“You might as well come out, Harlowe,” Dorset said with slightly slurred words. “I saw you walk in.”
Wincing, Harlowe stepped into the light. “How much have you had to drink, Dorset?”
“She’s a jewel, that one. A priceless gem.” He tossed back a tumbler of spirits. “When’s the wedding?”
Harlowe allowed himself a stinging smile. “Soon,” he said,andpromising himself Dorset would never get close enough to take her from him.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’ll pass, thanks. Perhaps you should as well.”
“Why, Harlowe, how pleasant to finally catch you,” the widow Chancé said, sauntering up and gracing them with the depths of her husky, sultry tones. Nothing of her physique struck recognition, sending a shot of relief through him. She put her arm through his and led him away from Dorset. “I’ve missed your stimulating conversations. I’m devastated that each time you’ve visited in the last few weeks, I’ve only to see your backside hastening out the door.”
Harlowe laughed. “Devastated, Madam? Surely, you exaggerate.”
Madam Chancé was as beautiful as ever. Her delicate features reminded him of Maeve’s, but the similarity ended there. Several long curls draped a bared shoulder from her elegant coiffure of hair as dark as midnight. Her black silk gown and gloves were striking against the pure white of her skin. Not a single freckle could be seen.
She tapped him on the arm with her painted fan. “You know there is no one of my acquaintance who knows art better than you.”
He inclined his head. “You flatter me.”
“I’ve new pieces I would adore your take on.”
“I shall be happy to offer my opinion, Madam. Lead the way.” Harlowe was extremely conscious of the eyes following him from the salon. Talk in the Polite World’s circle ran rampant. He felt as if he should have let Maeve know what he was about, but she’d slammed that door in his face. She hadn’t even allowed a crack.
The widow led him through the large hall and down a wide corridor where he spotted Welton on a chaise fumbling with the front fall of his trousers with one hand, his other pinching the large, rouged nipple of his companion.
“Miss Julietta, you shall take you and your companion to a secluded alcove or to your chambers.”
“Oh. Yes, Madam.” She giggled and grabbed Welton by the cravat and led him like a dog to the stairs.
An image of Welton and Harlowe hiding a swarm of grasshoppers in their tunics flitted through his mind. They’d been in leading strings at the time and had taken it upon themselves to frighten Lorelei. She’d been sitting under a tree engrossed in one of those horrid novels she adored. The image brought him up.
“Something wrong, Lord Harlowe?”
He shook his head, stunned by the unexpected recollection. “No,” he croaked out. He cleared his throat. “Lead on.”
They moved past the curtained alcoves. Harlowe caught various peals of laughter, grunting, squeals, and snippets of conversation. Most of which needed no explanation.
The widow had a chamber full of wonderful art. She had set up the room similar to that of a small museum one might find in Venice or Rome. Dividers had been erected to allow more wall space. There were paintings in oil, water, and pastels. Erotic themes and idealized landscapes from the Rococo period filled one entire wall. Neoclassical works of subdued emotion and orderly, symmetrical compositions. Some realistic depictions that hadn’t quite caught the mainstream’s interest, but lovely just the same, were mounted on the dividers. Miniature frescoes and sculptures of dancers, nude and otherwise, lined the large fireplace and mantelpiece. Along another wall, Madam Chancé had acquired a new exhibit, consisting of antique weapons: daggers, swords, ancient muskets.
“Your collection has grown,” he said.
She lifted an elegant shoulder. “Time marches on, my dear.”
It had been less than two years since he’d been in this chamber. His own paintings—two—were showcased on one of their own divider walls.
“What is it?”
“The knives. They’re new…”
“Not at all,” she said. “I only recently had them mounted.”
“Would you mind if I wandered about. I’ve always enjoyed this room.”
“Certainly, darling. I’ll see you in the main salon when you finish. Will you be requiring company tonight?”
Harlowe graced her with a superior smile. “That won’t be necessary.” All he wanted was his memory back, Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer in his bed, and a look at his own paintings in her fabulous little museum.
