Join the Lady Travelers Society in their latest romantic misadventure, from #1 New York Times bestselling author Victoria Alexander

She must secure her future

A lady should never be obliged to think of matters financial! But when Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe’s carefree, extravagant lifestyle vanishes with the demise of her husband, her only hope lies in retrieving a family treasure—a Renaissance masterpiece currently in the hands of a cunning art collector in Venice. Thankfully, the Lady Travelers Society has orchestrated a clever plan to get Willie to Europe, leading a tour of mothers and daughters...and one curiously attentive man.

He must reclaim his heritage

Dante Augustus Montague’s one passion has long been his family’s art collection. He’s finally tracked a long-lost painting to the enchanting Lady Bascombe. Convinced that the canvas had been stolen, he will use any means to reclaim his birthright—including deception. But how long before pretend infatuation gives way to genuine desire?

Now they’re rivals for a prize that will change everything

Willie and Dante know they’re playing with fire in the magical moonlit city. Their common quest could compromise them both...or lead them to happily-ever-after.

“Alexander is now the go-to author for historical romance readers in search of love and laughter.” (Booklist)

Praise for Victoria Alexander’s

Lady Travelers series

“Alexander celebrates the spirit of adventure, elevates dubious scheming with good intentions, and advocates for the yielding of judgment and practicality to hedonism and happiness. Readers will savor every page.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review

“Readers will immediately find themselves thoroughly disarmed by Alexander’s deliciously droll wit and flair for clever characterization, both of which are on full display in this exceptional start to the author’s sparkling new Lady Travelers Society series.”

—Booklist

“A delightfully humorous romantic adventure. Alexander enhances the missing person’s mystery with wonderful descriptions of London and Paris, but best of all is her cast of characters.... Add to this several laugh-out-loud escapades and a surprising ending, and you have the fun read of the season!”

—RT Book Reviews

“For love, laughter, and lots of fun, read Victoria Alexander.”

—Stephanie Laurens, New York Times bestselling author

“I really enjoyed the author’s depiction of Paris, all of it putting the reader right there on the viewing platform of the Eiffel Tower or among the crowds strolling along the Champs Élysées. [It’s] exactly the sort of thing when you’re in the mood for a non-angsty, funny and well-written historical.”

—All About Romance

The Lady Travelers Guide to Larceny with a Dashing Stranger

Victoria Alexander

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is for Carol Schrader, my favorite Lady Traveler, road-trip accomplice and dear friend. Regardless of mileage—the adventure continues!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

Mid-September, 1889

IT HAD ONCE occurred to Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe that she would no doubt die with a laugh on her lips and a glass of champagne in her hand. Now Willie suspected she would meet her maker with little more than watered wine and an equally weak smile. It was a sad state of affairs for a woman who, alongside her late husband, had not so long ago been considered the cream of society’s fast, young, fashionable set. Still, there was nothing to be done about it. One couldn’t go backward after all. One could only bravely lift one’s chin and charge ahead.

“So you see Aunt Poppy—” Willie adopted her brightest smile “—I have decided that a change of scenery would be ideal. I was thinking the Mediterranean. The south of France perhaps. Or possibly Italy. Or, oh, I don’t know, Venice?”

“Venice is not on the Mediterranean, dear,” Aunt Poppy, Mrs. Persephone Fitzhew-Wellmore—who was not her aunt at all but rather her godmother—said in a serene manner. “It’s on the Adriatic.”

“Adriatic, Mediterranean—” Willie waved off the comment “—one vast body of water is as good as another.”

“Is it?” Poppy took a sip of her tea and studied Willie with a sharp eye that belied her advanced years.

“I should think so, yes. After all, the idea is to move on with my life.” Willie heaved a heartfelt sigh that was rather more sincere than she had expected. “Lay George and the past completely to rest, that sort of thing.”

“Something you find difficult to do at home here in England?”

“You understand how these things are, Poppy. Life here is overshadowed by everything George and I shared together. Why, even our friends are constant reminders of what we had. And what I have lost.” There was no need to add that she had seen nothing of those friends in the two years since George’s untimely death in an absurd boating accident. Oh, certainly they had been most solicitous at first but it did seem their concern—as well as their friendship—vanished the moment George had been laid neatly to rest.

Still, a certain lack of friendly overtures might well be expected as Willie had disappeared from society after George’s death, fleeing to Wales and the home of her late grandmother’s companion. Dear Lady Plumdale, Margaret, had welcomed her with open and loving arms and Willie had stayed until a few months ago, contemplating her loss and what now lay ahead of her. Which in and of itself was shocking as Willie had never especially contemplated anything. Still, when one has lost a husband in an absurd boating accident a certain amount of contemplation is probably to be expected. What was completely unexpected were the revelations Willie discovered about her life, some of them brought about by an unceasing barrage of correspondence from solicitors and debt collectors.

Willie truly had no idea that she and George had existed primarily on credit in recent years. And really who would have imagined such a thing? After all, he was Viscount Bascombe of the Suffolk Bascombes, an old and venerable family. Willie had thought her husband quite a dashing sort and life with George was never dull. Indeed, it was great fun and filled with adventure and amusement. They never seemed to pause for so much as a moment between house parties given by what then were friends, masked balls and flamboyant dinners, races and hunts and all manner of entertainment. She now wondered if the ultimate purpose of their life of fun and frolic had been the avoidance of more serious matters. And really one does not have to contemplate the grave aspects of life—annoying details like finances and responsibility—if one never pauses in pursuit of a jolly good time. And it had been fun.

After George’s death, however, the ongoing party that was their life together had ground to a halt and it was time to pay the piper, as they say. A piper who had apparently not been paid for quite some time. Pity Willie had few funds with which to do that.

“That makes a great deal of sense, dear.” Sympathy sounded in the older woman’s voice. “Although, haven’t you spent much of the time since George’s passing away from London, hiding in that charming little village in Wales?”

Poppy knew full well where Willie had been as she was the only one who had continued regular correspondence with her. “I wouldn’t call it hiding exactly but, well, yes, although—”

“I should think that would have been long enough to accept the harsh reality that life with George has ended.” Poppy patted Willie’s hand. “I know it’s difficult, dear, but we are Englishwomen and we are made of sterner stuff. We must bravely sally forth into the unknown regardless of what may lie ahead. Why, I remember when I lost my dear Malcolm. It took some time to accept that my life would never be the same.” She heaved a resigned sigh. “I confess I miss him to this day. I daresay you’ll continue to miss George, as well.”

“Yes, of course,” Willie said weakly, and while she would hate to admit it to anyone—let alone Poppy—she didn’t miss George so much as she missed the blissful state of ignorance she had apparently inhabited through the ten years of her marriage.

In addition to the discovery of George’s—or rather now her—financial state, Willie had come to the distressing realization that while she had truly loved George, he was not the grand passion of her life nor was he her soul mate, although they were very much kindred spirits. It was a revelation she suspected she never would have had if he hadn’t died. Indeed, she would have gone on for the rest of her days never realizing the man she had married was not her one true love even if he was exciting and adventurous and a great deal of fun. Whether coincidental or deliberate, her life with George had never paused long enough to come to that realization. Willie couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if it had.

“But George is gone and as you said, I do need to bravely forge ahead. Which is precisely why I wish to get away from England.”

Poppy nodded. “Although you have no money to do so.”

Willie stared. “Why on earth would you say such a thing?”

Poppy raised a knowing brow.

“Even if it’s true.” Willie sighed and collapsed against the flowered cushions of the overly comfortable sofa that was far and away too large for the parlor in Poppy’s modest house on a tree-lined street in Bloomsbury. “How did you know?”

“For one thing, Wilhelmina, your dress is two to three years out of fashion. I have never known you to be clad in anything but the latest styles.” While the widow of an explorer, adventurer and lecturer of modest success, Poppy had always had an unexpectedly keen eye for things like fashion and decor, even if she hadn’t always had the means to support her taste.

“I have been in mourning, Poppy,” Willie said staunchly. “Being a bit behind the dictates of fashion is to be expected.”

“Perhaps but do not forget I have known you nearly since the day you came into the world.” Poppy cast her a chastising look. “I would not call you vain but even as a young girl you were determined to be fashionably attired.”

“Yes, well, some things are not as important as they once were.” Although it did rather pain Willie to look into the mirror these days. While still serviceable, the extensive wardrobe she’d had before George’s death was starting to appear the tiniest bit sad. Even so, she’d been more than willing to discard the unrelenting black that was the required fate of any new widow. It had never made much sense to Willie that there were strict rules as to how a widow should behave and what she should do. It seemed to her that mourning a lost husband or parent or companion should come from one’s heart, not an edict from society. With her fair hair and blue eyes, she looked absurdly good in black but Willie much preferred to choose black rather than have black thrust upon her.

“Beyond that...” Poppy paused to consider her words. “Your husband’s creditors apparently had little confidence they would ever see their money.”

Willie stared. She wasn’t at all certain she wished to hear more. Still, in her recent experience, knowing was far better than not knowing. “Dear Lord, please don’t tell me they have bothered you. I’ve paid them all. Unless I have missed some. Entirely possible, I suppose. But you have no money to speak of.”

“Yet at the moment I am more than comfortable.”

Heat washed up Willie’s face. “I am sorry, Poppy. I didn’t mean to—”

“Of course you didn’t, dear, and you are quite right. I have no particular fortune—I never have. I am the last person creditors would approach in their efforts to seek repayment. But you know how determined those sorts can be when they wish to get what is owed to them.”

“Actually, I’m afraid I don’t,” Willie said, bemoaning once again her failure to pay the slightest bit of attention to George’s finances. But then what woman did know the true state of her husband’s financial affairs?

Admittedly, in hindsight, there were subtle hints as to their dwindling resources. Willie had noted the country house was showing signs of disrepair but whenever she had mentioned her concerns, George had said he would arrange to have it taken care of. They would then be off to London or to a party hosted at a friend’s estate in Essex or Kent or wherever and upon their return nothing had changed. Willie had suggested on more than one occasion that they sell the terrace house in Mayfair left to her by her grandmother in favor of a larger residence, as it was nearly impossible to entertain properly. George would dismiss the idea by pointing out they were rarely in London and wasn’t it far more fun to be a guest at someone else’s party than to go to all the bother and expense of hosting their own gathering? She hadn’t given his objections a second thought at the time. Now it struck her it wasn’t so much the bother as the expense that concerned him.

“No, dear, creditors looking to recoup their losses would never contact me, especially as we are not blood relations. However...”

Willie sucked in a sharp breath. “Father?”

“I’m afraid so.” Poppy winced. “He called on me, oh, a good six months ago when you were still in Wales. It did appear to be a strictly social visit although, as I have only seen him a handful of times since your baptism, it did seem rather odd.”

“No doubt,” Willie said under her breath.

“He wanted to know if I had heard from you and of course I said no.” She cast her goddaughter a smug smile. “I had no idea why he wished to know and no intention of offering him any assistance whatsoever.”

“Thank you.” Willie and her father, the Earl of Hillborough, hadn’t spoken in nearly eleven years. On occasion, she missed the father he might have been but not once did she regret the loss of the father he was.

“Any man who disowns his own child simply because she has the temerity to follow her heart and marry the man she loves, even if against his wishes, will get no help from me,” Poppy said staunchly. “At the very least, he could have given you your dowry.”

“That would have been helpful.”

“It was entirely inappropriate of him not to do so. You are his only child after all.” Poppy huffed. “Children are a blessing and are not to be squandered simply because they have minds of their own. I know if dear Malcolm and I had been lucky enough to have children, we would never have turned them away because of a difference of opinion.”

Willie managed a half-hearted smile. In addition to everything else, all that contemplation in Wales had brought her to the inescapable conclusion that in his objection to her marriage with George, Father might well have been right. Something Willie was determined never to admit aloud. Regardless, her father’s rejection made little difference in her life as he had effectively disowned her when she was not born male.

“After a bit of not very subtle probing on his part, your father finally admitted that he wished to contact you to inform you George’s creditors had contacted him. He wanted you to know he would not settle the debts of a man he disapproved of.” Poppy’s lips pressed together in a hard line. “He was quite firm on that point.”

“Nor would I ever ask him to.” Willie raised her chin, a gesture of defiance that had driven her father mad for as long as she could remember. “I would become a beggar on the streets before I would ask him for anything.”

Not that it would come to that. At least not yet. In the few months since returning from her self-imposed exile, Willie had reluctantly sold the country house and had managed to pay off all of George’s creditors. She had also discovered most of the jewels given her by her husband were paste, nice enough to look at but essentially worthless. She did hope any jewelry he had no doubt given those women who had been the objects of his fleeting affections through the years was no more valuable than hers.

Willie had long suspected George had not been entirely faithful but in this Willie was something of a coward. She had never confronted him about his dalliances with other women. Upon reflection she wasn’t sure why, although there was a vast difference between vague suspicion and certain knowledge. She had on occasion been tempted to stray from her own vows of fidelity but could never quite bring herself to do so. In spite of her many faults—and she was fairly certain that was a very long list—disloyalty and dishonesty were not among them. Still, it was one thing to lie outright and quite another to prevaricate, evade and omit.

“Exactly how bad are your financial circumstances?” Poppy asked.

“Well...” Willie searched for the right words. As much as she needed Poppy’s help she did hate to worry the old girl. “They’re really not nearly as bad as they were.” She drew a deep breath. “I sold the country house—fortunately it was not entailed and so mine to do with as I pleased. And I am now debt-free.”

“A difficult step but I must say I am impressed by your decision.”

“I did so love that house.” Willie couldn’t quite hide the mournful note in her voice. From the moment she’d first set eyes on Bascombe Manor, a vaguely whimsical concoction of every popular construction style of the last three hundred years surrounded by grounds that were every bit as capricious as the house itself, she had fallen head over heels. It was a happy, welcoming sort of place and a far cry from her family’s country house. Hillborough Hall was an imposing, unyielding fortress of marble and granite. The building proclaimed someone of unrelenting propriety and single-minded determination held sway here and fun would not—would never—be allowed.

“And your house in town?”

“That I have managed to retain, at least for the moment.” It was perhaps best not to tell Poppy that the Mayfair house was very nearly stripped of all its contents. Willie had felt obligated to pay the servants at both Bascombe Manor and the London house what was owed to them before she regretfully terminated their employment. Her butler and cook—Majors and his wife, Patsy—had refused to accept their dismissal, declaring she was their family and one did not abandon family when times grew difficult. As much as Willie felt a great deal of affection for them, she did not expect this kind of loyalty. The kind that brought a warm rush to one’s heart. Willie and Patsy had wrapped their arms around each other and wept for a few moments. Even Majors—as properly trained as any butler anywhere—had sniffed back something that might well have been a tear. “I would hate to lose that house, as well. I do need somewhere to live.”

“Perhaps, Wilhelmina—” Poppy chose her words with care “—now is not the appropriate time for a trip abroad.”

“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 Charlotte Granville was put in charge. She’s most efficient, horribly well organized and really rather brilliant. And she’s American, as is Mr. Forge, which is endlessly interesting. I’ve never known an American beyond a casual introduction in passing. Malcolm, however, knew any number of Americans. Quite candid I would say, although with Charlotte one is never sure if she finds you amusing or annoying. It scarcely matters, I suppose. She is usually quite pleasant under even the most trying of circumstances.”

“I thought you and your friends ran the society.”

“Oh dear, no. At least not anymore. We are simply figureheads. Consultants and wise purveyors of indispensable travel guidance as it were. It would be absurd for us to try to manage an undertaking of this magnitude.” Poppy started toward the door. “Why, none of us have the least bit of a head for business.”

* * *

“YOU HAVE TO ADMIT, Charlotte,” Lady Blodgett said with a knowing look. “Having Lady Bascombe escort a flock of Americans and their daughters on a grand tour is nothing short of brilliant.”

“I’m not sure brilliant is the word I would use,” Miss Charlotte Granville said with a tolerant smile. No doubt she had heard any number of brilliant ideas from the septuagenarian trio in the past. “And it is hardly even in the realm of a petit tour as opposed to a grand tour. It includes only Paris, Monte Carlo, a few stops along the way in Italy, including Venice and Rome, in barely a month’s time. But it is what they requested.”

Poppy and her friends had explained that Willie was eager to travel as she was still trying to cope with the unfortunate loss of her husband. Since Willie had abandoned black some time ago, she wasn’t sure Miss Granville was convinced. The older ladies might not have noticed but Willie could see at once that Charlotte Granville was a force to be reckoned with and not someone easily deceived.

“However, I’m afraid the tour will not come together as expected.” Miss Granville’s brow furrowed in annoyance. “We have already had one mother and daughter withdraw. Oddly enough, it’s the very woman who inquired about a private tour in the first place with specific requests as to what it would include. The others are now uncertain as to whether or not they wish to proceed.” She cast Willie a sympathetic smile. “I am sorry but I am nearly ready to cancel it altogether.”

“Understandable,” Willie murmured, trying to ignore the sense of utter defeat that knotted her stomach.

“Oh, that would be a shame,” Mrs. Higginbotham said with a heavy sigh. “I daresay you poor, unfortunate Americans rarely get the opportunity to see those sights that are practically in our own back gardens.”

“I would suspect the chance to travel in the company of a genuine viscountess is yet another opportunity that rarely comes along for those poor, dear ladies. Pity really.” Poppy glanced at Lady Blodgett. “They don’t have titles in America, do they?”

“No.” Lady Blodgett shook her head in a mournful manner. “Not a one. Unless I’m mistaken. Charlotte?”

“No,” Miss Granville said thoughtfully. “We do not have titles.”

“One always wants what one doesn’t have,” Mrs. Higginbotham said in a wise manner. “It’s the nature of mankind.”

“But particularly the nature of women,” Poppy said.

“Are these American mothers and their daughters wealthy?” Lady Blodgett asked brightly.

Miss Granville nodded. “Our services for a private tour such as this do not come lightly.”

“But you said there was indecision as to whether or not there would be a tour at all?” Poppy asked.

Again Miss Granville nodded.

“I would think the chance to make the acquaintance of a viscountess, perhaps becoming friends during the length of even a short tour, possibly with an eye toward having her at some point introduce their daughters to an earl or even a duke...” Lady Blodgett shrugged. “Well...”

“And you do know very nearly everyone who is anyone in London society, don’t you, dear?” Poppy cast her an encouraging look.

“Not everyone, of course.” Willie adopted a confident smile. “But I do have a large circle of friends and acquaintances. I would say that—”

“And have you traveled widely, Lady Bascombe?” Miss Granville interrupted.

“Well, I—” Willie began.

“Goodness, Charlotte,” Lady Blodgett said in a chastising manner. “Lady Bascombe’s husband’s family can trace its heritage back numerous generations. Wilhelmina’s father is an earl with a proud and noble heritage and Wilhelmina herself is a graduate of the prestigious Miss Bicklesham’s Academy for Accomplished Young Ladies.”

“Yes, well, that’s very nice but—”

“I assure you, Charlotte, no prominent family in England would allow their offspring to go into the world without first making certain they have the appropriate knowledge of the capitals of Europe,” Poppy said in a lofty manner. “The very thought that Lady Bascombe is not more than capable of leading a small group of Americans around those same capitals is patently absurd.”

Miss Granville’s cheeks flushed. “I do apologize, Lady Bascombe.” Apparently, wealthy Americans weren’t the only ones somewhat cowed by British titles. “Of course, you’re more than qualified.”

“Thank you, Miss Granville.” Willie smiled in what she hoped was a confident manner.

“You’re right, ladies.” Miss Granville nodded at Poppy and the others. “Having Lady Bascombe escort the tour could be just the thing to get those interested to commit once and for all. Indeed, her addition might well be irresistible.”

“Although really, Charlotte—” Lady Blodgett leaned toward the American in the manner of one confidant to another “—I’m not sure you wish to use the words lead or guide or escort even if that is what she’ll be doing.”

Miss Granville’s brow rose. “I don’t?”

“It just seems to me that if you offered a tour hosted by the incomparable Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe it sounds much more like a group of old friends off on a grand holiday.” Lady Blodgett smiled knowingly. “Don’t you agree, Charlotte?”

The younger woman considered her thoughtfully. “You never fail to amaze me, Lady Blodgett.”

“Thank you, dear.” The modest note in her voice was belied by the smug twinkle in her eye.

Miss Granville directed her attention to Willie. “We will, of course, provide for your expenses. All your lodgings and transportation. In addition, you will receive a stipend for unexpected costs as well as our standard compensation for the leaders of tour groups.”

“Oh, I think it should be somewhat more than standard compensation.” Lady Blodgett shook her head. “She is after all Lady Bascombe and more than likely the reason this tour will proceed at all.”

Miss Granville thought for a moment. “I see your point. I will see what I can do. Lady Bascombe, in addition to the stipend, you’ll receive half of your compensation upon your departure, the other half when you return. If that is acceptable?”

Willie resisted the urge to grin with delight. “It will do.”

“We were originally set to depart in three weeks. While there remain arrangements to finalize, I think that is still possible. Can you be ready by then?”

“Well, I—”

“Of course she can,” Poppy said.

“Not merely ready but willing and extremely capable, as well,” Mrs. Higginbotham added.

“I must say, I am somewhat envious.” Lady Blodgett’s eyes gleamed with triumph. “My dear departed Charles spoke very highly of Americans. He thought they were an exceptionally interesting lot. And the chance to go off on even a modest tour with Americans, why, it’s a venture simply fraught with exciting possibilities. Don’t you agree, Lady Bascombe?”

All eyes turned toward Willie—three pairs filled with encouragement, the fourth somewhat more skeptical. For a moment Willie had no idea how to respond. She still wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, although her dear, sweet Poppy and her equally innocuous friends had somehow managed to convince the obviously intelligent and competent Miss Granville that Wilhelmina, Lady Bascombe, was more than up to the task of shepherding young Americans and their mothers on a tour of Europe—regardless of whether it was petit or grand. And had, as well, persuaded her to offer financial compensation above what would normally be provided. This in spite of the fact that Poppy knew Willie had never stepped foot off the shores of England. Still, with up-to-date maps, brochures and travel guides, how difficult could leading—or rather hosting—a tour be?

It struck Willie that Poppy and her friends, and even Miss Granville, were placing their faith in her and the oddest determination not to disappoint them swept through her. She’d never had any particular responsibilities but it was time she did. She could certainly do this and do it far better than she—or anyone else—expected. And wasn’t it past time to live up to expectations? To become a trustworthy, reliable adult?

“I do, Lady Blodgett.” Willie beamed. “I do indeed.”

CHAPTER TWO

Two weeks later...

“GOODNESS, DANTE.” ROSALIND, Lady Richfield, heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I have no desire to spend a month in the country, let alone travel Europe. I can’t imagine why you think I would wish to do such a thing.”

“Come now, Roz.” Dante Augustus Montague glared at his sister. “You needn’t be so dramatic. It’s not as if I’m asking you to go to the far corners of the world. To some uncivilized, untamed region populated with headhunters and cannibals and deadly vipers. I’m talking about Paris and Monte Carlo and Venice and Rome.”

“I don’t want to go either,” her daughter, Harriet, added. At age eighteen, Harriet had just completed her first, and judging by her mother’s comments, extremely successful season. She had, as well—at least in her uncle’s eyes—become more than a little conceited and most annoying. In many ways, exactly like his sister.

“I understand that, brother dear.” Roz’s eyes narrowed. “But what you are proposing is not a trip for the purposes of education and refinement and culture. You are planning nothing less than a farce.”

“A French farce really,” Harriet said with a smug smile. She looked from her mother to her uncle. “A French farce? Because the tour includes Paris?”

“Ah yes, quite.” Dante offered a perfunctory smile.

Someone had told Harriet she was a natural wit and she’d considered herself most amusing ever since. Dante suspected the culprit responsible had been trying to curry favor with the lovely young woman. His sister had mentioned their drawing room was as often as not filled with suitors eager to win the hand of Lady Harriet. Roz was both proud and a bit taken aback by the social success of her only daughter.

“It’s not at all a farce.” Dante resisted the urge to roll his eyes toward the ceiling but that would only serve to irritate his sister. Some five years younger than Roz, even as an adult, Dante never tired of annoying her. Under other circumstances he would find that most enjoyable. Today, however, he needed her help. “Perhaps you don’t understand how important this is. Perhaps I should explain it again.”

“I believe we are both well aware of how important you think this is,” Roz said. “There is no need for you to expound yet again.”

“Goodness, Uncle Dante, we’re not idiots.” Harriet sighed and ticked the points off on her fingers. “One—a valuable painting that belonged to great-grandfather was replaced longer ago than anyone can remember with a copy and no one apparently noticed until you recently did. Two—the records of Montague House make no mention of the substitution of the original—a Portinari I believe—which has led you to suspect it was not legitimately replaced and might even have been stolen. Three—you have discovered through the efforts of an investigator that the original painting was at one time in the possession of the Viscount Bascombe who is unfortunately dead.”

“God rest his soul,” Roz said firmly.

“God rest his soul,” Harriet echoed and continued. “Four—that same investigator learned the painting was used as collateral for a loan between the viscount and some man in Venice. Five—the widowed Lady Bascombe is about to lead a group of American debutants and their mothers on a trip to Italy, among other places, and you believe she intends to reclaim the painting as part of settling her husband’s affairs or something like that. And six—you wish for Mother and I to join this tour so that you too may come along because you certainly can’t join it by yourself. Is that correct?”

Dante stared. “I had no idea you listened to me.”

“We listen to you constantly,” Roz said. “It’s impossible not to. Ever since you discovered the substitution of the painting—”

“Ever since you took over management of Montague House,” Harriet added.

“—you’ve rarely spoken of anything else. You’ve become quite dull.”

“I have not.” Dante scoffed but even to his own ears it did not ring quite true. Still, it couldn’t be helped.

His grandfather, the Marquess of Haverstead, had divided his nonentailed assets upon his death, leaving them equally to his three sons. His youngest son—Dante and Roz’s father—had proved surprisingly gifted at all matters financial and, through shrewd investments and sound business endeavors, doubled it. Dante had taken after his father in this respect and at the age of thirty-three had amassed a fortune significantly greater than his father’s. Which was all well and good but there was more to life than the acquisition of funds—an edict his grandfather had lived his life by.

Dante only vaguely remembered Grandfather as he had passed on when Dante was six years of age but he never forgot the old gentleman explaining the importance of art and beauty, whether they be depicted in painting or marble or by the fine hand of a master craftsman in a pottery urn created thousands of years ago. “Art,” he had once told his grandson, “is man’s very soul made manifest.”

When the marquess died, his will decreed his grand London house become a private museum, open only to scholars and those with a deep appreciation of art and antiquities and willing to purchase a subscription to help defray costs. He left, as well, a trust to maintain his collections. A curator was hired to catalog the late marquess’s acquisitions, organize and display the house’s contents, and manage membership as well as all the other varied and sundry details an endeavor of this nature required. Through the years there was another director and another—all with various skills in the management of small museums and Montague House took its place among the lesser sights of London.

Unfortunately, the only one of Lord Haverstead’s numerous offspring who shared his fascination with fine art or the remnants of antiquity was Dante. He spent much of his boyhood at Montague House studying the works of Renaissance masters or paging through ancient volumes in the well-stocked library or trying to decipher the Greek or Latin inscriptions on the ancient coins and other metalwork kept behind glass doors. The influence of Montague House lingered through Dante’s school years and he considered becoming a scholar of art and antiquities until business and finance proved to be a passion every bit as strong and far more challenging.

“I am not the least bit dull,” he said staunchly.

Roz and her daughter traded knowing glances.

“I know that look.” He glared at his sister. “Go on, say what you’re thinking.”

“We’re not saying that you’ve become dull only because you’ve thrown yourself into Montague House,” Roz began.

“Although you have taken up residence in the flat on the upper floor,” Harriet said under her breath.

“It’s most convenient.” He huffed. “Besides, it’s where the facility director has always lived.”

With only cursory family notice paid to Montague House, it was inevitable the museum would fall prey to mismanagement. A state of affairs only discovered some two years ago. In spite of the trust, the enterprise was losing money. Hemorrhaging it really, one of the uncles pointed out. Between maintenance of the building and care of the works it housed, it would be insolvent in no time. And then it would either have to become fully open to the public—an idea that made the more conservative members of the family shudder—or it would be closed and Grandfather’s life’s work dispersed.

Dante’s uncle, the current marquess, assembled his brothers and their children to discuss the fate of Montague House. While none of them wished to see their father’s, or grandfather’s, wishes ignored, they did realize something needed to be done and perhaps trusting someone outside of the family was not wise.

Upon reflection, Dante wasn’t certain who had first raised the idea of his taking over supervision of Montague House. After all, he did have an excellent head for management and business enterprises as well as firm appreciation and understanding of the world of art and antiquities. In certain circles he was considered something of an expert. Certainly he could put Montague House back on solid financial footing and establish a respectable reputation in the process. If not, perhaps it was time to donate Grandfather’s collections to a more venerable institution and sell the house. Or use it as the residence it was originally intended to be. Several of Dante’s cousins expressed interest in that possibility. Obviously the only one who could—or was willing—to save Grandfather’s legacy was the only son of his youngest son.

“We are simply pointing out that it seems the oddest sort of coincidence that you took up residence at Montague House at very nearly the same time you were publically rebuffed by Miss Pauling.”

“It is indeed a coincidence and I was not publically rebuffed.”

“You were according to what I heard.” Harriet shrugged. “Everyone said so.”

“Gossip rarely has anything to do with truth,” Dante said sharply. “And I was not rebuffed as I was not especially interested in Miss Pauling.”

Admittedly, he—along with very nearly every other single man in London—had found Juliet Pauling lovely and exciting. One never knew what to expect from her. She was adventurous and daring and exhilarating. He had indeed called on her several times but eventually realized she had her sights set on bigger fish than the untitled grandson of a marquess. Regrettably, she was as calculating as she was charming, as designing as she was delightful. Which was why it took him far too long to realize he was little more than a pawn in her quest for a title, a means to make a better catch jealous. Unfortunately, thanks to the unrelenting gossip of people exactly like his sister, his name had been linked with hers. When her betrothal to the son of a duke was announced, it came as a surprise to nearly everyone in society and to no one more than to Dante. He hadn’t thought she was quite so devious as to not give him even a glimmer of warning.

“We shouldn’t tease you about this,” Roz said in a sincere manner he didn’t believe for a moment. “A broken heart is nothing to make fun of.”

“It is dreadfully sad though.” Harriet heaved the sort of sigh only a romantic young woman could manage. “The love of your life throwing you over for another man even if he was the son of a duke.”

“She was not the love of my life. Nor did she break my heart.”

“Obviously a mistake on my part.” Amusement shone in his sister’s eye. “Silly of me to confuse a broken heart with badly bruised pride.”

“I’m quite sure I have mentioned this before, any number of times by my count, but neither my heart nor my pride was broken or bruised,” Dante said firmly. Only to himself would he acknowledge that a broken heart was a fate he had narrowly averted and there might possibly have been the slightest bruising of his pride. “Furthermore, that was two years ago.”

“And in these past two years you have become something of a recluse,” Roz said pointedly. “When you’re not engaged in the management of your businesses, you have buried yourself in the Herculean task of setting all in order at Montague House. You have completely ignored any kind of social encounter that wasn’t required. And those for the most part have been family obligations.”

“For the hundredth time, sister dear.” Dante struggled to keep his temper in check. It wasn’t easy. Roz refused to accept that between Montague House and his business interests, his life was inordinately full. He had no time for frivolity and no interest at the moment in pursuing anything of a romantic nature. “I have a great deal to attend to and other pursuits are simply going to have to wait.”

“Pursuits such as finding a wife?”

“Exactly,” he snapped. “I have neither the time nor the inclination right now for romantic entanglements.”

Still, responding to his sister’s obvious efforts to irritate him would not get him anywhere. Nor did it help to know she only had his best interests at heart as did his mother and every other female member of his family. None of them seemed to understand that while he had no particular aversion to marriage, he did not think it was crucial to his life. At least not currently.

He drew a calming breath. “As you know, the family has given me three years to rebuild, or rather build, Montague House’s reputation and put the collections in order. I have accomplished a great deal toward that goal. I have recovered a number of objects that had either been lost in the attics, moved to other family properties or disappeared from the house altogether. The latter at no little expense. It has not been easy.” He absently paced the room. “The missing Portinari is the center of a triptych, essentially a three-part painting.”

“We know what a triptych is, Uncle Dante,” Harriet said in the long-suffering manner of the young.

“What you may not know is that Galasso Portinari was a student of Titian and a painter in his workshop. A sixteenth-century biography of Titian says he considered Portinari his greatest student and predicted he would one day surpass even the master’s skill. Unfortunately, he died quite young—plague possibly but the details on that are vague. His original work is exceedingly rare. While students of Titian’s—including Portinari—often copied his work, there is no record of more than a handful of any other original Portinaris. Therefore ours are exceptionally valuable. These three paintings are the sorts of things that will make a museum’s reputation.”

“Then why haven’t they done so?” A challenge sounded in Roz’s voice. While not as passionate about Grandfather’s legacy as her brother, Dante had thought she was somewhat neutral on the question of the fate of Montague House. Although he now recalled there was a gleam of interest in her eyes when the idea of returning the mansion to a private residence had been raised. “It’s not as if they have just been acquired. Hadn’t they been in the collection long before the house became a museum?”

“Yes, but previous curators apparently didn’t understand what they had. For one thing, the paintings weren’t displayed properly. They were hanging in the library on three different walls, separated by bookshelves and one barely noticed them. But they were designed to hang together to create one continuous work. When done so, one can see the continuity between the pieces, the story the painter was trying to tell. All of that—as well as the brilliance of the artist himself—is lost when they are not displayed together.” Dante shook his head. “I’m not sure even grandfather knew what he had. He had an excellent eye but he tended to buy what appealed to him rather than what might be a good investment. In fact, I’m not sure any of those we’ve employed to curate the museum understood the potential value of the Portinaris. Indeed, it’s only been in recent years that his work has been recognized. Each painting by itself is brilliant but all three together are nothing short of a masterpiece.”

Roz frowned. “I don’t even remember them.”

“They’re relatively small—each is a mere twelve by eighteen inches. And, as I said, they were in the library. It’s been kept clean, of course, dusted and swept and all, but little additional attention paid to it. As if valuable first editions could take care of themselves.” He scoffed.

His sister traded glances with her daughter.

“According to the house records, the first director started to catalog the contents of the library but then turned his attention to other matters. The second picked up where the first let off but accomplished little.” He couldn’t keep the hard edge from his voice. The lack of attention paid to the collections in the house by previous management was nothing short of criminal. One did wonder how his uncle’s solicitors—charged with arranging for the engagement of the house staff—managed to find such utter incompetents. “None of the subsequent curators did anything at all toward organizing and cataloging the books or anything else in the library.”

It never failed to annoy him that in the quarter of a century between his grandfather’s death and Dante’s assuming directorship of the museum, no one in his family had paid the least bit of attention to what was occurring. There were gaps in the financial statements and other records that not only pointed to mismanagement but outright fraud and perhaps even theft. Much of which he doubted he would ever be able to reconcile. In many ways it was fortunate the Portinaris were overlooked. Otherwise all three of the originals might be missing.

“So what you’re trying to say in that long and tedious way you have is that recovering the painting is crucial to Montague House.” Roz eyed her brother thoughtfully. “That this is exactly what you need to increase prestige and credibility. Essentially to save Montague House.”

“What we need,” he said firmly.

“I still don’t see why we have to flit around Europe.” Harriet huffed. “Why don’t you just offer to buy the painting once Lady Bascombe has it?”

“Although I daresay to convince her to sell, you will have to do something about your, well, your demeanor,” Roz said.

He frowned. “What’s wrong with my demeanor?”

“You’re curt, you tend to be condescending, especially when you think you’re right or you’re the most intelligent person in the room, and you are entirely too arrogant.” Harriet glanced at her mother.

“Well, yes,” Roz agreed. “But it would have been nice to phrase it a bit more tactfully.”

Harriet shrugged. “I phrased it exactly the way I’ve heard you say it.” She cast an apologetic look at her uncle. “Sorry, Uncle Dante.”

He stared at his sister. “I am not any of those things.”

Roz grimaced.

“Am I really?” Admittedly, he might be the tiniest bit patronizing when he knew he was right and possibly more impatient than he should be and there was the distinct possibility that he did have no more than a mere touch of arrogance. “Yes, well, perhaps some of that might not be entirely inaccurate.”

“However,” Roz said, “you can be quite charming when you set your mind to it. Indeed, although it has been some time, I’ve watched you charm any number of unsuspecting females.”

His brow shot upward. “Unsuspecting?”

“That might not have been the right word,” Roz murmured. “But you are a handsome devil, as well, in a quiet sort of way, and I’ve never seen you look less than perfect. In addition, your wealth is most impressive. You are a catch, Dante. Women are naturally attracted to you. I don’t know why you don’t take advantage of that.”

“I think it’s foolish to depend on one’s appearance and fortune rather than one’s intelligence.”

“What’s foolish is your not taking advantage of both,” Harriet noted under her breath. “And yet it explains so much.”

He ignored her. “Regardless, your point is taken. I shall do my best to be as charming as I possibly can.”

Harriet snorted.

“As I was saying, I have considered attempting to purchase the Portinari but I will not make an offer until its true ownership is determined.” His jaw tightened. “I would prefer not to have to pay for something that rightfully belongs to this family.”

Harriet cast him a skeptical look. “And how will you determine ownership?”

“I have collected every record, every invoice, every bit of correspondence I can find—Father and the uncles have helped with that—in an effort to find some statement as to the disposition of the Portinari. I have the original bill of sale for all three paintings and, at the moment, I have nothing to indicate any of them were sold or ownership transferred in any way. I have studied everything myself and I’ve hired a firm with expertise in such matters to examine all the records as well as investigators searching for more. I cannot confront Lady Bascombe until I have solid evidence regarding ownership. Once I do, I can demand her proof of provenance. But it scarcely matters until she recovers the painting.” He paused. “I intend to be present when she does. Now that I know exactly where the painting is, I will not allow it to vanish from sight again.”

Roz frowned. “You don’t trust her?”

“I don’t know her,” he said. “But I do know of her. Her reputation does not inspire confidence.”

Roz’s brow furrowed in confusion then her expression cleared. “Oh. You’re speaking of Wilhelmina Bascombe?”

“Is there another Lady Bascombe?” Harriet asked.

“I don’t think so.” Dante studied his sister. “Do you know her?”

“I wouldn’t say I know her but I believe we met once in passing although it was some time ago.” Roz thought for a moment. “I rather liked her if I recall. You’re right though—she and her husband were part of a fast crowd always engaged in some sort of outing or entertainment or activity verging on the edge of outright scandal. There was talk about her husband’s indiscretions, as well, although I don’t recall ever hearing anything about her. Still, in that particular group... Now that I think about it, I don’t believe I’ve heard anything at all about her since her husband died and that must be at least two years ago.”

“Apparently, she was in seclusion until recently.” A fact Dante’s investigator had included in the dossier he had prepared. He had also uncovered information about Lady Bascombe’s finances. It appeared the widow was forced to sell her country house and various other items to settle her husband’s debts and had very little left, although Dante assumed she had reserved enough to pay off the loan and take possession of the Portinari. Her financial state also explained why she was leading a tour rather than simply traveling to Venice on her own.

“One can scarcely blame her for wishing to leave the country for a bit,” Roz said. “Put the past behind her and reminders of her husband, that sort of thing. Although shepherding a group of Americans sounds rather daunting to me.”

“I believe this is in the manner of a favor to an elderly relative who founded some sort of travel society for ladies. It is my understanding that without the presence of Lady Bascombe the tour was in jeopardy of not proceeding at all.”

“It’s quite kind of her, then, isn’t it?” Roz nodded thoughtfully. “But I suppose it would indeed serve to take her mind off her loss.”

“I would imagine. Difficult time for her, I would think. Not at all the time to confront her about the painting,” Dante added with an appropriately concerned frown. It was not entirely feigned. The more he’d learned about Lady Bascombe the more she intrigued him. But surely she couldn’t be as interesting as she sounded. More likely she shared a great deal in common with Miss Pauling, at least when it came to character. And that was not the least bit interesting. At least not to him.

“Poor woman,” Roz murmured.

“Poor woman?” Harriet stared at her mother. “The lady and her husband were obviously engaged in all sorts of improprieties to have been the subject of so much gossip. There is always an element of truth behind any morsel of rumor—that’s what you always say.”

“Yes,” Roz began, “but—”

“Furthermore, one has only oneself to blame when one’s husband wanders.” Harriet pinned her mother with a firm look. “Don’t you say that, as well?”

“I might have said something like that.” The oddest look of panic showed in Roz’s eyes.

“And haven’t you warned me my entire life that dreadful things can happen to those who misbehave, so it is important that one’s behavior be exemplary?” Harriet aimed the words at her mother with the directness of an inquisitor questioning a heretic.

“Well, yes, but—”

“It seems to me this is simply the price of fast living,” Harriet said in a lofty manner.

“Good Lord, what have I done?” Roz’s eyes narrowed. “Regardless of how one chooses to behave, there are few things worse in this life for a woman than losing her husband. Unless one’s husband leaves a great deal of money, the finances of a widow are precarious at best. As I said, I don’t really know Lady Bascombe but I would suspect if she has remained in seclusion and only recently returned to London—” she glanced at her brother and he nodded “—then she must have cared a great deal for her husband.”

“‘The wages of sin is death.’” Harriet smirked.

“Only in the bible, dear,” Roz snapped. “And while I am pleased that you have obviously listened to every bit of wisdom I have ever imparted, I am hoping you have heard me when I have talked about compassion or sympathy, as well. Especially among fellow women, whether we are acquainted with them or not.”

Harriet had the good grace to blush in spite of her defiant attitude. “I suppose.”

“Perhaps,” Dante said casually, “it might be beneficial for Harriet to make the acquaintance of a new circle of young women. And see a bit of the world in the process.”

“Dante.” Roz blew a long breath. “I have a great deal to do and no time to go off wandering Europe.”

“Besides, Mr. Goodwin promised to call on me.” Harriet breathed a dreamy sigh, obviously in the throes of delighted anticipation.

Roz frowned. “Bertram Goodwin?”

“Yes.” Harriet dimpled. “He’s quite dashing and very clever.”

“He’s the third son of an earl with no prospects whatsoever and a questionable reputation. And when I say questionable...I am being kind.” Roz stared. “And his mother is...well, suffice it to say she is not one of my favorite people. And I like nearly everyone.”

“Nonsense, Mother. You’re just being stuffy.” Harriet sniffed. “Mr. Goodwin’s reputation is no worse than most young men of my acquaintance. But he is amusing and handsome and...” Her chin raised in a determined manner. “And I like him. I like him quite a lot. Why, I might even be in love with him.”

“You’ll be no such thing. He is entirely inappropriate and a very bad influence.” Roz’s gaze locked with her daughter’s. “I will not permit him to call on you.”

“Regardless.” Harriet crossed her arms over her chest. “I fully intend to see him whenever possible.”

Mother and daughter glared at each other. Tension hung in the air and Dante resisted the urge to step back, out of range of whatever might happen next. He’d never witnessed a confrontation between these two before. His gaze shifted from his sister to his niece and back. Regardless of how much he wished to recover the Portinari, was it wise to join a group made up of mothers and daughters? Still, one did what was necessary. He braced himself.

“Did I mention I would be paying for everything? I will take care of all expenses,” he said in what he thought was a helpful manner.

“Your father will like that.” Roz’s gaze never left her daughter’s.

“Father will never make me go if I don’t want to.” Challenge colored Harriet’s words.

“My dear child, you are his daughter.” A triumphant gleam sparked in Roz’s eyes. “I am his wife.” Roz adopted a wicked smile he had seen any number of times in their youth when she’d had the upper hand and knew it. “Dante.” Her gaze never wavered from her offspring. “When do we leave?”

CHAPTER THREE

One week later...

“...AND THE NEXT THING I knew—” Willie settled in a plush cushioned chair and cast her most pleasant smile at the first members of her group to arrive at the private train car that would take them to Dover “—I was agreeing to do the old dear a favor and accompany a group of mothers and daughters on a tour. Although I will admit I am quite looking forward to it.”

“Geneva and I are very excited, my lady.” Mrs. Henderson—Marian she had already insisted Willie call her as she was certain they would soon be fast friends—fairly glowed with barely restrained enthusiasm.

The car’s furnishings were more conducive to a parlor or an elegant sitting room than a train, with wine-colored velvet drapes trimmed with gold cord at the windows and luxurious sofas and chairs instead of the more typical train seating. Exactly the refinement one expected from a private car. Marian perched on the sofa at the far end of the car although Willie suspected she might bounce off her seat at any moment—as if even the forces of gravity could not contain her energy. Her daughter, Geneva, sitting beside her, had made appropriate murmurings at their introduction then promptly pulled a book out of a valise and buried her nose in it.

“We have never been to Europe before,” Marian continued, “and never imagined we would see anything beyond London. Gerald, my husband, is here for business and is constantly occupied with meetings, which is something of a shame as he has seen nothing whatsoever. Geneva and I simply came along because we’re from Chicago and we have never traveled at all. And we have always dreamed of seeing London. We had no further expectations beyond that.”

She paused and Willie nodded. It was apparent she would not be able to get a word in until Marian’s soliloquy had run its course. Perhaps tomorrow...

“But when Mrs. Vanderflute said she had inquired as to the possibility of a trip to Paris and the Riviera and Venice and Rome—not a grand tour exactly but more of a meandering path, I would say—well, it was one of those things that does not come along often. Certainly I would have preferred a more extensive route that included some of the northern climes but it is autumn after all and the weather being what is it, well, it did seem perfectly suitable. We have been in London for months now so thirty days on a whirlwind trip was nearly irresistible. Gerald is so occupied with business that he will scarcely notice our absence at all. And we will return to London with more than enough time to make our voyage home. How could one say no to that?”

Willie stared. “It would be difficult.”

“Besides,” Marian continued, “I am a firm believer that when unexpected opportunities present themselves one should seize them with both hands. Don’t you agree, my lady?”

For a moment, Willie could do little more than stare—her smile frozen awkwardly on her face. Certainly Willie was known for being unreserved and candid but she wasn’t sure she’d ever encountered anyone so, well, open as Marian Henderson.

“Well, yes,” she said at last. “Yes, I do.”

“I thought so. Especially since you agreed to accompany our little group at what was very nearly the last minute. I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you did so, my lady. Why, after Mrs. Vanderflute and her daughter had to return home unexpectedly, I thought surely this trip would fall apart. After all, the itinerary was her doing and, as I said, not my first choice. But she did go to the trouble of arranging the tour and I didn’t feel it was my place to make changes even after she decided not to come. You understand. But then the Lady Travelers Society contacted us at our hotel—the Savoy. Do you know it, my lady?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s new, I believe.”

Marian nodded. “It opened in August I think. And did you know, my lady, it’s entirely lit by electricity?”

“I had no idea,” Willie said faintly, although she had heard the new Savoy was both grand and thoroughly modern.

“I cannot tell you how thrilled Geneva and I were when that lovely woman from the Lady Travelers Society—oh, what was her name, my lady?”

“Miss Granville?”

“Yes, that’s the one. When she informed us, if we were still interested, the tour would now be hosted by the honorable Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe.” Marian said Willie’s name with the sort of reverence one usually reserved for royalty. Or God.

“And I am certain we shall all have a grand time.”

Marian frowned. “I did think though that there would be a tour director or something of that sort.”

“Nonsense.” Willie waved off the comment. “Miss Granville has organized everything beautifully and I assure you I am quite delighted about the prospect of leading our group of travelers and handling those minor matters that may arise. It shall be great fun and I daresay it won’t even be a particular challenge, although I do love a challenge. Besides, a tour director would prove terribly inconvenient, don’t you think?”

Marian shook her head in confusion. “Inconvenient?”

“Of course. It would most likely be a man, which would ruin the spirit of independence inherent in this group. Why, we are a merry band of ladies—of mothers and daughters—out to conquer a corner of Europe with our maps and guidebooks in one hand and our parasols in the other. We certainly don’t need anyone, let alone a man, to lead the way. Don’t you agree?”

“I do.” Marian shook her head eagerly. “I really do.”

“Excellent.” Willie cast her a brilliant smile, rose to her feet, picked up the leather-clad notebook Poppy had given her as a bon voyage present and tried not to look as if she were escaping. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to return to the train platform and greet the rest of our tour.”

“Ah yes, that would be Mrs. Corby and her daughters, my lady. I’ve met them but I can’t say that I know them. Her husband is engaged in business with mine and Mr. Vanderflute. They’re from New York if I recall correctly.” A slight frown creased her forehead. “The Corby daughters are a bit younger than Geneva, I think. She’s almost nineteen and I am hoping this trip gives her the extra bit of polish she needs to find an appropriate husband—”

Willie might have been mistaken but she could have sworn she heard a faint groan from behind Geneva’s book.

“—as she is not getting any younger. Surely you see my point, my lady? Why, I was married at nineteen and I have been happy ever since.” Marian threw her daughter a pointed look. Geneva turned a page. Obviously the young woman was used to ignoring her mother. Willie bit back a smile.

“The train is expected to leave in a quarter of an hour so I expect the others to arrive at any minute.” Willie turned toward the door.

“Mrs. Corby strikes me as being a quiet sort, my lady,” Marian called after her. “Terribly sensible but a bit timid, I suspect.”

“Then we shall do our best to make her feel she is among friends,” Willie said over her shoulder.

“Excellent. Lady...” Marian hesitated.

Willie reached the door and turned back. “Yes?”

“I hate to sound, well, stupid but I am at a loss. We don’t have titles in America, you see, so I have no idea what it is appropriate to call you, your ladyship.” Concern touched with embarrassment shone in Marian’s eyes. “Is it Lady Wilhelmina or Lady Bascombe?”

Willie studied the other woman. With light brown hair and a charming smile she was quite attractive, although Willie suspected she might have been slimmer in her youth, and no more than ten years older than Willie, if that. This was a woman who, in spite of an air of confidence, obviously wanted to be liked as well as do what was expected and correct.

“For one thing, it’s not necessary to refer to me as my lady with every breath,” Willie said as gently as possible.

Marian’s face fell.

“Goodness, Marian, as you said, you are not from England, so you cannot be expected to know all the myriad little details that accompany forms of address here. Why, I myself get confused on occasion. And I am certainly not the least bit insulted, so do not worry yourself about that for a moment.”

“Thank you.” Marian offered a feeble smile.

“My title is Viscountess Bascombe and I would usually be referred to as Lady Bascombe. However, as we will be spending a great deal of time together and I agree that we will all become good friends—”

Marian brightened.

“—I suggest you call me Willie.”

From the look on Marian’s face one would have thought the clouds had parted and a shaft of celestial light had shone upon her. Willie wouldn’t have been at all surprised if the dulcet sounds of heavenly choirs weren’t ringing in Marian’s ears at this very moment.

“Thank you, my...” Marian squared her shoulders, a brilliant smile lighting her face. “Willie.”

The oddest sort of snort came from Geneva, who never looked up but did turn the page.

Willie smiled and stepped down onto the platform. This might well be more entertaining than she had imagined. And one should always enter into new endeavors with a sense that they will turn out well. She wasn’t sure who had told her that but it was excellent advice. Certainly she had no experience at managing a group of travelers, and admittedly she had never actually traveled herself, but it couldn’t possibly be all that difficult.

Confidence surged through her. Efficient was not a word that had ever been used to describe Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe. Nor was it a description she aspired to. Yet here and now, standing by the car door in the elegant black-and-white-striped traveling dress—updated with a stitch here and tuck there by the ever-so-clever Patsy—and the jaunty hat that had long ago been ordered from Paris, her new notebook in her hand, Willie was the epitome of efficiency. Or at least her idea of efficiency, which would have to do.

That true personification of efficiency—Miss Granville—had hoped to arrange a tea to introduce Willie to her tour but it had proved impossible. Apparently, Americans in London were entirely too busy trying to see everything there was to see. Coordinating the various members of their group proved daunting even to the well-organized and eminently competent Miss Granville. Right now she awaited the rest of their assembly at the main entry of Victoria Station to see to their luggage. She had explained, while she would usually send someone else to take care of that, this tour was both exclusive and expensive and she much preferred to be present. If successful, it could pave the way for more quick, lucrative European trips, directed especially at Americans who never seemed to have as much time to spend as money. Miss Granville had added that given Willie’s experience with first-class travel, she expected absolutely nothing to go wrong. As she had said so with a pointed look Willie had blithely tried to ignore, Willie did wonder if perhaps Miss Granville wasn’t entirely accepting of the sterling recommendations given by Poppy and her friends. Still, while Willie wasn’t at all sure how businesses like the Lady Travelers Society worked, she was fairly certain what the founders of the society wanted they probably received. Regardless of her lack of experience or the fact that she had never been given any true responsibility whatsoever, Willie would not let Poppy and her friends down. She would rise to the occasion and confront any challenge head-on. And hadn’t she always loved challenges? Admittedly, she’d never taken on anything like this but it couldn’t possibly be all that difficult. Why, women these days traveled all the time.

Willie pulled a list of names typewritten on a sheet of paper from her notebook. These were her charges, the companions she would spend the next few weeks with, the travelers she had to thank for her expense-free trip to Venice. The unsuspecting tourists she fully intended to abandon there. Once she had her painting in hand, she planned to return to London at once. It would not reflect well on Poppy and her friends, and Miss Granville would not be happy, but Willie had no choice. She vowed to do whatever was necessary upon her return to make amends to all concerned.

Willie had made discreet inquiries with a solicitor, Mr. Virgil Hawkings, who was well-known in art circles. He had agreed to act as a mediator between Willie and potential buyers. When she spoke with him again yesterday, he’d said there was a fair amount of interest, adding the offers for the Portinari might be far more than she had imagined and mentioning a figure she had not dared to hope for. Indeed, he was already setting up a discreet private auction to take place next month. She’d protested that she might not have the painting by then but Mr. Hawkings was adamant that in matters of this nature it was best to strike while interest was still high. She absolutely had to be back with the painting by then. Staying with her group through their visit to Rome would put Willie’s return in time for the auction in jeopardy. Even someone who had never traveled knew any number of unexpected problems could occur, many of which were detailed in the numerous pamphlets from the Lady Travelers Society she’d read in the past few weeks.

Willie studied the names on her list in an effort to ignore the bit of guilt niggling at her. Guilt was as foreign to her as efficiency. And now that she’d met two members of their party, there really wasn’t anything to feel guilty about. Marian Henderson was chatty but did strike Willie as competent enough. She was American after all and while Willie had never known any Americans, they did have a reputation for charging forth into the unknown with unfailing confidence and a stouthearted lack of hesitation. Willie found it admirable. Besides, she would leave all her maps and guidebooks and make certain everyone in their party had the confirmation telegrams for their hotels and train vouchers and everything else they needed. They would be fine. Probably more than fine. Why, it would likely be the grandest of adventures for them. Her departure would simply add to the stories they could tell about their travels. Admittedly, Willie might not come off particularly well in those stories but she really had no choice, even if she was beginning to—

“I beg your pardon,” a quiet voice asked, barely loud enough to be heard over the din of the station. “Are you Lady Bascombe?”

Willie looked up and adopted a welcoming smile. “I am.”

A short, attractive fair-haired lady about Marian’s age stood flanked by two young pretty blonde women. Two identical young women. Miss Granville had said there were three separate family groups on the tour and according to the list of names, these three were either J. Corby and daughters or D. Montague, R. Richfield and daughter. Apparently, Miss Granville thought abbreviations were efficient. In truth, they were confusing.

“I’m Mrs. Corby.” The woman returned Willie’s smile. “And these are my daughters, Emmaline and Matilda.”

“We prefer Emma and Tillie,” one of the girls said.

“Emmaline and Matilda are names for old women.” The other girl shuddered. “They shall do I suppose when we are in our dotage but right now they don’t suit us at all.”

“You understand don’t you?” the first girl asked. “Surely you remember what it was like to be young and have a horrible name?”

“Not that it probably matters to you now, of course.” Innocence sounded in the second girl’s voice as if she had no idea she was implying Willie was old. Willie didn’t believe her for a moment. “After all, your name is Wilhelmina.” Two pairs of identical hazel eyes, both colored with a definite challenge, stared at her. Identical Cheshire cat smiles curved their identical lips.

“I think Wilhelmina is a lovely name.” Mrs. Corby cast a scathing look at her daughters. “It’s so much better than Jane, which is my name.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Jane,” Willie said firmly. “I think it’s a strong and noble name. Why, we have had two queens of England named Jane.”

“Yes, well, if I recall correctly neither of them ended particularly well.” Mrs. Corby’s eyes lit with amusement. “I will try to do better.”

Willie laughed. “I’ve no doubt of it.” She turned to the girls. “You’re right, you know. While I do not detest Wilhelmina, I much prefer Willie.”

“Lady Willie.” One of the girls made a face.

“It’s Lady Bascombe, Emma,” Mrs. Corby said firmly.

“But as we are all to be friends—” she turned to Mrs. Corby “—I do hope you will call me Willie and allow me to call you Jane.”

A slow smile spread across Jane’s face. “I would like that very much.”

“Now then.” Willie studied the twins. “You’re Emma.” She pointed at the one who had called her Lady Willie. “Which means you—” she aimed her finger at the other twin “—must be Tillie.”

“Oh no, I’m afraid you have already—” Emma began but Tillie nudged her with her elbow and glanced at their mother. Jane’s eyes narrowed. Emma sighed. “Yes, I’m Emma.”

Oh, these two were going to be interesting. Willie inclined her head toward their mother. “How on earth do you tell them apart?”

“There are all sort of tiny differences we’ve noted through the years. Depending on their moods, Emma’s eyes tend more toward brown and Tillie’s toward green but the difference is often negligible. Fortunately, as they are now seventeen, they are old enough to set aside the foolish tricks they were so fond of playing when they were children.” Jane smiled but shot a warning look at her daughters. “They understand the consequences of such misbehavior are much more significant now.”

“Oh, we do,” Tillie said quickly. “Although sometimes...”

“Sometimes it’s just too much fun.” Emma grinned. “And well worth the risk.”

Jane bit back a smile. Clearly the twins were a handful and probably always had been. Yet there was obvious affection between mother and daughters. Willie’s heart twisted.

“The tiny differences, however, are mostly in terms of mannerism and remarkably easy to miss. The best way to tell my girls apart is physical.” Jane nodded at Emma. “Emma cut her hand on a piece of glass when the girls were eight. There is a J-shaped scar at the base of her thumb on her right hand.” She shot a glance at the girls. “Show her, dear.”

Emma rolled her gaze toward the far off iron-and-glass ceiling of Victoria Station, peeled off her glove and held out her hand palm up. The scar was small but distinct if one knew what one was looking for.

“How convenient.” Willie grinned at Emma. “That will be most helpful.”

“You have no idea,” Jane said under her breath.

“We are glad to be of assistance,” Tillie murmured with a feeble smile.

Willie studied the twins for a moment. She could remember when she was their age as if it were yesterday. She’d thought the entire world was hers for the taking. The future was bright and filled with promise. Rules were silly annoying things designed only to destroy the fun and enjoyment of life itself. And nothing was impossible. Willie saw a great deal of herself in Emma and Tillie. Without question, these girls would challenge her at every step. She wished them the best of luck but, aside from pretending to be each other, Willie doubted there was anything they could try that she hadn’t attempted at their age.

Still, it would be easier for all concerned if they were well behaved. The best way to defuse an enemy was to make him an ally.

“I shall make you a deal,” Willie said. “I won’t tell anyone how to tell the two of you apart if you agree not to use this formidable weapon of yours against me.”

“We couldn’t anyway.” Emma shrugged. “You know how to tell the difference between us now.”

“Which means you needn’t make any sort of deal with us at all,” Tillie said thoughtfully. “And you are only offering to do so because you want to be friends.” She exchanged looks with Emma then grinned. “We can agree to that.”

Willie wasn’t sure she believed that either.

“The girls have also agreed to be on their best behavior.” Jane’s gaze met one daughter’s then the other’s in an unspoken message. “They’ve always wanted to see Paris and Venice and Rome and they are well aware that if they take even one step out of line, the repercussions will be unpleasant and we will be on our way back to London without hesitation.”

The twins smiled weakly.

“I can’t imagine we’ll have any problems at all,” Willie said with an air of unexpected confidence. “Now then, Mrs. Henderson and her daughter, Geneva, are inside the car. If you’d like to join them, we have one party yet to arrive.”

“I’ve met Marian Henderson.” Jane waved the girls ahead of her. “She’s quite...gregarious, I would say.”

“She is indeed.”

“This should be interesting.” Jane nodded and stepped up into the car.

“It should indeed,” Willie murmured and returned her gaze to the last names on her list—D. Montague, R. Richfield and daughter. She did hope they would arrive soon. Leaving behind three members of their party on the first day did not bode well for the rest of the trip. She glanced up and scanned the platform.

Americans didn’t look particularly different, although she did believe they walked with a certain spring to their step, as if the world truly were their oyster. She spotted a woman coming in her direction, a definite air of determination about her. She was accompanied by two young women, probably her daughters. Willie adopted her most welcoming smile.

The woman gave her no more than cursory glance as she walked by. And wasn’t that rude? Even if she wasn’t D. Montague or R. Richfield she could have at least acknowledged Willie’s presence in that vague, polite manner acceptable for a casual encounter. Goodness, the manners of some people simply—

“Lady Bascombe?” A decidedly English voice said.

Willie turned and smiled. “Yes?”

“Oh good, I was hoping it was you.” An attractive dark-haired woman, perhaps a decade older than Willie, smiled expectantly. A young woman stood behind her, also dark haired and quite pretty with a resigned look on her face.

“It most definitely is me.” Willie drew her brows together in confusion. “I do apologize but have we met?”

“Once but it was a long time ago and I daresay you probably won’t remember as I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t been reminded.”

“Oh well...” Willie shook her head. “I am sorry but you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Of course I do, and it’s terribly rude of me. I just said you wouldn’t remember me and now I’m expecting you to do just that. Obviously it’s now my turn to apologize to you.” She smiled. “I’m Lady Richfield and this is my daughter, Lady Harriet Blake.”

“You’re not American?” Willie stared.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“I see. I had no idea. I was told the tour was comprised of American ladies and their daughters so I wasn’t expecting a fellow countryman.” She glanced at her list of names. “Your names are registered simply as R. Richfield and daughter, which I fear is due to the extreme efficiency of Miss Granville of the Lady Travelers Society.”

“Ah yes, the American. She met us at the front of the station and arranged for our bags to be taken care of.” Lady Bascombe lowered her voice in a confidential manner. “Do you think all Americans are that efficient?”

Willie’s thoughts flashed to the ladies already in the train car. “Oh, I doubt it.”

“Good.” Lady Richfield nodded. “I have never been the least bit efficient and I frankly find myself somewhat suspicious of those women who are.”

Willie grinned. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

“So...” Lady Richfield glanced around. “Should we be getting on board?”

“Yes, of course. Everyone else has arrived with the exception—” Willie checked her list “—of D. Montague. I thought she was part of your party but she’s not with you?”

“D. Montague should be here any moment.” A slightly wicked spark shone in Lady Harriet’s eyes. “So this tour is for mothers and daughters? Only mothers and daughters?”

“I don’t believe it was restricted to mothers and daughters,” Willie said slowly, “but it is my understanding that our members are made up only of mothers and daughters. And aside from museums and galleries, the itinerary includes a number of things females tend to enjoy that men merely tolerate—shopping and theater and gardens and the like.”

“That’s what I thought,” Lady Harriet said in an overly sweet manner.

“Harriet, dear girl, why don’t you go on and find our seats.” A firm note sounded in Lady Richfield’s voice. “You’ll have to forgive my daughter. She was not especially eager to come on the tour.”

“But, Mother, I have changed my mind. I now see how very wrong I was.” An innocent smile curved the girl’s lips.

Lady Richfield’s eyes narrowed. “No more than two days ago you were moaning about how your life was over if you were forced to leave London.”

“Any number of things can change in two days, Mother. I came to the realization that opportunities like this don’t often come along. The chance to go to Paris as well as Venice? Why, it would be quite silly of me not to go. Besides, we’ll be gone less than a month. Goodness, Mother, my life can’t possibly be over because I’m gone a mere month.” Lady Harriet cast her mother a chastising look.

Suspicion colored Lady Richfield’s eyes. “I believe that was my point.”

“And now I agree with you. You should be happy, Mother.”

“And yet...” Lady Richfield studied her daughter.

Lady Harriet stepped up into the car and glanced down at them with a satisfied grin. A bit too satisfied. This was another young woman who would bear watching. “I think this is going to be a grand adventure. Truly an experience to remember.”

“As do I, Lady Harriet,” Willie said with an encouraging nod.

“Oh, do call her Harriet. Use of a title might be awkward with the American girls.” Lady Richfield pulled her gaze from the car door. “Do you have daughters, Lady Bascombe?”

“I’m afraid not. Someday perhaps.”

“Yes, well, the idea of daughters someday sounds delightful when someday is very far off. But then someday arrives and you’re living with this clever, subtly deceitful creature whose greatest joy in life is outwitting you because she thinks you are the enemy of all she wants in life. Oh, and she’s certain you’re stupid, as well,” Lady Richfield added wryly.

Willie grinned. “Surely not.”

“Life with a daughter is a challenge.” Lady Richfield straightened her shoulders. “Fortunately, I quite enjoy a challenge.”

Willie laughed.

Lady Richfield chuckled. “And you must call me Rosalind. After all, we are going to be spending a great deal of time in one another’s company.”

“Excellent. And I am Wilhelmina but most people call me Willie as Wilhelmina is rather a mouthful.” She wrinkled her nose. “And, as I have been told by the younger members of our party, a bit antiquated, as well.”

“They are nothing if not painfully blunt,” Rosalind observed.

“I remember all too well.” Willie frowned and glanced at her list again. “I do wish your D. Montague would appear. Am I to assume she is English, as well?”

“Oh, definitely English.”

“I would hate to leave her behind. And while we do have a private car, the train will leave when expected.”

“Yes, well...” Rosalind drew a deep breath. “About D. Montague. You should know—”

“That I am quite looking forward to this.” A tall, dashing gentleman with dark hair, equally dark eyes and an impressive air of refined elegance about him—no doubt assisted by excellent, quality tailoring—stepped up beside Rosalind. He carried a black leather traveling valise, the kind used for documents by solicitors and men of business. “You must be Lady Bascombe.”

Surely she’d met a man with shoulders that delightfully broad before? And certainly she knew any number who had dimples bracketing the corners of their perfectly shaped lips beneath a sharp straight nose that was just a touch Roman. Without thinking, Willie extended her hand. “I am.”

He took her hand and gazed into her eyes. The oddest shiver ran through her. “I am delighted to meet you.”

She mustered a weak smile. “And you are?”

“Forgive me. Where was my head? Roz?” He directed his words to Rosalind but kept his gaze locked on Willie’s. “Do be so kind as to introduce me.”

Good Lord. The most unnerving thought flashed through her mind. Was this intriguing specimen of the male gender here to accompany Rosalind? Was this trip to be some sort of romantic liaison on their part? And in front of her daughter? Not to mention the other girls. While Americans were reputed to be less unyielding about any number of things, Willie was fairly certain Jane and Marian would both be shocked by this. As free-spirited as Willie had always considered herself, this she could not allow.

“Yes, of course. Allow me to introduce Mr. Dante Montague.” Rosalind cleared her throat. “My brother.”

“Your what?” Relief swept through her. Only because she would not have to take the moral high ground—which she wasn’t sure anyone would believe—and not because of the wicked sparkle dancing in his eyes. And the way he looked at her as if she were something rather remarkable. Men had looked at her in similar ways before, of course, but it had always been much more lascivious. And she had been married. And it had been a very long time since.

“Her brother.” He grinned. “We’ve been told there’s a certain family resemblance.”

“When we were children perhaps.” Rosalind scoffed. “Fortunately, we have grown out of it.”

“And your name is Dante?” For whatever reason she couldn’t seem to pull her gaze from his. Nor did she want to. “As in the nine circles of hell?”

He chuckled. “My mother had a passion for literary names. You’re familiar with Dante’s Divine Comedy, then?”

An endless, fourteenth-century epic poem that was forced down the throats of unsuspecting schoolgirls in the name of classics while they did their best to avoid it? The sort of thing a girl might only skim in order to answer the most basic questions about it? She forced a light laugh. “Who isn’t?”

“Excellent. I look forward to discussing it with you.”

“You can let go of her hand now,” Rosalind said pointedly.

Willie pulled her hand from his. “That does sound like fun.”

“I expect this tour to be a great deal of fun, as well.” Mr. Montague continued to study her as if he couldn’t bear to take his eyes away. It was at once flattering and a bit unnerving.

“I’m curious, Mr. Montague.”

“Dante, please.” There were those dimples again. “We’re going to be together every day for the next month after all.”

“Regardless, we have only just met. It would be far too improper and not at all the way to begin an adventure like this.” Oh Lord. Why couldn’t the man have had a name like Horacio or Ebenezer. Why did he have to have the name of an Italian poet?

And where on earth had this voice of propriety of hers come from? Why, she had never been the least bit concerned about rules before. It was no doubt his fault. This man, this Dante, might be very, very dangerous. Or he could be a great deal of fun. She wasn’t sure she was ready for fun and certainly not for danger. Her previous life had had entirely too much of both—or the illusion of both—and had, in hindsight, been exhausting. Although she would admit there were frequent moments when she missed it.

“Might I ask why you decided to join a tour directed at ladies and their daughters?”

“Well, I—”

“In truth, this whole thing was my brother’s idea,” Rosalind answered. “He is paying for our entire trip. The dear man.”

“It was a gift,” Dante said quickly. “And most deserved.”

“It was a bribe.” Rosalind smirked. “Also most deserved.”

“And as I was at loose ends, with nothing pressing to keep me in London at the moment—”

“Alas my dear brother has not yet found himself a wife.” Rosalind heaved a long-suffering sigh.

Dante shot her a sharp look then continued. “I thought it might be nice to accompany my dear, dear sister and her charming daughter.”

“How very...thoughtful of you.” And indeed it did appear quite thoughtful although one couldn’t help but wonder at the undercurrents ebbing between brother and sister and exactly what Dante’s bribe was for. And wouldn’t that be interesting to find out?

“And then when I discovered you were to be one of the travelers, well, how could I possibly pass up the opportunity to make the acquaintance of the legendary Wilhelmina Bascombe.”

“How indeed.” She forced a light laugh. Legendary? What utter rubbish. She did have a certain reputation—at least she used to—but it had been two years since she’d done anything at all let alone anything legendary.

“I believe we should probably get on board,” Mr. Montague said to his sister then turned to Willie. “Don’t you agree, Lady Bascombe?”

“Yes, of course,” she murmured.

Dante assisted his sister up the steps. She said something quietly into his ear then glanced back at Willie and smiled. He turned to Willie and took her hand to help her into the car. It wasn’t really necessary. But it was quite nice.

“I cannot tell you how delighted I am that I decided to come along,” he said in a low voice behind her.

A frisson of something that might have been delight—or worse, anticipation—ran up her spine. She ignored it.

It had been a long time since she’d felt any sort of attraction to a man. Certainly it was not unexpected that she would do so at some point. She had been a widow for two years after all and even at the age of thirty she did not consider herself old. Nor did she have any desire to spend the rest of her life alone.

But Willie had met any number of dashing, charming, handsome men before. George was dashing and handsome and charming. Her next husband was going to be sensible and rational and practical. A man who had more on his mind than the next ball or rout or hunt. At the very least, a man who was aware of his responsibilities and lived up to them. A man who paid his bills.

No, she was finished with men who were impulsive and wanted nothing more than to enjoy everything life had to offer. The next time she married she wanted a bit of moderation.

A man who put entirely too much effort into charming a woman—even if he was nice to his sister—was not to be trusted. Legendary indeed. Besides, a man who had the name and the charm of an Italian poet and the looks of a Roman god was the last thing she needed or wanted.

Even if she suspected he might well be irresistible.

CHAPTER FOUR

“WELL?” DANTE SAID in an aside to his sister, his gaze on Lady Bascombe at the far end of the car. She sat at a table studying a large map and papers that no doubt had to do with the tour, looking shockingly efficient. If there was one word that was not in the dossier he had been given on Wilhelmina Bascombe it was efficient. “How was that for charming?”

“Quite good, Dante. I scarcely recognized you.” Roz directed her words to him but kept her gaze on the ladies’ magazine she paged through. “Not the least bit stuffy. One would think you’d been practicing.”

He bit back a grin. He hadn’t attempted to flirt in longer than he could remember, and he was never especially accomplished at it as he’d always thought it rather silly. But it was somewhat like riding a horse again when one hadn’t ridden for some time. And oddly enough, it was surprisingly enjoyable.

The rest of their party was scattered about the spacious car, having divided according to age. Mrs. Corby and Mrs. Henderson had settled near the midsection of the car apparently ascertaining mutual acquaintances although Mrs. Corby didn’t seem to be saying nearly as much as Mrs. Henderson. The four girls were seated as far away from their mothers as possible and appeared to have already forged a friendship. Or more likely an alliance against a common enemy.

“Do you intend to marry her?” Roz said coolly.

“What?”

“Do keep your voice down, brother, if you don’t wish for everyone to hear.”

“Shock will do that to a man,” he said sharply but lowered his voice nonetheless. “No, of course I don’t intend to marry her. Don’t be absurd. We’ve just met.”

“You are protesting entirely too much, Dante.” She turned a page. “I was only going to note that the level of your charm might be entirely too, oh, extreme if your purpose is anything short of marriage or seduction.”

“Good Lord, Roz.” He stared. “My purpose is neither seduction nor marriage. My sole purpose is reclaiming the Portinari. And you are the one who told me to be charming.”

“I did not suggest you sweep her off her feet.”

“I’m not trying to sweep her off her feet.” Admittedly, he was making an effort beyond anything he had done in recent years. Nor was it the least bit difficult. He imagined any number of men found flirtation with the lovely Lady Bascombe to be easy if not natural. He’d been intrigued before but in person she was, well, more than he had anticipated. There was something about the unexpected look of intelligence in her blue eyes coupled with a delightful smile, a fine figure and an air of utter confidence that belied everything he had learned about the irresponsible, impulsive, madcap Willie Bascombe. It was very nearly irresistible. Not to him, of course. He was not—nor could be ever be—interested in her as anything other than a means to the Portinari. But he could certainly understand why other men might find her compelling.

“No?” Roz turned another page.

“No,” he said firmly. “I am trying to do nothing more than forge a friendship with her. A cordial companionship if you will. After all, we have a full two weeks before we reach Venice.”

“A lot can happen in two weeks,” Roz murmured.

“Indeed it can.” He bent his head closer to his sister’s. “If Lady Bascombe and I are on firm, affable footing, if we are indeed friends, by the time she retrieves the painting, it will be that much easier to tell her of our claim of ownership. She will be far more willing to listen to reason with a friend she trusts than with an enemy.”

“And that is your plan?”

“And an excellent one it is too.” Admittedly, it had only just occurred to him when he’d realized he wouldn’t at all mind being friends with Lady Bascombe. Anything beyond that was absurd, of course. But friends, yes, friends would be good.

“And to think, I have always thought you were so much more intelligent than I.” She set her magazine on her lap, folded her hands on top of it and met his gaze. “That is the most absurd plan I have ever heard. Although I hesitate to use the word plan as it sounds more like an ill-conceived disaster in the making.”

“Rubbish,” he said staunchly. “If she knows me, if she likes me, she’ll be much more amenable to my position. I’ve found that to be an excellent business practice. One that rarely fails.”

“Now, there’s the overly methodical and somewhat stodgy brother that I know and love.”

He ignored her. “It makes perfect sense.”

“In business perhaps. But when it comes to women, my poor, sweet, deluded brother—”

“She’ll understand.”

Roz scoffed. “More likely she’ll hate you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” His gazed strayed back to Lady Bascombe—Willie. He’d never been one for masculine names on women—he considered them inappropriate and absurd. But Willie suited Lady Bascombe, who was at once independent and uniquely feminine. A woman who would surely listen to reason when he presented his claim. Especially if they were on a friendly basis. “She’s entirely too intelligent to hate me.”

“Ah yes, that will certainly make a difference. A woman’s intelligence always comes to the forefront when she discovers a man has deceived her.”

“I’m not going to deceive her.” Confidence surged through him. It really was an excellent plan. “I am genuinely going to win her friendship.”

“This explains so much.” Roz cast him a pitying look, set aside her magazine and rose to her feet. “I believe I will make a few friends myself. I suspect I am going to need them. This is going to be a far longer trip than I imagined,” she added under her breath and moved to join the other ladies.

In many ways—his sister was right. No time like the present to begin. He stood and casually made his way to Lady Bascombe’s table. “Lady Bascombe?”

She looked up. “Yes, Mr. Montague?”

“May I join you?”

She hesitated then smiled. “Of course.”

“Are you sure?” He settled in the closest chair. “I hate to interrupt.”

“No, that’s quite all right. I am simply going over our itinerary and travel documents.” She settled back in her seat and looked at him expectantly. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, I just...” Perhaps this wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d thought after all. He adopted his most winning smile. “I simply thought it would help pass the time until we arrive in Dover to engage in interesting conversation with the loveliest woman here.”

“The loveliest?” Her brow rose. “As well as legendary?”

He winced. “A bit too much?”

“A bit.” She smiled. “However, like most women I am not immune to flattery. You will quite turn my head with such talk, Mr. Montague.”

He chuckled. “I do hope so.”

“And if that doesn’t work surely your belief that our conversation will be interesting will have much the same effect.”

“And yet I was most sincere.”

“Very well then.” She studied him curiously. “What interesting topic did you wish to discuss?”

“Oh, there are any number of things we could talk about, I suppose.” He thought for a moment. “Politics, literature—”

“I’m not certain I’m prepared to discuss the Divine Comedy at the moment.” She waved at the papers in front of her. “My head is entirely too filled with the assorted and sundry details of transporting this group from one point to the next to dwell on the various types of sin and indulgence portrayed in the Inferno. I daresay the details of simply moving a party of nine from one country to another is complicated enough without considering whether any missteps taken in this life will have to be paid for in the next. Surely you understand.”

“Completely.” He chuckled. “And I would not wish to discuss as substantial a topic as one of the world’s great literary efforts in the brief time we have before Dover but we could consider a different work perhaps. I recently read Mr. Haggard’s Cleopatra and I found it quite enjoyable. Have you read it?”

“Not yet but I do enjoy Mr. Haggard’s work. I quite liked She and King Solomon’s Mines.”

“Then you like adventure and dashing heroes and sultry heroines?”

“I can’t imagine anyone who doesn’t, especially with heroes like Allan Quatermain.”

“Some might think such stories are rather frivolous.”

“And yet some of the most enjoyable moments in life are completely frivolous.” She shrugged.

“As well as unexpected.”

“I believe unexpected is the very definition of adventure.”

“Then one can’t plan adventure?”

“Goodness, Mr. Montague.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “Where would be the fun in that?”

He leaned forward and gazed into her eyes. “You don’t think one can set out to seek adventure?”

“Ah, seeking adventure is a far cry from planning it. One can expect for adventure to arise or hope for it but I suspect exactly what form that adventure might take would always be unanticipated.”

He grinned. “Agreed.”

She laughed.

He settled back in his seat and studied her. “Why did a woman like you agree to host an excursion like this?”

“As you just noted, I like adventure.”

“Shepherding a group of women and their daughters on an abbreviated tour to a handful of countries scarcely strikes me as adventure.”

“Adventure, Mr. Montague, is where you find it. Who knows what might happen between here and there.” She thought for a moment. “We could encounter famous personages—someone like Mr. Haggard himself—on the boat crossing the channel.”

“Which might not be an adventure so much as an interesting moment I would say.”

“Oh, then you’re hoping for grand adventure.” Amusement underscored her words. “Well then, instead of a famous author we might encounter a...a princess. Yes, that’s good. A princess in disguise fleeing England and marriage to a horrible beast of a man, who might throw herself on your mercy and beg for you to help her. That would certainly constitute adventure.”

He laughed. “Now, I think you’ve gone a bit too far.”

“Goodness, Mr. Montague.” She sighed. “You are a difficult man to please. First, you think my suggestion of an adventure isn’t truly an adventure and then you think my next idea is entirely too much. Let me think.” She tapped her forefinger on the table thoughtfully. “You must agree, travel itself is fraught with adventure.”

He nodded. “I do.”

“Simply setting foot in a place one has never been before is exciting and exhilarating. Even when difficulties arise, there is an element of adventure. Why, any one of the trains we will be taking could break down and we could be stranded. And perhaps forced to survive by our wits alone. Which would be something of a problem but would certainly be an adventure nonetheless. One never knows what is around the next corner.”

“Indeed.” He nodded. “Still, this tour does seem a bit, oh, tame for you.”

“Ah.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “My reputation precedes me, I see. And here I was hoping legendary was the worst of it.”

“Come now, Lady Bascombe, you can’t expect me to entrust my dear sister and niece into the hands of anyone whose background I have not thoroughly checked.”

“Then you no doubt know all there is to know about me.”

“I doubt if there is anyone who knows all there is to know about you, Lady Bascombe.”

“With any luck at all, Mr. Montague.” A knowing smile played on her lips.

“But I confess I am still puzzled as to why you agreed to host this tour.”

“It’s really quite simple,” she said smoothly. “One of the founders of the Lady Travelers Society—Mrs. Persephone Fitzhew-Wellmore—is my godmother. This trip was in danger of falling apart and, as American lady travelers are seen as a lucrative prospective clientele, my godmother was quite eager to see it proceed as planned. Apparently, one thing that appeals to Americans is the presence of a fellow traveler with a title.”

“True enough.” He nodded. It really was an excellent business strategy and quite perceptive given his own business dealings with Americans. There was nothing more impressive to them than a lady or lord attached to someone’s name.

“One thing led to another and here I am.” She paused. “As fate would have it, I was planning to travel to Venice in the near future so this was not the least bit inconvenient.”

“Still, leading a tour is not the sort of thing that comes to mind for a woman like yourself.”

“Hosting a tour, Mr. Montague,” she said and frowned. “And I do wish you would stop saying that. That ‘woman like you’ nonsense. I am not a stock character in a drawing room comedy.”

“I do apologize. I didn’t mean—”

“I would do anything for my godmother. She has been a rock of support for me in recent years. More so than anyone else I can name.”

“Fair-weather friends I suspect?”

She heaved a sigh. “Mr. Montague—”

“Why Venice?”

“Why not?”

“Have you ever been to Venice?”

“Goodness, Mr. Montague. Hasn’t everyone?”

He chuckled. “You’re evading my question. And it was a remarkably innocent question. Not one I would imagine anyone would ignore.”

“I’m not ignoring it. I simply find it curious that someone who has had my background thoroughly checked would not know the answer to that. And I think it’s my turn in this fascinating conversation of ours to ask you a question.”

“My life is an open book.”

“No one’s life is an open book, Mr. Montague.” The slightest hard note edged her words. “We all have secrets. Even those closest to you have secrets. Only a fool thinks they don’t.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t quite sure what to say, given he did indeed have a secret of sorts. “Perhaps you’re right. Although I can assure you whatever secrets I harbor are minimal and barely worth the effort to keep.”

“Your sister said you’re financing her trip as a bribe.” She propped her elbow on the table, rested her chin in her hand and smiled into his eyes. “What is said bribe for?”

“My sister was just being annoying.” He drew his brows together. “Roz takes great joy in annoying me. She is five years my senior and has always delighted in doing whatever she can to set my teeth on edge.”

“So it’s not a bribe?”

“No,” he said firmly. “It’s simply in gratitude for a favor. Saying it was a bribe was her convoluted idea of a joke. And not especially amusing either.” He shook his head. “One would think as an adult with a grown daughter she would set such childish pursuits aside.”

“Some of us never quite grow up.” She smiled in a manner that struck him as a touch wistful. It did the oddest things to his stomach. “Have you?”

“Now, that is an interesting question.”

“You wished for interesting conversation, Mr. Montague. I can think of no more interesting question. Or answer. Of course, if you prefer not to answer...”

He laughed. “I’m not quite sure why you asked the question.”

“Because, Mr. Montague.” Her gaze met his. “I have known any number of charming, handsome men with their slightly wicked manners, the suggestion in the tone of their voices that indicates what they are saying goes far beyond their words and the look in their eyes not unlike a connoisseur evaluating his next morsel. I am neither fooled by them, nor am I the least bit interested.”

He stared at her. Roz was right—his concerted effort to be charming had perhaps gone further than he intended. Why, she didn’t think he was at all the serious, responsible man that he was but rather some kind of rake or rogue or scoundrel. This was not the way to earn her trust. Still, he rather liked it.

He tried and failed to keep a smile from his face. “I shall keep that in mind, Lady Bascombe.”

“Furthermore, Mr. Montague—” she met his gaze directly “—most men of that nature are not quite as obvious about it.”

“I wasn’t...” He chuckled in a wry manner. “I simply thought a woman like...a woman who has had an exciting life would be more inclined to—” he shrugged helplessly “—like a man who was more...likable than I usually am.”

Her eyes widened and she straightened. “You wanted me to like you?”

He nodded.

“Why?” Suspicion sounded in her voice.

“Because you may well be the most interesting woman I have ever met.” Even as he said the words he realized he had indeed been fascinated by her ever since he’d first read the dossier. Regardless, his goal was not to win her affections, simply her friendship. And that was a means to an end, nothing more. “And I hope to be friends.”

She sat back in her seat and stared at him. “I’m not sure what to say.”

“You must admit this confession of mine is extremely charming.”

“Nor am I sure what I believe.”

He arched a brow. “You don’t trust me?”

“Trust needs to be earned. And I don’t know you well enough to trust you.”

“Perhaps by the time we reach Venice you will.”

“And will I like you, as well?”

“Without question.” He grinned and rose to his feet. That would do for now. It was an excellent start. “If you’ll excuse me, I shall leave you to your consideration of our journey.”

“Thank you.” Her gaze returned to the papers on the table. “I am determined to make certain nothing goes awry,” she said, and it struck Dante her words were more for herself than for him. Perhaps she was not as confident as she appeared.

“Please feel free to call on me at any time should you need my assistance in any way.”

“Your offer is most appreciated but I doubt your assistance will be necessary.”

“As you pointed out—one never knows what might be around the next corner.” He paused. Nothing in her dossier had indicated she was a well-seasoned traveler in spite of her current facade of competence, although admittedly that was not the kind of information he had requested. Still, something had struck him a few minutes ago that he had paid no attention. Perhaps the delightful Willie Bascombe was not as she appeared. “One more thing.” He leaned forward, braced his hands on the table and gazed into her eyes.

Her eyes widened but she did not shrink from his direct gaze. “And what might that be?”

“The map you are so dutifully studying.” He lowered his voice in a confidential manner. “It’s upside down.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THERE WAS NOTHING like maneuvering nine people through the complexities of claiming luggage upon arrival in Paris at the salle des bagages and the subsequent annoying inspection by customs agents to make a woman feel not merely efficient but supremely confident. It was not easy, especially as everyone rudely insisted on speaking in French. Perhaps language barriers were among the reasons why she and George had never traveled beyond England’s shores. Although it was more likely attributable to finances. No doubt they would have traveled someday—if only to escape their creditors.

Still, if asked, Willie would have said she did indeed speak French, more or less. Why, she had studied the language for years in school, as did everyone else she knew, and could say la plume de ma tante as well as anyone. But apparently when one was actually in France, one’s French was decidedly more less than more.

Regardless, with her Baedeker’s guide in one hand, her notebook in the other and the wherewithal to hire a small army of porters, Willie had managed to dispatch their group via three separate cabs to the Grand Hotel. Her charges had heeded Miss Granville’s advice on limiting the amount of their luggage given the brief length of time they would stay in any one place. They had also forgone the inclusion of ladies’ maids in their party, apparently standard guidance from the Lady Travelers Society. It made a great deal of sense in terms of expenditures and practicality. Every hotel they would stay in provided maids for their first-class guests. The Grand Hotel was no exception.

Upon their arrival nearly an hour ago, all the members of their party had been seen to their respective suites with assurances their every need would be met. Willie’s admiration of Miss Granville’s efficiency reluctantly notched upward. Who would have imagined Willie Bascombe would ever be impressed by efficiency? Apparently, Miss Granville, and her employer, were skilled in making the impossible possible. Willie had been aware, of course, of the Paris Exposition—why, everyone in the world was talking about the massive iron tower symbol of the fair—but she had never considered what that might mean to the availability of hotel rooms in the city. Indeed, she was fairly certain if she were not traveling under the auspices of Mr. Forge’s Lady Travelers Society, she would be hard pressed to find any available rooms at all let alone suites in the luxurious Grand Hotel.

They had arrived at an appropriate hour for a civilized dinner but everyone agreed—given that the proper tea service on the train from Calais had been surprisingly good in both quality and quantity—that no more than a light supper was required. Furthermore, they would all much rather spend their first night in Paris viewing the illumination of the Eiffel Tower.

Willie now awaited the others, resisting the urge to tap her foot impatiently on the highly polished floor of the opulent crystal, marble and gilded lobby and trying very hard to look serene and unconcerned instead of annoyed by their tardiness. They did have a schedule to maintain after all. Willie could not remember a point in her life before now when she was not perpetually late but if she could manage to appear promptly—so could everyone else. Apparently, a desire for punctuality went hand in hand with the acceptance of responsibility. Besides, as the idea for viewing the illumination had been embraced with wholehearted American enthusiasm, one did have to wonder where on earth everyone was. If they didn’t leave soon, they would miss the initial lighting, which was reportedly quite a spectacular moment.

At the very least, she expected Dante to arrive at the appointed time. It was difficult to continue to think of him as Mr. Montague even if she was not entirely ready to address him aloud by his first name. It would give the man all sorts of ideas she was not prepared to give him. At least not yet. Regardless, she could forgive him even if he decided to forgo the evening altogether. The poor man had had a rough go of it on their crossing of the channel. The faintest tinge of green had continued to color his complexion on the train from Calais and he’d been remarkably quiet, as well. No doubt if one was struck by mal de mer, the rocking motion of a train probably did not ease one’s discomfort. It was impossible not to feel sorry for him.

Besides, he deserved a certain measure of lenience. If Dante Montague was truly trying to earn her friendship, he was going about it in a clever way. He could have made more of an issue over the silly problem with the map. And really, how absurd was it that one could get to the age of thirty and never have had to study a map before? At least a map that wasn’t in the pages of a dreadfully dull book of geography or used to illustrate the history of some long-ago conflict, and she’d avoided those whenever possible. No, the man had simply pointed out her error, straightened the map and taken his leave, requiring no explanation from her whatsoever. It was rather gallant of him really, especially as she had no explanation that didn’t sound completely incompetent.

She spotted him crossing the lobby toward her and adopted a pleasant smile. It wasn’t the least bit difficult. After all, he obviously liked her and had admitted he wanted her to like him. It was at once flattering—what woman didn’t want a man to put forth some effort to gain her favor—and rather endearing. Still, she was not sure what to make of Dante Montague. She knew nothing about him other than he was good to his sister, which did speak well of him. The fact that he carried a valise implied he was a man of business or the law. Yet his manner was no different than most of the wealthy, spoiled bon vivants in her previous circle of friends. He was a dashing, likable man of some mystery and all the more intriguing for it.

“Lady Bascombe.” A broad smile stretched across his face as if he were genuinely pleased to see her, even if they had only parted a mere hour ago. “I cannot believe any woman can manage to look so refreshed after such a short respite.”

“How perfectly charming of you to say, Mr. Montague.” She returned his smile, surprised to note she was as pleased to see him as he appeared to see her. Obviously the man’s campaign was working. “One does try to be swift when one is engaged in travel and hoping to see all there is to see.”

One also tries to steal at least a moment in which to regain one’s strength. Willie had collapsed on her bed for a quarter hour and then an excellent maid had assisted her with her hair and dress. It had been a long time since she’d had such a busy day. Traveling was far more wearing than she’d expected.

“I doubt that we can possibly see all there is to see in Paris in the four days we’ve allotted to the city.”

“Goodness, no. There is a great deal of interest to see in Paris.” Her Baedeker claimed a stay of two to three weeks was barely sufficient to acquire a superficial taste of what Paris had to offer. “But we shall do the best we can with the time we have.” Good Lord, she sounded like a governess. She peered around him. “Do you think the others will be joining us soon? I would hate to miss the illumination.”

“About that.” He gestured at the exit. “We really should be going.”

“We cannot leave without the rest of our party. It would be extremely rude and quite unforgivable.” What on earth was he thinking? She crossed her arms over her chest. “The group decided going to the illumination was what everyone wished to do tonight. All were in agreement and adamant about it. I must say, it was most democratic.”

“The influence of the Americans no doubt.”

“It was not my idea nor is it on the schedule. However—” she drew her brows together “—now that it is on the schedule, we should adhere to it.”

“What was on the schedule? Before the illumination I mean,” he added.

“Nothing.” She huffed. “Since it was a long day of travel, it was thought best not to plan anything for tonight.”

“Excellent.”

“It’s not the least bit excellent.” It was all she could do to keep from stamping her foot in frustration. It did seem that if the group decided to do something—whether that was taking in a sight or anything else—members of said group should appear when they said they would. “It’s most annoying. Our entire itinerary has been well thought out.”

“Still, one might think a certain flexibility—”

“The schedule, Mr. Montague, was changed on the trip from Calais due to the wishes of all involved.” There was that governess again. Where did she come from? “Your sister and the others agreed that seeing the illumination of Mr. Eiffel’s tower would be a grand way to spend the first night of our travels. It was a most passionate discussion, although I believe you might have been napping at the time.”

“Probably.” He winced. “I do apologize. My last visit to Paris was more than a year ago and I have an awkward tendency to forget how...distressing crossing the channel can be. Sleep usually helps.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” She waved off his comment. “One can’t help being prone to mal de mer any more than one can help catching a cold in the winter or sneezing at the scent of spring flowers.”

“Spring flowers make you sneeze?”

“On occasion,” she said absently and glanced at the front desk. “Perhaps I should request a bellman be sent to their rooms to inquire after them. I really don’t understand why everyone isn’t here yet.”

“They aren’t here because they aren’t coming.”

She stared at him. “What do you mean? Why aren’t they coming? This was their idea.”

“If you will allow me to escort you to a cab—” again he offered his arm “—I will be happy to explain.”

“I’m still not sure we should go without them,” she said but took his arm nonetheless. “Are you certain they aren’t coming?”

“I am.” He steered her toward the door. “And they aren’t coming because apparently the original schedule was best.”

“Imagine my surprise,” she muttered. Very nearly every minute of their trip had been planned by Miss Granville who’d emphasized the importance of abiding by the schedule. She’d said a group of travelers cannot be allowed to wander freely without purpose. It was not the least bit efficient and certainly not the way to see everything said travelers wished to see. The end result of such a trip being dissatisfaction from all participants and the loss of future business. As well as anarchy and the possible end of the world, Willie had suggested. Miss Granville was not amused. “Miss Granville is excellent at schedules.”

A well-trained doorman stationed at the entry opened the doors a scant second before them and they stepped out onto the street, another doorman at once hailing a cab.

Willie paused in midstep. Since the earliest days of her childhood, she had considered twilight the most magical part of the day. The fleeting moments when glimpses of fairies could be caught flitting between flowers. It was silly really. She had grown far past such whimsy. Still, that brief interlude between the setting of the sun and the stars filling the sky had always felt special and filled with possibilities. Why, the very air itself was fraught with anticipation and magic.

And she was in Paris. She’d never imagined she would travel to Paris, at least not recently. When she was a girl, of course she had assumed she would someday visit places like Paris and Vienna and Rome. Certainly she’d had any number of friends who’d had grand tours of the capitals of Europe but then they hadn’t run off and married dashing handsome rogues at the beginning of their first season. Although one could say George was the very reason why she was here at all. Which was a point in favor of forgiving him but an extremely small point.

Regardless of the circumstances, she was at last in the celebrated capital of France. The center of art and fashion, of ancient edifices and bohemian adventure. The most extraordinary sense of anticipation swept through her and why not? There was much to look forward to. Streetlights were coming on. Carriages would soon be arriving at the Opera House adjoining the hotel. The evening was cool but not unpleasantly so. And there was a shockingly interesting man by her side. Magic was indeed in the air. While she would never have wished George dead, there might well be a great deal to be said in favor of widowhood.

If, of course, one had the finances to support widowhood in the manner to which one was accustomed, no matter how precariously funded that manner had been. She was not after all traveling on her own money at the moment. The Portinari was the means to change that. Or at least give her time to determine what her next step in life should be.

Dante helped her into the cab and gave the driver directions. The man was remarkably fluid in French and Willie caught little more than their destination—Champs de Mars, the promenade that stretched between the Tower and the main buildings of the exposition. The carriage started off.

“If we took another route we could see more of the city,” she said without thinking. She had indeed studied her maps.

“However, this is the most direct and most efficient way to the Champs de Mars. I assure you, Lady Bascombe, Paris has changed little since your last visit.” He paused. “When were you last here?”

It was a casual offhand question, idle chatter really. He couldn’t possibly know this was her first visit. “It always seems forever when one is away from Paris, Mr. Montague. And I disagree. Paris is constantly changing. Even sights that have been here always are new when one hasn’t seen them for a while. Why, that’s what makes Paris so exciting.”

He chuckled. “You have me there.”

“Yes, I know.” She couldn’t help the smug note in her voice, as if she had just made a hard-earned point in an evenly matched game.

Travel documents weren’t the only things Willie had studied in the last three weeks. Miss Granville had encouraged her to refresh her memory about the important landmarks of the places they would visit as it had probably been some time since Willie had been to Paris or Monte Carlo or Venice. The American was obviously much more perceptive than she let on. While Willie had assured her it was not necessary, she had nonetheless read and reread all her guidebooks as well as endless Lady Traveler Society pamphlets. After all, Willie was presumed to be a sophisticated, experienced traveler and should know what she was talking about. She had also perused a few articles about the Paris Exposition as they were scheduled to spend an entire day at the world’s fair, including an ascension to the top of the Eiffel Tower. It did seem there was a great deal to remember and Willie had never been good at that sort of thing. Studying was to be avoided in school. She was female after all and destined to marry well. Why on earth would she need to know silly facts about things she didn’t care about? It had made a great deal of sense at the time. Now, however, she could add it to a growing list of things she would have done differently in the first thirty years of her life.

“Now then, Mr. Montague, please explain,” Willie said when they were both settled in their respective seats in the open-top cab. “What did you mean by the original schedule was best?”

“It seems once my sister made herself comfortable in her room, she had no desire to leave. Apparently, Mrs. Henderson and Mrs. Corby agreed. They decided it would be wise to have a quiet meal in their rooms and begin fresh tomorrow.”

“I can understand that but your niece as well as Geneva and the twins were quite eager to begin their conquest of Paris.” She addressed her words to Dante but couldn’t tear her gaze away from the city of Paris rolling by the carriage. It was exactly as she’d seen in pictures but no mere image could do justice to the broad boulevards and iron-accented, pale stone buildings.

“They listened to their mothers.” He grinned. “And there might have been bribery involved.”

“I see.” Relief and freedom washed over her as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Certainly they’d only been traveling for less than a day but it was surprisingly exhausting and she could see where it might possibly be, now and then, a little more difficult than expected. Although, aside from a few minutes when they were transferring from the boat to the train at Calais and Harriet had wandered off, all had gone remarkably well.

“I, however, did not wish to miss the illumination of the tallest structure man has ever built,” he said firmly. “We are living in a remarkable age, Lady Bascombe. There is much to be said for progress.”

“Indeed there is.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this excited. It was all she could do to keep from bouncing in her seat. “I suspect it will be most impressive.” A fact from one of the articles she’d read conveniently presented itself. “But it’s not just lit by electricity, you know.”

“No?” His tone was serious but mild amusement shone in his eyes.

She ignored it. “It was entirely beyond the capabilities of, well, anyone to light it completely by means of electricity so most of the lighting is gas.” She tried not to smirk with triumph. It wasn’t easy.

“Except for the light projectors at the very top of the structure,” he said in an offhand manner. “The ones that are colored white, red and blue.”

What projectors? Willie couldn’t recall anything about colored electric lights. “Oh yes, I was about to mention that.”

“It should add an interesting touch to what is already a spectacular accomplishment.”

“The tower you mean?”

He nodded. “This year at least it might well be the most recognizable symbol of Paris. I am quite looking forward to seeing it.”

“Forgive me for pointing this out, but we’ve seen it ever since we stepped foot in Paris. One can’t help but see it. It looms over the entire city.”

“You’re right. I simply meant seeing it closer.”

“Yes, of course.” She summoned a bright smile. “I agree completely. And seeing it illuminated will be that much more impressive.”

“But then there are so many well-known sights in Paris.” He waved at the passing scenery. If Willie wasn’t mistaken, they were currently passing the Place de la Concorde, marked by an Egyptian obelisk in the center. Which meant the Tuileries Garden were on their left. “Which is your favorite, Lady Bascombe?”

“Notre Dame,” she said without hesitation. It was the first thing that popped into her head. In truth, she’d been so busy preparing to take on the role of experienced traveler, she’d paid no attention to those things she would like to see for herself. She couldn’t recall if the cathedral was on their schedule or not. Regardless, she would like to see it with her own eyes. And in spite of Miss Granville’s dire warnings, schedules could indeed change without mishap or calamity.

“Really?” He studied her curiously. “I wouldn’t have thought you to be an enthusiast of gothic architecture. Flying buttresses and gargoyles and the like.”

“Come now, Mr. Montague. Who can possibly resist the appeal of a well-executed flying buttress and a terrifying medieval gargoyle?”

“Who indeed?” He grinned. “Still, I assumed you were more progressive in nature. Looking toward the future, new inventions and—”

“It’s the story,” she blurted then sighed. “About the hunchback.”

“Monsieur Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre-Dame?”

She nodded. “I read it when I was a girl and to this day I cannot read it without weeping.” Even now the oddest lump formed in her throat. “It’s the saddest, most wonderful story I’ve ever read.”

“I understand why you think it sad,” he said slowly, “and I agree with you. And while it is certainly well written, why do you think it wonderful? There was torture, betrayal, wickedness, persecution of the innocent and evil. I’ve always thought it was dreadfully dire and gloomy.”

“It is that but ultimately it’s about love. Undying and endless and true. There is no better story than that.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“You look surprised, Mr. Montague. Why?”

“I did not expect you to be quite such a—”

“Reader of classic literature?”

“No, I didn’t mean—”

“Perhaps you thought I only read novels of adventure or romance?”

“That’s not—”

“Those offerings that are considered frivolous and not of serious literary merit?”

“Not at all. I simply meant—”

“I know exactly what you meant, Mr. Montague.” Willie wasn’t at all sure why she found this so annoying. In truth, she did indeed prefer more frivolous reading material. Novels and stories that were, well, fun and enjoyable rather than tedious as she considered so many classic works. “And perhaps we should add a discussion of The Hunchback—” which she should probably reread “—to our talk about the Divine Comedy—” which she should definitely read “—which I am most looking forward to.”

He stared.

“What is it now, Mr. Montague? Did you think a woman like myself, a woman you called legendary, based on nothing more than rumor and gossip, I might add, would not appreciate things like fine literature? That she wouldn’t have a brain in her head? Because I assure you I do.”

The cab drew to a halt at the Champs de Mars and he helped her out of the cab.

“Have I stunned you into silence, Mr. Montague?” A distinct touch of remorse stabbed her. Perhaps she was being just the tiniest bit too sensitive. But she’d had to use her mind since George’s death and, as she had no one to do it for her, she’d had to come up with a plan for her future survival. And she’d done a decent job of it. Admittedly, no one was more surprised than she to discover she was far more intelligent than anyone, including herself, had ever given her credit for. But then it had never been necessary before.

“My apologies, Lady Bascombe,” he said slowly, “if I implied in any way that I thought you were less than brilliant. I assure you, that is not the case. Indeed, the moment we met, I thought to myself, That is a woman who is as clever as she is lovely.”

“That’s absurd.” She scoffed. “I didn’t sound the least bit clever when we met.”

“And yet I thought you were.” He offered his arm. “And I am an excellent judge of character.”

She took his arm and sighed. “You’re being extraordinarily nice.”

“I am extraordinarily nice.” He steered her through the crowded plaza. “As you will soon discover.”

“Will I?”

He slanted her a distinctly wicked grin. “I intend to see that you do.”

“That’s sounds vaguely like a challenge. Or a threat.”

“It’s a promise, Lady Bascombe. I wish to be friends and I intend to do everything I can to make certain you see my finer points no later than Venice.”

“I would not be confident of that if I were you.”

“Oh, but I am. Confidence goes hand in hand with extraordinarily nice.”

“No doubt.” Willie glanced around. “I must say, I didn’t expect the crowd to be this large.” The plaza was packed with people milling and jostling about to get a better view. Although really, as Mr. Eiffel’s tower dominated the landscape, one would have to be blind to miss it. “I had thought, since the exposition has been open since spring, people would have had their fill of the illumination.”

He chuckled. “I can’t imagine anyone ever getting their fill of such a sight. Besides, the exposition isn’t scheduled to close until the end of the month.”

“But won’t they continue to light the tower even after the exposition? It seems to me, I am hearing as much French in the crowd as any other language.”

“It’s possible, I suppose, but I doubt it. The structures built for world’s fairs are never intended to be permanent,” he said, guiding her through the crowd. “While the French have been holding fairs like this one every dozen years or so, even here most of these buildings are not built to last. The tower is to be torn down in twenty years.” He found a spot where the crush was a bit less and they turned toward the tower.

“It seems like a great deal of effort for a temporary structure.”

“But well worth it, I think.”

“Perhaps.” Her gaze followed the graceful curve of the structure upward until the tower vanished into the deepening twilight. It really was an incredible achievement. It had looked large from a distance but one couldn’t get a true feel for its massive size until one was closer. Built of iron, it yet had the delicate look of lace against the setting sun. This triumph of modern engineering was really quite fanciful in its own way. “Rather a pity it can’t last forever.”

“Few things do.” Dante contemplated the structure.

Without warning, the illumination began. Light swept from the four corners of the tower and raced upward, lighting arches and lattice work and climbing toward the heavens. The multiple fountains around the base of the tower erupted in light, as well. The crowd gave a gasp of amazement. Willie clasped her hands together and tried not let her mouth drop open. It was very nearly impossible. She’d never seen anything so spectacular and never imagined she would.

Beside her, Dante blew a long breath. “Well, that is indeed—”

“Magnificent.” Willie could barely sigh the word. “And magical. Why, it’s positively enchanting.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

Something in Dante’s voice caught at her, something delightful and not entirely unexpected. “Are you still speaking of the tower?”

“No, Lady Bascombe, I’m not.”

She slanted him a quick glance. “You’re staring at me, Mr. Montague. Monsieur Eiffel would be most offended that you are not gazing with rapt interest at his tower.”

“Ah, but he hasn’t met you.” He shook his head. “You’re not at all what I expected.”

“Preconceived notions are often wrong.”

“Apparently.” He chuckled. “But I am looking forward to discovering exactly where I was wrong.”

“Good luck to you, Mr. Montague,” she said in an overly prim manner. Good Lord, the man was flirting with her and she was flirting right back. She hadn’t flirted since before George had died and even then flirtation with other men was of no consequence. She’d been married after all. Now...

Why shouldn’t she flirt with him if she wished? Why couldn’t she do whatever she wanted regarding Mr. Dante Montague? It wasn’t as if she had a spotless reputation to maintain, although she’d been exceptionally faithful when George was alive. Now that he was gone, why, widows were allowed a certain amount of discreet freedom. Dante Montague might well be the perfect man to begin her new life of independence with. Besides, she had always been fond of men with dimples.

“You needn’t try so hard, Mr. Montague.” Willie bit back a smile and kept her gaze on the tower. “It’s really not necessary.”

“It’s not?”

“Not at all.” She turned to him and cast him her brightest smile. “I suspect I will like you long before we reach Venice.”

CHAPTER SIX

Itinerary.

(Prepared by Miss Charlotte Granville)

Paris.

Day 1. A full day will be spent at the Exposition Universelle. Highlights of which will include an ascension to the top of the Eiffel Tower and the perusal of the many international exhibits, both cultural and progressive. The group will spend the evening in enjoyment of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West.

Day 2. The morning and afternoon shall be devoted to appreciation of the extensive collection of mankind’s artistic accomplishments at the Louvre Museum. Following a day of artistic enlightenment, the entire party has been invited to an evening of music hosted by the American ambassador.

“WHAT DO YOU think of her?” Dante said to his sister beside him but his gaze remained fixed on Willie. Halfway down the Louvre’s Salon Carré, with a guidebook in one hand and a voice that carried, she regaled the rest of their group with details about the paintings covering the walls and the palace itself. Today, according to her unyielding schedule, was to be spent at the Louvre.

“Oh, I think she’s marvelous, of course, but then I always have,” Roz said. “Something about the play of light and perhaps the use of color makes the subject much more palatable. I recall seeing her on my very first trip to Paris. You remember—shortly after Paul and I were married? No, you probably don’t. Regardless, I thought she—no—I thought everything here was quite wonderful. Centuries of artistic accomplishment and all that. I did so want Harriet to have the same experience.”

Dante’s attention snapped to his sister. “What?”

“It’s a mother sort of thing. You wouldn’t understand.” She dismissed him with a curt wave of her hand. “Did you know those girls are calling Harriet Harry now?” She shook her head. “I’m not sure if I’m appalled or amused.”

“I—”

“Well, of course I knew you would be appalled. Precisely why I have decided not to be. Besides, while I have always thought a female with a man’s name to be the tiniest bit shocking, it is, as well, most delightful. It gives a woman a sense of strength and goodness knows, we could all use that. I know you don’t agree, Dante, but it is something you should consider. While you do tend to embrace progress in general, you really need to be open to new ideas when it comes to things like this.”

“I am—”

“However, to your credit, I have noticed you don’t seem quite so stuffy about it when it comes to Lady Bascombe’s name.”

“Are you deliberately misunderstanding me?” He glared. “I was not talking about—” he gestured at the painting of Salome receiving the head of John the Baptist on a platter on the wall in front of them “—this.”

She smiled in an overly sweet manner. “Yes, brother dear, I know.” She moved to the next painting and he trailed after her.

For once Dante could ignore his sister’s determination to annoy him. After all, she had done him an enormous favor when she had begged off seeing the illumination of the Eiffel Tower, allowing him hours in Willie’s company without interruption. Not that there was anything improper in their evening together, which oddly struck him as something of a shame when they had retired to their respective rooms. Shocking idea, of course, but there it was. Even if she was nothing more than his path to the Portinari, she was still a fascinating creature and he was a normal man. Those kinds of thoughts were to be expected.

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