Page 17 of A Stolen Heart

They ate their food, a delicious repast that had Alexandra regretting the supper she had eaten earlier, and occupied their time with discussing the various people around them. Thorpe knew most of them and their foibles, and painted them with an acid wit that kept Alexandra chuckling.

“How hard you are on your peers,” she told him.

He shrugged. “I am a mere novice compared to many of them. Malice and vitriol are the oils that keep the ton running.” He set aside their plates. “Are you ready to return to the dancing?”

“Of course. It will be much more enjoyable watching everyone now that I know all their secrets.”

“You have barely scratched the surface, my dear girl.”

They left the room and made their way to the stairs, but Alexandra paused to look at some of the paintings that hung on the walls of the huge entry hall.

“That is the present Duke’s mother,” Thorpe told her, pointing to a picture of a woman with her arms around a young girl and two toy spaniels at their feet. “Painted by Gainsborough.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“He has some fine art, nearly all portraits, of course—that is what the former Duke valued in art.”

“His favorite, doubtless, was the horse.” Alexandra nodded toward the massive portrait of the animal that she had noticed when they first walked in.

“Definitely. Would you like to see some of the other things?”

“Why, yes, if you think it would be all right.”

“I’m sure of it.” He guided her up the stairs and away from the ballroom, heading down the long gallery. Just past the stand of armor began a row of portraits, many dark with age.

“Why, this looks like—”

Thorpe nodded. “A Holbein. It is of Isabella Moncourt, the lovely young wife of the then Marquess of Moncourt. The young woman met an untimely end.”

Alexandra eyes widened. “Really? She was murdered?”

Thorpe shrugged. “Who knows? She died young—a fall down the stairs one night. Murder was definitely rumored—a charge the Moncourts vehemently deny to this day. But it is said that she had caught the eye of one of the Howards. And her husband was known to be a jealous man.”

“Caught his eye? That was all? Why didn’t the husband kill the Howard, then? It sounds to me as if he were more at fault.”

Thorpe chuckled. “No one even knows if it is true. But if it is, I would guess that the lady was not entirely blameless.”

They continued along the hallway, peering to see the portraits in the light of the wall sconces. “I would love to see them by day,” Alexandra commented.

“I can show you an even better collection another day, if you’d like.”

“Your family’s ancestors?”

“No. My family’s art, such as it is, is primarily at the estate in the country. I spend little time there. And my house, as you know, is given over to ‘heathen art,’ as Lady Ursula has told me.”

“Who?”

“The daughter of a very good friend of mine. I hope you will be able to meet her tonight.”

“Lady Ursula?”

“No, although I dare swear we will be unable to avoid that if the Countess is here. But it is the Countess I want you to meet.”

“She is someone special to you?”

Thorpe nodded. “Yes. Her grandson and I were friends at school, and I often visited with them. The Countess was—Well, let’s just say I found more understanding and love there than was ever at my home. Sometimes I feel that she is almost my mother—or grandmother.”

“I look forward to meeting her, then.”