Percy smoothed his cravat. “I do not know what you are talking about, miss. I don’t know anyone by the name of Ravenmore.”
She straightened. “I spoke with the curator at the Royal Museum, and I know you negotiate on behalf of Ravenmore. You are his solicitor. Sir, I must speak with the painter. It is of the utmost importance.”
Masterful. She played him like a violin.
His respect for her increased further. The woman knew what she was about.
Percy worried his hands together. “I am sorry, but I cannot help you.”
Before she could mount a new line of attack on his beleaguered solicitor, Leo stepped closer. “Why is it so important you speak to this painter?”
She faced him, her eyes fixed on his cravat. “That is no concern of yours.”
The way she avoided the topic only made her more interesting. Did it have something to do with how she’d reacted to the painting at Lady Jarvis’s ball?
Percy flapped his hands about ineffectually. “Lord Briarwood is acquainted with Ravenmore. Perhaps he can help.”
Leo sent a baleful glower his solicitor’s way, to no effect. Percy returned to his desk and refilled his brandy, then downed it.
Saffron stepped toward him, clutching her hands together in front of her, and his reason was once again swept aside.
“I must speak to Ravenmore,” she said. “Please. I beg of you.”
He ran his eyes down her form. Her plain gown, though fashionable, was a clever re-tailoring of a different dress. The scuff marks on her shoes and the tarnish on her buttons suggested she was not from a wealthy family, as his cousin had said.
“Well?” she asked. Desperation tinged her words. If he did not help her, she would find some other way to accomplish her goals.
For a fleeting moment, the image of his sister overlaid her. Sabrina had shared Saffron’s impatience, demanding his attention when he was busy, pouting and raging, until he’d acknowledged her.
He remembered her accusing eyes staring up at him from her swollen, blue-tinged face.
Sabrina had trusted him, and he’d betrayed her. He could not go through that again. A chill settled over him, and he took a step back. As alluring as Miss Summersby was, his sister’s legacy came first. Nothing else mattered.
“I apologize, but I cannot help you.”
She leaned forward, beseeching him with her wide, brown eyes and pouting lips. “Surely, you could pass on a letter, at least.”
Her bosom rose and fell in a way that made him long to sweep her back into his arms and capture her wind-chapped lips. He remembered how she’d felt pressed against his body.
“It’s not that,” he said, scrambling to recover his scattered wits. “Ravenmore has… retired.”
Saffron paled. “Retired? No, that cannot be. I must speak to him. If I can’t…” She trailed off, staring at the ground. She looked so distraught, like a child separated from her parents in a crowded market, that he could not stop himself.
“There might be a way.”
Her lips parted on a soft gasp, and her cheeks bloomed with color. “Truly? What is it?”
The pure, innocent hope in her words slayed the last of his reluctance and the words tumbled out of him like marbles released from a jar. “I am holding an auction at the Briarwood estate. There will be a Ravenmore for sale, so it is likely that the artist will attend. If you wish, I could invite your family.”
He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from taking the offer back. Not only because it would be rude, but because he was surprised to find he liked the idea of her wandering the halls of his home. She would be a ray of light in the otherwise bleak house.
She folded her arms over her chest. “You would do that?”
The blatant skepticism scratched at his pride. What had he done to earn such distrust? She was so flighty around him, ready to bolt at any moment. When he moved, she flinched, as if she expected him to strike.
“My lord, if I could make a suggestion?” Percy asked timidly.
He jerked his head toward his solicitor, having forgotten the man was in the room. “Yes?”
