“No, dearest. Bart’s not a relative.” Helen put an arm around her sister’s waist. This was a terrible shock to them all, but perhaps it affected Diana more than her. Toby, although upset, considered himself a man. Despite Diana’s self-confidence, she was young and had never seen a death at close quarters. Even though Helen had witnessed their Aunt Violet’s laying out, she still shivered with shock.
“How very strange,” Mama said on learning of Bart’s last words. “I shall notify Lord Peyton. And I must write to Bartholomew’s mother. I believe she lives in a village in Cumbria and is unlikely to travel all the way to London for the funeral.
“Now my dears, the surgeon wishes to see me.” After kissing them both, Mama extricated herself from the morning room sofa, where Helen and Diana had huddled beside her. She put a hand on Toby’s shoulder where he slumped in a chair. “Do not be too distressed. Bartholomew is no longer in pain. God cares for him in heaven.”
Helen watched her mother leave the room. How very curious it was. Lord Peyton must have waited at the foot of their garden with the intention of meeting Bart. And he’d inveigled himself into their house on what now seemed to be a ruse. Her breath hitched. She rubbed Diana’s arm as she leaned against her. They’d all been drawn to Peyton’s appealing, amusing manner. And thought him kind to promise to introduce Toby to Mr. Nash. He’d appeared so trustworthy. Was that a ruse too? How could she believe anything he now said? She hoped her mother would discover what lay behind this awful business, but if she didn’t, Helen was determined to.
***
Dark-haired Baron Bianchi was of average height, with those liquid deep brown eyes that displayed a surfeit of emotion, almost at will. Fortunately, there was little in his mode of dress for Jason to suspect him to be one of those Latins he detested, who wooed a lady with flattery then revealed themselves to be corrupt at the core. Bianchi’s midnight blue tailcoat and white embroidered waistcoat were unremarkable, his only affectation a large emerald of a superior quality on the ring finger of his right hand. Jason imagined women would find him attractive. His sister undoubtedly did.
The baron accepted a glass of wine from the footman, and they seated themselves in the drawing room.
“How do you find our weather, Baron?”
“Forgive me for saying so, but it rains rather often,” he said with an apologetic shrug. “And the sun, it is not as warm here as in Italy. Have you visited my country, my lord?”
“Yes. A brief stay.” Jason was not about to elaborate. He had accompanied the Foreign Secretary, Viscount Castlereagh, to Italy during the Congress of Vienna, when Napoleon returned to France during the hundred days after his escape from Elba. Jason then fought under Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo. Fortunately, Bianchi knew better than to ask.
“As you would be aware, Napoleon’s family hailed from Italy before they went to Corsica. Italian was the general’s first language.” Bianchi raised a black eyebrow with quizzical amusement. “I feel I must apologize for the appalling actions of my countryman.”
“Please don’t think I will hold it against you.” Jason smiled as the door opened and Lizzie entered.
He and Bianchi stood as his sister, dressed in a surprisingly frivolous deep lavender silk gown, the skirts and sleeves a mass of ruffles, came to take Bianchi’s hand.
“How very glad I am you could come on such short notice, Baron Bianchi.”
“I would have braved a snowstorm to be here, tonight, Lady Greywood,” Bianchi replied in his heavily accented voice, his gaze capturing hers for a long moment.
“Thankfully, that wasn’t necessary,” Jason said, pouring a little cold water on the heated atmosphere. He met Lizzie’s fiery glance and smiled. “Just a little rain, Baron, of which we English are quite accustomed.”
“Ah, yes, rain.” The baron nodded sympathetically.
Charlie entered with Russell, who announced two ladies. Although Charlie had said Amelia Groton was pretty, Jason had not expected such a beauty. The slender young woman in pale pink was a perfect English rose with creamy skin, wheat-gold hair drawn into a topknot to display a graceful neck, and eyes the blue of an English summer sky. Her Aunt Bessie, tightly corseted in purple, cast a nervous glance around the room while clutching a rope of jet beads at her breast.
Charlie drew them both forward. “Allow me to introduce my sister, Lady Greywood, and my brother, Captain, Lord Peyton. Lizzie, Jas, please meet Mrs. Groton and her niece, Miss Groton. And this must be Baron Bianchi. How do you do.”
Jason watched as Amelia’s speculative blue gaze roamed the drawing room from the swags of silk damask at the windows to the elegant furniture, the white columns decorating brick red walls hung with fine art and mirrors. She revealed none of her aunt’s nervousness when she turned to Jason. With a demure smile, she offered him her gloved fingers.
“So very kind of you to invite us, my lord.”
“My pleasure, Miss Groton.” Jason raised her small hand to his lips.
As the rest of the introductions followed, Jason grew increasingly uneasy. If Charlie had a yen to make Miss Amelia Groton his wife, and many red-blooded men would be tempted, it would be very difficult to dissuade him.
Jason had Miss Groton’s measure at first glance. While he was sympathetic to any young woman unprotected and at the mercy of some scoundrel, she would not marry Charlie.
Bianchi, however, was not so easy to read. Some digging was required into the gentleman’s circumstances. Jason had a friend residing in Florence. He would write to him tonight.
In the dining room, as Russell supervised the footmen bringing in the first course, Jason turned to the baron on his left, acutely aware of Lizzie listening to their conversation from across the table. “What has brought you to London, Baron?”
“I have made fine art my interest, my lord. I particularly like the da Vinci drawing of a horse on that far wall. I suppose you don’t wish to sell it? No? I should not like to part with it myself,” he said when Jason shook his head. “I am presenting an exhibition of Renaissance art here in London, at a Mayfair gallery. Some of the works are from my estate in Florence, a Titian amongst them. Perhaps you’d care to attend the opening? It is on Thursday.”
“Thank you. Regretfully, I have another engagement on Thursday.”
“A pity. The exhibition will run for the following two weeks.”
“Then I look forward to seeing it.” He smiled at Lizzie, who toyed with her spoon. “You will accompany me, won’t you, Lizzie?”
