The Lady Travelers Guide To Larceny With A Dashing Stranger

“And in these past two years you have become something of a recluse,” Roz said pointedly. “When you’re not engaged in the management of your businesses, you have buried yourself in the Herculean task of setting all in order at Montague House. You have completely ignored any kind of social encounter that wasn’t required. And those for the most part have been family obligations.”

“For the hundredth time, sister dear.” Dante struggled to keep his temper in check. It wasn’t easy. Roz refused to accept that between Montague House and his business interests, his life was inordinately full. He had no time for frivolity and no interest at the moment in pursuing anything of a romantic nature. “I have a great deal to attend to and other pursuits are simply going to have to wait.”

“Pursuits such as finding a wife?”

“Exactly,” he snapped. “I have neither the time nor the inclination right now for romantic entanglements.”

Still, responding to his sister’s obvious efforts to irritate him would not get him anywhere. Nor did it help to know she only had his best interests at heart as did his mother and every other female member of his family. None of them seemed to understand that while he had no particular aversion to marriage, he did not think it was crucial to his life. At least not currently.

He drew a calming breath. “As you know, the family has given me three years to rebuild, or rather build, Montague House’s reputation and put the collections in order. I have accomplished a great deal toward that goal. I have recovered a number of objects that had either been lost in the attics, moved to other family properties or disappeared from the house altogether. The latter at no little expense. It has not been easy.” He absently paced the room. “The missing Portinari is the center of a triptych, essentially a three-part painting.”

“We know what a triptych is, Uncle Dante,” Harriet said in the long-suffering manner of the young.

“What you may not know is that Galasso Portinari was a student of Titian and a painter in his workshop. A sixteenth-century biography of Titian says he considered Portinari his greatest student and predicted he would one day surpass even the master’s skill. Unfortunately, he died quite young—plague possibly but the details on that are vague. His original work is exceedingly rare. While students of Titian’s—including Portinari—often copied his work, there is no record of more than a handful of any other original Portinaris. Therefore ours are exceptionally valuable. These three paintings are the sorts of things that will make a museum’s reputation.”

“Then why haven’t they done so?” A challenge sounded in Roz’s voice. While not as passionate about Grandfather’s legacy as her brother, Dante had thought she was somewhat neutral on the question of the fate of Montague House. Although he now recalled there was a gleam of interest in her eyes when the idea of returning the mansion to a private residence had been raised. “It’s not as if they have just been acquired. Hadn’t they been in the collection long before the house became a museum?”

“Yes, but previous curators apparently didn’t understand what they had. For one thing, the paintings weren’t displayed properly. They were hanging in the library on three different walls, separated by bookshelves and one barely noticed them. But they were designed to hang together to create one continuous work. When done so, one can see the continuity between the pieces, the story the painter was trying to tell. All of that—as well as the brilliance of the artist himself—is lost when they are not displayed together.” Dante shook his head. “I’m not sure even grandfather knew what he had. He had an excellent eye but he tended to buy what appealed to him rather than what might be a good investment. In fact, I’m not sure any of those we’ve employed to curate the museum understood the potential value of the Portinaris. Indeed, it’s only been in recent years that his work has been recognized. Each painting by itself is brilliant but all three together are nothing short of a masterpiece.”

Roz frowned. “I don’t even remember them.”

“They’re relatively small—each is a mere twelve by eighteen inches. And, as I said, they were in the library. It’s been kept clean, of course, dusted and swept and all, but little additional attention paid to it. As if valuable first editions could take care of themselves.” He scoffed.

His sister traded glances with her daughter.

“According to the house records, the first director started to catalog the contents of the library but then turned his attention to other matters. The second picked up where the first let off but accomplished little.” He couldn’t keep the hard edge from his voice. The lack of attention paid to the collections in the house by previous management was nothing short of criminal. One did wonder how his uncle’s solicitors—charged with arranging for the engagement of the house staff—managed to find such utter incompetents. “None of the subsequent curators did anything at all toward organizing and cataloging the books or anything else in the library.”

It never failed to annoy him that in the quarter of a century between his grandfather’s death and Dante’s assuming directorship of the museum, no one in his family had paid the least bit of attention to what was occurring. There were gaps in the financial statements and other records that not only pointed to mismanagement but outright fraud and perhaps even theft. Much of which he doubted he would ever be able to reconcile. In many ways it was fortunate the Portinaris were overlooked. Otherwise all three of the originals might be missing.

“So what you’re trying to say in that long and tedious way you have is that recovering the painting is crucial to Montague House.” Roz eyed her brother thoughtfully. “That this is exactly what you need to increase prestige and credibility. Essentially to save Montague House.”

“What we need,” he said firmly.

“I still don’t see why we have to flit around Europe.” Harriet huffed. “Why don’t you just offer to buy the painting once Lady Bascombe has it?”

“Although I daresay to 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 her defiant attitude. “I suppose.”

“Perhaps,” Dante said casually, “it might be beneficial for Harriet to make the acquaintance of a new circle of young women. And see a bit of the world in the process.”

“Dante.” Roz blew a long breath. “I have a great deal to do and no time to go off wandering Europe.”

“Besides, Mr. Goodwin promised to call on me.” Harriet breathed a dreamy sigh, obviously in the throes of delighted anticipation.

Roz frowned. “Bertram Goodwin?”

“Yes.” Harriet dimpled. “He’s quite dashing and very clever.”

“He’s the third son of an earl with no prospects whatsoever and a questionable reputation. And when I say questionable...I am being kind.” Roz stared. “And his mother is...well, suffice it to say she is not one of my favorite people. And I like nearly everyone.”

“Nonsense, Mother. You’re just being stuffy.” Harriet sniffed. “Mr. Goodwin’s reputation is no worse than most young men of my acquaintance. But he is amusing and handsome and...” Her chin raised in a determined manner. “And I like him. I like him quite a lot. Why, I might even be in love with him.”

“You’ll be no such thing. He is entirely inappropriate and a very bad influence.” Roz’s gaze locked with her daughter’s. “I will not permit him to call on you.”

“Regardless.” Harriet crossed her arms over her chest. “I fully intend to see him whenever possible.”

Mother and daughter glared at each other. Tension hung in the air and Dante resisted the urge to step back, out of range of whatever might happen next. He’d never witnessed a confrontation between these two before. His gaze shifted from his sister to his niece and back. Regardless of how much he wished to recover the Portinari, was it wise to join a group made up of mothers and daughters? Still, one did what was necessary. He braced himself.

“Did I mention I would be paying for everything? I will take care of all expenses,” he said in what he thought was a helpful manner.

“Your father will like that.” Roz’s gaze never left her daughter’s.

“Father will never make me go if I don’t want to.” Challenge colored Harriet’s words.

“My dear child, you are his daughter.” A triumphant gleam sparked in Roz’s eyes. “I am his wife.” Roz adopted a wicked smile he had seen any number of times in their youth when she’d had the upper hand and knew it. “Dante.” Her gaze never wavered from her offspring. “When do we leave?”

CHAPTER THREE

One week later...

“...AND THE NEXT THING I knew—” Willie settled in a plush cushioned chair and cast her most pleasant smile at the first members of her group to arrive at the private train car that would take them to Dover “—I was agreeing to do the old dear a favor and accompany a group of mothers and daughters on a tour. Although I will admit I am quite looking forward to it.”

“Geneva and I are very excited, my lady.” Mrs. Henderson—Marian she had already insisted Willie call her as she was certain they would soon be fast friends—fairly glowed with barely restrained enthusiasm.

The car’s furnishings were more conducive to a parlor or an elegant sitting room than a train, with wine-colored velvet drapes trimmed with gold cord at the windows and luxurious sofas and chairs instead of the more typical train seating. Exactly the refinement one expected from a private car. Marian perched on the sofa at the far end of the car although Willie suspected she might bounce off her seat at any moment—as if even the forces of gravity could not contain her energy. Her daughter, Geneva, sitting beside her, had made appropriate murmurings at their introduction then promptly pulled a book out of a valise and buried her nose in it.

“We have never been to Europe before,” Marian continued, “and never imagined we would see anything beyond London. Gerald, my husband, is here for business and is constantly occupied with meetings, which is something of a shame as he has seen nothing whatsoever. Geneva and I simply came along because we’re from Chicago and we have never traveled at all. And we have always dreamed of seeing London. We had no further expectations beyond that.”

She paused and Willie nodded. It was apparent she would not be able to get a word in until Marian’s soliloquy had run its course. Perhaps tomorrow...

“But when Mrs. Vanderflute said she had inquired as to the possibility of a trip to Paris and the Riviera and Venice and Rome—not a grand tour exactly but more of a meandering path, I would say—well, it was one of those things that does not come along often. Certainly I would have preferred a more extensive route that included some of the northern climes but it is autumn after all and the weather being what is it, well, it did seem perfectly suitable. We have been in London for months now so thirty days on a whirlwind trip was nearly irresistible. Gerald is so occupied with business that he will scarcely notice our absence at all. And we will return to London with more than enough time to make our voyage home. How could one say no to that?”

Willie stared. “It would be difficult.”

“Besides,” Marian continued, “I am a firm believer that when unexpected opportunities present themselves one should seize them with both hands. Don’t you agree, my lady?”

For a moment, Willie could do little more than stare—her smile frozen awkwardly on her face. Certainly Willie was known for being unreserved and candid but she wasn’t sure she’d ever encountered anyone so, well, open as Marian Henderson.

“Well, yes,” she said at last. “Yes, I do.”

“I thought so. Especially since you agreed to accompany our little group at what was very nearly the last minute. I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you did so, my lady. Why, after Mrs. Vanderflute and her daughter had to return home unexpectedly, I thought surely this trip would fall apart. After all, the itinerary was her doing and, as I said, not my first choice. But she did go to the trouble of arranging the tour and I didn’t feel it was my place to make changes even after she decided not to come. You understand. But then the Lady Travelers Society contacted us at our hotel—the Savoy. Do you know it, my lady?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s new, I believe.”

Marian nodded. “It opened in August I think. And did you know, my lady, it’s entirely lit by electricity?”

“I had no idea,” Willie said faintly, although she had heard the new Savoy was both grand and thoroughly modern.

“I cannot tell you how thrilled Geneva and I were when that lovely woman from the Lady Travelers Society—oh, what was her name, my lady?”

“Miss Granville?”

“Yes, that’s the one. When she informed us, if we were still interested, the tour would now be hosted by the honorable Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe.” Marian said Willie’s name with the sort of reverence one usually reserved for royalty. Or God.

“And I am certain we shall all have a grand time.”

Marian frowned. “I did think though that there would be a tour director or something of that sort.”

“Nonsense.” Willie waved off the comment. “Miss Granville has organized everything beautifully and I assure you I am quite delighted about the prospect of leading our group of travelers and handling those minor matters that may arise. It shall be great fun and I daresay it won’t even be a particular challenge, although I do love a challenge. Besides, a tour director would prove terribly inconvenient, don’t you think?”

Marian shook her head in confusion. “Inconvenient?”

“Of course. It would most likely be a man, which would ruin the spirit of independence inherent in this group. Why, we are a merry band of ladies—of mothers and daughters—out to conquer a corner of Europe with our maps and guidebooks in one hand and our parasols in the other. We certainly don’t need anyone, let alone a man, to lead the way. Don’t you agree?”

“I do.” Marian shook her head eagerly. “I really do.”

“Excellent.” Willie cast her a brilliant smile, rose to her feet, picked up the leather-clad notebook Poppy had given her as a bon voyage present and tried not to look as if she were escaping. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to return to the train platform and greet the rest of our tour.”

“Ah yes, that would be Mrs. Corby and her daughters, my lady. I’ve met them but I can’t say that I know them. Her husband is engaged in business with mine and Mr. Vanderflute. They’re from New York if I recall correctly.” A slight frown creased her forehead. “The Corby daughters are a bit younger than Geneva, I think. She’s almost nineteen and I am hoping this trip gives her the extra bit of polish she needs to find an appropriate husband—”

Willie might have been mistaken but she could have sworn she heard a faint groan from behind Geneva’s book.

“—as she is not getting any younger. Surely you see my point, my lady? Why, I was married at nineteen and I have been happy ever since.” Marian threw her daughter a pointed look. Geneva turned a page. Obviously the young woman was used to ignoring her mother. Willie bit back a smile.

“The train is expected to leave in a quarter of an hour so I expect the others to arrive at any minute.” Willie turned toward the door.

“Mrs. Corby strikes me as being a quiet sort, my lady,” Marian called after her. “Terribly sensible but a bit timid, I suspect.”

“Then we shall do our best to make her feel she is among friends,” Willie said over her shoulder.

“Excellent. Lady...” Marian hesitated.

Willie reached the door and turned back. “Yes?”

“I hate to sound, well, stupid but I am at a loss. We don’t have titles in America, you see, so I have no idea what it is appropriate to call you, your ladyship.” Concern touched with embarrassment shone in Marian’s eyes. “Is it Lady Wilhelmina or Lady Bascombe?”

Willie studied the other woman. With light brown hair and a charming smile she was quite attractive, although Willie suspected she might have been slimmer in her youth, and no more than ten years older than Willie, if that. This was a woman who, in spite of an air of confidence, obviously wanted to be liked as well as do what was expected and correct.

“For one thing, it’s not necessary to refer to me as my lady with every breath,” Willie said as gently as possible.

Marian’s face fell.

“Goodness, Marian, as you said, you are not from England, so you cannot be expected to know all the myriad little details that accompany forms of address here. Why, I myself get confused on occasion. And I am certainly not the least bit insulted, so do not worry yourself about that for a moment.”