Chapter 23

Olivia lifted a bronze gu vase and pivoted toward the light from the alcove's high window. Patina shaded the metal, but the phoenixes and leaves etched

on the neck were spectacular. She smoothed her finger over the curved handle. Not a trace of dust or dirt. It was a fairly

small piece as far as these vases usually went, but it was heavy—a good sign.

"Definitely seventeenth century," Olivia said to Tabitha, who was making notes for her. "Early Qing dynasty. Condition, excellent."

Mrs.Milton, who had joined her for the morning assessment, had not yet dressed for the day. She appeared quite frail in her

deep carmine-hued wool dressing gown. A white cap covered her graying hair, and without her powders and rouge, her aged complexion

looked wan. The last two eventful days had been rife with emotional displays and defensive posturing, but here, surrounded

by her belongings and only Teague, Tabitha, and Olivia for company, she seemed quite at ease.

"My grandmother always put lilacs in that vase in the spring." Mrs. Milton gestured toward the vase as she sat with Louis in a tall wingback chair in the corner of the alcove. "My grandfather always protested, citing its rarity and value. But my grandmother insisted. She said there was no point in having such things about the house if they were not to be used."

Olivia lowered the vase to the table. "I think I'd have liked your grandmother. I often said something similar to my father

when he'd pack things away or place them in storage."

"It doesn't matter now, though, does it? I only hope the next person who owns it finds the same beauty in it."

Olivia liked this side of Mrs.Milton—a side void of anger and defensiveness. She'd not even brought up Mr.Avery or her nephew

once. Additionally, seeing Mrs.Milton engage with the pieces she so ardently adored incited sympathy.

A moral battled flared within Olivia. Who was right—Mrs.Milton and her desire to respect the past, or Mr.Wainbridge and

his sights for the future?

Was one objective more viable than the other?

And how did one tell?

After another hour of matching documentation to the pieces and recording notes in the ledger, Mrs.Milton stood, adjusted

Louis in her arms, and moved to the window that overlooked the back garden. "They're already gathering, as if none of them

have a care in the world."

Olivia lifted her gaze through the window to the south garden, where liveried footmen were setting up easels in various sections

and tables closer to the house. She recognized the opportunity to learn more. "Did you and Mr.Milton entertain often?"

A slow, wistful smile cracked Mrs. Milton's hard expression. "When we were young, we entertained lavishly! Our gatherings were the envy of every member of the ton. But that was long ago. Everything was so different then. So..." Her words faded off. "I can only imagine what my Francis would think of this. Of that man touching and assessing his personal things as if they were naught but twigs or debris. My only comfort is that he will never

know what this has come to."

Olivia recognized the look of longing—of sadness—in Mrs.Milton's visage. Her father used to wear it as well, thinking of

his wife. "I'm sure Mr.Milton would only want your happiness. I doubt he'd want you to agonize over something out of your

control."

Mrs.Milton did not immediately respond, only stroked Louis's fur for several seconds. "I hope against hope that you never

find yourself in such a situation, my dear. I'd gladly trade every single party I have ever attended to have my Francis back

with me."

Olivia's gaze fell back to the items she was documenting. She understood wanting to honor someone's memory. After her father

had died, her uncle had been merciless as he went over his business records. He'd been critical in his review, and Olivia

had jumped to her father's defense. This seemed, in some way, quite similar.

After finishing the morning's work and dressing for the picnic, Olivia and Mrs.Milton made their way down from their chambers

to the south lawn and gardens. White fluffy clouds, friendly and bright, floated across an azure sky.

She'd seen the two white tents from the alcove window in Mrs.Milton's chambers, and a team of servants carried trays and

crates back and forth to the house. It seemed an extravagant endeavor to eat out on the lawn instead of inside, but the spectacle

of it, no doubt, was the plan.

The gentlemen were already engaged in a boisterous game of cricket on the open lawn just past the formal garden, and the ladies were positioned at easels under the shade of the garden's majestic sprawling oaks. Everything here was so clean, so meticulous, so untouched by soot and smoke and the effect of too many people crammed closely as in London. She could see how the ladies would vie for the opportunity to make this their permanent home. Would surroundings like this ensure happiness?

"Mrs.Milton! MissBrannon! Please, you must join us." Mr.Romano's heavily Italian-accented English echoed as the two women

stepped from the stairs to the paved garden.

"No, no, Mr.Romano. I've not the patience for it." Mrs.Milton barely looked in his direction as they traversed the uneven

brick pathway. "I've no desire for such pastimes. I will stay here in the shade, where it suits. MissBrannon may accompany

you, if she wishes."

"We shall miss your company, of course." He bowed dramatically before turning his attention to Olivia. "But I will be honored

to escort MissBrannon to her easel."

Mr.Romano made a great display of offering her his arm and of flashing a brilliant white smile at her, and she placed her

arm gently on his.

Mr.Romano's eyes were very dark—the color of strong coffee—and yet they exuded brightness and warmth. His enthusiasm never

faded. He seemed captivated by whomever he spoke with, and his confidence was palpable, as if he was aware of the effect his

presence had on the fairer sex.

And now, that good-humored attention was focused entirely on her.

"We've not met before our time here." He escorted her down the paved path to the section of the garden that overlooked the pond, where swans and ducks moved over the fairly still water and among the cattails.

She sensed the eyes of the other ladies watching them. "No, sir, we have not."

"I've encountered the other ladies at various parties over the past two Seasons, but you've somehow eluded me. Where do you

call home, MissBrannon?"

"London, sir."

"Ah, London. It is a very great city. I spend much time there. It's truly a wonder that I have not seen you. At least we will

remedy that now, for it is a shame that such beauty should not be captured on the canvas. I delight in a lovely new muse."

The unmistakably flirtatious quality of his tone, combined with the rolling timbre of his voice and the unique and lovely

atmosphere, almost made her forget why she was at Cloverton Hall in the first place.

They stopped at an open easel at the edge of the hawthorn shrubs, and after she sat down, he opened the box at the base of

the easel and arranged her supplies. "I do hope you'll allow me to paint your portrait while you are here at Cloverton."

She accepted the brush from him. "I've never had my portrait painted before."

"How is that possible?" He leaned closer to her, his scent unrecognizable but not unpleasant, and stared at her face.

She resisted the urge to withdraw at the scrutiny.

He nudged his finger against her chin, inching it upward slightly and to the right. No man had ever touched her face before.

"There. See?" A smile crept over his distinct features. "How the light falls across your face? I have noticed your eyes, the

shape of your nose, since my arrival, and thought to myself, that is a woman I must paint."

She very much doubted he would think her a viable muse when she was dressed in her work apron with a dustcloth covering her

hair, but it was lovely to be thought of just the same.

***

"That Romano is wasting no time, is he?" Tate exclaimed as he and Lucas exited the drawing room doors to the back garden to

join the others for the picnic planned for the afternoon. "Now all the ladies will prefer to spend all their time with him.

And what will that do for us?"

"I spy an open easel." Lucas pointed across the lawn. "You should try your hand."

"That's not a bad idea. I just might find my life's calling. Wouldn't that set my father into fits?"

Lucas laughed. Whereas he'd enjoyed a respectful relationship with his father, Tate and his father rarely saw eye to eye.

"I wholeheartedly encourage the pursuit."

"Ah, look, MissBrannon has joined the flock."

Lucas did not respond as they traversed the stone veranda to the grass below. He and Tate might be friends, but he wasn't sure he wanted to share his thoughts on Miss Brannon with his friend.

"I've known you a long time, Avery. A very long time. I can't recall the last time you seemed to enjoy a conversation as you

did last night with MissBrannon after the concert."

There would be no avoiding this topic. "She's pleasant company, that's all."

A welcome reprieve in the form of an approaching footman arrived. The liveried man crossed the yard and extended a tray toward

him. "A letter for you, Mr.Avery."

Lucas took it, and as he continued down the path, he slid his finger beneath the seal, popped it open, and unfolded the paper.

Mr.Avery,

I saw Russell Crane at the Thames docks. He mentioned that MissOlivia Brannon was attending an event at Cloverton Hall and

was assessing a collection belonging to Mrs.Agnes Milton. He did not seem to be aware that you were in attendance, and I

did not tell him, but he seemed very enthusiastic about MissBrannon's prospects. If she is indeed there, then you already

know, but I wanted to tell you what I have learned. I will write again if I hear more.

Clarence Night

Lucas read the letter again. Then again. He looked over to MissBrannon, who was still seated at an easel in the far corner

of the garden.

She'd deceived him.

She'd claimed she was not there to purchase anything from the Cloverton collection, but she'd never said anything about purchasing items from Mrs. Milton.

She was a clever one.

"What's that you're reading? A love letter?"

Lucas tucked it away. "The second one today."

"I knew it! We'll see you married off yet."

"Not me," Lucas objected. "Not for a long time. I haven't the time or the inclination for that."

It was true—he did have too much on his mind to think of romantic pursuits. He was a man of business, after all. His entire

livelihood and future hung upon his success with the Cloverton collection.

But it wasn't entirely true.

There had always been a part of him that expected to be married and have a love like his parents had. His father had been

far from perfect, but he'd loved his mother. And she'd loved him. When his brother died, then his father, every ounce of Lucas's

energy had been devoted to his mother and the business.

But something about MissBrannon had those thoughts churning again in his mind.

And the notion was enticing.