She rolled her eyes. “That again. I explained that when you called me a thief last night.” She bared her teeth at him. “Whenyouwere the real thief.”
“That nonsense again!” He swiveled in his seat so he could see her face to face. “Tell me, to whom do you think those old paintings rightfully belong?”
“Not you!”
“Agreed.” His response was immediate.
Her brow wrinkled. “Agreed? But you took them.”
“I did. But not to keep.”
“No, to sell.”
“Not that, either.” She stared doubtfully at him, so he explained. “I have no need of extra funds, no gambling debts, in fact no debts at all—not even a mortgage on my estate. That was all paid off years ago.”
The doubt remained on her face.
“My income supports me very well, and even without the income from the estates, I have a private income of my own from investments I made when I was young and which have grown since then. Which all goes to explain that I have no need to go abroad and cheat rural farmers.”
She eyed him doubtfully, those glorious green eyes still unconvinced. “I don’t understand. If you have no need of the money, why do you go to so much trouble to get those old paintings from people?”
“Apart from enjoying painting the replacements, you mean? And make no doubt about it, I do enjoy that, even though I’m better at pigs and horses and dogs than people, as you know. As for those old paintings, I take them to a gallery in Paris, the Galerie du Temps, where Gaston, who runs it—” He broke off as large drops of rain started to fall. “Oh, damn this blasted climate,” he muttered. “Here, I have an umbrella somewhere.” He pulled it out and got it open just in time to protect her—mostly—as it turned into a sudden downpour. He held it over her, but in the meantime he and the horses and the curricle were getting drenched. And the rain was setting in.
“I’ll take you back to your cousin.” He turned the curricle around and headed back to where they’d left Lady Salcott. But she was nowhere in sight. Nor was Hamish. Most people had scattered when the rain started, and only a few were left, all sheltering under umbrellas.
He looked around. Where had she gone?
“Over there.” Zoë pointed. “In the carriage.”
A smart carriage sat stationary not far away with a coachman hunched gloomily at the front, an oilskin cape pulled over him. A slim gloved hand waved at them from a window, and a hairy face pushed past it to observe the view.
It took a moment to transfer Hamish from the carriage—or rather, let him leap ungratefully out to gambol and frolic in the mud and the rain—while Zoë climbed down from the curricle, handed Julian back his umbrella and joined her cousin in the dry, comfortable carriage.
“We barely began our talk,” he told her. “Could we meet again?”
She nodded. “Yes. You can’t call on me—Lady Scattergood won’t allow it—but I’ll think of something and let you know.”
Her carriage drove off, leaving him wet, frustrated and torn. The whole meeting had been a debacle, but at least he’d made a start. Besides, when he’d first arrived in England he’d never expected to see her again. So just seeing her and knowing where she was had to be an improvement. And at least she was still speaking to him. It was the barest shred of hope, but he clung to it.
“Now, Milly, this letter,” Zoë said, “needs to make everything very clear to your mother.”
The fuss had already begun. Clarissa’s maid, Betty, had reported that Milly’s mother’s servants had been combing the gardens, shouting and calling and beating the bushes in case she was lying beneath them, murdered.
She’d also sent them to inquire at every house surrounding the garden whether her daughter, Millicent Harrington, happened to be visiting. Without success.
Treadwell had been magnificently crushing in his denial of any Young Person of that name being Within.
Betty, relaying gossip from the Harrington servants, said that despite the note Milly had sent saying that she was safe and staying with a friend, Milly’s mother, Mrs. Harrington, was inside, lying distraught on the sofa, alternately swooning and throwing hysterical fits, shrieking and weeping and claiming her daughter had been kidnapped or gone mad and was an ungrateful snake in the bosom.
“And it’s quite a bosom, as I recall,” Izzy said when Betty had finished reporting. She’d arrived with a bundle of Clarissa’s clothing for Milly. “Which is something we should keep in mind for this letter.”
“You can’t discuss Mama’s bosom in the letter,” Milly said. “It’s indelicate.”
“We won’t, not in so many words,” Clarissa assured her. “But it won’t hurt to drop a hint. If we’re to turn the spider’s attention from you to your mother, her lush bosom will be a factor.”
“I suppose so,” Milly said. “But I don’t see how.”
“Leave it to us,” Zoë said briskly. She had other things to worry about, and while she was sympathetic to Milly’s situation, the way Milly was whining and dragging her feet was irritating. If understandable.
