After all, Barbara was loving far more than the kisses. She loved his humor, his easy acceptance. She loved how he was interested in her passions,merely becausethey were hers, and he learned quickly. He wasn’t intimidated by her intellect, despite his jest about bluestockings when they’d met, and clearly didn’t mind learning from her.
It was a heady feeling, indeed, to be so attended to, and the pleasure that brought her was on par with his kisses.
Which was why she returned his smile when she greeted him in the foyer of her townhouse on Wednesday afternoon. They were both dressed for a social visit, and Barbara was nervous.
“Are ye ready, love?” he murmured, bending down to brush a kiss over her cheek as Missus Whinge bustled off to fetch Papa. “Ye dinnae look at ease.”
He knew her so well? Barbara blew out a breath. “I am concerned. This is our last call, the last collector on our list.”
“Ye’re worried Woodcock’s canopic jars willnae be forgeries?” Kenneth twirled his hat around his finger, clearly just waiting for her Papa so he could jam it back on his head. “I am certain they will be, Barbara. Every other set we’ve examined has been.”
He was right.
In the last three weeks, under the guise of introducing Kenneth to the Egyptian antiquities world, they had visited Lord Bottomley, Mr. Pratt, Sir Reginal Fondlet, and Mr. Gropington’s collections. Each one was as breath-taking as she remembered…and in each case, the set of feminine canopic jars exhibited the same signs of false patina.
The carving was excellent, the hieroglyphs matched perfectly…but the patina didn’t show the microcracks ofherset of jars, and the jars were discolored strangely in certain areas.
As if the patina had not been gently applied by time, but swiftly by chemical means—and the chemicals had pooled at the bottom or the side of the jar, depending how it was rested.
Barbara’s recent—quite frantic—research into forging methods had confirmed that patinas could be mimicked with a recipe of acetic acid. While Kenneth distracted Mr. Gropington on Saturday, she’d been able tosmellthe canopic jars, and confirmed a faint scent of vinegar.
They were forgeries, the same as the others, and they’d been made by someone truly gifted. Someone who could counterfeit everything except the ravages of time.
While she’d been busy confirming—proving, really—the pieces in each collection were forgeries, Kenneth had usedhistalents of charm and guile to introduce the subject of antiquities sales to each man. Mr. Pratt and Mr. Gropington had both admitted to having to sell off a few pieces from their collections over the years, but neither of them named the feminine canopic jars, and both had been shocked at the suggestion that‘some other collectors’ might replace their genuine objects with counterfeits to appear as if their collections hadn’t changed.
Sir Reginald and Lord Bottomley had both assumed Kenneth’s questions meanthewas interested in buying certain pieces from their collection, and despite his hints at a fortune on offer, were offended by the suggestion. Kenneth and Barbara both agreed this likely meant that they hadn’t sold off any of their pieces.
Which surely meant none of the men were aware their collections contained counterfeit canopic jars. As Kenneth pointed out, they wereverygood forgeries; only Barbara had been experienced enough to notice them.
“Barbara.” Kenneth took her hand, tugging her up against his side. “Even if Woodcock’s jars arenae forgeries, we have established enough of a pattern. There’s nae need for ye to be disappointed?—”
“This is our last outing together,” she blurted, then winced and ducked her head. “I just…I meant, after this, whatever the outcome, there will be no more need for us to—toadventuretogether.”
He was quiet for a long moment before his thumb began to work small circles into her palm, warming her through her glove. “And…ye will be disappointed by that? I worried I was placing too much of a burden on ye.”
Aburden? Barbara’s gaze jerked back up to his, almost indignant. “This is the most fun I have had in years. For someone like me, who never expected to have any excitement in my life?—”
“What do ye mean,someone like ye?” He was frowning, which flustered her.
Many men had frowned at her over the years; men who had disapproved of her hobbies or thought her pitiable because of her disability.
“You—you know.” She couldn’t bear to draw attention to her foot, so she lifted her chin. “Someone with a limp.”
Understanding flickered in his eyes, his expression twisting into a dismissive scowl. “Barbara, I work with a man who is missing a foot, and another who cannae see from one eye. Yer body’s limitations dinnae limit yer opportunities.”
“They do if one is a female,” she said simply.
And his scowl deepened. “Yer mind is brilliant, and that isnae related to how ye were born?—”
“I told you that I was not born this way.” It was her turn to interrupt him, so with a rueful twist of her lips, she continued. “When I was nine years old, I was visiting the remains of the Roman wall with my father. I went climbing about, pretending I was a Roman centurion repelling the barbarians, having a grand time…and I fell. My foot was wedged between two boulders, breaking quite a few bones.”
It was only now, well over a decade later, that she could speak of it so dispassionately. Of course she remembered the pain, the months of healing, the constant ache as she learned to walk again. The ache that, when she was tired, returned. But she didn’t have to dwell on it; she had her books, her antiquities…and soon, she’d have her memories of Kenneth.
Who looked completely stricken.
His hat hit the ground as he reached for her other hand. “Love, I’m so sorry. How horrible, that ye had to endure that at such a young age.” As she shrugged, he squeezed, his brown eyes full of compassion. “I ken there’s nothing to be done now, but please allow me to grieve for yer pain.”
It was…it was the perfect response. Barbara found herself tearing up, and her voice was raspy when she said, “It was a long time ago.”
