“Aye, the portrait of the Third Marchioness ye purchased today,” Smith clarified. “How did ye come to know of it?”
“I believe it hung in one of the bedchambers.”
Smith sat back in his chair and pondered this over his steepled fingers. “I can’t imagine when. I was surprised to find the old family portraits up in the attic when the catalog was being made.”
“My father must have told me about it then,” the earl said irritably. “Is there some problem with me purchasing the portrait?”
“Nay, not at all,” Smith denied quickly. “I was just curious about it because of the lass.”
“What lass?”
“I kent ye maun no’ ha’ spotted her,” the hotel keep said with a nod. “’Tis why I thought to make mention. Curious lass to begin wi’, requesting the Lady’s Chambers as she did. Then out came that painting. I swear I was fair startled, as were half the bidders. The resemblance is remarkable, really. I’d kent there was something familiar about the lass when I first saw her last night. So curious.Och, but she looks just like her.”
“Who does?” Ballantrae asked absently.
“The American lass, laddie. Ha’ ye no’ been listening?”
“My apologies. My thoughts are scattered. She looks like who?”
“The Marchioness of Ayr, lad. What do ye think I’ve been talkin’ aboot?” Smith threw up his hands in exasperation.
“There’s a woman here who resembles the marchioness?” the earl asked, then shrugged dismissively. “So?”
Smith shook his head emphatically. “Not merely resembles, lad. Looks just like her. It’s uncanny. As I said, ye should’ve seen the heads turn when the portrait was brought out.”
Ballantrae stilled. “Exactlylike her?”
“Aye, exactly. Well, the American lass is a wee bit younger, perhaps. A bit fitter. Other than that, ye couldnae tell the difference between them.”
The already still earl became statuesque, and Smith felt as if he held Ballantrae’s full attention for the first time that night. “Aye, I thought ye might be interested, lad.”
* * *
Jason MacAuliffe, Earl of Ballantrae’s thoughts and focus on a time more than a hundred years away all day came abruptly present once more. It could not be. It must be some kind of cruel joke. Something his longtime neighbor said nagged at the back of his mind. “You said she’d requested a certain room as well?”
“Aye, the Lady’s Chamber,” Smith said. “Lad, all this is just too incredible. Too coincidental, and I suspect ye ken something of it.”
Jace ignored the probing words, fighting the urge to take the man by the shoulders and shake the truth loose. “What else?”
“What do you mean?”
“What more can you tell me about her?”
Smith looked prepared to withhold anything else he knew in favor of pressing more answers from him. The desperation Jace felt must have shone in his eyes, however because the man relented with a sigh. “Right curious lass, as I said. Dinnae ken what to make of her. Bid ardently through most of the day, then suddenly left when the portrait was brought out. I followed her to make sure she was well. It maun ha’ been a shock to her as well.”
“I’m sure,” he mumbled, but his mind was spinning away. Could it be possible? Could Hero have come to the future? Just as he had gone to the past? It seemed doubtful, yet wasn’t his own experience equally so?
If it were true…
For the first time in months, Jace’s heart raced with excitement, with possibilities. Mindful that Smith continued to eye him as curiously as a scientist might examine a new disease through a microscope, he struggled to remain nonchalant in the face of his examination. It wouldn’t do for his neighbor or anyone else to see the madness lingering beneath the surface. “Anything else?”
“'Twas peculiar enough how ye both bid on the same lots,” Smith continued. “And, as I said, I found her a curious lass. Melancholy last night, and then when she left the auction today, she went straight away to the cemetery, to the marchioness’s tomb. I wager the portrait roused her curiosity…”
His neighbor was fairly bursting with interest, but what could Jace say? That he’d fallen in love with a woman who’d been dead for almost a hundred and fifty years? Jace scoffed. He couldn’t mention any of that, lest he wanted to experience the fine tailoring of a well-fit straightjacket. Even so he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Do you know her name?”
Bloody hell but he felt ridiculous.
“Yes.” Smith reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small stack of business cards. Shuffling through them, he said, “She left me her card. Seems she’s a curator or such for a museum in the States. Here it is. Mikah Bauer.”
