Two days later, her glacial calm cracked as she hastily entered the drawing room. Several ladies had enjoyed a lively game of lawn tennis and now occupied themselves with gossip and fashion periodicals.
“Diantha, there is a tradesman in the front hall! And he is opening several crates that he insists are paintings and are nothing but blots! Send him about his business at once!”
“Splendid!” Diantha brushed past her and scurried to the main stairway as quickly as one could in a bustle and corset. She paused at the landing that overlooked the entry hall and grinned.
Sir Harry Emerson stood in the middle of a pile of wood and packing material. Two paintings leaned against the wall and two footmen lifted another out of the last crate under his supervision.
“Oy, careful! That’s canvas, not a piece of steel.”
“What an intriguing man.” To her surprise, Francesca stood at her side. She replied to Diantha’s raised eyebrows with a shrug. “You didn’t think I was going to stay for another of Iona’s lectures, did you?”
Diantha chuckled. “Come along then.” She descended the rest of the stairs. “Harry! You’re making a mess.”
“I expected you needed a diversion.” His easy smile widened to include her companion. “Besides, you brought reinforcements.”
“Francesca, please allow me to present Sir Harry Emerson, a dear, if untidy, friend of my family’s. Harry, Lady Francesca Urquhart.”
He bowed. “My pleasure, your ladyship.”
A flush spread across her new friend’s face, but she kept her composure. “Don’t let Diantha frighten you off with my title. Your accent tells me you are from Yorkshire, sir.”
Harry straightened, his face neutral. “Aye.”
“I grew up not far from Helmsley.” Francesca bestowed one of her wonderful smiles on him.
The industrialist gave her one in return that Diantha could only describe as foolish. “I’m from Hull myself.”
“Harry! I thought I heard your voice!” Her father emerged from the billiard room at the back of the house, looking genuinely pleased for the first time since his arrival.
Kieran followed him, a frown marring his face. “Emerson. I did not know Diantha invited you.”
She had prepared herself for this reaction. “I invited him for Papa’s sake.”
“Thankee, my girl.” Her father patted her shoulder in an awkward gesture of affection.
“What do you think?” Harry waved a hand at the paintings. “Dina commissioned me to purchase these before she left Paris.”
Papa peered at them. “Can’t tell what they’re supposed to be.”
“They do seem to have rather a lot of daubs.” Francesca tilted her head to one side.
Kieran came to Diantha’s side. She could smell the lavender and bay of his soap. “That’s what you asked him about at the Opera?” His eyes twinkled. “Dina?”
Her father harrumphed. “Silly pet name, Mrs. Quinn’s mother started calling her that in the nursery.”
“Hetty always swore the name suited her.” Harry cleared his throat. “My late wife.”
“It’s called impressionist painting. Step back here.” The words all but squeaked out as she led them nearly to the front door. At a distance the paintings resolved themselves into outdoor scenes that captured sunlight and shadow as it fell on buildings, meadows, and people.
“How clever.” Francesca sighed wistfully. “It’s been ages since I’ve been to a proper gallery.”
Kieran nodded. “We’ll have to find a place to hang them where they’ll show to best advantage. For now, we should put them in the study and let the rest of our guests take a look at them.”
“I am so gratified that you like them.” Her heart danced at his approval, though, of course, she did not dare throw her arms around his neck as she wished. “Of course, Harry deserves the credit for finding them.”
“Indeed.” Kieran held out his hand. “You’re quite the connoisseur, Emerson.”
“Self-taught, no more.” Despite the gruff words, the Yorkshireman failed to hide his pride.
