She fled to the darkest part of the alcove, taking great, gasping breaths as the world spun out of control. Her head fell back against the wall as she pushed away the darkness that creeped in from the sides of her vision. The lilting sounds of the orchestra, combined with the occasional shriek of laughter, carried to her.
“There you are.”
Saffron spun to find Lord Briarwood leaning against the stairs. His coat was unbuttoned, his cravat missing. The triangle of skin showing beneath his chin was enough to make her knees wobble anew.
She scuttled back until her hands splayed against the brick exterior of the house. “What do you want?”
“Only to help.” He held his palms spread out at his sides. “But I will leave if you prefer to be alone.”
“Why would you want to help the ‘creature that clings to your coattails’?”
The pain of the words struck her anew.
The viscount’s jaw ticked. “Don’t listen to them. There is nothing wrong with you. My sister used to panic around crowdsas well. She hated parading around in front of them.” He paused, then held out a hand. “Let me help you?”
Heavens, he was temptation personified. Her instincts blared, demanding that she run before anyone caught them together and assumed the worst.
Saffron stared over his shoulder. Although her heart still raced, her legs no longer felt like rubber and her hands had stopped prickling. As dangerous as it was to be alone with a man, she liked the idea of being by herself even less. With nothing to anchor her, the chains of panic would draw her into a sobbing mess.
“You can stay.”
He approached her with small, measured steps, stopping when he was a foot away.
“Focus on my voice. I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere.” He placed his hands on the wall on either side of her, sheltering her with his body. The sound of the ballroom faded into the background until all she could hear was her own breathing, harsh and uneven.
“I’m here,” he said, leaning closer. “Nothing else matters but this moment, right here, right now.”
The soothing words filled her with fizzing bubbles like she’d drunk an entire bottle of champagne. Warmth surrounded her, pushing out the cold. The sweet smell of cigar smoke clung to his shirt, and there was an echo of brandy on the breath that caressed her cheek. She longed to reach out and tangle her hands in his shirt, draw him close. She glanced up through her eyelashes, and the heat in his eyes made her stomach flutter.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice husky. The tendons in his neck tightened, and his nostrils flared. He pushed away from the wall, took several staggering steps back, and fled.
What was that?
For a fraction of a second, she’d thought he might kiss her. But that was ridiculous, of course. She never would have allowed it, not the least because she looked terrible, drenched in sweat, with her hair flying around her face.
Still, her heart thundered at the idea.
Chapter Four
Leo wet thetip of the finest, most delicate paintbrush he owned and dipped it in a tub of charcoal-colored paint. A fuzzy ball of gray fur danced at his feet. He picked the kitten up and briefly cuddled her against his cheek before setting her down. A footman had chased her into his studio, and he had not had the heart to send her away. Much like he could not close his eyes without seeing Saffron Summersby’s face. The way she had stared up at him, her wide eyes filled with tears, her hair drooping onto her pale neck. She had seemed so fragile, like a glass sculpture that would shatter if not handled with care. The urge to gather her up in his arms and spirit her away somewhere safe had overwhelmed him. Rather than face what that meant, he’d fled.
Coward, the voice in his mind whispered.
At least he had made progress on the Ravenmore. All it had taken to convince Lady Jarvis to relinquish the painting was a strongly worded letter threatening to expose her to the press.
But the woman could not tell him how she had acquired it, as the seller had routed the transaction through several intermediaries. Worse, he’d reached out to his museum contacts and learned there were no reports of theft.
“My lord, your cousin is here.”
Lady Jarvis’s Ravenmore should have been hanging in the British Museum. It stillwashanging in the museum. A second, identical painting.
There was only one conclusion.
Someone is stealing Ravenmores and replacing them with forgeries.
He set his brush against his canvas, forming the hull of a ship. The same ship from the painting that had caught Miss Summersby’s interest. It was familiar, somehow, although he could not remember ever seeing it before.
“My lord?”
