“Excellent. I believe we’ll stroll about first. If it’s in walking distance, we’ll head that way. Tell Comfrey we’ll meet him there, if he returns.” Grey winced as the twins made their way down the stairs and he recalled Andrew’s impediment. He would not enjoy walking, and his sister went slowly to accommodate him.
Grey met them in the lobby. “Andrew, Mr. Russell has the directions to Bradford House. Would you mind driving the curricle around to meet us there, after the horses are rested? I want to visit the gallery my cousin is opening and introduce her to your sister. They will be working together, I hope.” Grey had every intention of misleading his enemies in any manner available. Village rumor mills had to be fed some fodder.
“Delighted to do so, sir.” Amiable Andrew ambled out to the yard.
Leonard adjusted her plain bonnet over her cropped curls, tied the strings, and waited for orders.
Grey was damned if he knew how to deal with a female assistant, but he knew what was expected by a lady. He extended his elbow. “Come along, then, I’ll introduce you to my cousin.”
She sent him an uninterpretable look from beneath long lashes. Why had he not noticed those intriguing, undeniably feminine, eyes earlier? They were almost topaz, almond-shaped, and suited her high cheekbones nicely.
Because one did not study the eyes of gentlemen. Or assistants. Especially assistants. They were tools to be used.
Gritting his teeth, Grey led her out to the dusty yard. “The banker who was to meet us has wandered off. Let us take the opportunity to see what foolishness Cousin Dorothea has instigated now. She has ever been a menace to herself and others.”
“How so?” she asked as they strolled past a hole-in-the-wall with an artistically painted sign naming it Monk’s Tavern.
Grey noted that all the signs around town appeared new. “You will have to see for yourself. I will not prejudice you in advance.”
She snorted, obviously recognizing his bias.
He wrinkled his nose in distaste at several derelict cottages with abandoned gardens and prayed the banker had found better.
Past the meager cottages, they reached a slightly more substantial part of the village—meaning it had several stores and a few residences with solid roofs, although one yard was oddly adorned with spinning, bobbing pinwheels and bottles.
Grey had escaped the countryside after the death of the last remaining member of his immediate family. Once out of school, he’d not returned, finding the bucolic life too slow and unstimulating for his energy and inquiring mind.
He was older now and really ought to consider settling down. . .
Maybe, after Italy. He’d promised himself a reward for writing this book that would no doubt make him persona non grata in half his clubs. Perhaps he’d settle in Italy. His string of disastrous fates might not follow him abroad.
“It’s a pity you are not an architect or historian, my lord,” his assistant murmured, disrupting his thoughts. “I feel as if we have stepped back in time and I would like to know more.”
“I am a historian,” he argued. “I just find nothing artistic about thatch. It’s a fire hazard.”
Familiar shouts from a storefront interrupted any reply. What the devil was Gustav doing this far from London?
Grey put Miss Leonard behind him just as a man in an artist’s smock tumbled out the door and on to the raised boardwalk they’d been traversing. He should have known the city would follow him.
“Shakespearian?” Grey suggested, peering into the window of the shop, ignoring the cursing clod in the dust.
“Well, if this is the gallery, possibly Renaissance?” She didn’t object when he led her past the cursing artist, into the gallery.
“Caravaggio, you are suggesting? He did like his brawls.” Pleased she knew his mind so well, Grey studied the big brute inside the door, dusting off his perfectly tailored but ancient coat. Unsmiling, the brute slammed the door on the ruffian in the street.
“Ah, Greybourne, there you are. Of course you arrive just as tempers flare.” Looking entirely out of place in a space filled with hammering carpenters and quarreling artists, a blond vision of elegance floated toward them.
“Brawling is the pastime of peasants, my dear Dorothea. Do we have this fine gentleman here to thank for ridding us of opinionated vermin?” Grey bowed to the chestnut-haired giant, who did not acknowledge his pleasantry but eyed him with suspicion.
“Arnaud Lavigne, Cecil Greybourne. You may sort out your titles as you wish.” Dorothea turned her attention on Miss Leonard. “Welcome. I am Thea Talbot, unfortunate cousin of this inconsiderate gentleman who never visits without causing trouble.”
“I did nothing!” Grey protested, refraining from rolling his eyes at his cousin’s pronunciation of Tay-ya. At least she hadn’t shortened it to Dora.
He bowed in the direction of the aristocratic émigré the family fretted over. The Frenchman scowled and crossed his rather large arms. Grey decided antagonizing him was a fool’s journey.
“Not according to Gustav.” Thea waved at the clod brushing himself off outside. “He declares you are a fraud, a liar, and a thief. He was not pleased to hear you are in town.”
“Word does fly swiftly in your rural abode,” Grey said dryly. “And Gustav is the fraud, liar, and thief. Why is he here?”
