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I tugged the cloth from his fingers and brushed this concern aside in annoyance before demanding, “Who?”

“Mr. Sullivan,” he finally replied.

“The auburn-haired fellow who works for Mr. Winstanley?” I asked in clarification. “The one who was monitoring the small adjoining parlor where the coins and other trinkets were displayed?”

“The very one. Anderley discovered he has a connection to someone here in Edinburgh. A cousin.” His eyebrows arched leadingly. “Who works for a rival auctioneer.”

“Well, that’s suspicious.” Setting aside the cloth, I surveyed my table scattered with supplies as I considered the ramifications.

Picking up a palette knife, I began scraping the remnants of paint from my palette into a container I would discard later.

“I suppose that’s where you went with Anderley last night. ”

“Yes, darling. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you more then. Anderley feared that the man he’d convinced to speak with me to share what he knew wouldn’t wait long, so time was of the essence.”

I wondered if Bree or Jeffers or even Henry had told him of my annoyance with him, or whether I was simply that transparent.

“And what did the man tell you?” I asked, dropping the palette knife into the jar of linseed oil and dipping the edge of the cloth into the liquid to begin wiping the remnants of paint from the board.

“That he’d witnessed Mr. Sullivan making multiple visits to his cousin while he was at work, and that he’d even seen him speaking to the owner.”

I glanced at Gage, who stood with his arms crossed, watching me. I could sense his barely restrained energy. “I presume that means you wish to question him.”

“Already have. Anderley, Henry, and I tracked him down and cornered him today.”

I didn’t react to this, having already begun to suspect it, for it explained his flush of accomplishment.

“He denies any wrongdoing, of course. And we couldn’t ask Maclean to arrest him based solely on his associations, but he’s going to have his men keep an eye on him.”

I set aside the palette and began cleaning my brushes and laying them out to dry. “I presume you also intend to confront this rival auctioneer.”

“Brade Cranston.” He supplied the name before confirming my supposition. “Tomorrow. I’d like to shake him to see what falls out.”

“I’d like to come with you.”

Gage agreed. “Then we can speak with Mr. Winstanley about his list.”

I paused in wiping one of my brushes, peering closely at the bristles to see that a few of them were beginning to look frayed and would need attention. “Does he know about Mr. Sullivan’s connection to a rival?”

“Not from us. Not yet.”

But he would have to be told eventually, and it could cost Mr. Sullivan his position.

I could tell that this had already occurred to Gage, and he was not unaffected by it.

After all, if Mr. Sullivan proved to be innocent of any involvement with the floor collapse, if he’d committed no crime, then it would be unfair for him to be dismissed.

After all, being related to someone who worked for a rival was not illegal.

However, we also were not responsible for Mr. Winstanley’s reaction or his consequent actions, regardless of whether we’d supplied the information that led to them.

Having finished with the brushes, I wiped my hands.

“Has Anderley spoken to Bree about Brade Cranston? After all, it was her task to research rival auctioneers. Perhaps she’s learned something that might help us when we question him tomorrow.

” I reached behind me to begin untying the apron I wore over my dress, but my husband found the strings first.

“I’ll remind him of that,” he assured me as I pulled the apron over my head and hung it on its peg by the door. I turned, expecting Gage to be behind me, but he was still standing before the portrait of the flower seller.

Conflicting emotions stirred in my breast. Pride and pleasure, naturally, that he found the portrait so arresting.

But also doubt and something akin to panic, for watching someone examine a piece of my art always left me with the sensation of being exposed.

It was something I’d never grown accustomed to.

Perhaps because my first art exhibition at my father’s house in London had been such a disaster.

I supposed it wasn’t as dire as all that, for I had acquired a number of portrait commissions based on the merit I’d shown.

However, I still recalled the disparaging remarks some of the members of society had whispered about me, belittling my efforts and aspirations, labeling me as unnatural even then.

Their words had pricked like thorns. Even now the memory of them had the power to make my skin sting like tiny insects were biting me.

That exhibition had also brought me to the attention of Sir Anthony Darby.

I suspected it was then and there that he’d decided to pursue my hand in marriage so that he could put my artistic abilities to use for his anatomy textbook.

Given this, was it really any wonder that I was struggling with mixed emotions about my second exhibition?

“It truly is astonishing, Kiera,” Gage murmured, before gesturing to the other canvases scattered about the room, some still drying on easels and others carefully stacked in the corners or on top of the special shelves Gage had built for me.

“They all are.” He turned to look at me.

“Are you finished, then? Is the collection ready to show?”

“Not quite,” I prevaricated, my chest feeling tight. “I still have a few final touches I need to add. And I thought I might paint one more.”

“Kiera,” he said softly, but I spoke over him.

“Do you remember those boys we saw racing turtles near the Meadows?”

“Kiera.”

“The littlest of the lot, he seemed so serious, yet he had such a cherubic air about him.”

“Kiera.” He grasped my hands, cutting off my chatter. His smile as he gazed down at me was gentle. “You’re stalling.”

I dipped my head rather than acknowledge this.

But he wouldn’t let me hide. Using two fingers, he tipped my chin upward so that I was forced to look at him. “You do still wish to exhibit them, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I replied after a few moments of hesitation.

“It’s why I painted them. To cast a light on those that the world, that society largely chooses to ignore.

To force them to see, truly see the people all around us.

Not just their plight and squalor, but their humanity.

The spark that connects us all as God’s children, no matter who we are.

The beauty of each of us.” Seeing the slight curl at the corner of Gage’s lips, I faltered.

“I…I know beauty perhaps seems the wrong word, but…” I searched for the right words to make him understand.

“Art is not just about beauty. It is about revealing truth. Of capturing more than what is capable of being detected with the naked eye. And there is beauty in that truth.”

Hearing the passion in my voice, I flushed, shaking my head. “Maybe I’m not making sense.”

“You are,” he assured me, his voice warm with affection. “You are.”

My rapid pulse steadied under his regard, only to stutter when he continued. “But you can’t reveal that truth if you never exhibit the paintings.”

I knew he was right, and yet the idea of doing so still terrified me.

Something Gage could tell. “Just think on it,” he told me.

I nodded, for that was an easy promise to make. I’d already been thinking about it for months, and there was little chance of my stopping now.