Several people raised stylistic queries; then the meeting was adjourned for refreshments. Sofia allowed the baron to introduce her to a circle of his friends, but after a few polite pleasantries, she managed to excuse herself from the conversation. Eluding eye contact with the two ladies, she made her way to the glass display cabinets in the arched alcove.
“You appear to have a keen interest in coins, madam.” A deep voice, gruff and gravelly, sounded close by after she had been studying the artifacts for some time.
She looked up. “Very much so. I find the faces fascinating.”
Up close, the Duke of Sterling did not look so intimidating, perhaps because his lively gray-green eyes suddenly lit with a certain spark of amusement. “Indeed, one can see the full range of human emotion,” he replied. “Greed, pride, avarice, lust.”
“As well as courage, nobility, and compassion,” she added softly.
“That, too.” He pressed his broad palms to the glass. “I suppose I have become a trifle cynical in my old age.”
“Not nearly as cynical as Tiberius.” Sofia pointed to the pronounced sneer of the ancient emperor. “I sometimes like to imagine stories to go with the faces—who they really were, what their lives were like. Not very scholarly, I fear, but it makes history very human.”
Sterling chuckled. “I confess that I do much the same when studying my own collection. Some of the likenesses are haunting.” His gaze narrowed for an instant; then he shook his head slightly. “Of course, it’s naught but flights of fancy, yet as you say, it does make the past come alive.”
“By all accounts, your private collection would inspire more than a few stories, Your Grace. I have heard that it is one of the finest in England.”
“It does not compare to some of the collections in your country.” His smile had returned. “Permit me to make your formal acquaintance, Contessa, though it seems we have no need of exchanging names.”
“Indeed not, sir. It is an honor to meet such an august personage.”
He gave a wry grimace. “Good heavens. You make me sound as if I, too, should be under glass.”
She feigned a show of embarrassment. “Forgive me—my English is not as polished as I would like.”
“Your English is delightful, Contessa.” He patted her arm. “Though I daresay you ought to be conversing with the younger gentlemen, rather than an ancient artifact like me.”
“I much prefer intelligent discourse to false flatteries, Your Grace.”
He gave a short, sardonic growl of laughter. “You, too, find toadeaters tiresome? Then allow me to spirit you away to the other galleries and show you the rest of the Society’s collection.”
“I should like that very much.”
Sofia followed the duke through the other display cabinets, hoping that her occasional comments did not betray her unfamiliarity with antiquities. False flatteries, indeed. She felt a little guilty for leading him on. Clearly the subject was one that was dear to his heart. The set of his mouth softened as he described the exquisite workmanship on a series of bronze castings, and the shading beneath his eyes seemed to lighten.
Turning into the Sculpture Room, Sterling paused before a bust of Ovid. “My grandson was a great admirer of rhetoric and logic.” He sighed. “Perhaps too much so.”
“Forgive me if I stir painful memories, but I would like to offer my condolences. I am only recently arrived in Town, but I have heard mention of your recent loss.”
“Yes, I have no doubt that Robert’s death was grist for the gossip mills.” His jaw tightened. “London loves a scandal. And the more lurid the details, the better.”
“Unfortunately, the penchant for sordid speculation is universal, Your Grace. Rumors and innuendo tend to take on a life of their own.”
“You are wise beyond your years, Contessa.” His expression turned bleak, brooding. “I thank you for offering such words of comfort.”
They appeared to be of cold comfort. The duke’s face was as pale and lifeless as the carved marble.
“Did your grandson share your love of antiquities?” she asked. Though loath to pry into painful memories, it was her duty to learn all she could about the young man.
“Yes. Robert had a lively interest in a great many things. He was an extraordinary fellow …”
Osborne stalked past the display of botanical books, seeking the section of shelves devoted to Italian history and culture. There must be a Mediterranean version of Debrett’s, a volume that listed the titled nobility of the various principalities and city states.
Count della Ghiradelli. Contessa della Silveri. He would begin by seeing whether they were fact or fiction. Lynsley’s teasing had rubbed his already-sensitive nerves raw.
It took some searching but he finally found what he was looking for. That it was in Italian didn’t matter, for all he needed was to page through the alphabetical listings on Milan and Venice.
Ghirabella, Ghiracetti … damn. He felt a tiny twinge of disappointment at discovering an entry for Giovanni Marco Musto della Ghiradelli. The age looked to be right. As did all the information on Conte de Silveri, who had indeed passed away several years ago. A marriage date was there, but the name was left blank.
“I was not aware of your genealogical interest in Italy, Lord Osborne.” The voice of Lady Serena Sommers floated over his shoulder.
He snapped the book shut and shoved it back in place.
“I—I was merely checking on something for a friend.” Turning quickly, he slouched against the gilded spines to hide the titles. “Did you see that the new collection of Repton’s essays has arrived?”
Lady Serena held up a small leatherbound book. “Yes. I have already picked up a copy.”
“I think you will find them of interest.” Osborne took her arm and drew her down a different aisle. “You might also find the portfolio of Verrochini’s villa designs fascinating.”
“I shall have the clerk add this to my purchases,” she said after perusing the first few prints. “Thank you for the recommendation.”
“My pleasure, Lady Serena.”
A becoming blush suffused her cheeks. “Speaking of pleasures, Lord Osborne …”
“Yes?” he encouraged.
“I do not wish to appear forward. But as you are a man of discerning sensibilities, I was wondering whether you might like to attend a small party I am giving on Thursday evening. It will be a small affair, and much more informal than the usual Society soirees.”
She hesitated a fraction, her coloring deepening as she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I ought to warn you that I invite people who I feel are interesting, though they may not be welcome in the highest circles of Society. And we do not always follow the rigid rules of propriety. I am of the opinion that women should have a bit of freedom to discuss subjects that are normally forbidden to their sex. But you may not agree.”
In other words, did Lord Sunshine only smile on conformity?
Osborne curled his lips and answered in the same low murmur. “It sounds quite intriguing.”
She let out a soft breath. “Excellent. Come around at eight.”
“I look forward to it.”
“It sounds as if your grandson was an unusually gifted young man, Your Grace,” said Sofia. “No wonder you miss him terribly.”
“It is painful to lose family—but then, you are aware of that.” The duke made a face. “Here I am, an old man boring you with selfish reminiscences while you have suffered your own tragedies.”
Sofia sought to assuage his guilt. “Please do not apologize, sir. I enjoyed hearing you speak of your grandson.” In truth, she had learned a number of new facts from the conversation, including the names of Lord Robert’s closest friends and the locations of his favorite antique galleries. “Indeed, I wish that I could have met him.”
The duke looked rather wistful. “He would have liked you very much. What a pity that …”
Allowing his words to trail off, Sterling squared his sagging shoulders. He was
a tall man, and by the way his spine snapped to a ramrod stiffness, it was evident that he did not often allow himself a moment of weakness. Unbending steel. He would not be easy to live with. Sofia could well imagine the clash of wills when his daughter dared defy his wishes. And yet, beneath the show of armor, she sensed … regret? Recrimination?
She liked him all the more for it.
“But enough of such maudlin talk,” he went on. “What particular aspect of Roman art are you most interested in, Contessa?”
“Please call me Lady Sofia, Your Grace. As for my interests, I am quite partial to coins, though I still have so much to learn on the subject.”
The answer seemed to please him. “You must come view my collection sometime. The majority of it is housed in the Ingot—”
“The Ingot?” she interrupted.
He laughed. “It is the nickname for the ancestral castle in Kent. A past duke took it into his head to cast the front door out of solid silver—earning not only the moniker but also the curses of countless footmen who have had to polish the deuced thing.”
“It sounds as if your forebearer had a shining sense of humor,” she said dryly.
“Actually, he had a tarnished reputation, both personally and politically. The door was more a monument to overweening pride.”
“We cannot choose our family.”
The duke allowed a ghost of a smile. “No. We must simply live with them.”
If we are lucky. Sofia stifled a sigh. Perhaps she was fortunate to be unfettered by the past. There was no burden of hereditary sins, no weight of family expectations, no memories of wicked ancestors.
“In any case,” he went on. “I rarely entertain at the Ingot these days, but a selection of my medallions are here in London.”
“I would love to view them.”
“I will be out of Town for several days, but when I return, I shall send a servant to inquire when it would be convenient for you to come by.”
“That is very kind of you, sir.”
“No, actually it’s very selfish. At my age, I have to use every possible ploy to be in the company of a lovely young lady.” The duke slanted a look at the refreshment room and waggled a silvery brow. “Sir Stephen looks as if he would like to throw me to the gladiators for keeping you from the others. I had better allow you to mingle with the crowd.”
Sofia acknowledged the compliment with a gracious smile. The fact was, she had enjoyed Sterling’s company. Despite his exalted rank and intimidating reputation, he had shown himself to possess a kind heart and self-deprecating wit during their brief tour. Strangely enough, she also had the impression that for all his wealth and retinue of retainers, he was rather lonely. Of all the men she must cozen up to for this mission, the duke was promising to prove a pleasant assignment.
“I would prefer to give a thumbs-down to the idea, but that would be unconscionably rude,” she replied.
Sterling offered his arm. “Duty can often be a cursed nuisance.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink. “A quarter hour is sufficient. After that, you may feel free to take your leave.”
“Thank you for the advice, sir. I fear I have yet to learn all the steps in making my way through London society and will unwittingly tread on sensitive toes.”
“If you make a misstep, just do as you would on the dance floor, Lady Sofia. Simply shuffle your slippers and spin by with a regal smile. No one will dare take offense.”
She chuckled. “What very wise counsel, Your Grace.”
“I am sure you will receive equally sage advice from Lord Lynsley. He is, I hear, your sponsor in Town.”
“Yes, the marquess is an old family friend,” she replied. “Alas, I fear his government duties do not leave him much time for leisure. I already feel that I have imposed on his goodwill, so I shall take care not to bother him with mere trifles.”
“Allow me to offer myself in his stead.”
“How kind. You truly wouldn’t mind me seeking your advice if I have further questions on protocol or propriety?” A damsel in distress. It provided yet another excuse for seeking his company.
“Indeed not. Please feel free to turn to me if you have any trouble,” he replied with a fatherly pat to her hand.
Trouble. In his wildest dreams, the Duke of Sterling could not begin to imagine what sort of trouble she was likely to encounter. Not that she was about to enlighten him.
Instead she simply lowered her lashes. “How very reassuring, Your Grace. A lady never knows when she may have need of a knight in shining armor to ride to her rescue.”
Chapter Nine
Osborne stepped into the entrance hall of Lady Serena’s town house, curious as to what the evening entertainment was going to offer. Perhaps his hostess had built a secret temple to Bacchus among her bower of climbing roses. Leering satyrs, fountains of wine, naked …
Granted, he had purchased the latest horrid novel at Hatchard’s, but The Pagan Princess was for the ailing octogenarian Lady Hawthorne, who was currently confined to her bed with a head cold.
He, on the other hand, had no such excuse for his feverish imagination. Or his brooding sulks. That Lady Sofia had cried off from last night’s musicale ought to have been a relief, rather than a further irritation. After all, Lady Serena thought him interesting enough to include in her soiree.
“This way, milord.” A footman—dressed in ordinary livery rather than a Greek toga—escorted him past the marble staircase to a corridor leading to the rear of the house. “The Garden Room is straight ahead.”
Osborne entered a large, airy space with cream white walls and a frescoed ceiling. A glance up showed that the painting did indeed depict fauns and females frolicking in a pastoral setting, but the nudity was really quite tame and tasteful. The soft blues and pastel greens were reflected in the decorative trim and the draperies. Dropping his gaze, he saw that the far wall was a series of arched French doors that opened onto a slate terrace. In afternoon, with the sun slanting in through the glass panes, the room would be bathed in light.
“Do you approve of the architectural changes I’ve made so far? I had the brick wall replaced by the glass.” Lady Serena rose from the sofa and brought him a coupe of champagne. “I copied the design of the doors from a sketch I found in a book on the châteaux of the Loire Valley.”
“Very original,” he replied. “The classic style and symmetry fit the space very well.” Another look around showed that the furnishings were equally elegant. There was a spare simplicity to the room, but each piece was obviously chosen with care to complement the others. The effect was one of understated grace and harmony.
“You don’t think it de trop?”
“On the contrary, Lady Serena. It shows great restraint and an eye for detail.”
“I consider that a great compliment, coming from one of the leading arbiters of taste in Town.”
“How kind of you to say so.” Raising his glass, Osborne took a moment to observe who else had been included in the gathering.
Slouched on the sofa was a young man he recognized as Bryce Beecham, the enfant terrible of literary London. Next to him was Graham Andover, a prominent art dealer whose gallery on Bond Street was known for its exotic treasures and extravagant prices. Slim and short, with showy ginger side-whiskers framing an otherwise ordinary face, the man looked to be wearing a king’s ransom worth of his wares. The sapphire stickpin centered in his snowy cravat was as large as a robin’s egg.
Rings flashing in a kaleidoscope blur of gold and jewel-tone colors, the art dealer was showing a portfolio of botanical prints to Lady Cordelia Guilford, the recent bride of an elderly baron, and her younger sister.
The ladies looked up and smiled, though the elder’s expression was a tad cool.
Osborne pretended not to notice and let his eyes move on to where Adam De Winton, resplendent in a ruby silk waistcoat spangled with silver stars, was standing by the sideboard, pouring drinks for a pair of dark-haired strangers.
“I don’t believe you a
re acquainted with Signor Sforza or Signor Familligi, who are visiting from Milan,” murmured Lady Serena.
What was it about the cursed climate of Italy that was driving its denizens to England? Osborne bit back the urge to make an acid retort and simply shook his head.
“I think you will find them quite interesting company.” Lady Serena hooked his arm and led him across the Turkey carpet.
“Osborne.” De Winton acknowledged his arrival with a lift of his brow. “It seems you are straying outside your usual circle of sunshine.” To the Italians, he added, “Lord Osborne is known for his sweetness and light, while some of us find the hours of darkness more intriguing.”
“You think the difference between us is night and day?” Osborne matched the other man’s half-mocking tone. “Perhaps the shading is not so great as you imagine.”
“The sun and the moon have their own worlds,” replied De Winton.
“The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
Yet vanish not!”
Beecham shook off his artistic ennui enough to quote from Wordsworth.
“How very handsome a sentiment,” said the baroness’s sister. As an unmarried young miss, she ought not be attending such a gathering. But both ladies had a reputation for wildness, and though their beauty blinded many to their lack of restraint, they were not invited within the highest circles of Society. “You pen the most marvelous words, sir.”
Beecham ran a hand through his curling hair and shrugged.
“Lord Osborne is right to imply that he’s not such an angel.” Lady Cordelia shot him a pointed look. “Indeed, to hear tell, he’s a bit of a devil, especially when it comes to ladies.”
Reminded of their last meeting—a party at Vauxhall Gardens that had included a rather intimate stroll down the Dark Walk—Osborne had a feeling the baroness was piqued that he hadn’t pursued the opportunity to have a dalliance. She had been blatant about her availability, but once the sizzle of the arrack punch and the fireworks overhead had died down, the prospect hadn’t been overly attractive. The lady was undeniably lovely, and exhibited some talent as a painter. But there had been a predatory edge to her need that did not bode well for an amiable affair.
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