“I am not going to woo him,” her sister snapped. “I do not even know how to woo!”
“Do ye want wooing pointers?” Kenneth asked hopefully.
“I have never wooed in my life.” Barbara pulled her hand from his and reached for an empty teacup. “I would not know where to begin being wooed.”
“You could try slamming the door. Or telling him he looks horrible in that color,” Annabelle offered from behind her book. “Or chewing with your mouth open. That would be wooed.”
Kenneth, who had glanced down at his very fashionable burgundy waistcoat, began to chuckle in understanding.
Barbara, on the other hand, sighed mightily. “Wooed, Annie, notrude.”
“Oryou could call your younger sister a name she detests and has asked you to never call her again. That is very wooed.”
“Rude!” Barbara corrected.
Annabelle lowered the book just long enough to nod solemnly. “Yes, that too.”
Kenneth was outright chuckling now, as Barbara scoffed and poured him tea. “One sugar, please.”
When she handed him the cup, he made certain their fingers not only brushed, but lingered. He smiled in genuine pleasure. “I suppose it’s just as well yer sister is chaperoning, eh? She willnae allow me to be rude.”
“Or wooed.” Was that a wink? “If I am overcome with the urge to woo you.”
“I do not need to hear about your urges!”
Barbara grinned at her sister’s outburst and cleared her throat very deliberately. When her sister sighed and dropped her book, she said, “If you will move overthere”—she pointed to a chair under the window on the other side of the room—”for the next thirty minutes, I will teach you how to curl ringlets without burning your fingers.”
Annabelle narrowed bright blue eyes. “You were going to do that anyhow.”
“Yes, but I will do it this afternoon.”
The book slammed shut. “Fine.” The lassie stood in a huff, scooping up the plate heaving with cakes, and stomped to the other side of the room. Kenneth might have objected to the loss of the cakes, except Mrs. Whinge bustled in then with another tray. In the commotion of getting those cakes settled and more tea poured, he managed to shift even closer to Barbara.
She sat, teacup half-raised, a politely interested smile frozen on her face until the housekeeper bustled out again and Annabelle was settled across the room… Then the teacup and saucer slammed down onto the table, and she scrambled for a notebook and pencil she’d apparently tucked into the cushions of the chaise at her side.
“I figured something out,” she announced without preamble, turning to him with the notebook on her lap and an eager grin as she flipped through the pages. “Last night, when you said you believed in me to figure out the patina problem?—”
“And I do, lass,” Kenneth told her honestly as he placed his tea down as well, knowing this was more important than cakes. Probably. He snagged one for emergencies. “What did you determine?”
The cake was lemon, and one of his brows twitched as he decided that perhaps it was equally as important as whatever she’d learned. He stuffed the remainder into his mouth andchewed thoughtfully as Barbara found the right page and pointed to a series of notes she’d underlined.
As she met his eyes, there was genuine excitement in her gaze. “You were the one who pointed out Cousin Errol’s canopic jars and Mr. Nutt’s jars both belonged to women. That is rare, because even though princesses and priestesses were important to ancient Egyptian society, they werelessimportant than princes and priests.” She waited for him to nod in understanding, then continued. “I went through my notes and my memories of salons and exhibitions of the last few years, and I came up with a list.”
Kenneth swallowed the remainder of the cake, even while reaching for another. Tea cakes were necessary for scheming, everyone knew. It was why the British had such a large empire. “A list of collections with canopic jars which belonged to women?”
She nodded eagerly, her eyes sparkling. “I knew you would understand. The British Museum collection, of course, is extensive, thanks to the surrender by the French of the Rosetta Stone, but I do not recall any canopic jars belong to women.”
“If we are to find a pattern,” Kenneth remarked through a mouthful of cake, “we will have to visit.”
“Yes, but first.” She jabbed her finger at a name. “The Pratt collection. The Pratt collection has a full set of canopic jars from a princess of the Twenty-First Dynasty.”
Thank goodness Barbara had explained the dynasties during that first visit to her library, for it allowed him to focus on the far more interesting tidbit: the name of the collection’s owner. “Digby Pratt, the art patron?”
The one who had been ruined in February when news of his gambling debts had been made public? He insisted he had the money to pay them, and as far as Kenneth knew, hehad; but the negative publicity had driven the poor man to his sickbed.
Barbara, however, was nodding eagerly. “Yes, the very same.” She flipped a page. “And Lord Bottomley has an incomplete set?—”
“Lord Stanwick Bottomley? The one with the illegitimate son?” The news had broken in the scandal sheets just before Christmas.
