstead Heath. He then left him at his lodgings with a bone to gnaw on. After that he called on the only other relative he had in London, a second cousin who was about the same age as his mother would have been had she lived.
He’d decided to ask about the woman his mother said was Vita’s sponsor, because asking about a young woman simply called Vita would get him nowhere, he was sure. He cursed himself for never asking her surname—though he hadn’t exactly shared his own name or surname with her.
“Miss or Mrs. Olive Barrington?” the cousin repeated, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Julian, I’ve never heard of her.”
“Do you know anyone I could ask? The woman I’m seeking would be about the same age as my maternal grandmother, Lady Bagshott. They knew each other in their youth, I believe.”
The cousin gave him a sheepish look. “I’m sorry, Julian, but I don’t know anyone who would willingly associate with Lady Bagshott.”
He sighed. “I understand. She’s a difficult woman.”
He called on several other ladies with whom he had even the slightest acquaintance. Doing their best to hide their amazement at receiving a visit from a man most of them barely remembered, they nevertheless showed great interest in his search for the mysterious Olive Barrington—until they discovered she was the same age as his grandmother.
“See, this is the result of your avoiding society events for all these years,” one matron told him with ill-concealed satisfaction. She’d attempted to get him interested in her daughter, he recalled vaguely. He opened his mouth to inquire after the daughter, then closed it when he realized he had no idea of the girl’s name. And if she hadn’t married inthe meantime, she would take it as interest in the girl—woman, lady, whatever.
Finally, with reluctance he rode out to Richmond and called on Celia, his widowed sister-in-law. She showed no surprise at his calling on her; she was simply furious that it had taken him this long. As expected, he had to sit through a long list of complaints and demands before he had a chance to slip his question in.
“No, Celia, I won’t pay for new dresses for my nieces. You have a very generous allowance, and part of that, as you know very well, is for the maintenance of your daughters and yourself.” His sister-in-law was a notorious pinchpenny, and every conversation he’d had with her ended up being a battle to get him to pay for things she could easily afford.
“No, I won’t buy them horses. Apart from costing a fortune, neither of the girls enjoys riding—at least I’ve never seen them on horseback, not even when they’ve spent weeks at Foxton Place, where there are several suitable horses.
“And no, of course I won’t pay for new riding habits. What would they want with—”
“Oh, I see, they want to go ridingwith their friends.” The sudden interest in riding was to impress some man, he was sure. “Very well, I’ll pay for the riding habits if—and I mean if—they take riding lessons for, let me see, six weeks. Then, if they still want to go riding, we’ll speak of the matter again.”
And so it went. Sukey needed new shoes. Ella needed a fur mantle. Both girls needed some proper jewelry, not the trumpery things they’d received when their poor papa died.
As he knew very well that the “trumpery things” they’d inherited included several fine pearl necklaces with matching bracelets and earrings, a ruby and an emerald pendant, dozens of bracelets and brooches and several other pretty necklaces—not counting the very valuable jewelry Celiaherself had inherited as the earl’s widow—he remained unmoved.
He briefly toyed with the idea of reminding her that many of the jewels she considered her own were, in fact, tied to the title, and when he married, they would have to be passed to his wife. But that was a battle for another day.
