No one answered her question.
Her heart ached for her oldest sister. She’d lost so much, sacrificed so much. Was this perhaps her reward or a new punishment?
“Your husband is right.” Joanna set the paper down on the table, the small announcement facing upward. “We have to tell her.”
They all nodded, but Amelia couldn’t help wondering what Mariel would do. “Yes, she needs to know. If this is a chance to find the happiness we have, we can’t keep this information from her.” She squeezed Andrew’s hand, thankful for his support.
Pratt entered the dining room and bowed to them. “Pardon my interruption, my lord, but there is a gentleman who insists on meeting the countess. I told him to come back this afternoon, but he will hear none of it. Here is his card. Do you wish me to have him removed?”
Andrew took the card and grinned. “No. If my lady is willing, I think we will see him in my study.”
Pratt didn’t bat an eyelash before heading back to the entryway.
“Who is it?” She frowned at her husband. It was hardly an appropriate time to call.
He didn’t say anything, just handed her the card.
Ansel Bartleby, Art Dealer. 18 James Street, London.
“Who is it, Amelia?” Joanna craned her neck as if she could read the card from across the table.
She rose, raising her brows. “It’s an art dealer.”
“An art dealer? Why would—”
Andrew interrupted Joanna. “It would appear that my wife’s art is requested.”
“Do you think so?” Her heart started to pound.
“I do.” He gave her an encouraging smile and placed her hand on his arm. “Shall we meet him and see if I’m correct?”
She nodded, still too surprised to understand what it meant. But once out of the dining room, her curiosity came to the fore. “Do you know this Mr. Bartleby?”
“I do. He has an excellent reputation.” Andrew led her past the stairs to the upper floor.
“Then he may be here to see if you are willing to sell one of the paintings in your collection. You do have a stunning collection.” That had to be why the man was here.
“Did you not hear Pratt? He is here to see you.”
That was true. He did say that. “But he could be here because he heard I have knowledge of classical painters and he wished another opinion on a piece.”
Andrew halted, still feet from his study and stepped in front of her. “Mr. Bartleby is here to inquire about purchasing one of your paintings. Why is it hard for you to believe that?”
She shrugged her right shoulder. “There are so many other skilled artists. Why me?”
His gaze turned soft and he took her hands in his. “My beautiful, talented wife. You are one of those skilled artists, and I have no doubt that you are far better than most.”
She started to shake her head, but he dropped her hands and cupped her face. “I’m an art collector. You are more skilled than most. Now I want you to accept the fact, before we walk in there, that someone wants to buy one of your paintings.”
“They do?” She had so many questions, like how did they even know about her, who wanted a painting, and why her?
“Yes, they do. Now shall we find out which one?”
She nodded, still not quite believing it and half expecting the dealer had the wrong artist.
Andrew placed her hand on his arm again and took them to the door, as he opened it, she could feel the tension in his arm. “Mr. Bartleby. You insist on seeing my wife at a most ungodly hour. I trust there is something of great import that you must communicate then?”
Having never heard Andrew use such a tone, she found herself distracted by him. He was her Greek hero come to life.
