Page 27 of A Lady’s Guide to Scoundrels and Gentlemen (The Harp & Thistle #1)

D antes didn’t know what to do. He knew he wasn’t wrong for being upset something of this magnitude had been done behind his back. Something like this, you didn’t hide. And he also knew he wasn’t wrong in being upset that she had said those cursed words. It was something they had talked about, and while he knew she didn’t understand it, she’d fully respected his genuine fear of those words and had agreed to not say them. Now, he was going to be living each moment of his life terrified that somewhere Vivian was hurt and he didn’t know. Or that something dangerous loomed over her and he wouldn’t be able to protect her.

He continued to study the white rose in the painting, wondered how in its lack of color, it stood out against the richly hued flowers surrounding it. He sighed. He shouldn’t have gotten as angry as he had. But really, didn’t Vivian, didn’t Ollie, think this might surprise him a bit too much?

“Dantes.” Ollie’s voice interrupted that thought and Dantes spun in the chair to see Miss Sparrow had rejoined them. The slight woman was now holding a small object wrapped in tissue paper, looking quite uncomfortable to be there. Ollie turned to say something to her and headed over to Dantes to lean back against the desk. “I’m sorry.”

Dantes grunted back.

“I take responsibility. I should have known you wouldn’t like this.”

“Yes, you should have.”

But to his irritation, Ollie became animated. “But she was so excited about it! I didn’t even know what she was up to until she brought me here and then, I don’t know, I saw what they could do and I saw how eager she was to do this. She partly did this for herself, too, you know. It was right after you woke up and she wanted to do something for you, some kind of project, to distract her mind from worrying about you so much. Because she loves you, remember that part?”

Dantes tapped the desk in thought. “No more of this. I want my paintings returned to me in whatever state they are in.” He finally looked up at his brother, noting Ollie’s stunned silence.

But after a moment, Ollie found his voice. “Why don’t you at least give it a day’s consideration? Make sure that’s the right decision? You were already horrific to Vivian. At least take a day to think about it before you make it worse.”

Dantes stood up, the chair creaking at the sudden release of weight. “No,” he said sternly. He had already made up his mind and wasn’t going to change it. He made his way back to Miss Sparrow, noting Victor was keeping his distance from Dantes.

“Miss Sparrow,” Dantes began as he came to a stop in front of the willowy woman, “I appreciate everything you’ve done. However, I’m going to have everything returned home.” Though he wasn’t quite sure where exactly home was, he would figure out that part later.

“They can be saved, Mr. McNab.” Miss Sparrow surprised him not by cowering from his brutish behavior, but by tilting her chin up. As if preparing to argue. “They have water damage, which is highly destructive. The acidity in the soot can destroy the paint. If you delay any further—”

“Please. I’ve made up my mind.”

Ollie had rejoined them and exchanged a look with her. “Before you decide,” Miss Sparrow said to Dantes. “Perhaps you should look at this.” She handed over the tissue-wrapped object and he scowled at the delay to his departure. All he wanted was to leave. But grudgingly, he took the object from Miss Sparrow, setting it down on a desk nearby and peeling it apart. Once opened, the tissue paper revealed the tintype of his parents. Unmarred. Clean. Perfect.

“What in the blazes is this?” he asked with a growl, angrier than he’d meant to. Was this some kind of sick joke?

“This is the tintype of your parents,” she explained.

“But it was destroyed. Burned to a crisp!”

She gave him a small smile. “It was only soot, though there was a rather lot of it. It was quite simple to clean. All it took was a vulcanized rubber sponge.”

A what? Never mind. He held the tintype at eye level, staring at it in disbelief. “You did this, Miss Sparrow?” He gave her a blank look.

She nodded.

Inside, emotions roiled. He’d been so sure, so confident, that this tintype had been turned to charcoal, that he would never see his parents’ faces again for the rest of his life, afraid he would forget what they’d looked like. This little photograph had been the real reason he’d refused to return to his flat, why he’d never wanted to see those paintings again. They would only remind him of the photograph, lying there on the table, destroyed forever. And how could he have such useless expensive paintings when he’d only wanted this cheap, little photograph? Forgetting it had been the easiest option for him amongst the heavy guilt he carried.

But now he had it again. Because of Vivian. And Miss Sparrow, of course.

Miss Sparrow’s voice grabbed his attention. “I’ve already begun one of your paintings, if you could follow me.” Though her voice was pleasant, she wasn’t giving him a choice, not really. So he followed her over to another desk, where an easel cradled a painting covered by cloth. She lifted the white cloth up and over the back to reveal a large painting with severe soot and water damage, and about one quarter of it was immaculate.

He took in a sharp breath of genuine shock at the stark difference between the portion she had repaired and the rest of it. Dantes leaned in close, and even from that view, it was perfection. “It looks even better than it did before.”

“The varnish had begun to yellow. Once it’s completely clean and any necessary repairs are made, I’ll re-varnish it again.” She appeared at his side, observing the painting at the same distance. “It’s an interesting piece, seventeenth-century Italian. Venetian, influenced by Giorgione.”

He tore a look in her direction. “You know all that?” What a foolish question. “Of course you would. You work here. You’re probably the most educated woman in the world on the subject of paintings.”

“She used to work at the Louvre,” Ollie added from somewhere off to Dantes’s side. At this admiration, Dantes noted the tiniest twitch at the corner of Miss Sparrow’s mouth.

Interesting.

“I saw in your collection, Mr. McNab, you appear to be a fan of Gustave Courbet.” Miss Sparrow looked up at him.

He cleared his throat. “I am.”

“He was a fascinating character. A pioneer, rather. He went against convention, against Romanticism, and was one of the first painters in the Realism movement. He didn’t paint frothy pastels of idealized life—he painted what he knew. Working class, the poor, death, prostitutes. It caused quite a scandal back then.”

Dantes felt heat rising in his cheeks.

She continued, evidently unaware of his embarrassment. “Unfortunately, I never met him myself. However, many of my friends did. He was a great influence on them, in fact.”

“Influence?” Dantes was beginning to warm up a bit to the woman. “You mean friends of yours are artists?”

“Oh, yes!” She smiled widely. “Claude Monet and Edward Degas. They like to joke there wasn’t a mirror in France Courbet hadn’t gazed into with adoration. Of course, I could say the same for Degas.” She rolled her eyes.

Dantes stared at her, stunned. Somehow, she knew the world’s most famous artists. Personally! Friends of hers! And she didn’t think anything at all about his art collection. In fact, she seemed to, maybe, even admire it. Or at the very least, respected it.

Dantes returned his attention to the Venetian painting before them. “Very well, then. I look forward to seeing it upon completion. As you know, Lady Vivian will be away for the next few months. Since Ollie seems to know more than I do about”—he rolled his hand in the air—“everything, I think it makes sense that he continues to keep up with it instead of me. And update me when necessary. How does that sound, Ollie?” He looked his younger brother in the eye.

Ollie shifted. “Well, if you think that’s best…”

“I do.” Dantes turned back to the genius woman. “You’re rather convincing, Miss Sparrow. Thank you, especially for this.” He held the tintype up and smiled. “However, I do need to depart and beg on my knees for Vivian’s forgiveness, then grovel and wash myself in her triumph when I tell her I accept her rather undeserved gift.” Dantes departed with a hasty goodbye, assuring his brothers he would find his own hansom home.

But when he arrived at Vivian’s and Heaton answered the door, Dantes was crestfallen to learn she had made a sudden change of plans and had departed early for Brighton.

“But…” The butler reached into a pocket inside of his jacket and revealed a piece of paper. “She did tell me to give you this letter if you stopped by.”

*

Vivian did her best to leave the museum without throwing the doors open too hard. And when she climbed into her carriage, she tried her best not to sound too angry to her driver. And when she returned home, she did everything she could to not stomp up into her bedroom.

She tried. She really did. But she didn’t succeed.

Heaton followed her upstairs, where she showed her lady’s maid, Norris, the last items to be packed. As she did this, requesting far too many different-colored gloves, she explained to the butler what had happened, and he listened patiently and without comment.

“Norris,” Vivian said with a sudden decision made. “Have you finished packing your personal items for Brighton?”

The plump woman gently laid out another pair of pink gloves in Vivian’s traveling trunk. “I am nearly done, my lady. I only have a few more items.”

“Excellent, because I would like to depart as soon as possible. I know this is much earlier than expected, but I think it’s high time for some seaside air.”

Norris agreed with a curtsy.

“What about Mr. McNab?” Heaton asked as she had Norris wrap up a bottle of perfume.

“We already said our goodbyes.” Vivian masked her hurt with curtness.

“What if he comes by, anyway? Would you like to leave a letter?”

“Why should I leave a letter? He was the one out of line.”

Heaton nodded slowly, watching as she zipped back and forth across the floor mumbling to herself in frustration. The painting restorations had been a great idea. Dantes loved them; she knew how devastated he’d been to lose them. And the photograph she hadn’t even had a chance to tell him about! Would he rather not get them back? And it wasn’t like her home, her money, wouldn’t be his once they married. Would he be dictating how she spent their money? Inspect every receipt from every store and comment on her spending habits? She wasn’t frivolous or irresponsible with money and yes, she liked to sometimes treat or help the people she loved and cared about. Was that really so bad? The volume of her voice increased with her frustration.

“And the infuriating paintings aside, how can I possibly go my entire life without telling him I love him? Isn’t that the most preposterous thing you have ever heard?” The books she had collected earlier had been brought up and she shoved them into the trunk. Normally, Norris would have been doing this, but she needed to exert her anger somehow.

“That, I will agree with, my lady,” Heaton replied.

“He thinks he’s unlucky.” She shook her head as she explained and began her pacing once more. “That the words ‘I love you’ are cursed. I tried respecting his odd conviction, even accepted his request that I never say it. And ignoring the fact that I’d said it to him anyway when he’d been halfway to death, I didn’t even last a few days before it slipped out! How am I supposed to go my entire life not saying it?” As she said this, it occurred to her that he’d never once nearly let those words slip. It was so hard for her to keep it to herself—why was it so easy for him? She brushed the thought away, but the shadow of doubt remained.

“I understand, Lady Vivian,” Heaton said.

But at this, she stopped her pacing, releasing a deep sigh. “Do you really?”

He smiled. “No.”

She couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. “Nor do I, Heaton. This is all madness.”

“Lady Vivian, may I speak freely about something?”

“Please.”

He looped his hands behind his back. “Do you think perhaps Mr. McNab may not be in the wrong for being as upset as he was about his paintings? After all, they are his possessions. And that is an exorbitant amount of money.”

She looked away.

“Here’s a test. Put your father in place of Mr. McNab in this situation. Your father’s wealth is comparable to yours, at least for argument’s sake, so there is no disparity there. And a loving father is much more forgiving to his beloved daughter than a loving husband is to his beloved wife. Or soon-to-be beloved wife. How would your father react to you spending three thousand pounds on something for him?”

As she watched the treetops swaying outside of her window, she tried to imagine. It wasn’t too hard. Father would have been absolutely offended if a lady spent that on him, even his own daughter. Even if it was for a charitable purpose.

Guilt and shame ripped apart her insides. She whispered a curse at Heaton.

The butler cleared his throat to mask his chuckle. “Lady Vivian, I would like to add that you’re well within your right to feel hurt as well. It’s possible Mr. McNab did react too harshly. Perhaps you both did. I cannot say, as I was not there. But regardless, I’m sure at the moment he is feeling terrible. And I know you had nothing but good intentions in your heart.”

She didn’t respond, as she was far too mortified to.

“So,” Heaton continued, “I suggest you write a heartfelt letter in the apparently unlikely event he does come by.”

“Very well.” She tore away from the window. “Please have the footmen bring my trunk out to my carriage.”

“Excellent. I hope your travels are without event, and your summer enjoyable.”

Vivian gave Heaton a warm smile and a hug that surprised the normally stoic gentleman. “Thank you, Heaton. You’re a good man, and a good friend. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me since my arrival here. I just want you to know that.”

He shifted with evident embarrassment, gave her a quick thanks, and departed to leave her to her letter. She swung over to her desk, dipped her pen in ink, and began to write from the heart.

Dear Dantes,

If you have received this letter, then you know I have already left for Brighton. As we had already said our goodbyes, and our departure was rather unpleasant, in my discontent, I hastened my departure.

I wish to apologize for the paintings catastrophe. In your illness, my brain was addled with worry, and upon your miraculous recovery, my nerves became tender and frayed. Wanting to do something for you and also find some kind of diversion, I came upon the idea for paintings restoration. In retrospect, I should have given it more thought, but selfishly, I was swimming with excitement and wanted to be the one who solved the conundrum. Please believe I never intended to cause offense or upset.

Once I am settled at Summerwood, I will post a letter to Miss Sparrow and the museum director to let them know we will no longer continue with the project. Under my expense, the paintings will be sent to Victor’s for you to decide what to do with them.

At the bottom of this letter is the address for Summerwood if you wish to write to me.

Before I sign off, there is one further thought I must share. You requested that I do not say those three little “cursed” words for us to be together, and I agreed. Truly, it has been a test of will. I cannot help it, and I have come to understand that verbal expression of love is, for me, as natural and lovely as physical expression.

In the fading remnants of my anger from the museum, I’m finding it difficult to properly describe my love for you without using that phrase. For I do so desire everything about you: your mind, your heart, your body. Never in my life has someone so greatly affected me and I can say with confidence there isn’t another person on this fine planet who could replicate those feelings within me.

Thus, I cannot keep the words to myself any longer. Because those three little words are the only way to express what I feel about every facet of you. I know this will anger you, and I know there is a chance you will never speak to me again, but I must take that chance. I simply cannot do what is impossible.

I love you.

Vivian Winthrop