In front of everyone.
Where I can’t hide.
Where I can’t pretend this isn’t happening.
And somewhere in my coat pocket, Joseph’s ring is still waiting for me to deal with it.
Chapter Seven
‘THIS IS VEIL’S GREAT-grandmother,’Lady Hampton signs, gesturing to a portrait of a woman with dark eyes and an expression that could cut glass.
‘Charlotte Hampton. She ran the estate single-handedly while her husband was at war. Managed the finances, the tenants, the livestock. The men in the village refused to take orders from a woman, so she started signing all her letters with the initial C. Hampton. They assumed she was Charles.’
‘Did they ever find out?’I ask with a smile.
‘Eventually. By then the estate was more profitable than it had ever been, so they kept their mouths shut.’Lady Hampton’s eyes sparkle.‘Smart woman. Knew that sometimes the best way to win is to let people underestimate you.’
She moves to the next portrait, and I follow, absorbing every detail of the Hampton gallery. The room is long and narrow, lined with portraits spanning what must be centuries of family history. Some of the frames are gilded and ornate, others simple dark wood, and the faces staring down at me range from stern military men to soft-eyed women holding small dogs to one wild-haired gentleman who appears to be holding a parrot.
Lady Hampton has been walking me through them all morning, and I’ve been taking notes because this is exactly the kind of background I need for the exhibition materials. The Hampton fountain pen collection isn’t just about pens. It’s about a family that valued craftsmanship and legacy and putting beautiful things into the world, and the more I understand that history, the better I can tell their story.
But I’d be lying if I said the tour was purely professional.
Lady Hampton keeps pausing at certain portraits with that Mona Lisa smile, signing little anecdotes that feel less like history lessons and more like invitations. Like she’s opening a door and waiting to see if I’ll walk through.
‘This one,’she signs, stopping in front of a portrait near the end of the gallery.‘This is Veil’s father.’
The Duke of Veilcourt. The previous one, I mean. The man who started the fountain pen collection on his honeymoon in Paris.
He’s younger in this portrait than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, with dark hair and a face that’s handsome but not severe. His eyes are what catch me. They’re warm. Kind. The kind of eyes that look like they’re keeping a secret they’d love to share.
‘He had the most beautiful handwriting,’Lady Hampton recalls with a softened expression.‘Even his grocery lists looked like calligraphy.’
I laugh softly.‘That must be where Veil gets it.’
‘Veil gets many things from his father.’Her expression turns tender.‘The stubbornness. The loyalty. The inability to admit when he’s wrong.’She pauses.‘The capacity to love deeply and completely, even when it terrifies him.’
