‘Why, thank you, miss. Though I do not know what I feel about being classified alongside Turner’s increasingly eccentric oeuvres.’
A man dressed almost entirely in deep grey and black moved towards them. He was extremely handsome, his hair was a deep shade of chestnut and his brown eyes gleamed amber around the iris, but his expression, which was calculating and faintly malicious, did not match his features. He bowed slightly towards Max and the malice became more apparent.
‘Harcourt.’
Max cursed their ill luck. Of all the men in London to run into...
‘Wivenhoe,’ he acknowledged and took Sophie’s arm, guiding her towards the door.
‘Going so soon, Harcourt? Aren’t you going to introduce me to your...friend?’
To Max’s surprise Sophie burst out laughing.
‘Oh, dear, you are right!’ she said to Max, chuckling. ‘He thinks I’m your...what is it called? Chère amie? Do you really think I look the part?’ she asked Wivenhoe curiously. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so with my looks and clothes, judging by the two lovely ladies I just saw. Did you really paint this amazing painting? Frankly, you don’t look the part either.’
That speech seemed to shake even Wivenhoe’s world-weary pose and he inspected her with a look unusually devoid of cynicism.
‘I find myself quite afraid to enquire into the meaning of that comment,’ he said at least.
‘Yes, I think that beast is best left dormant,’ Max said caustically. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I will take Miss Trevelyan back to the main room. She is unacquainted with Somerset House and has strayed into this area by mistake.’
Sophie allowed Max to propel her out of the room and back down the corridor to the main hall, her gaze scanning the paintings as she went. Once in the corridor she sighed.
‘It really is quite unfair of men to keep such lovely paintings to themselves. I am beginning to suspect that London is a great deal more straitlaced than the countryside. After all the dire warnings I received from the squire’s wife I thought it would be a great deal more exciting than it is.’
Wivenhoe gave a soft breathy laugh as he followed behind them.
‘It depends on the company you find yourself in, my dear. Harcourt is not the right escort if it is excitement you are after. Or at least not if you are gently born. I cannot speak for his other relationships since he chooses women as discreet as he.’
Sophie glanced from Wivenhoe to Max with a slight frown and Max wished he had Wivenhoe across from him in Jackson’s Boxing Saloon right now. Or preferably as they had been almost a decade ago, in a dark alley, just the two of them. He would not mind repeating that experience and hopefully doing a bit more damage this time around.
‘Wivenhoe is enjoying himself at your expense, Miss Trevelyan. You would do best to ignore him.’
‘Quite right, my dear,’ Wivenhoe replied, unabashed. ‘I am not a very dependable fellow. You see, I freely admit my vices. Max here is more circumspect about his, though to be fair they are probably milder than mine, but one can never know what such a controlled façade harbours. Certainly he is more generous, as his last high flyer would attest judging by the very lovely bauble I saw her wearing when he was done with her.’
Sophie glanced back at Wivenhoe with a sudden frown.
‘You actually sound contemptuous of people who are generous towards the women who depend on their patronage. I can’t imagine that kind of approach gets you very far, Mr Wivenhoe,’ she said with blighting coldness.
Max struggled between shock at this very improper but principled condemnation of Wivenhoe’s ethics and amusement at the stunned expression on Wivenhoe’s face. But Wivenhoe swiftly recovered his characteristic expression of jaded ennui.
‘I compensate, my dear, I assure you.’
‘If you say so.’ She shrugged, clearly unconvinced. The corridor had led back to the Exhibition Room, which was still as crowded as before, and she turned to Max. ‘And now I really should return to Grosvenor Square or Aunt Minerva will start baying for my blood. Thank you very much for showing me these lovely paintings, Mr Harcourt.’
‘I will see you home—’ Max began, but she cut him off.
‘Nonsense. You said you had business in the City and that is quite the other direction. I shall do very well with a hackney cab, I noticed there are plenty outside. Thank you. Good day, Mr Wivenhoe.’ She nodded briefly in the artist’s direction and headed towards the staircase.
‘Mr Harcourt?’ Wivenhoe enquired softly. ‘Does that original young lady have something against titles or is she in ignorance of the identity of her very obliging cavalier?’
‘She is merely an acquaintance of my sister’s. I saw her wandering into this room and thought it prudent to extract her before she came across someone like you. She’s not in your league, Wivenhoe.’
‘Oh, clearly beyond it. And not in your usual line either, my dear Harcourt. Far too outspoken. And so very refreshing. Trevelyan. That name rings a bell. Who did she say...? Ah, Aunt Minerva in Grosvenor Square... Could she possibly be related to Lady Minerva Huntley, née Trevelyan?’
Max didn’t bother answering, but merely turned and left as well. Wivenhoe’s veneer of cynical affability did not deceive him. Almost a decade had passed since the incident, but neither of them had forgotten or forgiven. He rubbed the scar on his hand unconsciously. Wivenhoe’s appearance was a sharp reminder that his idea of escorting that pert and uncontrollable country miss to the exhibition had been very ill conceived. He should have known it would only lead to trouble. Now that she was gone he couldn’t even understand why he had gone in with her. He had been drawn along in the wake of her enthusiasm like that pug of hers. Whatever the case, he would do well to stay out of her way in future. There was some quality to her that attracted trouble like bees to a flower. He had had enough of that in his life. He should know better.
* * *
‘I met Lord Bryanston at Lady Jersey’s last night. He asked me who your latest flirt was. A young woman from Devon with a pair of delightfully smiling blue eyes, in his words,’ Hetty said blandly as she sifted through the pile of invitations Gaskell had brought in on a tray as they sat at the breakfast table.
‘Bryanston is an idiot,’ Max replied, not looking up from his newspaper.
‘True. But then there was Mrs Westminger. She asked me the identity of the animated young woman you were so attentive to in the Exhibition Rooms for close to an hour. Since she is Lady Penny’s godmama I presume it was by design that she said this very loudly next to Lady Melissa now that the betting appears to have swung in her favour. She was somewhat more careful about communicating the information you had been seen with the same young woman conversing with Lord Wivenhoe, of all people. That little titbit she passed along in a stage whisper to only three of her cronies in the dowagers’ corner.’
Max folded the newspaper and laid it down.
‘Is there a question in there?’
Hetty nodded, undaunted by his cool tone.
‘There is indeed. I presume they were referring to Lady Huntley’s niece? Is any of this true? Did you really take her to Somerset House? And introduce that young woman to the likes of Wivenhoe?’
Max held on to his temper by a thread, mostly angry at himself. At least Hetty did not know the full extent of Wivenhoe’s infamy. Thankfully his parents had never told his sisters the truth about Serena.
‘Yes, I took her. Because she was about to head there, on foot, on her own,