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“Hence this letter.” He was grinding his teeth. “He’s the duke. But I have the power to gut the bloody house. And I’ll do it, so help me God. Once Geoff understands that I’ve gone to Broughton’s, he’ll reconsider. Our parents’ wedding portrait up for auction?” He snorted. “An abomination.”
A pause, during which Signorina Bonaccorso’s voice made several runs and one notably flexible leap.
“You wouldn’t mind it, though?” Miss Finch asked the question carefully, with a sidelong glance. “Auctioning your parents’ wedding portrait?”
“No, my dear.” He knew he had frost in his eyes, but there was no helping it. “I wouldn’t.”
“Oh.” Her voice was small and told him everything. She had no such keepsakes of her parents and would have valued one dearly.
She still fiddled with the letter. He felt the urge to still her hands.
“But they gave you all they could.” She met his eyes squarely. “You were the favorite. It’s obvious. And that must be part of why the duke—”
“Enough family history.” He rose abruptly. His leg didn’t waver.
The favorite. God help him—it was true.
And he’d barely survived.
Miss Finch’s eyes were huge and dark, angled up at him.
“Holroyd will be pacing ruts into the floor at the gallery.” He managed a smile. “Get an envelope. We’ll post Geoff’s letter on the way out.”
Cane in hand, he strolled for the door, but a new tumult pulled him back. Men were shouting, and the signorina was stretching a string of Italian curses across three octaves. He veered for the window and used his cane to spread the curtains. One glance confirmed his impression. Kuznetsov and Kessler had arrived on the scene with the gardener’s ladder.
Signorina Bonaccorso was a sight to behold. Dressed in burgundy and gold, she stood on a wide branch, one hand gripping a branch above, the gray sky peeping with pearly brilliance through the green canopy of leaves. Her plumes defied his understanding of ornithology. Surely the bird plucked for that headpiece had been the last of its kind.
Neal’s conservation-minded natural scientist sisters would scream bloody murder.
At the mere thought of adding female screams to the cacophony, he felt his temples throb. He looked forward to the half hour’s drive to the gallery in his quiet coach.
Movement caught his eye. A vigorous squirrel was leaping between yet higher branches, trilling in its own distinctive manner.
Ah. Not a squirrel, then.
“Fritz!” Miss Finch joined him at the window, her side pressing his as she fumbled at the latch. “Mr. Kuznetsov swore he wouldn’t let him out. Fritz!”
“Will he run off?” Alan studied the little monkey and wondered how he’d fare if he were free, roaming London’s verminous streets.
“He’d never, not for good.” Miss Finch tugged again at the latch and Alan dropped his bandaged hand to her wrist. She froze.
“He might gorge himself on slugs, though.” She met his eyes, a blush staining her cheeks. “It’s unpleasant.”
“I can imagine,” he murmured. “But there are no slugs in my garden. My gardener is superb.” One of Neal’s trainees.
He applied more pressure to her wrist. “Let him have his frolic.”
Her throat moved on a convulsive breath. And just like that, his heart began to gallop. In his life to date, he’d admired all sorts of women in all sorts of ways. His lovers, though, hewed to type. They were disillusioned, practiced, averse to long attachments. Pleased to exchange pleasures without the exchange of confidences. They saw the scars that wrapped his hip, but if they asked once, they didn’t ask again. Wealthy widows exulting in their unfettered sensuality. Self-assured bohemians.
Certainly not the help. Not anyone subordinate.
Even if the subordinate in question possessed velvet dark eyes, like some farouche woodland creature, and lips like plums, or cherries, or— God.
He stepped back from the window, dropped his half of the curtain. “Time for our frolic.” The only kind they would have. Fully clothed, and well within the bounds of her job as he’d described it.
“To the gallery, Miss Finch.” He turned from her, too warmly aware of her gaze on his back. “The trembling paintings await my verdict.”
Chapter Nine
