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“What’s a picture?” She borrowed his professorial style. “Smears of color on a window blind.” She lifted her chin. “I prefer to look out the window, at the real world.”
“Careful.” The gleam in De’Ath’s eyes had turned dangerous. “I can’t resist a challenge. Are you daring me to change your mind?” He leaned forward. “Pictures can’t show us the world, not literally. But the best of them can give us new ways of seeing. Windows don’t possess that power.”
“Says you.” She turned her face deliberately toward the window, assuming a look of rapt appreciation that the view hardly warranted.
De’Ath laughed quietly at her performance of the point. The sound melted something inside her. God above, she should be careful. She was proving idiotically susceptible to the slightest sign of interest. She’d asked De’Ath if he enjoyed attention. Clearly, she was the one who craved it.
The way he laughed, and listened, and looked at her . . .
She sat straighter. “Where are we going now?” She’d imagined they were returning to Chelsea, but the coachman seemed to be maneuvering toward the side of the avenue, which was lined with towering stone buildings.
De’Ath glanced at the window. “We’ve arrived, then.” He smoothed back his hair, which sprang back into disarray, still mussed by Fritz’s paws.
He caught her looking.
“Your hair,” she muttered. “On the side there. It’s still snarled.” Her heart began to beat in her throat. Would he ask her to work the knots loose?
His fingers moved deftly through the black waves, snagging and then sliding more freely. For no discernible reason, the simple motion mesmerized her.
“Voilà.” He raked his hair roughly, then turned his head this way and that. “Am I restored?”
Restored. Bloody gorgeous was more like it.
“Restored,” she agreed, too sullen, so she forced a facetious smile. “No one would ever guess a monkey had sat on your head.”
“One wouldn’t ever guess,” he drawled. He arched a brow and seemed about to speak further, but at that moment the coach rocked to a halt. They’d arrived. Somewhere.
Hell, thought Nina, and let De’Ath help her down from the step onto the sidewalk.
Chapter Seven
Broughton’s Auction House was smaller than its more famous rivals but led the pack in its sales of English and Continental old masters.
“First things first.” Alan passed the porticoed entrance to the Great Auction Room. The offices were at the rear. Once inside, Miss Finch walked close beside him. He caught her eye and winked.
“Wages,” he said. “Paper. We shall see what Bancroft Broughton can provide.”
She didn’t answer but stared about with a furrowed brow. She seemed cowed by the auction house. Or perhaps she was cowed by the prospect of entering Bancroft Broughton’s office, an elegant and thoroughly masculine domain.
If the latter, she needn’t have worried. Alan’s announcement redirected Broughton’s curious gaze away from Miss Finch.
“The family portraits,” Broughton repeated, leaning across his desk. “From the picture gallery at Umfreville House.”
“Three Gainsboroughs, two Reynoldses . . .” Alan began to tick through the list again.
“Are you acting as the duke’s agent?” Broughton interrupted, studying Alan over his tented fingers.
“I’m acting as my agent.” Alan smiled. “The pictures belong to me.”
Only a flicker of Broughton’s eyelid revealed his surprise. He rose smoothly. “One moment.”
As soon as he’d left the room, Alan turned to Miss Finch, seated beside him in a matching leather armchair.
“This is about to become more interesting.”
“Interesting how?” She fixed him with her razor-sharp gaze. That gaze—a reminder that she was disturbingly perceptive. She’d unnerved him in the drawing room with her claim that no one knew the real him. He’d felt suddenly transparent. His friends and acquaintances and readers numbered in the thousands. He hid from them all, inside a fortress of words.
She’d seemed to understand this instantly. Nina Finch. Geoffrey’s saucy maid. His serendipitous amanuensis, with the ridiculously kissable lips. Who was she really? Who knew her?
