Lucas leaned forward in the chair, rested his elbows on his knees, and held his glass in both hands before him, gauging when and how to respond. It was another thing his father had told him:“Trust is built by listening, not speaking.”
“And then,” continued Wainbridge, “imagine my surprise to learn the stipulation that my aunt be allowed to live out her days in this house! There is no escape from her! Taking a house in London was my hope of evading it, but now funds for such an escape are gone. And she’s so angry that there is no telling how she’ll behave.”
Wainbridge jumped from his seat and began to pace. “And while we’re on the subject, who is this Miss Brannon? No oneknows anything about her, but she seems to be my aunt’s most trusted companion these days. Why on earth would she bring the lady if she meant to confront me in the manner in which she did? To humiliate me? To threaten me?”
Lucas waited until the room was again silent, and then he kept his tone soft and steady. “Let’s consider it rationally. Mrs.Milton would not risk shedding negative light on her husband’s memory by saying a single word of this to the guests. I suspect she knows this must be done—she just doesn’t like it. And as for MissBrannon, I confess I don’t understand that either, except she might feel outnumbered, or as if she needs a witness to be heard.”
“You’re right.” Wainbridge moved to the window, stared outside for several seconds, then turned to the sideboard between the two windows. He picked up a Chinesehulupingblue-and-white vase that was sitting atop the teak inlay. He held up the piece as if to study it and then shook his head. “All of this commotion over silly things. It’s not even that attractive. And what purpose does it serve?”
Lucas stood and reached for the vase. “You might not care for it, but if you let me do my job, I will find someone who thinks the opposite.”
Wainbridge scoffed and handed the item over. “Here, take it.”
Lucas took it, fully knowing what to expect from the piece—the weight. The texture. The general feel of it. But when the porcelain hit his hands, he stiffened.
Something about it was not right.
It was too light. The texture was slightly grainy when it should have been smooth like glass.
Lucas chuckled to mask his concern about the item, and he glanced at the other porcelain pieces on the tiered corner shelf. “Tomorrow I’ll spend more time in here. I think there may be more value here than in the library.”
Wainbridge turned back to the window. “Be my guest. Tomorrow there’s to be a picnic, though. The painter’s arrived, and if the weather’s in our favor, the ladies will spend the day painting on the lawn, and the men can watch or play lawn games or the sort. You should probably make an appearance so no one else begins to wonder where you get to during the daytime hours.”
Lucas looked down at the peculiar vase in his hand, smoothed his hand over the cobalt-hued design, and then placed it back on the sideboard. “Come on. It’s getting late. I need to get this dust off me before dinner, and you”—he motioned to the mud splattered on Wainbridge’s breeches—“might want to deal with that if you are to convince any of the ladies that you are a worthy suitor.”
Wainbridge cracked a smile. “It does not suit?”
“No. And be quick about it. If we’re late, Tate will rob us of all the port, and then where will we be?”
The men exited the study, but as Lucas did, he cast one last look at the porcelain he had just held. It looked authentic from a distance, but the feel of it told another story.
Chapter19
The dumbfounded shock in Mr.Wainbridge’s expression.
The heated rage in Mrs.Milton’s tone.
Olivia could not help but recount the scene she’d just witnessed. She should have listened to her uncle. She should have listened to Russell. She should have listened to anyone who told her that coming to Cloverton Hall might not be fruitful. Yet she’d forged ahead, stubbornly, obstinately, and now she was in a horrifically awkward situation.
How had she not considered the situation more earnestly before agreeing to this arrangement?
She’d been so eager to advance her own skills and situation that she did not allow herself any time to think of the possible drawbacks of accepting such an offer. It seemed the reasons to regret her decision were multiplying, and so far, witnessing Mrs.Milton’s berating of Mr.Wainbridge was the worst offense. Never had she seen a woman slap another person.
It was behavior she could not tolerate—regardless of the reason.
“You’re awf’lly quiet this afternoon,” Tabitha chirped as she dressed Olivia’s hair for dinner. The maid’s cheerful nature was a balm to an atmosphere that otherwise seemed quite fraught. “I ’ope you’re not fallin’ ill.”
“I’m quite well.” Olivia smiled. “Merely lost in thought, I suppose.”
Tabitha’s normally buoyant expression sobered as she slowed. “I ’eard about what ’appened in Mr.Wainbridge’s study. I ’eard you saw the whole thing.”
“You did?”
“Teague told me o’ it. Says Mrs.Milton’s a’side ’erself an’ fears she’ll be unwell.”
Relieved to be able to share her thoughts on the matter, Olivia handed Tabitha a ribbon to be woven into her hair. “I don’t understand it. She’s so angry. It’s one thing to attempt to make a point. It’s another to slap a man because he does not agree with you.”
Tabitha swiped her frizzy ginger hair from her brow and accepted the ivory ribbon. “Mrs.Milton isn’t a bad sort; she’s just sad. All t’ things they worked so hard t’ accumulate will be scattered. It sounds silly t’ most I’d reckon, but it’s important t’ her.”
