“On the contrary, Poppy, this is not merely the appropriate time but it’s imperative that I leave as soon as possible.”
“Are you in some sort of danger?” Poppy’s brows drew together. “Have those beastly creditors threatened you in some way?” Her expression darkened. “I daresay between Lady Blodgett, Mrs. Higginbotham and myself we can probably come up with a name or two of some disreputable types who might be able to—”
“No, no,” Willie said quickly. “It’s nothing like that. As I said, I have already paid off George’s debts and I have enough left to repay a loan and reclaim something of great importance to me. Well, to my future really.” Willie paused for a moment to consider her words. She did so hate to make George appear more of a disappointment than he was but it really couldn’t be helped. Besides, he was dead and probably would be more amused than annoyed by her revelations. And she did need to look out for herself now. After all, aside from two loyal servants and an elderly relative, she was on her own. “When I began to sell, er, take inventory of the furnishings in the London house—something I admit I should have done years ago—I became aware that a few somewhat valuable objects were missing. A small Ming vase from China, an exquisite snuffbox that reportedly belonged to a queen of France and a painting left to me by Grandmother.”
Poppy gasped. “Not the Portinari!”
Willie wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid so.”
“Your grandmother loved that painting.”
Poppy and Willie’s grandmother Beatrice had gone to school together and had remained fast friends throughout the rest of Grandmother’s life, even if their lives had taken entirely different courses. Grandmother had married the Earl of Grantson, who died far too young and never lived to see his only child—Willie’s mother—past her third birthday. Poppy, of course, had married Malcolm Fitzhew-Wellmore and had become—according to Grandmother—shockingly independent as her husband was out of the country as often as he was home. As Grandmother had made that pronouncement with what sounded suspiciously like envy, Willie understood that being an independent woman—while not especially accepted by society—was not a particularly bad thing either. Beatrice and Poppy did manage to see one another several times a year. Some of the brightest memories of Willie’s childhood were of those meetings between the two old friends.
When Willie’s mother died when Willie was barely ten, she was sent off to Miss Bicklesham’s Academy for Accomplished Young Ladies. It was to her grandmother’s house she returned for holidays and the summer months. Even if her father seemed to have little use for her in those years, Willie had no doubt as to the affections of her grandmother, her godmother and dear Lady Plumdale.
“Do you have any idea what might have happened to it? Was it stolen, do you think?”
“Not exactly.” Once again Willie was reluctant to place the blame on George where it belonged. This was her late husband’s doing and she wouldn’t pause for a moment to point an accusing finger at him if he were still alive. But one did hate to speak ill of the dead even when they deserved it. “According to some correspondence and a note of collateral I discovered in George’s study, he used the Portinari to acquire a loan from an Italian gentleman. A conte, I believe, a resident of Venice and apparently a passionate collector of Renaissance art. I have enough left from the sale of the country house to repay the loan as well as the accumulated interest.” She drew a deep breath. “What I don’t have is the means to get to Venice.”
“I see.”
“Once I reclaim the painting, I intend to offer it for sale.” She shook her head. “I have no other means of support, Poppy.”
“You could marry again.”
“And I am not the least bit opposed to marrying again.”
Although the next time Willie plighted her troth she would be somewhat more discriminating about who she plighted it to. A man of responsibility and maturity would be a welcome change. Not at all the type of man she ever imagined she might want but then she had never been thirty years of age before with few prospects and no financial security. Although finding a man of that nature who was not, as well, extraordinarily dull might prove difficult. Such a man was not the type to marry frivolously. And aside from everything else, Willie wanted a man she could love. Admittedly, it might well be easier to swim to Venice than find the sort of man she wanted.
“I do not, however, have the slightest desire to marry simply because I have no other choice.” Her jaw tightened. “That painting is my salvation. As much as I would hate to sell it, proceeds from the sale will support me for several years.”
Poppy studied her for a long moment. “Your grandmother would have it no other way.”
Relief washed through Willie. “You don’t think she’d mind, then?”
“Oh, I think she’d mind a great deal.” Poppy paused. “I daresay you’re not aware of how she came by the painting but it was given to her by a gentleman she cared for deeply. Who I believe shared her feelings. I don’t know all the details—your grandmother could be remarkably discreet when she chose to be—but I do know he was married and nothing could come of their feelings. He gave her the painting as something of parting gift.”
“I had no idea,” Willie murmured. Indeed, the thought of her very respectable grandmother having a liaison with a married man was somewhat shocking.
“So yes, she would mind but not nearly as much as she would mind your being penniless or having to marry simply to keep body and soul together. She would mind that far more.”
“As would I,” Willie said wryly then paused. “You wrote me about your Lady Travelers Society, how you and your friends started it and then sold it. But you also said the three of you still play an active role in the society.”
“Oh my, yes.” Poppy nodded. “Why, we give lectures and produce pamphlets and lead fascinating discussions with our members as well as offer sage advice on the caprices of travel. We are consulting travel advisers.” A smug smile curved her lips. “And we are quite good at it.”
“I’ve no doubt of that,” Willie said, although she was fairly certain Poppy had never actually traveled to any great extent beyond a few months in Paris as a girl.
“I must tell you, Wilhelmina, that the most wonderful things in life are often those we least expect. We are having a grand time. Who would have imagined at our age?”
“No one deserves to have a grand time more than you,” Willie said firmly. “I was hoping, as you and the other ladies are the founders of the society and are still involved in it, that you might assist me in arranging some way to travel to Venice. As inexpensively as possible,” she added quickly. There were still one or two antiquities that had been stored in the attic that might fetch enough to pay at least part of her way to Italy. Although she would have no way to return home.
“Oh, I haven’t the vaguest idea how to do that, dear. However...” Poppy rose to her feet. “Gwen and Effie might have a thought or two. I have learned through the years that when one of us has no solution to a difficulty, all three of us together come up with the most brilliant ideas.” She nodded firmly. “I had planned on meeting both of them at the Lady Travelers Society offices in an hour or so. We shall put this dilemma to them and we will have a means to get you to Venice in no time at all.”
“Why, Poppy.” Willie grinned. “You sound most efficient.”
“I am a woman of business now,” the older woman said primly.
“Are you indeed?”
“I am.” Poppy nodded. “And it’s all perfectly legitimate. Why, I’ll have you know, there isn’t even a suggestion of fraud or anything the least bit illegal.”
Willie stared. “I never would have imagined such a thing.”
“Oh well...good.” Poppy beamed then her smile dimmed. “Although after the society was purchased by Mr. Forge, Miss