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But his voice was still tinged with uncertainty. “And the fact that her father is in trade? That doesn’t bother you?”

I shook my head at the absurdity. “Trevor. My first husband was a surgeon. Yes, he’d been made a baronet by the king. But he certainly wasn’t a gentleman born.” I paused. “Though I hope Mr. Birnam doesn’t hold my past against you.”

“Not since you’re now the daughter-in-law of one of the king’s most trusted advisers.”

“Oh, well, that’s good.” My brow furrowed. “I suppose.” I reached for the creamer, adding a splash to his tea before I passed the cup to him. “Does it bother you that Mr. Birnam is in trade?”

“No. Not really.”

“Then why…?” I inhaled, grasping the genuine source of his concern. “Alana.”

He grimaced as he lowered his teacup after taking a drink. “She is far more particular about such things.”

And as a countess, our older sister did have a far higher rank than either of us, making the differences between her and a tradesman potentially far greater.

I inhaled the fragrant blend of the tea deeply as I poured my own cup. “I suppose all you can do is talk to her. Explain the situation to her as you have me. All Alana truly wants is your happiness.” I offered him a smile. “And know that whatever the outcome, you have my support.”

“Thank you, Kiera.”

As I stirred cream and sugar into my cup, I did spare a moment to wonder if Trevor might be moving too hastily.

After all, he’d not mentioned Miss Birnam at Hogmanay four months ago.

How long had they been acquainted? How much time had he actually spent with her?

For the sake of caution, I felt I should offer one more piece of advice.

“You might also have a word with Philip and Sebastian. As you pointed out, they have powerful—and useful—connections. They might know things about Mr. Birnam that you don’t. Things that could ease your mind.”

Or trouble it. We would confront that if it became necessary.

“I will,” he agreed, taking one last sip of his tea before setting it aside and rubbing his hands together gleefully. “Now, tell me what treats I may anticipate for Emma’s celebratory tea. Is Mrs. Grady making some of her lemon cakes?”

· · ·

Our stroll to church the following morning was heralded by bright sunshine and warmer temperatures.

So glorious was it that I couldn’t begrudge Trevor and Gage for their desire to go riding after luncheon.

I even considered joining them, except that Emma had required my attention and if they’d delayed their departure for me, then we would all be in a rush upon our return to bathe and change for dinner at Cromarty House.

As such, I waved them on, and once I’d settled Emma, I sat down again with the list of people invited to the auction, hoping inspiration might strike.

And it did, in a fashion.

I was scouring the third page, trying to recall if I’d ever been introduced to anyone called Marjoribanks or if the names had simply all begun to run together in my mind, when Jeffers cleared his throat lightly, drawing my attention. So consumed was I with my task that I’d not even heard him enter.

“My lady, there is a Mr. Rimmer requesting to speak with you. He informed me he’d forgotten his calling cards.” This was evidently a major strike against the man in the butler’s book, for his mouth pursed in disapproval. “He seems rather…agitated.”

I pondered what that might mean. Whether he was concerned about my reaction to Mr. Fletcher accusing him of sending me the catalog.

Perhaps he’d feared that his counterpart’s continued remarks on the matter had reached my ears.

Or maybe he’d uncovered something of pertinence.

A connection between me and a collector that I’d missed.

After all, Gage had asked him to check the invitation list as well.

“Shall I send him away?” Jeffers queried when I sat immobile for too long.

“No, send him up. But…linger nearby.”

As Jeffers had alluded to, Mr. Rimmer was definitely troubled.

His complexion was pale, his movements tense, and he barely seemed able to sit in the chair I’d indicated, instead perching anxiously on the edge.

“I see you’re looking at the list,” he said in response to my asking if there was something I could help him with.

“Yes,” I said with a sigh. “But I’m afraid I haven’t had any luck figuring out who sent me the catalog and invitation.” When he didn’t respond, I prompted him. “What of you?”

“It was me!” The words burst from his mouth before I’d finished speaking. He closed his eyes, as if afraid of my reaction. “I’m terribly sorry I lied, but I simply couldn’t admit it in front of Mr. Winstanley. Not when Fletcher was portraying it in the most dreadful light.”

He opened his eyes warily, and when I didn’t speak, hastened to explain further.

“I am an admirer of your portraits, but I am not obsessed.” His face hardened.

“Or whatever vile word Fletcher is trying to tarnish me with.” He leaned forward, extending his hands in pleading.

“I just wanted to meet you. And I knew that you would appreciate some of the pictures in Lord Eldin’s collection.

So I figured there would be no harm in sending you the catalog to be sure you were aware of the auction.

” He shook his head. “I had no idea that the floor would collapse. That someone would sabotage it. Believe me, had I known, I would never have sent you the invite.” His chest heaved with each breath as his words ran out.

Or almost. “Please. You must believe me.”

“I do,” I admitted. His response was too real to be feigned, and I’d never sensed any malice from him during our previous interactions.

His shoulders dipped and his head bowed low in relief, his dark curls concealing his face. “Thank you.”

“But why did you want to meet me?” I asked, probing carefully for holes in his story. Just because I believed him didn’t mean I wasn’t leery of his interest in me.

He straightened in surprise. “Because you’re brilliant.

Your portraits…they’re so evocative, transcendent even.

” He gestured with his hands as he spoke each adjective.

“It’s like you can see into the heart of a person and somehow reflect what you find there in their eyes and their faces, in their bodies. ”

I blushed upon hearing his praise, warmth filling my chest. For I was not immune to the effects of flattery, particularly when it seemed so genuinely given.

“And…” He shrunk into himself again sheepishly. “I heard about the exhibition you’re preparing. The Faces of the Forgotten .” He spoke the title as if it was decided and not something I was still wrestling with.

Which only made me wonder how on earth he’d learned it in the first place.

I’d spoken of the title to only a select number of people.

Though I supposed it was possible one of them had mentioned it to someone else and then it had spread from there.

Such gossip was practically endemic among society.

And it was certainly no secret I was working on a private exhibition.

That juicy bit of tittle-tattle had begun spreading the moment I mentioned it to a countess whose portrait commission I’d refused.

“I hoped I might have a chance to convince you to allow me to arrange it,” Mr. Rimmer continued. “Either on behalf of Mr. Winstanley or…or myself.”

I understood his self-consciousness now.

He was young but ambitious. Mr. Winstanley’s other employees might be content to work under him and his sons for the rest of their lives, but Mr. Rimmer had grander plans.

Perhaps that was why Mr. Fletcher disliked him and was so eager to take him down a peg. To spoil his aspirations.

However, those current aspirations seemed somewhat flawed to me. Or misrepresented.

“But you haven’t even seen the paintings?” I objected.

“I don’t need to,” he startled me by interjecting. His gaze was direct. “I know what you’re capable of, my lady. And since these paintings are of your own impetus, not simply to appease some vain aristocrat…” He flashed a coy smile. “I know they must be striking.”

I wanted to believe him, to believe Gage, but Mr. Cranston’s words continued to reel in the back of my head. “It likely won’t prove profitable,” I cautioned him. “The exhibit is more of a social statement. One that is bound to be controversial among some.”

He stared back at me as if I’d suddenly sprouted a second head. “But that’s precisely why it will be profitable. Society absolutely cannot resist a furor.” He leaned forward as if sharing a secret. “Or wanting to own a piece of it.”

Then Mr. Cranston was wrong? His cruel words were just a taunt? Or was Mr. Rimmer the one misleading me? I pressed my fingers to my temple, wishing I knew my own mind.

“You won’t tell Mr. Winstanley what I’ve done, will you?” Mr. Rimmer asked, growing fretful again. He obviously feared losing his position. Something that was bound to happen if the auctioneer learned he’d lied.

“No,” I said, not wanting him to be penalized. If Mr. Fletcher hadn’t used such provocative terms, I believed he would have been more truthful, so the other assistant was as much to blame. “But thank you for telling me. As for the other…I’ll think about it.” That was all I could promise.

But Mr. Rimmer still grinned as if I’d handed him the moon and the stars.