Regency Affairs Part 2: Books 7-12 Of 12. Ann Lethbridge

a good likeness,’ she persisted, swiftly walking over to it, ‘any art lover would know that. But of course the brushwork, let alone the balance of opaque and transparent colours, is not typical of Poussin in the least.’

      He blinked. ‘But of course.’

      ‘As for that pair of portraits by Le Brun—’ she swung round and pointed to another wall ‘—the varnish on them is quite wrong. It’s too new.’ She walked across to peer more closely; he tried not to notice the way her slender hips swayed as she moved. ‘And the signature is,’ she went on, swinging round and almost catching his too-appreciative stare, ‘a forgery!’

      That concentrated his wandering mind. Those were his mother’s, damn it. ‘You’re quite certain?’

      ‘I am indeed! But if you’re doubting my knowledge, Captain Stewart …!’

      ‘Not at all,’ he breathed. ‘Not at all, Mrs Rowland.’ He bowed his head. ‘I am—grateful.’

      Grateful, and stunned. By her knowledge, by her damned allure—and by Stephen’s damned treachery. He led her onwards.

      Rosalie was bemused by this house. By the wonderful treasures within it where he was so clearly at home. But, oh, what game was he playing with her this time?

      Her mind struggled for answers. Perhaps he was an impoverished cousin, who’d been occasionally allowed to stay. For goodness’ sake, he certainly knew the vast place backwards! And he knew the paintings, too, which made up a fabulous collection. Indeed, in every salon, every chamber to which he so coolly led her, wonderful works of art adorned the walls.

      But she was growing more and more concerned about them, because she considered that at least one in ten were careful forgeries. She pointed them out to him without emotion, and Alec nodded and wrote down the details in a notebook he carried.

      But Rosalie failed to see what business it was of his.

      In inner bewilderment, she followed him through all the ground-floor rooms, then up to other grand chambers. ‘You need not worry about us being interrupted,’ he said as she hesitated outside one fine room. ‘The owner is away, in the country.’

      Well. If that was supposed to make her more comfortable about this intrusion into another’s home, it had the opposite effect. But Alec, un-fazed, led her onwards, this time to the bedrooms and dressing rooms, where the paintings were smaller, daintier. One by one she examined each work of art and reported her conclusion.

      ‘This is the final room,’ said Alec gravely, flinging open the door to a beautiful dressing chamber and adjoining bedroom. ‘And by the way, I’m extremely grateful to you.’

      She nodded tightly. ‘As long as you or I don’t end up in gaol.’

      ‘Not us,’ he said. ‘Believe me, not us. What about those?’

      She turned to examine one last set of exquisite French figure drawings in black-and-red chalk. ‘These are not counterfeit, I’m sure. They’re by Watteau. They must be very valuable.’

      ‘Good,’ he breathed. ‘He always loved those pictures.’

      ‘He?’

      But Alec was already putting his notebook in his pocket. ‘And that’s the last of them, thank God. Rosalie, would you like some new clothes?’

      Again he saw apprehension glitter in her eyes. ‘Not at all. I already have those you gave me, at Two Crows Castle!’

      She was pointing to the plain gown she wore, but Alec’s lip curled in an ironic smile. ‘All women always need more clothes, surely. Come and take a look in here.’ He led her through to another large dressing room, and she caught her breath at the gowns, pelisses and walking dresses that were simply scattered on couches at either end of the room like jewels from a treasure trove.

      ‘Help yourself,’ he drawled.

      She whipped round. ‘I cannot possibly!’

      ‘Let me assure you—they will not be missed. I’m grateful to you for examining the paintings. You can take whatever you want as your reward.’ His eyes impassively assessed her figure in a way that made her skin tingle. ‘Put one of these gowns on now, why not? They should all fit you.’

      She was still utterly bewildered. She wanted to ask so many questions, but he was already turning to go. ‘I’ll see you downstairs when you’ve made your choice,’ he said. ‘Then we may as well eat. The dining room is just off the main hall. Ring the bell for a maid if you need anything.’

      And he’d gone. She sat down rather suddenly on the edge of the bed. Who did these wonderful clothes belong to? Who did this mansion belong to? What was Alec Stewart doing to her brain, her existence?

      He was her enemy. She’d only gone with him that dreadful night after the poetry reading because she’d had no choice; only stayed with him because she’d been so ill. He had to be her enemy. But why, then, did he offer to protect her against the writer of that abominable note?

      I don’t know. I don’t know.

      He thought her a whore and the knowledge seared her. He thought she’d be delighted with this treasure trove of clothes. Sick at heart, she lifted the extravagant garments one by one, until she found a modest muslin gown in midnight blue, with three-quarter-length sleeves and a fichu to cover her bosom. Then she tidied her hair, using the silver-backed brush that lay on the mirrored dressing table, and dragged it back into a ribbon.

      There! Most women of the ton would require the assistance of two maids to adorn themselves, but not her. And if he hoped she might betray her vanity, or her—her availability by her choice of clothes—he’d be disappointed.

      She rang the bell for a servant—she had no hope of finding her way round this palatial house by herself—and the maid, arriving, curtsied with a smile. ‘You ready to go downstairs, ma’am? Master Alec said to show you the way!’

      Master Alec. Another servant who knew the renegade Captain rather well. Rosalie seized a filmy cashmere shawl to drape across her arms and followed the maid downstairs, nervous again. The afternoon dusk was gathering, but wax candles had been lit throughout the house. Expense was clearly of no account here. The maid opened a door off the main hall. ‘There you are, ma’am.’

      Rosalie blinked in fresh amazement. This was the dining room—a room Alec hadn’t yet shown her—and on a vast linen-draped table were laid out smoked hams, cold joints of beef, pies and whole cheeses, surrounded by a glittering array of porcelain and silverware. This table was set for twenty people. Bottles of wine adorned the sideboard. ‘We may as well eat,’ Alec had casually said—but this was a feast!

      She suddenly became aware of Alec as he entered the room behind her. ‘What’s this?’ she breathed, turning to face him. ‘Is the owner giving a party tonight?’

      ‘It certainly looks like it. Doesn’t it? And I see you found yourself something to wear.’

      His dark eyes were fastened on her, in a way that somehow made her lungs ache with the need for air. The colour flared in her cheeks. ‘I chose the simplest gown I could find!’

      ‘Indeed. And it suits you.’

      Rather too well, thought Alec, damn it all. Indeed, his pulse rate had started hammering away the minute he saw her standing there, looking so lost and so alone. She’d picked a garment that was downright plain, perhaps hoping to deter him, perhaps not.

      For the clinging fabric hugged her sweet curves like blue gossamer, moving whenever she moved, clinging to her gently swelling bosom and hips, her slim thighs … As for her hair, again she had confounded him. As far as Alec was aware women spent hours over their hair, crimping it, styling it. But hers was done so artlessly—pulled up into a ribbon, yet with those few trailing locks that looked delicious enough to run through in his fingers. Devil take it, did she truly