Chapter 21

The Cavesee Vase.

If Mr.Avery was right, it would be through the gallery doors.

The giant vase, with its bright white background and the vibrant cobalt dragon wrapping around the entire circumference, had

been her father's prized acquisition.

After all these years, Olivia was about to see it once again.

Dinner was complete, and all the guests were gathering for the concert, but music was the furthest thing from her mind as

she stepped into Cloverton's gallery.

Then she saw it.

Her heart fluttered, and all else faded—the drama, the discomfort, the awkwardness. This glimpse of one of the largest pieces

of chinoiserie in the country was a reward for her perseverance. It was perched on a sturdy, broad shelf in the gallery's

southeast corner, away from any possible disturbances.

Unable to resist, she looked over her shoulder to find Mr.Avery not far behind her. The corner of his mouth quirked into

a grin. And he bowed his head slightly.

In that brief space of time, she felt more connected to him than she'd felt to anyone in a long time. The look that passed between them communicated esteem for something beyond themselves, of which no one else knew.

"MissBrannon!"

Olivia jerked at her name—the abruptness of which shattered the bubble she shared with Mr.Avery.

She turned to see Mr.Fielding approaching. In spite of his churlish conversation at the previous dinner, the tall, thin man

did cut a striking figure in his bister wool tailcoat. His dark auburn hair was slicked back into place, and his meticulous

sideburns framed his high Romanesque nose. "What are you doing over here all alone?"

She looked back to the Cavesee Vase. "I was just admiring this vase. Isn't it remarkable?"

The apathetic simper on his long face faded as he joined her in viewing the porcelain. "Yes, it's very interesting. Interesting

indeed. And are you fond of exotic things like this?"

"Exotic things?" she gibed, attempting to downplay her amusement at his assessment. "I am. Very fond."

He hesitated, as if unsure what to make of her interest. "Well, the old man seemed fond of it, didn't he? He gave it the place

of honor. There, on a shelf."

Olivia was gratified to know secrets that few others knew. She might not be acquainted with as many social graces as the other

ladies, but she did have an area of expertise. And she was proud of it. What would this man say if he knew exactly how much

this piece was worth?

"I was dismayed that we weren't seated together at dinner tonight." Mr. Fielding turned away from the vase and faced the others in the room, who were gathering around the chairs and instruments that had been set up for their concert. "I'd quite hoped to continue our conversation from the previous night."

"Oh?"

"I find you intriguing, MissBrannon."

His expression seemed genuine, but his words rang hollow, as if they'd been practiced or, even worse, spoken before in a similar

situation.

Whatever his intention, she would play the part. "Intriguing? How kind. But I daresay you only feel that way because you do

not know me. I am a novelty, am I not?"

He laughed, the pitch of which rang unnaturally high, and wagged his forefinger in the air. "There, you see? Your candor.

I'm inexplicably enticed by it."

He was flirting with her. And it was... surprisingly flattering.

"Did you enjoy your day today?" he continued.

The day flashed before her with all of its variety and unexpected occurrences, both pleasant and incongruous, but she merely

smiled. "I did. It was a very pleasant day, sir. I understood the men were out on a hunt today. Were you successful?"

"Well, let's just say that no pheasant met its fate by my hand," he japed, and then he leaned closer as if to whisper a secret.

"I've heard the ladies have organized a concert tonight. And how will you be entertaining us? Wait, let me guess." He tilted

his head to the side and assessed her. "The harp?"

Olivia looked back to the bank of windows on the north wall, under which the candlelit pianoforte and harp were positioned, and endeavored to appear unaffected. "I hate to disappoint, Mr. Fielding, but I'm not participating. I'm an eager spectator, that is all."

He reeled back in emphatic disagreement. "Oh, now that I cannot agree to."

"I'm afraid you must, sir," she said with a little shrug. "I play no instruments."

"No instruments!" He winced, as if struck. "You are a rare creature, MissBrannon. Rare indeed. I knew it the moment we spoke

at dinner last evening."

"Then that only proves my earlier point. I am interesting to you only because you do not know me," she teased, indulging in

a moment of harmless flirtation. "If you knew me, really knew and understood me, I fear you'd find me quite dull."

"That I cannot believe. Well, if you are not to perform, which I think is surely a travesty, then you must be my guest for

the evening. Sit with me."

She beamed up at him and placed her hand on his extended arm, and he led her to the chairs. All around her, preparations were

underway. Night had fallen, and soft candlelight cast a golden hue on all the guests. The windows were open, allowing a delicious

cool breeze to waft in.

The excitement and eagerness in the room hummed, from Miss Stanley ordering the room's arrangement to Miss Haven testing the pianoforte keys. The general beauty of such elegance—women clad in gauzy summer gowns, men in tailored clothing—seemed like a dream, one from which she did not want to wake.

***

Lucas was increasingly distracted. Not by the music. Not even by the Cavesee Vase. But by MissBrannon.

She was seated, straight and tall, on the opposite side of the gallery. Her chestnut hair was swept up atop her head, and

soft curls framed her face—one of which escaped the pearl-encrusted comb and trailed down her slender back. Her willowy arms

were bare, exposing fair skin of alabaster, and a Vinci necklace around her neck—a different one than the previous night—glittered

and sparkled in the candlelight.

Fielding sat next to her, puffed up and proud, chattering and laughing.

It shouldn't, but the sight of the man entertaining her irritated him.

Tate must have noticed Lucas's divided attention, for he leaned over and lowered his voice. "See there. It appears Fielding

is wasting no time in being friendly with the new arrival."

Lucas did not respond. He'd not yet told Tate about his connection with MissBrannon or disclosed her tie to the industry.

Lucas should inform Tate, as his primary investor, but to what end? He didn't need Tate getting nervous about a possible bidding war for items in the collection. At present, no evidence existed that she was in any way attempting to buy or bid on the Milton collection, and whatever the reason for her friendship with Mrs. Milton, it should not concern them.

"I'm not surprised he's the first man to attempt to get in her good graces." Tate folded his arms over his chest, amused.

"He told us at the hunt he found her unequaled in beauty and charm."

Lucas scoffed. "Well then, I feel for MissBrannon. Fielding's sense of self-importance is unparalleled."

Tate chuckled. "He's convinced she's an heiress, citing her unaffected manners and aloof presence. Why else would she be counted

among Mrs.Milton's friends?"

"Perhaps."

"Or maybe she's here as a companion or a favor to a family member or something of the sort."

Tate's last statement seemed odd. "What makes you say that?"

"Think on it. MissHaven told me that MissBrannon will not perform in the concert tonight, for she has no musical talent.

Have you ever been to a house party where a lady did not have a talent she was prepared to boast? I'd be willing to bet that

every one of the other ladies came here with a practiced song—no, songs —ready to perform at the mere sniff of a suggestion. But to not even play? At all? It's like a soldier stepping onto the battlefield

without any armor."

Once the flurry of activity settled, Miss Haven was the first to entertain at the pianoforte, followed by Miss Stanley on the harp. In turn each female guest entertained, and each man dutifully praised and applauded. At times it seemed almost a ridiculous parade of unwarranted accolades, but this was what a house party was all about. To see and be seen. To show off and compete for the attention of the opposite sex.

And yet the procession of accomplishments could not hold Lucas's attention.

A strange protectiveness stole over him. It was not his business who MissBrannon chose to speak with, but the truth was that

one time their families had been close—very close. Their mothers had been the closest of friends. Their fathers—partners.

At the concert's conclusion it was decided that Mr.Romano should waste no time in sharing his talents with the guests. Chairs

were cleared and instruments were returned to their original locations to allow the artist space to work. MissHaven was his

first muse, and once the paint, canvas, and easel were set up, the guests gathered around to observe the master engage in

his craft. During this time Mr.Fielding stayed close to MissBrannon, but eventually Mrs.Milton called MissBrannon to her

side. When Mrs.Milton was drawn into conversation with some of the chaperones, Lucas saw his opportunity and seized it.

"Will you be next?" he asked as he approached where MissBrannon was standing at the back of the group, watching the artist

at work.

Amusement danced in her expression, and she tilted her head to the side as she watched Mr.Romano. "No. He is talented, though.

See how fast he works?"

"I'm sure that is the secret to his popularity," quipped Lucas. "His efficiency."

The sound of her laugh warmed him.

"And you?" She tucked a wayward lock behind her ear. "Will he paint you?"

He hesitated. The question reemphasized that she was not familiar with the popular happenings in London society. Romano never

painted men. But Lucas would not call her on it. "I do not think I'd inspire Mr.Romano. No, no. But I wanted to inquire about

your opinion of the Cavesee Vase. Tell me, what do you think of it now that you've seen it again?"

"It's exquisite, is it not? Do you not see the shading there at the base? Just magnificent. I do wish we could get closer

to it."

He could not help but smile at the pure expression of wonder. Most people saw such items as nothing more than money, and he

supposed he'd become jaded. "I saw you discussing it with Fielding when we entered. What did our friend think of it?"

She adjusted the paisley shawl around her shoulders and crossed her arms at her waist. "I do not think Mr.Fielding shares

our opinion."

"No?"

"Decidedly not, but while on the subject of other guests, I do have a question, if I may. Is Mr.Tate related to Vincent Tate?"

"Yes. William is Vincent Tate's oldest son and heir. He has two other children—both daughters."

"I thought so. And his father brokered many art deals through your father, correct?"

"You surprise me, MissBrannon." He chuckled. "I must say, I'm enjoying having someone to talk with who truly understands

antiquities."

"I grew up with it, Mr. Avery. As you did," she stated frankly. "Did either of us really have a choice? But I am grateful to my father. He taught me everything. For instance, I can tell you with almost certainty that the harp is a counterfeit."

He could not resist the leading statement. He glanced back to the instrument in question. "What?"

"See? The harp. I may not know how to play it, but I do know that it appears, on the surface, to be a Ventcelli harp. But

look at the ornament on the crown and the adornments on the pillar. Notice the angle? And the gilding is not correct at all."

Her point came into focus. No, he'd not noticed, but she was absolutely correct. Mr.Milton had probably thought it priceless,

and to the untrained eye it would appear so. No doubt every lady present believed it to be a genuine version, but once the

offending aspects had been seen, they could not be unseen.

"I don't suppose you and your father brokered this deal?" he joked to mask his surprise.

"I was about to ask you the very same question," she retorted with a wit sharp enough to rival any in the room. "But to answer

you, no. We did not. We would have advised against such a purchase, but someone obviously convinced him of the authenticity."

Lucas straightened as Mrs.Milton reentered the gallery and her fierce gaze fell on him. "Your friend has returned."

She looked up, and he might have been mistaken, but he thought he saw a flash of something. Was it sadness? Disappointment?

"Have you received enough information on me and my intentions to satisfy her?" He attempted to revive the repartee he'd so

enjoyed.

But his inquiry fell flat.

"I fear that when it comes to Mr.Milton's collection, she'll not be satisfied until she hears not a piece is to be parted

with, but like you said, there is not a thing that you or I can do to change that."

With her statement, he knew their incredibly enjoyable but grievously short conversation had come to an end, so he bowed.

"I'll bid you good evening, then, MissBrannon. Please keep track of the treasures you come across, and perhaps we can compare

notes tomorrow."

He bowed toward Mrs.Milton as she approached MissBrannon, then left her to return to Tate, who was speaking with MissStanley.

Part of him felt as if he should have stayed and assisted her. It didn't seem fair that she might have to bear the brunt of

the widow's frustration alone, but he suspected she was quite capable of holding her own.