Even from here she could tell the settee was from the days of Louis XIV, and sitting on the butter-yellow silk in her damp cloak would damage it.
“Will you send someone to take my coat, please, Mr … ?”
The man inclined his head in a mock bow. “You shall be seen to shortly.”
“Sir, I must ask you to—”
The door was firmly closed in her face, and she stood blinking at white wood paneling.
“Right.” She blew out a breath.
In the silence, her heartbeat was loud in her ears. Warm sweat trickled down her back. Dangerous, said her instincts. Underworld lord. Those were her friend Lucie’s words after finding out her fiancé, Lord Ballentine, had borrowed money from Mr. Blackstone to purchase a publishing house quite recently …
She tried a smile. “Adventurous,” she said. “This is fabulous, and adventurous.”
She turned back to the room. This was a pirate’s lair. And the treasures were piled up high. Every shelf and table surface coming into focus was crowded with splendor: glossy porcelain couples—Meissen, at a second glance—filigree ivory-and-gold statuettes, ornately carved boxes with softly rounded edges in all shades of jade green. Select pieces were illuminated by small table lamps with ceramic shades so fine the gaslight shone through them as if they were made of silk. The wall opposite was papered in a riotously floral Morris wallpaper—a waste, because it was covered from floor to ceiling in paintings, their gilded frames nearly touching.
“Oh my.” She laughed softly. A Cranach the Elder was on display next to a picnic scene that looked like a Monet. Objectively, more intriguing than the Pre-Raphaelites. Shockingly, the glowing embers in the fireplace to her right held the greatest appeal today. As she carefully picked her way through the array of decorated side tables, her cloak jostled one of them and sent a porcelain ballerina swaying precariously on her pointy toes. Goodness. What had possessed Mr. Blackstone or his curator to jumble these precious pieces together like guests of a carelessly composed dinner party, and in a room open to the public no less?
The heat coming from the fireplace was feeble. Her reflection in the wide mirror above the mantelshelf was equally disappointing: the purple feather on her hat was thin as a rat’s tail, her usually silky curls were a riot, her upturned nose glowed pink. If this was what her brief walk had done to her face, what havoc had it wreaked upon her slippers? She stuck out a foot from beneath her hem. Dainty heels, white silk, embroidered with the tiniest pearls. A wholly inappropriate choice for an outing, but one of her favorite pairs. Clearly damaged beyond repair. Her stomach dipped.
It was Professor Ruskin’s fault. Had he not called her Abduction of Persephone “lovely” the other week, she wouldn’t have boarded the train this morning. It had been one such lovely too many since she had enrolled at Oxford last year. He had said it in passing, with a friendly nod, then he had lingered next to Lord Skeffington’s easel and had critiqued his work in depth, and she had stood with her ears straining to catch his advice on how to strengthen the Gothicness in a painting. Somehow, the idea of taking a good long look at Millais’s Ophelia, which Mr. Blackstone had secured for his private collection, had taken root during that class. And yes, there might have been a tiny, tantalizing temptation in the prospect of setting foot on property owned by Mr. Blackstone—the one man in Britain who dared to let her father’s lunch invitations pass unanswered.
Her attention, of its own volition, shifted to the pair of green-glazed, round-bellied vases flanking the mantelshelf clock. They were easily overlooked at first glance, unremarkable in their earthy simplicity, like the poor relation in an opulent ballroom. And yet … her eyes narrowed at the relief on the nearer vase. A keen sensation prickled down her neck—she was looking at something extraordinary indeed. Still, she shouldn’t touch it. She really should not. She tugged the glove off her left hand, stuffed it into her cloak pocket, and skimmed her index finger over the pattern on the vase’s rim. With some luck, there was a mark to confirm her suspicions—if she dared to check for it.
Her deliberation was brief.
She took the vase in both hands, handling it with the anxious care she would afford a raw egg, and turned it bottom up. There was a mark. All the fine hairs on her arms stood erect. This unassuming piece was almost certainly a Han vase. If it was authentic, it was near two thousand years old. Her palms turned hot and damp.
“I’d rather you not touch that,” came a gravelly male voice.