The Lady Travelers Guide To Larceny With A Dashing Stranger. Victoria Alexander

convince her to sell, you will have to do something about your, well, your demeanor,” Roz said.

      He frowned. “What’s wrong with my demeanor?”

      “You’re curt, you tend to be condescending, especially when you think you’re right or you’re the most intelligent person in the room, and you are entirely too arrogant.” Harriet glanced at her mother.

      “Well, yes,” Roz agreed. “But it would have been nice to phrase it a bit more tactfully.”

      Harriet shrugged. “I phrased it exactly the way I’ve heard you say it.” She cast an apologetic look at her uncle. “Sorry, Uncle Dante.”

      He stared at his sister. “I am not any of those things.”

      Roz grimaced.

      “Am I really?” Admittedly, he might be the tiniest bit patronizing when he knew he was right and possibly more impatient than he should be and there was the distinct possibility that he did have no more than a mere touch of arrogance. “Yes, well, perhaps some of that might not be entirely inaccurate.”

      “However,” Roz said, “you can be quite charming when you set your mind to it. Indeed, although it has been some time, I’ve watched you charm any number of unsuspecting females.”

      His brow shot upward. “Unsuspecting?”

      “That might not have been the right word,” Roz murmured. “But you are a handsome devil, as well, in a quiet sort of way, and I’ve never seen you look less than perfect. In addition, your wealth is most impressive. You are a catch, Dante. Women are naturally attracted to you. I don’t know why you don’t take advantage of that.”

      “I think it’s foolish to depend on one’s appearance and fortune rather than one’s intelligence.”

      “What’s foolish is your not taking advantage of both,” Harriet noted under her breath. “And yet it explains so much.”

      He ignored her. “Regardless, your point is taken. I shall do my best to be as charming as I possibly can.”

      Harriet snorted.

      “As I was saying, I have considered attempting to purchase the Portinari but I will not make an offer until its true ownership is determined.” His jaw tightened. “I would prefer not to have to pay for something that rightfully belongs to this family.”

      Harriet cast him a skeptical look. “And how will you determine ownership?”

      “I have collected every record, every invoice, every bit of correspondence I can find—Father and the uncles have helped with that—in an effort to find some statement as to the disposition of the Portinari. I have the original bill of sale for all three paintings and, at the moment, I have nothing to indicate any of them were sold or ownership transferred in any way. I have studied everything myself and I’ve hired a firm with expertise in such matters to examine all the records as well as investigators searching for more. I cannot confront Lady Bascombe until I have solid evidence regarding ownership. Once I do, I can demand her proof of provenance. But it scarcely matters until she recovers the painting.” He paused. “I intend to be present when she does. Now that I know exactly where the painting is, I will not allow it to vanish from sight again.”

      Roz frowned. “You don’t trust her?”

      “I don’t know her,” he said. “But I do know of her. Her reputation does not inspire confidence.”

      Roz’s brow furrowed in confusion then her expression cleared. “Oh. You’re speaking of Wilhelmina Bascombe?”

      “Is there another Lady Bascombe?” Harriet asked.

      “I don’t think so.” Dante studied his sister. “Do you know her?”

      “I wouldn’t say I know her but I believe we met once in passing although it was some time ago.” Roz thought for a moment. “I rather liked her if I recall. You’re right though—she and her husband were part of a fast crowd always engaged in some sort of outing or entertainment or activity verging on the edge of outright scandal. There was talk about her husband’s indiscretions, as well, although I don’t recall ever hearing anything about her. Still, in that particular group... Now that I think about it, I don’t believe I’ve heard anything at all about her since her husband died and that must be at least two years ago.”

      “Apparently, she was in seclusion until recently.” A fact Dante’s investigator had included in the dossier he had prepared. He had also uncovered information about Lady Bascombe’s finances. It appeared the widow was forced to sell her country house and various other items to settle her husband’s debts and had very little left, although Dante assumed she had reserved enough to pay off the loan and take possession of the Portinari. Her financial state also explained why she was leading a tour rather than simply traveling to Venice on her own.

      “One can scarcely blame her for wishing to leave the country for a bit,” Roz said. “Put the past behind her and reminders of her husband, that sort of thing. Although shepherding a group of Americans sounds rather daunting to me.”

      “I believe this is in the manner of a favor to an elderly relative who founded some sort of travel society for ladies. It is my understanding that without the presence of Lady Bascombe the tour was in jeopardy of not proceeding at all.”

      “It’s quite kind of her, then, isn’t it?” Roz nodded thoughtfully. “But I suppose it would indeed serve to take her mind off her loss.”

      “I would imagine. Difficult time for her, I would think. Not at all the time to confront her about the painting,” Dante added with an appropriately concerned frown. It was not entirely feigned. The more he’d learned about Lady Bascombe the more she intrigued him. But surely she couldn’t be as interesting as she sounded. More likely she shared a great deal in common with Miss Pauling, at least when it came to character. And that was not the least bit interesting. At least not to him.

      “Poor woman,” Roz murmured.

      “Poor woman?” Harriet stared at her mother. “The lady and her husband were obviously engaged in all sorts of improprieties to have been the subject of so much gossip. There is always an element of truth behind any morsel of rumor—that’s what you always say.”

      “Yes,” Roz began, “but—”

      “Furthermore, one has only oneself to blame when one’s husband wanders.” Harriet pinned her mother with a firm look. “Don’t you say that, as well?”

      “I might have said something like that.” The oddest look of panic showed in Roz’s eyes.

      “And haven’t you warned me my entire life that dreadful things can happen to those who misbehave, so it is important that one’s behavior be exemplary?” Harriet aimed the words at her mother with the directness of an inquisitor questioning a heretic.

      “Well, yes, but—”

      “It seems to me this is simply the price of fast living,” Harriet said in a lofty manner.

      “Good Lord, what have I done?” Roz’s eyes narrowed. “Regardless of how one chooses to behave, there are few things worse in this life for a woman than losing her husband. Unless one’s husband leaves a great deal of money, the finances of a widow are precarious at best. As I said, I don’t really know Lady Bascombe but I would suspect if she has remained in seclusion and only recently returned to London—” she glanced at her brother and he nodded “—then she must have cared a great deal for her husband.”

      “‘The wages of sin is death.’” Harriet smirked.

      “Only in the bible, dear,” Roz snapped. “And while I am pleased that you have obviously listened to every bit of wisdom I have ever imparted, I am hoping you have heard me when I have talked about compassion or sympathy, as well. Especially among fellow women, whether we are acquainted with them or not.”

      Harriet had the good grace to blush in spite of