“Walking a different way on the last night, says he.” O’Malley explained the girl’s changed route. “We haven’t learned much after a day’s work.”
“We know that Franny lied to Mrs. Murphy about her plans and how she earned her extra money. She walked down one of London’s busier roads in her best dress and headed toward Chelsea. Then she vanished.”
“Until weeks later, we found the poor lass in a sack.”
* **
Mary Allingham felt a prickling sensation at the back of her neck. She didn’t look around. Artists like Mary often sketched in the South Kensington Museum, and visitors stopped to watch. An observer wasn’t unusual, but a critique was.
Someone with a pronounced Irish lilt said, “Those Muses, now. I’m thinking you’ve made them look too . . . amused.”
Mary twisted around on the bench. A tall man with an unruly head of curly black hair looked down at her.
“You’re mistaken. And they’re not the Muses. They’reThe Three Graces.”She pointed her chalk at Antonio Canova’s sculpture in the hall’s center.
“A quibble.” He set his paint box down and circled the statue. Blue tints from a shaft of sunlight shone in his jet-black hair. “Sure, it wouldn’t be gentlemanly of me to say your Graces aren’t graceful.”
Mary eyed him slowly, tracking his scuffed boots, unbuttoned corduroy jacket, paint-smeared cuff, and loosely knotted necktie. He looked aggressively shabby.
“Gentlemanly?” Mary lifted a brow. “Hardly.”
He smiled, his eyes glinting.More green than blue,Mary decided,with flecks of gold.Their expression irritated her.
The man glanced at her paint box. “M. Allingham . . . that wouldn’t be Mrs. Charles Allingham, would it?”
“It wouldn’t.” She held up her ringless left hand. “For an artist, you’re not very observant. Charles is my brother.”
“An understandable error. Didn’t I hear that Mrs. Allingham is the loveliest woman in all of London?”
Mary sighed and replaced her pastel chalks in their box. “It’s rather late. I must be going, ah . . . sir.”
“And where are my manners, now? Allow me to introduce myself.” He dragged an oatmeal tweed cap from his back pocket, tugged it over his dark curls, and swept it off again. “WilliamSheridan Quain, at your service, of Ballykilmuckeridge Downs, County Offaly, Ireland.”
Mary blinked; he grinned. “Sure, the English like an Irishman who comes from a place with a comical name, so I oblige them. Truth be told, I’m from Waterford, like the glass. William Sheridan Quain. Will to my friends.”
Mary picked up her paint box. “You must excuse me, I’m late.” She crossed the foyer, walked through the doors, and down the steps.
Quain followed and looked around. “Where is your carriage?”
“I’m walking.”
“To Blenheim Lodge on your own? Without a maid?”
Mary stopped. “How do you know where—”
“Didn’t your brother invite me over to show him my work? Didn’t he spend a few quid on some watercolors of mine? And you, away, studying in Paris? Sure, I can’t let you go off on your own.”
“You needn’t concern yourself, Mister Quain. I cut through the gardens where there are many strollers about.”
“If it’s determined you are, I’ll let you go. But I’ll be watching you until you reach the gate.”
As she approached the garden entrance, Mary thought,I won’t look back.
When she looked over her shoulder, Will Quain waved his cap.
* * *
An hour after dinner, Mary tapped on the study door. “Am I interrupting?”
