A shuttered look came over his features. "My mother had it commissioned before she died."
Calliope touched his arm. "l am very sorry for your loss."
"It was a lifetime ago." He walked toward the dining area.
The spacious room contained a huge table. Calliope imagined that if two people were to sit at either end they would need to yell to hear the other. A snort escaped at the thought.
"Something wrong? "
She shook her head. "No, just thinking about how one would converse from the opposite ends of the table."
He smiled faintly. "With great difficulty. We usually sat at one end. But I had a stickler of an aunt who demanded we dine formally. It was always amusing when she visited."
Dinner was served and Calliope devoured the succulent pheasant as James related amusing anecdotes about his extended family and friends. She noticed he did not mention his parents. She recognized many of the names and filed the information away, almost unconsciously, for future use.
Calliope stifled a clumsy yawn and James suggested they retire to the study.
Following him, she found herself immersed in a room with dark wood, reds and royal blues. She hadn’t paid attention to the furnishings the previous morning. It was a very manly room, no hint of a feminine touch anywhere. A sleek, ginger feline was curled in the nook of the sofa, head tucked under its arm. It glanced up and assessed her. James stroked it absentmindedly as he passed. It continued to stare at her.
She approached cautiously, and the cat did not seem to have any intention of moving. She extended her hand for the cat to sniff. Its nose twitched delicately at her fingertips and licked her finger pad. Calliope lightly stroked its chin. Satisfied, the cat stretched back into the corner and closed its eyes.
She looked up to find James observing the display with a small smile. "Gideon is a good judge of character. It is unusual for someone to receive a token of his affection so quickly."
She glanced at the sleeping furball and was about to comment when Templeton entered. "My lord, this note was just delivered. Would you like tea served?"
James nodded and took the note. Templeton strode out of the room.
James scanned the note. A satisfied expression crossed his features.
"How do you feel about attending a house party this weekend?"
She looked up in surprise. "House party?"
"Yes, Pettigrew is hosting one at his estate just outside of London. Since he’s on our list, it would give us the perfect opportunity to have a look through his… things."
Her eyebrows lifted. "His things?"
"You are starting to sound like a parrot, Miss Minton. I am sure that Ternberry and Roth will also be in attendance. It is quite a good opportunity. "
His parrot comment struck a discordant note and she said a bit tartly, "And what if Stephen’s house is broken into and the object we are so desperate to find is taken?"
A glint of amusement lit his eyes. "We can only hope someone does try to break into Stephen’s house. Several of my acquaintances will stay in the townhouse while you are gone."
"Oh, and how long will we be at Pettigrew’s?"
His shoulders moved in a lazy gesture. "Through the weekend."
A delicate shiver caught her.
He retrieved two pieces of parchment and wrote two notes. Templeton appeared a moment later with tea.
"See that these are delivered," James told the butler, who nodded and departed with the notes.
Calliope unsuccessfully tried to stifle another yawn.
"Maybe we should cut the evening short tonight. My driver will see you safely home. Everything will be ready when you arrive. There will be sufficient time for us to plan our strategy on the journey to Pettigrew’s."
Calliope rose to leave and he grasped her right hand and pulled her forward. Their eyes held. His forefinger stroked her palm.
"I will pick you up tomorrow. " He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on the inside of her wrist. "Sleep well, my dear."
She hurried out of the room like the Fates were nipping at her heels.
James stared at the entryway ceiling after she left. He usually avoided looking at it whenever possible. The pain had dulled over the years but he could still feel the emptiness that remained.
He remembered the glow on his mother’s face when the ceiling had been finished. She had been so thrilled with the way it had turned out. His father had given the painter more money than initially negotiated. Any amount of money was worth his marchioness’s delight.
His vibrant mother passed away a scant two months later. The doctor had said she contracted a lung disease. James knew then, at the age of twelve, that her illness was a result of the chill she had developed on their last outing. If only he had not requested that last picnic, she might still be alive.
His father had agreed. The day his mother was locked in the family crypt was the last day his father had spoken to him. In whispered tones James overheard the servants saying he looked too much like his dear mother for his father to stomach. And just at the age when James had needed his father the most, he was completely out of reach.
Unreciprocated love was a bitter thing.
James recalled the last evening he had allowed himself to cry. He had been in bed when he’d heard his father screaming in anger. James had come running, only to duck as a spray of glass crested the top of the staircase. He had cowered at the railing, peering through the uprights, hidden from his father’s view. But James had a clear view of the tableau.
The gathered servants had scattered in all directions. His father had gone into a frenzy, threatening to tear the ceiling down. He had hurled two more crystal goblets at it, but no damage was done. He had then crumpled to the floor and cried for what seemed like hours. Unbeknownst to the older man, only a stone’s throw away, his young son had cried with him. Cried for his father and for himself.
His father drank enough to forget his enraged promises concerning the ceiling, but James had not forgotten. He couldn’t recall ever seeing his father sober again. His father’s gambling exploits became legendary and he was rarely in residence at the London townhouse.
The marquess finally joined his beloved wife a year later, leaving his only offspring with a ruined empire and the assured knowledge he would never fall in love. Never succumb to weakness.
James broodingly stared at the half-full glass of scotch in his hand. He abruptly placed it on the Queen Anne table and left the room.
Deirdre and Robert walked into Calliope’s sitting room an hour after she returned to the townhouse. Robert looked determined. He was undoubtedly there to discuss her dealings with Angelford and had decided to bring reinforcements.
"When did you acquire such a burly staff?" Deirdre queried.
Two of Angelford’s footmen had ridden home with Calliope and were now installed in her household. They looked more like pugilists than servants. "They are temporary replacements for Stephen’s footmen. Charlie contracted pneumonia and Fred twisted his ankle. I believe the new men are relatives."
She pulled out a portmanteau and started packing, trying to avoid their sharp eyes.
"Where are you off to?" Robert demanded.
"I am attending a house party at Lord Pettigrew’s estate."
Calliope looked over in time to see Deirdre’s brows shoot skyward. Deirdre and Robert exchanged a glance. "House party?"
Calliope fastened a determined look on her face. "Yes. I have never been to one, and this is a wonderful opportunity."
Robert looked at her disapprovingly. "I will talk to Stephen. He’s gone too far this time. You cannot go."
Calliope lifted her chin. "I can and I will."