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“No, indeed,” he answered before taking a sip of his tea.

I frowned at the absurdity of the suggestion. “As if Bonnie Brock would bestir himself or his gang for such a paltry haul.”

“Try politely explaining that to a viscountess,” he muttered dryly.

As head of Edinburgh’s largest gang, Bonnie Brock Kincaid was not only a formidable criminal but also our reluctant ally and friend.

I couldn’t describe him as anything less.

Not after a year ago when he’d saved me and Gage from where we’d been trapped inside the farthest depths of the dank and dark vaults built within the arches of the South Bridge.

Not only had we been locked inside a storage chamber, but Gage had also suffered a head injury from our abductors, our lantern had snuffed out, and I had gone into labor.

If not for Bonnie Brock, Emma would have been born within the vaults, and it was unlikely any of us would have made it out alive.

That is, if we’d ever even been found. The very thought still made me quaver.

“Speaking of Kincaid, I haven’t seen him…” he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the window “…or any of his lackeys in some time.”

“I haven’t either,” I confessed. Though that didn’t mean the rogue wasn’t still keeping us under surveillance.

Perhaps this crop of men was simply better at concealing themselves.

Or perhaps he’d given up on the enterprise entirely.

We’d long lamented his stubborn persistence in having us watched while we were in Edinburgh, but I had to admit it caused an odd pang in my chest now to think that we weren’t.

One I had no desire to examine more closely.

“Maybe he finally recognized what a waste of time and resources it is,” Gage said, echoing my thoughts. “For it’s doubtful he’s suddenly decided to take our desires into consideration.”

“Maybe,” I conceded, wanting to change the subject. “What of Sergeant Maclean? Have you heard anything from him?”

Seeing the deep furrows that creased his brow, I wished I could retract the question.

“No.” Gage frowned into his cup. “He’s maintaining his distance.”

Sergeant Braden Maclean was an officer for the recently established Edinburgh City Police.

The former pugilist had worked with us on a number of occasions, even bringing inquiries to Gage’s attention that he believed my husband could assist him with.

However, a year ago some heated words had been exchanged, and aspersions were made that could not so easily be taken back.

Gage and I had soon after been exonerated, and Maclean had made an apology, but matters had not been the same since.

I studied Gage’s profile, wishing there was something I could say or do to restore their relationship.

But then I also sympathized with Sergeant Maclean’s position.

He had a wife and children to support, and his superintendent had not looked on us with much favor a year ago, placing great pressure on Maclean to sever his ties with us.

I couldn’t imagine that had changed in the past twelve months.

The trouble was that Gage wasn’t accustomed to so much leisure.

He preferred to remain active—conducting inquiries, managing his properties, riding his horse, even building furniture.

But currently there were no pressing investigations, his properties were in good order, the weather over the past few weeks had been dismal and not conducive to outdoor pursuits, and the place where he most indulged in his woodworking hobby stood a short distance from the city at the estate of a friend who was currently in London.

While Mr. Knighton, no doubt, wouldn’t have minded him using it in his absence, I could tell Gage felt awkward doing so, and the blustery weather certainly didn’t motivate him to make the trek.

I knew he had made more frequent visits to the Royal Academy to engage in bouts under the tutelage of George Roland, the fencing master there.

But there were only so many hours a day he could spend at the fencing salle .

I felt a twinge of guilt regarding all the hours I’d been spending in my art studio preparing for my upcoming exhibition, knowing that otherwise we might have spent it together and with Emma.

A less honorable gentleman might be driven to alleviate his boredom in less noble pursuits, frequenting gambling dens, cockfights, brothels, and the like.

There were plenty of examples of such men throughout Edinburgh and London, as a gentleman was not supposed to sully his hands with work.

Gage’s activities as an inquiry agent and with woodworking already pushed the boundaries of gentility.

Not that I cared. After all, my hands were almost always tainted with oils and pigments.

But I was more aware than most of the expectations of society and the implications for those who refused to obey protocol.

Gage drained his cup and leaned forward to set it on the low table, shaking his head in answer to my query whether he’d like some more. “How are your paintings progressing?” he asked, sinking back and turning to face me more fully, his arm draped along the back of the sofa.

“Well,” I replied reservedly, never certain exactly how to answer such a question.

Art was so subjective. I never knew how close a portrait was to being finished until it was.

To an outsider, this might seem facetious, but I could spend weeks or sometimes months tweaking an ostensibly completed painting.

Even then, I wasn’t always entirely satisfied.

“Do you think it’s time to begin searching for a venue?”

I reached out to set my own cup on the table, playing for time. “Probably.”

“You sound hesitant.”

I looked up to find him regarding me curiously.

“Yes. No,” I stammered, and then squeezed my eyes shut in frustration.

“I mean, yes, it’s probably time. But now that it’s come…

” I lowered my gaze to my lap, where I’d begun pleating the lavender fabric of my skirt, struggling to voice my worries. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

“What do you mean? Of course it is.”

“But this won’t be like any normal portrait unveiling or even an exhibit at the Royal Academy of Arts. It’s just me and my paintings. Paintings that haven’t even been commissioned .”

As such, they weren’t of aristocrats, wealthy industrialists, and society figures desirous of another likeness to adorn their walls.

In my case, one painted by the infamous Lady Darby.

No, these portraits were of the everyday people always around us.

Those who were unlikely to ever have their images captured in oil and pigment.

The poor, the downtrodden, the financially and politically oppressed.

The people we most needed to see and yet who were constantly overlooked.

This was my way of shining a light on them, and I knew the members of the elite would not thank me for it.

Gage leaned forward to grasp hold of my hand. “Kiera.” He waited for me to look at him before continuing, his voice gentle with concern. “I thought this was what you wanted?”

“It is. But…”

“But what?” he prodded when I left the sentence dangling too long, unable to force the rest of the words past my lips.

What if the portraits don’t make a difference? What if they are no good?

There was a rap on the drawing room door, and I drew a softly startled breath, grateful for the reprieve. I forced a smile, shaking my head. “Never mind.” Then, before Gage could press the issue, I called out for the person to enter.

“This just arrived for you, my lady,” Jeffers announced, crossing the room to hand me a box. It was of the size that normally held documents.

I thanked him as he bowed and departed.

“Were you expecting something?” Gage asked as I scrutinized the smooth grain of the wooden lid.

“No, but perhaps it’s for Emma’s birthday.”

Our daughter would be turning one in just a few weeks’ time, and we had planned a celebration to mark the occasion.

Guests would begin arriving in a week or two, including my brother, Trevor, and Gage’s half brother, Lord Henry Kerr.

Gage’s father—Emma’s only living grandparent—couldn’t make the trip from London, as long journeys still aggravated the wound in his leg where he’d been shot the previous summer.

Lord Gage had promised to make it up to his only grandchild when we returned to his estate in Warwickshire in May, where work should nearly be completed on the former dower house, which we intended to make our country residence.

But I wouldn’t have been surprised if Emma’s grandfather had arranged for a gift to be delivered here to mark the occasion. He doted on her so.

However, there were no markings on the package to indicate the sender or receiver, let alone our address. As such, it must have been delivered directly from a shop.

Intrigued, I lifted the lid, expecting to find a garment or toy inside. Instead, I discovered a small book accompanied by an embossed invitation. Gage leaned closer to read the card with me as I pulled it from the box.

Catalogue of the Extensive, Genuine, and Highly Valuable Collection of Pictures, late the Property of the Hon.

John Clerk of Eldin, one of the Senators of the College of Justice…

which will be Unreservedly sold by Auction by Messrs.

Thomas Winstanley & Sons (of Liverpool), at No.

16, Picardy Place, Edinburgh, on Thursday the 14th of March 1833, and thirteen following days.

“An auction,” Gage remarked somewhat unnecessarily as I passed him the invitation so that I could remove the catalog beneath.

It was bound by marbled boards with a spine tooled in gilt.

Clearly no expense had been spared, indicating the collection must be valuable indeed.

I had, of course, heard of Lord Eldin’s death the previous spring, and I’d heard speculation about the upcoming auction of his effects, but I’d been so consumed in recent weeks with my own art that I’d not given anyone else’s much thought.

I’d certainly not expected to be issued an actual invitation to the auction.

Not that one was required. The auctioneer merely sent them to individuals whom they already knew to be collectors in hopes of enticing them to attend.

Though it seemed I must be a late addition to their list, as the auction began the next day.

This didn’t give me much time to peruse the prospective artwork at leisure.

Opening the catalog, I discovered a list of the artists whose various works were up for auction.

Several names immediately leapt out at me, making my heart quicken with excitement.

Raphael. Titian. Tintoretto. Veronese. Dürer.

Rembrandt. Van Dyck. Rubens. The folded frontispiece even boasted an engraving of Titian’s Adoration of the Magi .

And the auction didn’t just boast pictures, but also prints and drawings by artists like Dürer, Leonardo da Vinci, and Michelangelo, as well as an extensive collection of the Adam brothers’ architectural drawings, in addition to articles of virtu: ancient china, bronzes, terra-cottas, jewelry, and even Roman and Greek coins.

It was certain to draw an eclectic mix of collectors.

I had read speculations that the collection of architectural drawings was particularly exceptional, for the celebrated Adam brothers had been Lord Eldin’s uncles.

“I take it your interest is piqued.”

I looked up from the pages of the catalog I’d begun flipping through to find Gage watching me. A glint of amusement lit his eyes.

“How can it not be?” I admitted sheepishly, realizing I’d been all but ignoring him.

Fortunately, he didn’t seem to take offense, instead chuckling as he draped his arm around me to draw me closer. He pressed a kiss to my temple, speaking into my hair. “Sometimes I wonder whether you love me or art more.”

Hearing the teasing note in his voice, I bantered back. “Must I choose?”

He narrowed his eyes playfully and I leaned away, laughing.

Only to be pulled back into his embrace, my lips sealed in a searing kiss.

If he’d meant to remind me how much I adored him, it was entirely unnecessary, but nevertheless, much appreciated.

Especially when it demonstrated just what an effect all the extra fencing and training was having on his physique.

When he pulled away, bending over to fetch the catalog from where it had tumbled from my grasp to the floor, I almost protested.

As it was, it took me several seconds to unscramble my wits.

But then again, Gage’s kisses had always had that influence on me, and well he knew it.

His smug smile made that clear as he passed me the catalog.

“Now, tell me what paintings you wish to bid on.”

Well, two could play at that game, I decided, snapping the listing closed and pushing to my feet. “There’s something I’d like to show you upstairs first,” I told him, backing away from him, still clasping the catalog before me.

His eyes fastened on me intently, and I knew if I was closer, I would be able to see that his pupils had dilated. “Is that so?” he drawled, rising almost lazily to follow me.

I shrugged with feigned nonchalance. “Unless you’re too fatigued from your heroics earlier,” I murmured, waltzing away from him toward the door. Before I could even open it, he was at my back, hurrying me through and drawing a smirk to my lips.