Curious as I was to understand why Lady Hollingsworth had insisted her nephew attend her to sort out whatever problem there was with Michael and Caroline’s engagement, I was none too eager to encounter Philip’s stodgy aunt again, particularly while she was in the midst of a tirade. Shaking my head at her display of theatrics, I turned away from the door to my sister’s suite and marched down the hall. Alana would inform me later of everything I needed to know, and I could avoid falling under the marchioness’s critical gaze for a little while longer.
Trailing my fingers over the smooth oak of the banister, I descended the stairs toward the entry hall. Unbidden, my eyes lifted once again to the vast number of portraits plastering the walls from floor to ceiling. I felt like a honeybee buzzing among the flowers of the garden of Versailles, overwhelmed by the beauty and abundance and uncertain where to alight. My gaze drifted toward the wall on my left as I approached the first landing, falling on the portrait of a Georgian lady. A delicious shiver of excitement ran through me as I leaned closer, certain Gainsborough must have painted this. The knowing look in the young lady’s eyes, the almost poetic positioning of her amid the deep shadows of an arbor—classical techniques of the famous artist—were aspects I had tried to emulate in my own paintings.
So caught up was I in tracing Gainsborough’s brushstrokes with my eyes that I failed to notice the footsteps descending the staircase behind me. In fact, it was not until an all-too-familiar voice spoke just over my shoulder that I realized I was not alone.
“If I did not know you better, I would suspect you were ogling the young lady in that portrait, Lady Darby.”
I stiffened in surprise.
“As it is, I imagine you’re making her quite uncomfortable with so close an examination of her . . . attributes.”
His voice was husky with amusement, and I did not need to turn to look at him to know his pale blue eyes were twinkling wickedly. My gaze lifted anyway, to ensure that the devil behind me was truly there and not conjured by my active imagination. Handsome as ever, Sebastian Gage stood before me, making my heart trip over itself inside my chest.
He looked past me at the portrait and tilted his head in thought. “Although, for all we know, she might be quite the saucy minx and thoroughly enjoy your intimate inspection.”
I scowled as the impish smile curling the corners of his lips stretched even wider. “I was not ogling her breasts,” I protested, feeling my cheeks heat even as I spoke the words.
“I’m sure you weren’t,” he murmured in agreement, though the light in his eyes seemed to belie his words. “Of artistic interest, was it, my lady?”
“It’s a Gainsborough,” I declared. The artist’s name should be explanation enough.
His eyes lifted to the portrait once again before returning to me. “I see.” And clearly he did, for he did not taunt me or request that I elaborate.
We stared at each other, and for the first time the significance of his appearance struck me.
Vivid recollections flooded my mind and tangled my emotions into knots. Memories of Gage verbally sparring with me over the facts of the murder we had solved at my sister’s house party. Of him cradling me in his arms as we floated in the loch after I had been shot, and the kiss he may or may not have pressed on my icy lips. Of the last time I had seen him, when he had tried to sneak away in the predawn light without even saying good-bye.
No one had ever created such conflicting emotions inside me—irritation, fondness, longing, and anger. He challenged and confused me, and the moment I thought I knew who he was and what he wanted he would do something to alter my opinion. One moment he had turned his back on me callously, and the next he was gazing at me with such tenderness that it took everything inside me not to throw myself into his arms. I couldn’t understand him, or my reactions to him, and that made me agitated and wary. And more than a little resentful.
“You look well,” Gage said just as I snapped, “What are you doing here?”
The flush in my cheeks turned fiery at the petulant tone of my voice, but I refused to retract the question. Especially since my annoyance only seemed to amuse him further.
“I was invited,” he replied much too calmly. “Michael Dalmay and I are old friends from our university days.”
I could not dispute his assertion. As my brother-in-law had been friends with both Gage and Michael at Cambridge, it only made sense that the two men were also acquainted. However, I was suspicious of his so-called invitation, particularly when, to my knowledge, all of the other guests were in one way or another related to the betrothed couple.
“I thought you were working an investigation in Edinburgh.”
He arched an eyebrow. “I was. I finished what needed to be done there about a fortnight ago before accepting Dalmay’s gracious invitation.”
I narrowed my eyes, uncertain if he was mocking me.
“I suspect your invite was at the hands of Lady Hollingsworth. Or should I say, Cromarty’s was.”
I frowned at his subtle dig and lifted my chin. “You suppose right. Although I can, perhaps, claim a longer friendship with the Dalmays than either of you.”
Gage’s gaze turned curious.
“We grew up together, on neighboring estates.”
“But Dalmay must be almost eight years older than you.”
“Aye,” I replied with a small smile. “As are you.”