Pippa gave him a tour of her cottage. Although she didn’t think her residence was all that interesting, Cull studied her belongings as if they were objects on display in a museum. He seemed fascinated by the most ordinary things: the cabinet filled with her collection of ceramic figurines, the ormolu clock and other bric-a-brac on the mantel, her painting implements which had been collecting dust on a shelf.
They ended up in her sitting room, where she’d had a small table set up for supper. Pippa’s heart skipped a beat when he went over toPortrait of a Lady Dreaming, which sat in a corner facing the wall. Crouching, he flipped it around.
He rose and asked, “Wasn’t this the picture at that fancy exhibition?”
Even now, the sight of the painting tightened Pippa’s chest. She saw her hand moving across the canvas, creating the oppressive damask-lined walls and that one bright pane of glass. And the lady herself, with her red-gold hair and longing eyes, staring out the window, dreaming of the love that would set her free.
Looking at the portrait, Pippa saw her loss and guilt immortalized in swirls of paint.
“Yes,” she said tautly. “The Royal Academy selected the piece for its exhibition.”
“Then what’s it doing on the floor?”
She wanted to tell him. The truth she’d buried so long. Yet the old vise of guilt clamped around her throat.
“I am just careless, I guess. Anyway, I don’t want supper to get cold. Let’s eat, shall we?”
Her pulse hammered as he studied her, his head angled.
Then he came over. “Whatever you want, sunshine. As it happens, I’m famished.”
Relieved, she said, “That’s good, because I asked Cook to prepare a special supper.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I suppose I’m hungry for food, too.”
They went to the round table by the fire, which Whitby had set cozily for two. The butler’s romantic soul showed in the crisp white table linens, beeswax tapers, and epergne arranged with fragrant hothouse roses. He’d laid out the best china and silverware, and a cart stood next to the table, the tiers filled with cloche-covered dishes. A frosted bottle of champagne waited in a silver bucket.
Cull held out a chair for her. Then he lifted the champagne bottle, opening it with an expert pop. He filled her glass, then his own.
Sitting, he raised his flute. “To you, sunshine.”
She tapped her glass to his. “To us.”
Cull took a gulp. “Delicious. I wonder what else your cook has in store for us.”
“I was instructed that we are to start at the top of the cart and work our way down.”
Cull removed the covers from the top dishes, serving thehors d’oeuvres, which consisted ofoysters au naturel,chilled and served in their shells with lemon and dill. Pippa smiled as Cull consumed his appetizer with gusto.
“You really are hungry,” she commented.
“Spent the day cleaning up after the Squibb mess.” He reached for the basket of bread, slathering butter on the crusty roll. “Didn’t have time to eat.”
“In your note, you said the Squibb matter was handled?”
“The bastard has branded himself a coward,” Cull said matter-of-factly. “No one in the stews will work for him again. And anyone thinking about taking over the mudlarks will think twice.”
“No one was hurt?” she asked worriedly.
“I nicked one bastard in a knife fight, and Fair Molly shot Squibb’s hand when he tried to shoot me in the back.” Cull’s brawny shoulders moved up and down. “The blighters will survive.”
The thought of how close Cull had come to being hurt chilled Pippa to the marrow. Shivering, she made a mental note to thank Molly.
But what if something had happened? I should have been there.
Cull had uncovered the soup tureen, releasing a spicy aroma.
“Mulligatawny is my favorite,” he said with satisfaction.
