Page 21 of A Lady’s Guide to Scoundrels and Gentlemen (The Harp & Thistle #1)

“I don’t understand why, of all places, you wanted to come here.” Ollie was beside Vivian as they climbed the stairs to the National Gallery. “Wouldn’t you rather get fresh air, walk around the park? We’ve been stuck inside for over a week.”

“No,” Vivian replied, and when they entered the museum she began looking around for something. “I came here with a purpose, not to dilly-dally.”

“What purpose?”

She turned to Ollie and realized how tired he looked. She probably looked no better. “Yesterday, you took me to Dantes’s to see if there was anything that survived the fire we could bring back for him.”

Ollie stared, waiting for more information.

“I want to save his paintings.”

Ollie blinked. “Vivian, they’re destroyed beyond repair. You saw them yourself.”

“Then they can tell me that.” She nodded out to the museum and began walking again to the front desk. “Now that he’s on the mend, with a long road of recovery ahead, I need a project to keep my mind from going over the edge, knowing how awful he feels right now.”

“Don’t most women, you know, sew or read? Perhaps you can take up photography.”

“You know what, Ollie? I’m doing this.” Vivian gave him a smile that was pleasant but final.

They arrived at the front desk, and she met eyes with a young, freckle-faced gentleman behind the counter. “Hello. I need to speak with the director about a collection of artwork in my possession.”

The young man looked at her as if she had three heads.

“Well?” Vivian didn’t have the time or patience—or energy—to beat around the bush.

“Do you have an appointment? Or…”

“No. But it’s essential I speak to him.”

The young man scoffed. “I’m not risking my job to tell him some random lady wants to talk to him.”

Vivian resisted the urge to react, offended. “Tell him this random lady will be making a three-thousand-pound donation, then.”

Ollie let out a low whistle.

But that caught the young man’s attention, and he exchanged a look with another employee beside him. He rushed away without another word, looking over his shoulder one last time before disappearing behind a door.

“Demanding today, are we?” Ollie said with bemusement.

Vivian looked at him with seriousness. “I learned something over the past week.”

“What’s that?”

“I no longer care what other people think. If I want something done, I’m going to make it happen, not wring my hands over it.”

Ollie laughed, no doubt because he knew she was completely serious. “I noticed—when you refused to leave Dantes’s side every night despite everyone’s protests.”

“I made sure to sleep above the covers as asked.”

“Good for you, then. I wager you’ll be a force.”

“I intend to be.”

The young man to whom Vivian had spoken returned, followed by an older gentleman with a mustache. He introduced himself as Sir Frederic William Burton.

Vivian spoke. “A dear friend of mine has several priceless paintings and a tintype photograph that were damaged in a fire. I would like to discuss your conservation department looking at them and restoring them if at all possible.”

The director was clearly stunned for a moment, staring with hesitation. “Miss…” He trailed off, no doubt realizing he didn’t know her name. “I’m not sure what you think we are, but we’re not a restoration business.”

Hiding her embarrassment, she finally introduced herself properly to the director. “May I be frank with you?”

Sir Frederic looked at Ollie, as if asking for help, but Ollie merely shrugged. “Very well.”

“Good, because I haven’t slept in a week, I’m rather tired, and I dislike long conversation. My name is Lady Vivian Winthrop, and I am willing to donate three thousand pounds to the museum if you agree to help me. Another place simply won’t do because I only want the world’s best.”

His eyes briefly widened before narrowing. “Four thousand.”

“Three thousand remains. However, I’ll cover the cost of supplies.”

The director held out a hand to shake hers. She watched the maneuver with surprise—no one had ever offered to shake her hand in a business manner before—but she returned the handshake as if she had done it hundreds of times. Sir Frederic asked them to follow him and led them through the doors from which he had emerged.

“I have the perfect person in mind to lead this,” he said over his shoulder as they continued walking. “She came to us from the Louvre.” They went through another set of doors and climbed stairs to the third floor. Soon, they entered a large, sunlight-filled, high-ceilinged room with numerous giant tables and easels, each one covered with paintings in various sizes as well as conservation paraphernalia Vivian could hardly begin to identify. The director looked over the room, passed a few people, and made his way toward his destination. “We have several different conservation departments, but, obviously, you’ll be working with the Department of Paintings. Miss Sparrow?”

A willowy, auburn-haired woman was leaning over a painting in deep concentration. When she looked up upon hearing the director’s voice, round magnifying eyeglasses made her eyes comically large, and she blinked several times through them. She removed the glasses and blinked again to refocus as she set them to the side. “Apologies. I forgot I was wearing those.” She seemed unsurprised to see Sir Frederic, but upon seeing Vivian, she squinted, perhaps wondering if she should know her, and then her eyes trailed to Ollie. Her cheeks flushed crimson and she hastily looked back to the director.

“Lady Vivian, this is Miss Evelyn Sparrow, one of our conservators. Miss Sparrow, Lady Vivian Winthrop.” The director indicated toward his employee before putting his attention on Ollie. “And this is Lady Vivian’s…erm…”

Vivian jumped in. “This is my friend Mr. Oliver McNab.”

“Hello.” Miss Sparrow nodded as she rapidly looked back and forth between Vivian and the director. No doubt she was wondering why they were there.

Sir Frederic explained the nature of their visit. Miss Sparrow listened with proper interest, her hands looped behind her back, absorbing every word.

“This is a bit…” Miss Sparrow began after he had finished.

“Unorthodox?” the director added with a nod. “Lady Vivian will be donating three thousand pounds to the museum, half of which will go exclusively to your department. She will also be covering cost of supplies.”

Miss Sparrow’s mouth fell open, but she quickly slammed it shut. “Oh. Oh my.” She had to take a moment. “Of course, I will need to see the paintings first, and art conservation and restoration aren’t really the same, but I have worked on fire-damaged artwork before. Plan on at least a month per piece, more or less depending on the size. And I may need help from my colleagues, if necessary. But I’ll oversee everything.”

“However long it takes, I don’t care, as long as it’s done right and well,” Vivian replied, and they discussed plans on how the museum would retrieve the artwork the following day. Once satisfied it would all be transported safely, Vivian had other questions for the young woman. “I would like to know more about your background, however, Miss Sparrow. I hope you understand, this is not only a large investment I am making, but the owner of these paintings is very dear to me, the brother of Mr. McNab here.”

Miss Sparrow nodded, though she looked a bit nervous. “I was born and raised in London and have had in interest in art since I was quite young. My father has a library filled with books about the subject and I would spend hours with those books each day. I received a degree in Art History at Vassar College over in New York, as women’s universities are almost non-existent here. After I graduated top of my class, I took an apprenticeship at the Louvre, and now I am here.”

“That is quite an impressive background. But how long have you been here?”

Miss Sparrow reached up to her hair. “Six months.”

“That’s all?” Vivian turned to the director. “I was hoping for someone with a little more experience, for the money I’m spending.”

“Once again, Lady Vivian, this is a museum and not a restoration business. I have full faith in Miss Sparrow, which is why she is here in the first place, and I think you will be satisfied with her expertise.”

Vivian turned back to Miss Sparrow. “Very well. Can you show us what you’ve been working on?”

Ollie, evidently curious as well, took it upon himself to take to Miss Sparrow’s side to see the painting. Vivian couldn’t help but notice Miss Sparrow found Ollie rather distracting—she kept fidgeting and reaching up to fuss with her hair. Ollie appeared not to notice any of this.

“My word.” Ollie let out a sharp laugh upon seeing the painting. “Is that baby smiling as he urinates on a nude woman’s stomach?”

Miss Sparrow gasped loudly and tried covering the baby with one hand, and the woman with the other. “This is Venus and Cupid by Lorenzo Lotto, painted in the 1500s,” she explained rapidly. When she realized the woman in the painting was still exposed, she moved her second hand from the baby to the woman. Miss Sparrow’s hands did a hovering dance over the painting trying to figure out what to cover before she accepted it was futile—there were more spots to cover than hands available—so she found a piece of fabric and hastily covered the painting, her entire face bright red with embarrassment.

“This painting…” She closed her eyes as she spoke, as if trying to regain her composure. “Was likely a wedding gift. Cupid is…urinating through a laurel wreath onto his mother and that…used to symbolize fertility. For some reason.”

“I see.” Ollie covered his mouth with a fist and made a choking sound. Vivian shot him a look and his humor fell away. He cleared his throat and laced his hands behind his back. “So, tell us what you’ve done with this one.”

“Why don’t you show them something a bit more innocuous, like a pastoral landscape?” the director said blandly.

Miss Sparrow nodded and led them over to another table. “This is a Dutch barnyard scene likely from the 1600s. However, it is unsigned, so that’s only a guess. It came to us covered in dust and its varnish was aged dark yellow. After identifying the type of varnish, I was able to remove the varnish without damaging the paint. Then I inpaint and repair any damaged areas, and re-varnish it when finished, this time with something that will not yellow over time.”

Vivian went around to the woman’s side and noted the whites of the painting were as white as they were meant to be. The work was spectacular, and she said as much. “I look forward to working with you, Miss Sparrow.” Vivian held out a hand to the woman, receiving a rapid succession of blinks from Miss Sparrow. But she accepted and shook Vivian’s hand.

“Come by in two days’ time,” Miss Sparrow said. “I’ll be able to do a quick conditions assessment of the whole collection and we can discuss what’s next.”

*

Dantes clenched his teeth as he tried to push through a wave of pain. He had been out of his fever for a full day now and it had been nothing but agony. His appetite was still minimal, but he did his best to keep up with water intake to the incessant demand of Vivian, Ollie, Victor, the nurses, and the Wegners. And of course Heaton and the rest of the household. The house was filled to the brim with people watching his every move.

Pain made him groan and he rolled to his side.

The door opened and Victor came in carrying a bowl and spoon. Victor dismissed the nurse for her luncheon, and the door shut upon her departure. “You need to eat something, too.” He watched his writhing brother. “And then you need a bath so they can change the bedding. You reek to the high heavens.”

Dantes weakly told Victor where he thought he should go.

But Victor merely pulled a chair to the bedside and set the bowl on the nightstand. “Mr. Wegner tried to convince us to give you laudanum. Both Lady Vivian and I fought him on it.”

Dantes swore loud with a grimace. After what had happened to his mother, he should have been grateful, but right now, he was in agony and wanted it to end. “It feels like I was beat to death with a hammer.”

“Eat and then bathe. And you’ll feel better.”

Dantes waited until the pain had subsided to a more tolerable level. Once the excruciating moment was over, Victor gently helped him sit up before handing him a bowl of buttered mashed potatoes. “I thought this would be more palatable than yet another cup of broth.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Dantes took a huge spoonful and for the first time in a while, felt sort of human again.

Victor watched his younger brother for a few moments and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “We haven’t really had a chance to talk yet.”

Dantes paused. “All right.” He continued eating.

“What do you remember about that night?”

“Not much. Tommy Malone robbed us.”

Victor nodded. “Yes. Tommy is in hot water for robbery. Do you remember anything after seeing Tommy?”

“Something slamming into me. I’m assuming that was the bullets.”

“Tommy Malone went to rob another carriage. The owner of that carriage, instead of cooperating, wrestled away Tommy’s gun. Tommy ran away and the man shot at Tommy. As he had never shot a gun before in his life, his aim was terrible, and two of three bullets went through the carriage and into you. The first shot—they don’t know where it went, probably into a tree.”

Dantes stopped eating, but his eyes remained on his bowl. “What happened to him? The one who nearly killed me?”

“Police let him go, said it was self-defense, so he wouldn’t be charged.”

Dantes shook his head.

Victor continued. “Ollie told me you identified the noise of the first bullet, that you threw yourself on top of him to get him down. Obviously, you knew what gunfire sounded like and he didn’t.”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

Victor looked down at his hands. “If you hadn’t done that, Ollie would be dead right now. You nearly sacrificed yourself for him.”

Dantes’s jaw went tight. “It’s his own fault.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The night you called him a… Well, you know. He told me he loved me.”

“Oh, come on, Dantes,” Victor said with evident exasperation, of course knowing what he was getting at.

“I knew something was going to happen to him.” No longer having an appetite, he set the bowl back on the nightstand. “Every single time. Something happens.”

“Nothing happened to our grandparents,” Victor pointed out.

“Nothing happened to them, but they got rid of us immediately. Well, you and me at least. And then you left, too.”

“I wouldn’t have survived a week in boarding school. Working on the docks was less torturous.”

They were silent for a while, each reeling about the subject.

“Where are Ollie and Vivian?” Dantes asked after a while, so used to his room being crowded with them.

“They went to the museum. I told them to get out of the house. I figured you wouldn’t want her seeing you writhing about.”

Dantes leaned back against his upright pillow, and at the mention of Vivian, remembered something.

“What is it?” Victor asked, evidently seeing the strange expression on Dantes’s face.

“I, um…” Dantes looked away. “When the carriage tumbled, a bunch of memories ran through my head. I just remembered that. I thought I was dying.”

“What did you think of?”

“Vivian was my last thought before I blacked out. And I thought I would never see her again.”

Victor leaned back in his chair, letting out a deep breath. “What are you going to do about that?”

“I don’t know.”

“She refused to leave your side the entire time and slept beside you every night, if you could even call it sleeping. Whenever I woke up in that chair”—he nodded over to the chair that had been his bed for the last week—“she was checking your breathing, her hand against your forehead to see if you still had your fever, watching you to make sure you were still alive. The night nurse hated it, but she never said a word, either. I think she didn’t know how to tell such a high-ranking woman what to do in her own house.” Victor paused. “You do know you nearly died? I mean, once we got you in here.”

Dantes tore a look in Victor’s direction. He knew he had been in bad shape but had had no idea it had become that severe.

“You went almost a week without water,” Victor explained, “while fighting a fever and blood loss. Mr. Wegner told us to prepare for the worst. We even called a priest for last rites.”

Nauseating guilt twisted in him knowing he had put everyone through such a horrid scare.

“Lady Vivian saw it all happen, just so you know.”

The guilt became too much, and Dantes put his full focus on anchoring his view on the foot of his bed. The focus acted like a dam to emotion.

“We heard a gunshot, and of course I knew what it was. But like Ollie, she had no idea. Like a fool, she ran to the window and saw the carriage get dragged and thrown about. I never…” Victor’s voice cracked. “I never again want to hear someone scream the way she did.”

Dantes looked up to Victor and for the first time in his life, through everything they’d survived together, this was the first time he’d seen his immovable brother struggle to hold it together. Victor leaned forward, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. It was a long time before he could sit back up with nothing more than a sniff.

Victor continued. “I knew something bad had happened when she screamed like that. Immediately felt it in my bones. She ran outside, I followed. And strangers from all over rushed over to help. They didn’t give it a second thought. All I could think about was: that’s my life in there . That’s all I have, what I live for.”

“Victor,” Dantes said softly.

“It’s true. But I’ll never admit it again.” He let out a small laugh.

“You want to know what else I saw when I thought I died?”

“Yeah.”

“Your face when you saw my stitches.”

Victor frowned as he recalled. “The stitches on your face?”

“Yes. I’ve never seen you so angry in my life, before or since. Now I think it’s funny that would be my last thought of you.”

Victor found this amusing as well. “I’m glad I left an impression.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe he got away with that.”

“Of course he did. He always got away with everything. And he always will.” Dantes paused. He had yet to tell Vivian the story of how he’d gotten his scar. Was it time to tell her, time to open up to her about the darkest moment in his life?

Dantes scratched at his jaw, noting how long the facial hair felt. “And my memory of Ollie was him as a baby.”

“We’re always going to see him as a baby, aren’t we?”

Dantes gave his brother a small smile and grabbed his bowl of mashed potatoes. “Yes. We are.”