Ashbrook’s face blanked. “Open? You, indeed.”
“Yes, my dear,” his countess said. “Lord Gantry has turned over a new leaf. Staring at your former painting for hours on end will do that.”
Felton nodded but his gaze stayed on Cecilia, who didn’t wait to see if he’d approach. She darted into the theatre.
“You have a great deal on your mind, Lord Gantry.” Lady Ashbrook’s loud voice broke through his fog and his planning of what to say to his wife. “For another lesson, Lord Ashbrook will be in town a few more days.”
“My dear, the marquess knows how to contact me. You don’t need to volunteer my help.”
At the brisk tone, Felton glanced at the earl, who brushed at his immaculate indigo coat for imagined lint.
“Have I offended you, sir?”
“No, not particularly, Gantry.”
“Then generally?”
Ashbrook sighed. “You’re not comfortable in my counsel. Something I’ve experienced a long time, but I’ll tolerate it for my wife’s sake. You’re her friend.” The bronzed man added a smile to his sanitized words. “Decide what’s your comfort. And be happy in that decision.”
Though he’d never been rude to the barrister, he might not have been friendly, for Felton, like the duke, looked at the earl’s involvement with the Widow’s Grace as an enabler.
Could Felton’s aloofness, his need to step back and observe, be looked at as similar to Jane’s behavior?
Wasn’t that sentiment the “alleged” liberal label Cecilia tossed at him? Felton was liberal in his notions, even if didn’t show it.
The earl kissed his wife’s hand. “I’m off to the Old Bailey.”
“Ashbrook, wait.” Felton adjusted his gloves, as though his mottled scars had been exposed. “The duke says that you host a card game. He says they are quite spirited. I’d like to know if I’m welcome.”
The earl stopped. He doffed his hat and exposed waves of tight curly black hair. “Most welcome, sir. My dearest Lady Ashbrook—”
“Is there another one who is less dear?” She offered him a sweet look.
“My love, don’t buy up all the pomegranates.” He chuckled. “Make sure she’s frugal, Gantry. Too many pomegranates can go bad before I can separate the sweet, tart arils.”
Felton nodded. “I’ll make sure and will send her on her way in an hour or so.”
Ashbrook left, and Felton and Lady Ashbrook began walking the other direction to the open market.
“You asked to accompany me. I suspect it was not to learn how to choose a pomegranate. The season has almost passed.”
“I wanted you to show me where you discovered the artist Ashbrook bought the painting from. I’m fact-finding, as you Widow’s Grace operatives say.”
“I’ll show you as we shop.”
They walked in silence, occasionally stopping at a vendor.
But the silence was too much for him. “Describe the artist in every detail.”
“Not sure if it was the artist or an assistant, but she was a quiet woman. Light brown complexion. Very pretty, buxom sort of girl. Ashbrook took me with him to see if she had another of the Jamaica paintings.” The countess rubbed her forehead. “I wish I remembered more. Well, memory and me are still sort of strangers.”
The buxom part sounded like Cecilia. Now to know when the picture was actually bought. That would help put together her travel timeline. Before he engaged, he needed all the facts, not just crumbs—unless it was Stilton cheese.
“You’re not listening, Lord Gantry.”
“Sorry. The Duke of Repington and I have been looking for the duchess’s sisters. I suspect she is the artist of the piece, and Lord Ashbrook purchased it in March.”
“Yes. Patience wasn’t sure if it was her sister’s. She didn’t want to hope for something to find out later she was wrong.” Her lips pursed. A new sense of caution covered her wide eyes. “What have you learned about the sisters’ whereabouts?”
