Lord Crenshaw interrupted. “Your figure is the smallest on the table. We might have overlooked it were it not for the red scarf you use to call attention to yourself.”
Lord Destry ignored the comment and continued tospeak. “It could be that a woman of Miss Brent’s obvious refinement needs no more entertainment than to sit and observe the world pass by. Look, even the flowers gather around her.”
“I do love the garden and spend as much time there as I can. Perhaps that is the symbolism the countess intended.”
“The flowers are only a frame for your beauty,” Lord Crenshaw added.
“I think the flowers rest at your feet in homage,” said the marquis.
Was this a contest to see which one of them could embarrass her the most? “One thing I observe,” Cecilia tried, desperate to turn the conversation away from her avatar, “is that we will be served in the Russian style this evening.”
“Ah, yes,” Lord Crenshaw said, “the centerpiece would hardly allow for the placement of the French service.”
“I prefer the Russian,” Destry added. “The food is usually warm and you have more to choose from than the few dishes arranged in front of you in the French service.”
“Yes,” Cecilia agreed, “but with the Russian service I am always tempted by every dish offered and end up with enough food for a glutton.”
“Miss Brent,” Lord Destry began, “I suspect that there is not an unkind bone in your body if you are even afraid of offending the food that is offered you.”
At a word from the countess the marquis turned to her, leaving Cecilia to wonder if what he’d said was a snub or a compliment. She blushed. She might wish it was a compliment but could not doubt it was a snub.
Chapter Seven
“S O YOU BELIEVE that the false Rembrandts are not a deliberate fraud, but rather artists of Rembrandt’s school who were attempting to emulate him?”
“Yes, exactly, Lord Belmont.” Miss Brent sat back in her seat, smiling at his quick grasp of her idea.
“But how can you tell the true old masters from the fakes?” Jess asked before he recalled that he was not part of the conversation, just an eavesdropper. She had drawn him in with her scent, the intensity in her voice, the way her enthusiasm radiated from her body. He felt like a hapless player ensnared by a game of luck.
Belmont did no more than raise his eyebrows at the interruption. Beatrice Brent did not seem to take offense, but that may have been because she was so enthusiastic about art.
“As I explained to Lord Belmont, my lord, there is a certain style that only Rembrandt maintains. He has a way of seeing the world that is only his and cannot beduplicated.” She picked up her fork, then put it down again without sampling the beef on her plate.
“But is that not only a matter of opinion?” Lord Jess went on. “There is a Rembrandt at Pennford Castle and I wonder if it would meet your criteria.”
“It is not my criteria only, my lord. This has been a discussion among true experts, not just students of the subject like me.”
“But could a supposed expert not tell the owner it is a forgery and then buy it at a reduced price and resell it as an original?”
“You suppose everyone has as devious an imagination as you do, Jess.” Belmont signaled for more wine even as the footman came forward with the decanter.
Beatrice tilted her head to one side. “I’ve thought of that myself,” she said to Belmont with a mischievous smile. She leaned back to include Lord Jess. “I prefer to think of it as a clever construct and not devious at all.”
“And I meant no offense, Miss Brent.” Belmont returned her smile with one of his own. “To you or to Jess.”
“None taken, Belmont,” Jess acknowledged. Belmont was hardly the only one who thought his actions were motivated by ill will. His brother the duke had once asked him if gaming was his way of defaming the Pennistan name.
“It would be fun, though, would it not?”
Lord Destry ignored the comment and continued tospeak. “It could be that a woman of Miss Brent’s obvious refinement needs no more entertainment than to sit and observe the world pass by. Look, even the flowers gather around her.”
“I do love the garden and spend as much time there as I can. Perhaps that is the symbolism the countess intended.”
“The flowers are only a frame for your beauty,” Lord Crenshaw added.
“I think the flowers rest at your feet in homage,” said the marquis.
Was this a contest to see which one of them could embarrass her the most? “One thing I observe,” Cecilia tried, desperate to turn the conversation away from her avatar, “is that we will be served in the Russian style this evening.”
“Ah, yes,” Lord Crenshaw said, “the centerpiece would hardly allow for the placement of the French service.”
“I prefer the Russian,” Destry added. “The food is usually warm and you have more to choose from than the few dishes arranged in front of you in the French service.”
“Yes,” Cecilia agreed, “but with the Russian service I am always tempted by every dish offered and end up with enough food for a glutton.”
“Miss Brent,” Lord Destry began, “I suspect that there is not an unkind bone in your body if you are even afraid of offending the food that is offered you.”
At a word from the countess the marquis turned to her, leaving Cecilia to wonder if what he’d said was a snub or a compliment. She blushed. She might wish it was a compliment but could not doubt it was a snub.
Chapter Seven
“S O YOU BELIEVE that the false Rembrandts are not a deliberate fraud, but rather artists of Rembrandt’s school who were attempting to emulate him?”
“Yes, exactly, Lord Belmont.” Miss Brent sat back in her seat, smiling at his quick grasp of her idea.
“But how can you tell the true old masters from the fakes?” Jess asked before he recalled that he was not part of the conversation, just an eavesdropper. She had drawn him in with her scent, the intensity in her voice, the way her enthusiasm radiated from her body. He felt like a hapless player ensnared by a game of luck.
Belmont did no more than raise his eyebrows at the interruption. Beatrice Brent did not seem to take offense, but that may have been because she was so enthusiastic about art.
“As I explained to Lord Belmont, my lord, there is a certain style that only Rembrandt maintains. He has a way of seeing the world that is only his and cannot beduplicated.” She picked up her fork, then put it down again without sampling the beef on her plate.
“But is that not only a matter of opinion?” Lord Jess went on. “There is a Rembrandt at Pennford Castle and I wonder if it would meet your criteria.”
“It is not my criteria only, my lord. This has been a discussion among true experts, not just students of the subject like me.”
“But could a supposed expert not tell the owner it is a forgery and then buy it at a reduced price and resell it as an original?”
“You suppose everyone has as devious an imagination as you do, Jess.” Belmont signaled for more wine even as the footman came forward with the decanter.
Beatrice tilted her head to one side. “I’ve thought of that myself,” she said to Belmont with a mischievous smile. She leaned back to include Lord Jess. “I prefer to think of it as a clever construct and not devious at all.”
“And I meant no offense, Miss Brent.” Belmont returned her smile with one of his own. “To you or to Jess.”
“None taken, Belmont,” Jess acknowledged. Belmont was hardly the only one who thought his actions were motivated by ill will. His brother the duke had once asked him if gaming was his way of defaming the Pennistan name.
“It would be fun, though, would it not?”
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