“A portrait of an Elizabethan lady,” Lucius said, walking over to her. “I bought it when the Lindley estate was sold off. Presumably she is a Lindley, although the sellers were unable to tell me her name.”

Tess looked up at the fierce lady, nameless now and yet clearly so proud of her name. It seemed odd that Lucius had hung portraits that any reasonable person would assume to be his own ancestors, but she couldn’t quite put her feeling into words without seeming critical, so she kept her tongue.

“I bought this painting at the same time,” Lucius said, leading her across the room.

It was a girl, half-turned toward the room. For all its formality, her personality peeked through: she was wistful, yet there was a dimple in her cheek.

“That’s lovely,” Tess said. “I don’t suppose you know who she is?”

“No idea. The painting was sold to me as a Vandyke, but I believe it’s likely of the school, rather than the master himself.”

Tess had no idea who Vandyke was, and she was conscious of a growing feeling of inadequacy. Lucius’s house was so—so perfect. Perfectly appointed, even to the extent of ready-made ancestors. Perhaps this was common in England; she had never heard of hanging a portrait of an utterly unknown person. “Do you not have any representations from your own family?” she asked, and then could have bitten her tongue. Of course his family would not have given him any such thing.

But he answered easily enough. “None at all,” and took her by the arm and led her through the gardens.

They were strolling through the rosebushes, all pollarded and stricken-looking, the poor things, when Tess asked: “And your house in London, is it as exquisite as this one?”

“I think so,” Lucius said rather indifferently, poking a rock off the path with his cane.

“With similar portraits on the walls?”

He nodded. “I have a nice portrait of three children by William Dobson in the drawing room: I do know who those are. They were the children of a roundhead cavalier during the Civil Wars, whose name was Laslett.”

“Are there still Lasletts in England?”

“I would expect they are somewhere,” Lucius said. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I’ve never met one, at any rate.”

They turned down a path that led to a charming pergola. Tess admired the structure and thought about her husband.

It wouldn’t do, that’s all. It simply wouldn’t do. Somehow she had to mend the fences between her husband and his parents, and then the first thing she would do after that would be to remove all these—these spurious relatives from the walls and give them back to whomever they belonged to. It wasn’t right to have other people’s family on one’s walls. It was as if Lucius was trying to create a new family to replace the one that discarded him.

“Perhaps the Lasletts can’t afford to buy the portrait back,” Tess said, as they strolled back to the house.

“The Dobson portrait?” Lucius asked. He looked down at her, his dark eyes curious. “Likely not. I bought it for nearly a thousand pounds.”

“There was a portrait of my mother that used to hang in her chamber,” Tess said.

“I’ll find it,” Lucius said, before she had to continue.

“It might be difficult…it’s been a very long time since my father—”

But Lucius was smiling. “I’ll find it,” he repeated gently. “Now, may I show you the rest of the house? The lady’s bower, for instance?”

There was something in his eyes that made Tess blush, and once they reached that bower, a perfect frenzy of rosebuds and ruffled silk, it was clear that Lucius’s interest was less in playing guide than in…something else.

Naturally, there was a portrait of a lady hanging on the wall there too, just across from a beautiful rosewood writing desk. She was posed on a bench in the woods, leaning on one hand. Her eyes gazed at the viewer lazily, her other hand holding a book that she seemed too indolent to read. Tess moved quite close, trying to see the spine of her book.

“She’s reading Shakespeare,” Lucius said. “Much Ado about Nothing. Although I fear that the inestimable play seems to be sending her to sleep.”

“Do you know who she is?” Tess asked.

“A Lady Boothby. I am not certain of her first name. The portrait is by Benjamin West and dates to the 1780s.”

Tess blinked at Lady Boothby. “She’s probably still alive,” she pointed out.

“I quite like her,” Lucius said.

“So do I,” Tess agreed. “But I am not quite certain that I wish to share my chambers with Lady Boothby.”

“An odd way of thinking about it,” Lucius said. “I have instructed my agents to buy any portrait that comes on the market by Benjamin West.”

“Why do you have so many people spread about your houses?” she asked. “Portraits, I mean.”

He tipped up her chin. “I’d much rather talk of you than Lady Boothby,” he said, his lips brushing hers.

“But Lucius, I don’t wish a portrait of a stranger in my intimate chamber,” Tess said, trying to explain to him.

He shrugged. “Much ado about nothing, my dear. I’ll have her removed to the attics immediately.”

“The attics!” It seemed wrong to banish Lady Boothby to the attics.

Lucius had started kissing her neck, and his hands were drifting down her back.

He’s distracting me, Tess thought. Clearly, he doesn’t want to discuss Lady Boothby or any of those other portraits.

But that was the last clear thought she had for over an hour.

Chapter 30

October 1Bramble Hill

Dearest Annabel and Josie,

I am writing this in my private sitting room, which sounds very grand but is precisely the same size as Mama’s dressing room. As it turns out, Lucius does not own a castle. Bramble Hill is decorated with particular splendor, but truly, it is not much larger than our house in Scotland. The ground floor has a drawing room next to the dining room, where our library used to be; Lucius’s study is to the back, overlooking the gardens, and there is a lovely salon between it and the dining room. I long to show you everything, and Lucius promises to bring you both here soon, perhaps as early as next week.

Is there any news of Imogen? Please do let me know as soon as she returns. Lucius feels that she and Lord Maitland may take some time on their return trip. Since you will see her first, do give her my love.I feel as if your questions are sounding in my ear as I write, Annabel. Lucius (perhaps I should refer to him as Mr. Felton, but he most dislikes that) is all that could be termed generous. He very much enjoys bestowing gifts on me. Yesterday he brought me a parrot with bright yellow feathers and a purplish beak. She is quite young and so cannot say a word, but apparently she will learn to speak if I apply myself. I spent a great deal of time this morning feeding her seeds in order to gain her confidence. She is dreadfully messy and enjoys flinging shells in every direction. The man who brought her to the house advised me to keep her with me as much as possible so that she will view me as a friend. She loves being out of her cage but finds her excitement difficult to control. It is fortunate that I am fond of bathing (and I leave you to ascertain the connotations of her excitement!).