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Her gaze dropped. De’Ath’s ambivalence about decent forgeries didn’t extend to the forgers themselves.
She knew what he’d do with her, with Jack.
“The coffee,” she whispered. He hadn’t touched it. “Should I get more?”
“No. I’ve decided I’m in the mood for whiskey. Holroyd will have a flask.”
Nina lifted her gaze as he stood. He looked taller than she remembered. Was he ready to go? She still didn’t understand the reason for this odd interlude, and perhaps she never would.
He picked up his hat and cane.
“Miss Holroyd is in the coffee room,” she told him.
“Is she?” De’Ath moved toward the doorway. “In that case, I’ll drink Henley’s whiskey. You and I are going up to the galleries.”
—
Nina wasn’t sure if she felt relieved or disappointed by his sudden distance when they left the smoking room. As they walked, he fell into conversation with first one gentleman, then another, and she trailed behind.
But as they topped the stairs, he waited for her to catch up with a smile. “Notebook?”
She drew it from her chatelaine.
“We’ll start with the sculpture. And, Miss Finch.” He leaned over her and lowered his voice. “If you find yourself developing a passion for art, you can tell me. I won’t gloat.”
She didn’t move for a beat but watched him stroll away. And then she followed. She stood at his side before the sculptures and paintings, taking down his words. Several of the paintings stunned her, moved her with their beauty. But to make himself heard over the din, De’Ath had to press close and speak with his head bent to hers. If she were honest, the swirl of emotions in her breast had as much to do with him as with the art.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Nina sat at De’Ath’s desk and wrote out his review of the Sisters’ exhibition. Strong light poured through the French doors, and no signorinas sang.
The day was fine, and De’Ath’s mood was playful. He made no mention of forgeries or of his brother, and sent her off early to lunch.
He summoned her that afternoon, and they rolled in his coach to Trafalgar Square. The fountains were splashing, and all sorts of people were milling in the sun. Clerks, soldiers, errand boys. Ladies and gentlemen swanned about, looking as though they owned the world. Tourists gaped up at the statue of Lord Nelson.
When she stepped down to the street, she swayed. The grand portico of the National Gallery had never filled her with such dread.
“I’ll introduce you to Botticelli,” said De’Ath. “And Bellini. And Raphael.”
Inside, Nina dragged her feet on the stairs. She could tour De’Ath through the rooms of the National Gallery blindfolded. She could explain how Bellini’s The Assassination of Saint Peter Martyr exemplified the Venetian Renaissance. She could share Jack’s theory about Botticelli’s varnishes or his use of tempera.
She let him lead her on a slow circuit, her stomach all knots.
She couldn’t concentrate on anything he was saying. Even so, his enthusiasm touched her, as did this whole misguided expedition. She couldn’t decide if he meant to impress or improve her or, more simply, to befriend her. Perhaps all three.
In any case, he was enjoying himself. That much was obvious.
She had never wandered the National Gallery, open-mouthed, in awe. She’d only come here to work, every bit of her hard and small and tightly focused.
De’Ath said nothing when they came to the Botticellis. She looked at him expectantly.
“Well?” she prodded. “Aren’t you going to tell me something?”
“No.” He folded his arms, eyes locked on Venus and Mars. “This is enough.”
They stood for a time, looking, in companionable silence.
Finally, De’Ath directed them to two oak chairs, and they sat side by side, light filtering down from above, glinting on the golden frames of the pictures crowded on the crimson walls.
