A Kiss Away From Scandal. Christine Merrill

worth leaving the house. Her manners are abominable, of course. But she is too antisocial to bother with throwing candlesticks. And she is prodigiously smart.’

      ‘That is a comfort, I suppose,’ he said.

      ‘But it pains me that she did not go to Miss Pennyworth’s Academy to learn deportment. It improved my character immeasurably.’

      He smiled and touched his arm, wincing in pain. ‘As I can tell from the way we took our leave of the town house.’

      She readied another horrified apology. ‘That was most unlike me.’

      ‘It was nothing,’ he said in a soft voice that immediately put her at her ease. ‘Since you take your manners so seriously, it is unfair of me to tease you over them.’

      She would have been better off to remain silent. Now, he thought her both overly proud and humourless. But either of those was better than being as nosy as her sister had been. ‘On the contrary, I do not fault you for any response you might give to the conversation you heard or my behaviour towards you. What you witnessed should never have taken place. As I told Charity, it is not our business to wonder about your personal life.’

      ‘I took it as a compliment,’ he replied, still smiling. ‘A total lack of interest can be rather dehumanising.’

      She remembered the look he had given her in parting on the previous day, as if he had expected something more from her than an awkward goodbye. Had she been the one to treat him as less than a man? It was not as if she hadn’t been curious about him. It was just that ladies were not supposed to express it openly. But if he was willing to make light of the situation, then so should she. She gave him a friendly nod, hoping that it did not look as forced and awkward as it felt. ‘If it makes you feel better, I will ask you at least one impertinent question a day until we have completed out task.’

      ‘I will look forward to it, Miss Strickland,’ he said, nodding back. Then he touched his hat brim to remind her to replace her bonnet and veil. ‘As I mentioned before we parted yesterday, today we will be searching for the blue painting. I have several dealers in mind, specialising in fine art. I am sure your grandmother must have visited one of them.’

      The paintings in the first gallery they visited would have been more at home in a museum than gracing the walls of Comstock Manor. The owner was obviously familiar with Mr Drake, plying him with offers of tea or sherry while Hope perused artwork. She allowed herself a few moments of guilty pleasure, wishing that she had the nerve to lie and claim even the smallest of the landscapes, for any of them were likely to be prettier than the painting they were truly seeking. Then she turned back to her companion and gave a silent shake of her head.

      He rose and thanked the gallery owner, then led her back to the carriage.

      The next place was similar. Mr Drake was still treated with familiarity, but there were no offers of refreshment. Though the art was not quite as impressive, it was still of a higher quality than Hope had seen at home. Again, she shook her head. And, again, they moved on.

      With each successive shop they moved further from Bond Street until they stopped at a shop nearly as dreary as the one that had contained the candlesticks. The ragged collection of paintings stacked along the walls no longer hid Old Masters. A few were no better than girls’ school watercolours. But the shopkeeper followed close behind them, assuring them that the frames were worth ten bob at least.

      Mr Drake shook his head. ‘The frames are not important. We are seeking an oil painting. Something with blue in it, I think, to match the paper on the drawing-room walls.’

      The proprietors of the earlier shops would have been horrified at the idea of matching art to the wall colour. But it must not have been an unusual request here, for the dealer announced that he kept the paintings sorted by colour. Then he led them to a dark and crowded corner of the shop where heavy gilt frames were stacked in precarious piles.

      Mr Drake glanced at her expectantly. ‘Did your grandmother say anything about the size of the painting?’

      She shook her head. ‘I doubt it was a miniature. But it could not have been very large, or I’d have noticed a blank spot on the wall.’

      ‘We shall start in the middle, then.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because they will be easier to lift,’ he said, heaving a pile of paintings down from a high shelf with a grunt. They slid to the floor, raising a cloud of dust.

      Hope tipped them forward, one by one, to look at the canvases. As she did so, he turned towards another shelf, pulling down more paintings, just as heavy and just as dirty.

      The collected art was random, the only common denominator being colour. There were landscapes by moonlight, seascapes, a still life of berries, studies of birds, and portraits of blue-clad men and women in velvets, satins and...

      She stared at the painting in front of her for only a moment, before averting her eyes in shock. Then she glanced back to be sure of its subject before calling to Mr Drake.

      ‘I have found the painting.’

      ‘Excellent. Let me summon the proprietor.’