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“That would be a sight.”

Ina watched her best friend retreat. As soon as she was sure he wasn’t about to turn back, she let her shoulders sag with exhaustion. What she really wanted was to go home, but suggesting such a thing to her aunt would only earn her a lecture about how Ina still hadn’t secured a husband and never would if she didn’t apply herself socially. What Mrs. Coleman failed to understand was that she didn’t want to be married. It brought too many complications and demanded too many sacrifices—nearly all of them falling upon the wife. She was in the unique position of being an heiress of a large enough fortune to ensure a comfortable life of independence, but not so much that she attracted too much unwanted attention. That her father couldn’t care whether she married or not so long as it didn’t interrupt his work was also to her advantage.

Ina had her art and her friends, and that was more than enough.

Of course, she thought as she peered around the room, tonight she did want one more thing. To see the Carriera.

Under normal circumstances she would’ve asked directly to view the work, but that would’ve meant wading through the crowd surrounding her hostess. In all likelihood, she’d be put off until another visit, and it might be days before she was able to see the Carriera. All for a painting that was hanging in a room on the very floor on which she now stood.

What if I took just a peek?

She knew she shouldn’t. Snooping around the house of the woman who’d extended her hospitality was beyond the pale, and yet if she was clever about it she could slip away, let herself into the library, and have a few moments uninterrupted in front of the painting. It just might be the trigger she needed for an idea; after tonight she might have the subject for her entry into the Royal Sculpture Society of Scotland’s exhibition.

She set her glass down gently. No one was watching her. The library shouldn’t be hard to find. All it would cost her was five minutes. If she encountered a servant she’d simply say she’d become lost when looking for the ladies’ retiring room—the little white lie would hurt no one.

With a shiver of excitement, Ina backed up to the door behind her, found the brass handle with her back, and gave it a turn. The door opened silently on well-oiled hinges—a sign that this was exactly what she should be doing. With a secret smile, she slipped through the doorway.

She crept down the quiet corridor on the balls of her feet, grateful that there was carpet to muffle the fall of her leather-soled slippers.

Overhead, something creaked, and she leaped up, her hand clutching her chest.

Breathe, you fool. It’s just the house settling.

She was still scolding herself when she heard voices down the hallway—of two women, if her ears could be trusted. Moving swiftly, Ina darted into a room with a half-open door, closing it just as the voices grew louder.

“It’s like watching a pot of water boil. If you sit around waiting for the toffs to clear out we’ll be here all night,” said a young woman.

Her companion snorted. “And think what a state the drawing room will be in when they’re all gone.”

Maids. She closed her eyes and prayed they wouldn’t think to look in the room where she hid.

Mercifully two sets of footfalls passed the door without stopping. After several moments she poked her head around the door and glanced in either direction. Everything was silent, save for the dull hum of hubbub from the drawing rooms.

Swiftly Ina crossed the landing at the top of the grand stairs and tried the first door on her right. It was nothing more than a small closet, stuffed with tables, chairs, and bric-a-brac. She shut the door and shot across the hallway to the next room.

“Found you,” she said softly. Although the gaslights were turned low, she could still make out rows and rows of books sitting like neat little soldiers on massive shelves lining all four walls.

Her skirts rustled as she stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. Someone had left the fire burning in the hearth and, mingled with the musty comfort of old paper and leather bindings, it wrapped her in a warm hug.

Now where was the Carriera? She skimmed the walls before landing on a gap in the bookcases where the fireplace stood. There, hanging in stately fashion above the mantel, was the painting.

Ina’s lips parted as she approached. In this warm glow of light, the painting almost shone. The woman immortalized in oils looked out at her boldly, her hands resting gently in the folds of her elaborate, embroidered dress that sat on hoops so old Ina’s grandmother might have worn them had she not been a mere shipbuilder’s wife.

She reached her fingers up until they were just inches away from the paint so she could trace the line of the brushstrokes through the air. “Aren’t you a wonder?” she murmured.

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

Ina yelped and spun. Sitting in a large leather armchair with one leg crossed casually at the knee sat Sir Kier Gowan, rogue and reprobate.

“I thought I was alone,” she said, her heart pounding in her throat.

“So did I.” His eyes raked over her body as though she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. “But I’m always pleased to find myself in the company of a beautiful woman.”

She took a tiny step backward toward the door, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on Sir Kier as a deer might a wolf. “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your respite,” she said, nodding to the cigar that dangled from his left hand.

He brought the cigar to his lips and took a pull. Slowly he blew out a stream of fragrant smoke, and then pointed it at her.

“Do I know you?” he asked.