“I have seen prints of the painting,” she said. “In its original color and size, it should be utterly enchanting.”
“Enchanting,” he echoed.
Her chin tipped up. “Dreamlike, of a yearning quality … Pre-Raphaelite. I understand the Ophelia embodies all their best principles. I thought if I looked at her long enough, perhaps I could decipher the brotherhood’s secret.”
“They have a secret?”
She nodded. “Something in their technique that renders a scene lush and romantic but not mawkish; whimsical but not saccharine.”
She talked fast and said things he hadn’t thought real people would say. He imagined characters in a novel spoke like her. “And it doesn’t offend you that Ophelia is about to take her own life?” he asked, far too sarcastic in tone. He meant to lull the girl, not shock her. Her wee perky nose and her na?ve enthusiasm about death by drowning were grating on him.
Unexpectedly, her stance eased, as though they were falling into a regular conversation. “I prefer to think of her dying from unrequited love,” she said, “which I find tragic rather than deserving of spite.”
He looked her straight in the eye. “Then you think tragedy enchanting?”
She returned his stare with a small pucker between her brows. “I think everyone should have at least one person they love well enough to die for.”
He gave a soft grunt of surprise. “Ophelia didn’t die for Hamlet,” he said. “She died because of him.” He knew this because he had been dragged along to Shakespeare’s plays by old Graham, who had occasionally felt called to civilize the adolescent Lucian.
Miss Greenfield’s frown had deepened. “I gather you have strong feelings about the difference.”
“It matters not to me either way—no one person is worth dying for.”
She looked at him very earnestly. “I’m terribly sorry this is the case for you, sir.”
He felt winded then, as though he’d abruptly run out of breath. His gaze dropped to his plate, now filled with costly delicacies that he’d never planned on eating.
“Why did you purchase her?” came her soft voice.
He looked up. “Because she will fetch a high price one day.”
Her face fell. The very concept of profitability seemed to displease her, naturally, since she would’ve never known a day without all the comforts money so conveniently provided. Her skin was proof of it: it had the muted glow and smooth texture of milk glass. Such skin had never seen the sun or strain.
“If profit is your only motivation,” she said, “I’m surprised you aren’t protecting the Han vases on your mantelshelf with greater care.”
He stilled. “Why do you think they’re Han vases?”
“I know they are; I studied art history books long before I went up to Oxford,” she said with a small shrug. “One could argue they belong in the British Museum. Or that the Chinese Legation in Portland Place would be pleased to receive them.” She sipped champagne and absently licked her lips.
He dragged his gaze away from her damp mouth. “There’s nothing unusual about keeping one’s Han vases instead of letting them gather dust in a museum.”
“Even if they are part of the long-lost Empress Lingsi Collection?” she chirped.
This unnerved him again, and he couldn’t remember the last time another person had had this effect on him, which unnerved him more. He supposed she had the advantage of being underestimated in her fluffy, glossy, chirpy disguise.
“I had a feeling I had seen the pattern of the relief in the context of Han vases before,” she continued. “I confirmed my suspicions in the Bodleian with a textbook, a fifteenth-century book on ceramics containing copies of old relief patterns. Of course, I could be wrong.”
“You know you’re not wrong,” he said quietly. He had consulted the same book a few years ago and she was correct on all counts. “You are remarkably observant. Contrary to what your aunt thinks, you might well be one of the cleverest people in this room, certainly the one with the best visual memory.” He leaned a little closer. “But what you might find impossible to fathom is that, sometimes, a man will hoard priceless things and yet treat them with no more care than cheap trinkets, simply because it gives him pleasure that he can.”
He knew his words were shocking; more shocking was that she had drawn them out of him.
Her eyes were wide, and very near. “If this is true,” she breathed, “it would be terribly decadent.”