Chapter 29

Lucas fully understood the implication of sending MissBrannon a message directly. Normally, secret notes sent at a house

party were tokens of love or romantic intention, but how else could he get a message to her on such short notice? Then the

library door creaked open slowly, and she appeared.

And the risk had been worth it.

MissBrannon was clad in a simple, drab, printed calico gown with long sleeves and a high neckline. The modest design boasted

no ribbons, no frills, and her hair was gathered low in a chignon at the base of her neck. But even in the darkness, her eyes

were vibrant and alert, and the angular shadows that fell on her face accentuated the fullness of her lips, her high cheekbones,

and the dimple in her cheek that appeared with every facial movement. He wasn't sure how it was possible, but she seemed more

beautiful now than when dressed in her dinner finery.

He cleared his throat and refocused his thoughts. "You received my note, I take it."

"I did." She let the door close behind her.

"I'm glad, for I want to show you something." He motioned for her to follow him to a long rectangular table centered beneath the window. He drew back the curtain, and a silver light tumbled through the rain-streaked windows onto the dozens of counterfeit pieces he'd encountered.

At first she said nothing. She lifted one of the bowls with her slender fingers, held it to the light, then turned it over

to examine the bottom of it. "Are all of these bone China?"

"I'm afraid so. And if you'll notice, most of these pieces are small and of a fairly simple design. Even so, whoever made

these knew enough about Chinese art to capture all the pertinent details."

She moved down the table, picking up pieces and studying them. "They are all a remarkable likeness, aren't they? I wonder

where it all came from."

"And I can't help but wonder where the original pieces are." He retrieved the portfolio he'd placed on the table's edge and

handed it to her. "I located Mr.Milton's chinoiserie inventory list, and each of the pieces on this table matches a visual

description on a sales sheet."

She lowered the bowl back to the table, accepted the portfolio, and opened it. As she thumbed through the papers, her movements

slowed. She stopped, read the paper more carefully, and then touched one of the signatures at the bottom of the page.

Her father's signature.

"My father would be sickened by this. He never would have sold pieces that were not authentic. Whatever happened here happened

after my father sold them."

Lucas reached out to take the portfolio back. "I think so too."

And it was true. Edward Brannon was known for his honesty and integrity.

Unlike his own father.

Her brow suddenly furrowed, and she turned on her heel. "Do you remember the story about the artwork at Bentcress Manor from

a few years back?"

"Bentcress Manor? I don't recall it."

"It's a large estate in the very south of Devon, with an impressive collection of Italian artwork. A young artist, I think

his name was Fallow, learned about this collection, and when the family was in London for the Season, he broke into the house

and stole a single piece of art, frame and all. He then painted a duplicate image, placed it in the original frame, and returned

it before the family returned in late summer. Then he sold the original. No one noticed. This went on for a number of years

until a friend of the family encountered one of the original paintings in a sale. One clever agent connected the two and the

forger was eventually arrested."

"I'd not heard that." Lucas considered the story as he picked up one of the pieces. "I'm not aware of anyone in England who

would have the skill to re-create this chinoiserie. It's beautiful. But unfortunately for Wainbridge, it's utterly useless."

She folded her arms over her midsection. "When are you going to tell him?"

"I plan to wait until after the ball. I'd like to finish assessing some of the other pieces so I have pleasant news to counter

the bad."

Silence fell over the darkened room until only the crackling fire and the rain pattering on the windows could be heard. The candles in the lantern sputtered, flickering their light over the contents and mingling with the afternoon's moody light.

She bent her head over the table again, and he was struck afresh by her demureness. Her loveliness. The sentiment prevailed

over concerns of chinoiserie or an upset client.

"I'm glad you came to meet me." He stepped closer to her. "I wasn't sure if you would."

She flicked her topaz gaze toward him. "Why would I not?"

"Well, I can think of a couple of reasons, but the most likely is that our families have not been on speaking terms for over

a decade."

She shook her head—completely unaware of how the candlelight glinted on the glossy strands of her hair—and grinned. "I can't

help but wonder what our fathers would say if they saw us here, in the Cloverton library, looking at a collection of counterfeit

chinoiserie."

He liked her sense of humor. "Your father would be furious that you were speaking with an Avery. My father would be furious

that it was taking me so long to finish this evaluation."

She let out a sweet, charming laugh.

He wished he could erase every barrier that had separated them. Never had he met a woman who intrigued him so. But the attraction went beyond merely enjoying her company. He was inexplicably drawn to her uniqueness. Her clever wit and inquisitiveness. Her self-assuredness. Her beauty. Her very presence was awakening a part of him he never realized existed. He'd set his goal so firmly on business that he'd not considered much else. But now, what good was business and the success it could generate without someone to share it with?

She was close—he could reach out and touch her. Would she welcome an embrace? At this moment, he desired nothing more than

to be the source of her happiness. He wanted to be the first person she sought when she entered the room. He wanted her to

hold him in high esteem. Could she do that given their past? Given how his father treated hers?

He needed to make it right.

He did not think. He simply blurted, "I owe you an apology."

Her smile faded. "Whatever for?"

"Well, perhaps not me specifically, but on behalf of my father."

"I still don't understand what you mean."

"Last night we spoke about our fathers' argument. They were both so stubborn, and our families have keenly felt the effect

of it. I would like to think that you and I could mend the rift that our fathers could not."

"That was our fathers' argument." She offered the slightest hint of a smile. "There is no reason why it should continue to

be ours."

Encouraged by her words, he drew nearer to her, as if by closing the distance between them, he could strengthen their bond.

He was close enough now to see the specks of gold in her eyes as she looked up at him. He took a moment to take in her long

lashes, which were just a few shades darker than her chestnut hair, and noticed how the wisps of hair curled at her temples.

She was lovely—lovelier than any antique, any painting.

This was what he should be seeking—this sensation of closeness and intimacy—being close to her . The feeling of building a life with someone instead of merely existing to reach a goal. Everything within him screamed that

Olivia Brannon was the lady who would capture his imagination and make him see his future in an entirely different light.

The mantel clock chimed the hour, snapping the moment that seemed to be suspended in time. MissBrannon pressed her lips together,

stepped back.

"I should be going."

Lucas wished he could come up with an excuse to extend their time together. "Yes. It will be time to depart for the ball soon."

As he watched her curtsey and withdraw from the library, a fresh new optimism flared. He'd come to Cloverton Hall hoping to

change his financial circumstances, but as the event went on, a new hope was forming... one that was more powerful than

money could ever be.