Helen nodded her approval as Miss Brown arranged the bonnet over her hair. Diana’s interest in Peyton had not waned. Her sister was so vibrant and full of life. What man could resist her?
When they reached home laden with packages, the hatboxes piled up in Jeremy’s arms, Mama greeted them in the hall. She waved a letter. “Your father is delayed once again,” she said in a vexed tone. “Business has kept him in Liverpool. Some shipment has gone missing. But a consignment from Egypt arrived this morning. Mr. Thorburn is dealing with it in the library.”
“But Papa will be here in time for my ball?” Diana cried.
“As if your papa would miss that!” Mama wrapped an arm around Diana’s waist and led her into the morning room. She sat with her on the sofa while Jeremy brought in their shopping. “Show me what you’ve bought.”
Helen slipped away intent on going to the library while Mama and Diana examined their purchases and discussed fashion. Plato ambushed her in the corridor, and she swept him up. Mr. Thorburn, his face flushed, was on his hands and knees on the library floor as she entered, pulling straw out of several big boxes. Intriguing artifacts and other pieces unfathomable to her unpracticed eye lay on the carpet around him.
He looked up and blinked behind his glasses. “Oh, Lady Helen. Such things your father has sent home! They fair take my breath away!”
“Can I be of help, Mr. Thorburn?” As fascinated as he, Helen put the cat down. She yearned to travel to Eastern climes with her father and discover such things for herself. But Papa would never consider taking her. Not since the ball. She was bitterly aware that he viewed her as too nervous for such a venture. Even though it was no longer true. She had regained her strength and could tackle anything that came her way and could only hope that, in time, she could change his mind.
“I should be most grateful if you could help me to group them for cataloging,” Mr. Thorburn said. “Just a preliminary list at this stage, you understand.”
“I shall be pleased to.” Helen sat behind the desk. As she selected pen and paper, she noticed a letter from Alexandro Volta at the top of the pile awaiting her father’s perusal. “Is Mr. Volta a friend of my father’s?”
Mr. Thorburn’s head whipped up, his features tight. He rose and came to the desk. “I don’t believe so. I meant to put that letter away.”
She watched as he took the letter and slipped it inside a leather-bound portfolio.
His shoulders relaxed, and he smiled as he returned to kneel beside the wooden crate. “Now, shall we begin?”
He began to pull out straw, murmuring with delight over the objects he found within the crate. He carefully placed a granite statue of a proudly erect cat on the floor beside him. “Bastet, protectress of cats. The Ancient Egyptians had great respect for the animals,” he murmured. “Killing a cat was punishable by death.”
“That should be an English law, too.”
He looked up and grinned. “Cats protected the grain from mice and rats. If a cat died, the family would mourn it by shaving their eyebrows.”
“I’m sure you would agree, wouldn’t you, Plato?” she asked the cat, who was flicking a piece of straw about with its paws.
She turned her attention back to Thorburn, hunched over the box. Why didn’t he wish her to see Volta’s letter? Might he be hiding something? Or did he think that she, as a woman, should not involve herself too deeply in her father’s work? She dabbed the pen in the inkwell and began to list the items when the secretary named them. But her pulse still raced. Perhaps the secrets she and Peyton sought resided in that portfolio. As soon as the secretary left the library, she would return.
When Thorburn left the house, Helen continued her examination of the portfolio. She was so intent on its contents she didn’t hear the door open, only sensed that someone had stepped into the room.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Helen. I thought the library was empty. One of the maids has lost her workbox. I’m sure she’d forget her head if it wasn’t attached to her neck.”
“I haven’t seen it here, Mrs. Chance, but please look around.”
The housekeeper’s gaze swept around the room. “No, not here.”
When the door closed again, Helen returned to the fascinating contents of the portfolio.
Chapter Thirteen
At the Mayfair art gallery, Baron Bianchi appeared eager to gain Jason’s support. “I sell very few paintings from my collection, although I donate some to art galleries. But this patron was so keen I didn’t wish to disappoint him, and the drawing was not a particular favorite of mine.” He shook his head. “I should have sensed something was wrong. Now I must be on my guard, Lord Peyton. I fear I’ve been the subject of a hoax.”
“Your buyer is returning with the drawing today?”
“I expect him any moment. It distresses me that you must witness it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t be of much help to you. I certainly can’t offer you a critical opinion.”
The baron placed a hand on Jason’s arm. “But that was never my intention, Lord Peyton! As you will soon observe, I have sought expert advice.” He shrugged and rolled his dark eyes. Smiling warmly at Lizzie, he placed his arm at her back to lead her forward. “I am like an eager youth wishing for you to see my art collection. Please take your brother around the room, Lady Greywood.” He waved his hand. “Your opinion is keenly sought. Do you feel I have displayed my paintings to advantage?”
Jason had already circled the room once with Lizzie and was about to do so again. He glanced at the impressive works of art. Several of the paintings were breathtaking and worth a good deal of money. “A magnificent collection, Baron.”
The hairs on the back of his neck only stirred when something, yet to reveal itself, disturbed him. Perhaps it was the baron’s overly familiar manner toward Lizzie. They were not betrothed. The way that he guided Lizzie around with a hand at her waist was not acceptable behavior in England. But perhaps the baron did not know that. Jason was aware that Italian culture was different.
