The Adventurous Bride. Miranda Jarrett

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      Dumont the dragon snorted, with disgust, not fire.

      Nor was Lady Mary amused.

      “My lord.” Her expression was frosty, with no smile to spare for John. “I do not recall asking for a champion.”

      “You didn’t need to,” he said as winningly as he could, doing his best to disarm her. He was unaccustomed to women rebuffing him like this. He knew he was a well-made man, only twenty-nine, and handsome enough to make most females smile back when he smiled first. He wasn’t exactly vain about his appearance, but he had come to expect a certain response to his charm, and it felt odd now not to receive it from Lady Mary. Perhaps she was more trouble than she was worth, a challenge he’d be wiser to turn away from now.

      But not quite yet. “Come, come, Dumont. Let me see this picture, and—”

      “I’m perfectly capable of conducting this transaction myself, Lord John,” she interrupted, her cheeks flushing. “I would not have ventured into this shop myself if I couldn’t.”

      “It’s hardly a question of incapability, my lady.” John set the Mercury down on the counter beside him with a thump. “I only thought you might need a bit of assistance in your negotiations with Monsieur Dumont.”

      “I need nothing of the sort,” she said tartly. “If I can manage the affairs of my father’s household and estates, then surely I have the ability to choose a picture to my liking.”

      How the devil had he ruffled her feathers so badly? He let his smile fade, and tried a different tactic. “Then it’s no wonder your father has showed his confidence in you by letting you come to the shops by yourself.”

      She gave a small, restless twist to her shoulders. “My father trusts me so much that he has sent me abroad while he remains in England. He has no doubts about my capability.”

      “You are traveling alone?” John asked, so surprised he was almost stunned. Usually young English ladies on the Continent were so burdened with parents and chaperones and elderly maiden aunts that it was a marvel they managed to see any sights at all. “You are here by yourself in Calais?”

      “Here now, m’ lord, none o’ those questions,” the footman warned, moving between John and Lady Mary. He was formidable, a large country specimen, and John was disinclined to quarrel with him. “Her ladyship don’t have to answer them.”

      But with an impatient quick sigh, the girl ducked around the footman to confront John once again.

      “I am traveling with my sister and our companion, and several servants,” she said, her dark eyes wide and earnest. “So you see that ‘by alone’ I meant without Father.”

      John knew otherwise. Without her father or any other male relative, she was as good—and as vulnerable—as travelling alone. The only difference lay in the words, and what she chose to believe, the pretty, parsing creature.

      Perhaps she was not so great a challenge after all.

      “And as you travel, you’re collecting art,” he said. “With your father’s trust, of course. But do you consider yourself a connoisseur, Lady Mary, or merely a dilettante?”

      Doubt flooded her face, exactly as he’d intended. “I’m not certain I’m either.”

      John smiled, his suspicions confirmed. Of course the foreign words would be unfamiliar to her; likely she was as willfully ignorant as every other English lady, and couldn’t tell a bonjour from a buongiorno.

      “Ah, well, no matter,” he said expansively. “It was unfair of me to ask.”

      “I’m perfectly aware of my own ignorance, Lord Fitzgerald,” she said, bristling at the condescension that he hadn’t quite bothered to keep from his voice. “My father has always been afraid I’d become too educated and unattractive to gentlemen, so what I do know has been slipped to me on the sly by Miss Wood, like sweets stolen from the kitchen.”

      “Forgive me, Lady Mary,” he began, thankful that she wouldn’t realize how easy it was for his wicked old mind to jump from stolen sweets to lost innocence. “I didn’t intend—”

      “I rather think you did,” she insisted. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”

      “I’m not pretending,” he protested, though even he knew he was. “I’m being perfectly honest.”

      “Oh, yes, as honest as Monsieur Dumont.” She tapped her gloved fingers on the counter, a muted little thump of vindication. “So you see, Lord Fitzgerald, that while I do possess the interest to become a dilettante, I’ve too imperfect a store of knowledge to reinforce that interest, and as for being a connoisseur—why, until I’ve visited the galleries in Paris and Rome and seen the works of the great masters with my own eyes, I could scarce pretend to be a connoisseur.”

      “No,” admitted John. She’d just beaten him at his own game, but he liked her for it—liked her far more, in fact, than when she’d been merely another pretty young lady with skin like sweet country cream. “Not under the circumstances.”

      “Indeed not,” she said, and at last she smiled. “All I am at present is a humble small collector, buying pictures that please me, rather than those of value or significance. Which is why I want this one so vastly much.”

      “You’ll have it.” He wanted to make her smile at him again. Her teeth were small and white, with the front two overlapping a fraction with intriguing imperfection. “Dumont, the picture.”

      But the Frenchman only shook his head as doggedly as before, his jowls trembling. “I regret to tell you the same, too, my lord. I cannot sell that painting, not to the lady nor to you.”

      “At least you can let me see what you’re hiding.” In one swift motion, John leaned over the counter and seized the painting by the frame.

      “No, no, my lord, I beg you, please!” cried Dumont frantically as John held the picture high out of his reach. “It is not for you!”

      “Mind you, my lord, I saw it first!” The girl hurried to John’s side, hovering as if she feared he’d try to escape with the picture. “I’m willing to pay whatever he wants!”

      “Of course you are.” John turned the frame toward the window’s light. For the first time he could see the painted image, and the sight was enough to make him whistle low with appreciation. This was no common forgery, no piecework daub made up to sell to some ignoramus on his Grand Tour, nor was it the sentimental tripe John had expected the girl to choose.

      The picture was undeniably old, at least three hundred years, and painted on a wood panel instead of framed canvas. Italian, most likely Florentine; no Northern artists painted like this. The angel was kneeling, the feathers of his multicolored wings fanned over his back and a sword of orange flames in his hands. His halo was thick with gold leaf, his rainment the particular brilliant blue that came only from ground lapis. But the angel’s face was the real jewel, his expression fiercely intense—a militant guardian angel.

      “Isn’t it beautiful?” Lady Mary said, leaning closer to see the picture over John’s arm. “It’s been cut down quite shamefully from something bigger, of course, perhaps an altarpiece, and the frame may be newer.”

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