“Yes, of course,” Lord Thorp agreed politely, a little frown line lingering between his brows. Then he drew himself up and smiled at them both. “Well, I am doubly glad to own it now. I shall have to ask him about his inspiration when next I see him. When is he due home?”
“We don’t know exactly. He’s gone off to Italy again.”
Lord Thorp rubbed his palms together. “More work to anticipate! There is no place like Italy for artists. Do tell him to call when he returns.”
“Indeed we shall,” Captain Overtree agreed. “Though I will have returned to my regiment by then. But my wife can ask Wesley to call. Can you not, my dear?”
“Of course.”
They completed their tour. Sophie asked about a few more paintings she was unfamiliar with, and Lord Thorp in turn obliged her by showing her his favorite pieces in the collection.
He offered to ring for tea, but the captain politely declined, mentioning the hour and the return journey ahead. Sophie thanked their host warmly, and he in turn pressed her hand.
“You are a balm, my dear. An absolute delight. I don’t suppose you have a much older sister?”
She smiled. “I am afraid not.”
“Ah well, such is my luck. Come back and visit anytime you like. My door shall always be open to you.”
In the landau on the ride home, Stephen glanced at Sophie and said soberly, “I am sorry. I had no idea.” He’d been as stunned as she was. And had instantly recognized the painting as a larger, more detailed version of the one he carried.
“That’s all right,” she said, gloved hands clasped in her lap. “It’s not your fault. But how shocking to see it there.”
“Yes. To my knowledge, those are the first pieces of Wesley’s Lord Thorp has ever acquired. I am surprised Wes did not trumpet the news to one and all.”
Sophie nodded vaguely, and Stephen inwardly chided himself for speaking ill of his brother to her, when he’d been striving to avoid that petty temptation.
He added, “If Lord Thorp bought it, it must be quite good. He’s something of an expert, they say. You ought to show him some of your work.”
Sophie shook her head. “Heavens, no. Mine are for my eyes only.”
He challenged lightly, “And what would you say if Lord Thorp kept his collection for his eyes only?”
She shook her head again. “That argument won’t work. His august collection deserves to be displayed and admired. My little scratches are not in the same class.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. Believe me, this is not false modesty. I am a painter’s daughter. I have been surrounded by art and artists my entire life. And that’s all right with me. I don’t paint for praise or fame.” She chuckled. “And certainly not for money.”
She shifted on the seat and changed the subject. “Do many people tour his collection?”
He nodded. “I gather Langton is a popular destination, and the housekeeper often leads tours. As far as I know, Lord Thorp only personally shows his collection to friends.”
She gave him a shy smile. “Then how fortunate for me he counts you as a friend.”
He enjoyed the warmth of her smile, then asked, “Are you worried my parents or someone else of our acquaintance might see it?”
“The thought did cross my mind.”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said to reassure her, but inwardly he dreaded the prospect as well.
“It certainly raises the question of how long I have known your brother and in what capacity. Which reminds me. I had been thinking about the paintings you sent back from Lynmouth. I confess, when I saw you and Edgar carrying a crate upstairs, I thought you intended to hide them in the attic. But then I—”
“No,” he hurried to assure her. “I had that crate hauled up to Wesley’s workroom, unopened.” He was surprised to learn she’d seen him and Edgar that night. He’d thought his secret was safe.
“Yes. Well, thank you,” she said. “Do you think your parents might open it in Wesley’s absence?”
“I don’t know. And I can’t ask them not to, not without raising questions.”
