stated, quelling the ripple of voices, “I hold fast to believing that those letters and documents will prove this work is not a Dürer.”
“And may I see these letters?” Lord Forrester frowned, finally tearing his eyes away from the Adam and Eve.
“I . . . I do not have them,” Winn had to admit.
“Of course you don’t,” George replied. “Lord Forrester, you cannot be seriously entertaining this notion that this painting is a fake . . . And that of all the people in all the world, she’s the only one to have discovered it!”
“I don’t believe it a fake—I believe it mislabeled. And I’m not the only one,” Winn countered, glancing to George. “The letters exist. But they are in Basel, Switzerland. Where Dürer was living and studying at the time of this painting.” She took another deep breath. “I would have to retrieve them.”
That sent a ripple throughout the room and out into the hall. A woman—granted, one well of age—taking on such a task, such a journey, simply to prove a point . . . well, it was ridiculous! Preposterous!
“Your Grace?” Lord Forrester looked to Jason Cummings, lounging against the windowsill. “What are your feelings on the matter?”
Every eye in the room turned to the young Duke. In her desire to put forth her proposal, Winn had somehow forgotten he was there. But now . . . he looked casual, unaffected. But she could tell he had been listening the whole time.
“Well,” he drawled, rubbing his chin lazily, “either she is absolutely right, or this is the most complicated lover’s quarrel I’ve ever been witness to.”
The room and those beyond sent up a huge guffaw of laughter, and Winn felt her face go up in flames. A lover’s quarrel indeed! Over the past year, she had moved about as far away from loving her cousin as a human could manage. But she could not help but sneak a glance at George. His face had reddened as well, but he could not help but show a modicum of relief with it.
“But,” the young Duke continued (annoyingly referring to her as if she was not in the room), “she does not ask for the Historical Society to fund her travels or research. Nor does she ask even for admittance to the Society. In fact, the only thing she does ask is for acknowledgement should she succeed. And if she fails . . .” He peered at her then, his dark eyes such a devilish contrast to his bright red hair that in the right light—and of course, if one was not acquainted with him personally—Lord Jason Cummings could be mistaken for Lucifer himself. “If she fails, it’s no skin off my nose.” He looked to Lord Forrester. “Nor yours. I see no reason not to entertain this notion.”
And those were the words that had gained Miss Winnifred Crane her bargain with Lord Forrester. And brought her here, to Totty’s home, where George ranted and raved without any hope of denting her joy.
Joy. Excitement. It was bubbling to the surface, threatening to burst forth in a series of adolescent giggles as she worked the knot of her cloak free and handed it to the waiting butler.
“Thank you, Leighton,” she murmured, accidentally giving him the most winning smile, such that the unflappable man blinked twice before blushing.
“Winn, darling, you’ve made Leighton go all red,” Arabella Arbuthnot Tottendale, affectionately known as Totty, said as she descended the stairs. “And George. Dare I hope your excursion went well?”
“It did not, Totty,” George spoke up as he tried to shrug his oversized shoulders out of his coat. “You will not believe the tangle Winnifred has willingly —” But he was interrupted by Totty sweeping past with an upraised hand.
“I can tell already this conversation cannot be had in a foyer—it has an appalling lack of sherry.”
Winn caught Leighton deftly rolling his eyes. And the downstairs rumor that Totty had an eye hidden underneath her lace cap must have had some merit, because even though her back was to him, she called
“And may I see these letters?” Lord Forrester frowned, finally tearing his eyes away from the Adam and Eve.
“I . . . I do not have them,” Winn had to admit.
“Of course you don’t,” George replied. “Lord Forrester, you cannot be seriously entertaining this notion that this painting is a fake . . . And that of all the people in all the world, she’s the only one to have discovered it!”
“I don’t believe it a fake—I believe it mislabeled. And I’m not the only one,” Winn countered, glancing to George. “The letters exist. But they are in Basel, Switzerland. Where Dürer was living and studying at the time of this painting.” She took another deep breath. “I would have to retrieve them.”
That sent a ripple throughout the room and out into the hall. A woman—granted, one well of age—taking on such a task, such a journey, simply to prove a point . . . well, it was ridiculous! Preposterous!
“Your Grace?” Lord Forrester looked to Jason Cummings, lounging against the windowsill. “What are your feelings on the matter?”
Every eye in the room turned to the young Duke. In her desire to put forth her proposal, Winn had somehow forgotten he was there. But now . . . he looked casual, unaffected. But she could tell he had been listening the whole time.
“Well,” he drawled, rubbing his chin lazily, “either she is absolutely right, or this is the most complicated lover’s quarrel I’ve ever been witness to.”
The room and those beyond sent up a huge guffaw of laughter, and Winn felt her face go up in flames. A lover’s quarrel indeed! Over the past year, she had moved about as far away from loving her cousin as a human could manage. But she could not help but sneak a glance at George. His face had reddened as well, but he could not help but show a modicum of relief with it.
“But,” the young Duke continued (annoyingly referring to her as if she was not in the room), “she does not ask for the Historical Society to fund her travels or research. Nor does she ask even for admittance to the Society. In fact, the only thing she does ask is for acknowledgement should she succeed. And if she fails . . .” He peered at her then, his dark eyes such a devilish contrast to his bright red hair that in the right light—and of course, if one was not acquainted with him personally—Lord Jason Cummings could be mistaken for Lucifer himself. “If she fails, it’s no skin off my nose.” He looked to Lord Forrester. “Nor yours. I see no reason not to entertain this notion.”
And those were the words that had gained Miss Winnifred Crane her bargain with Lord Forrester. And brought her here, to Totty’s home, where George ranted and raved without any hope of denting her joy.
Joy. Excitement. It was bubbling to the surface, threatening to burst forth in a series of adolescent giggles as she worked the knot of her cloak free and handed it to the waiting butler.
“Thank you, Leighton,” she murmured, accidentally giving him the most winning smile, such that the unflappable man blinked twice before blushing.
“Winn, darling, you’ve made Leighton go all red,” Arabella Arbuthnot Tottendale, affectionately known as Totty, said as she descended the stairs. “And George. Dare I hope your excursion went well?”
“It did not, Totty,” George spoke up as he tried to shrug his oversized shoulders out of his coat. “You will not believe the tangle Winnifred has willingly —” But he was interrupted by Totty sweeping past with an upraised hand.
“I can tell already this conversation cannot be had in a foyer—it has an appalling lack of sherry.”
Winn caught Leighton deftly rolling his eyes. And the downstairs rumor that Totty had an eye hidden underneath her lace cap must have had some merit, because even though her back was to him, she called
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