Barrington’s mouth curved. “We are narrowing the options.”
“Or expanding them, depending on whom you ask,” she countered, drawing a ripple of polite laughter from those nearby.
Lady Westcott’s attention returned to Leticia, her eyes bright with interest. “And for you, my dear, congratulations are in order. Such a romantic proposal. It made my heart flutter.”
Heat touched Leticia’s cheeks. “It was… rather unexpected.”
Gabriel’s gaze met hers for a moment, steady, unreadable, before drifting over her shoulder to a tall, neatly dressed man standing a discreet pace behind Lady Westcott. The fellow carried a leather folio and had the precise bearing of one accustomed to balancing accounts.
“Mr. Denholm,” Gabriel murmured for her alone. “Her ladyship’s affairs man.”
Lady Westcott gestured toward the adjoining chamber. “Do take a glass before you view the collection. Sir Albert insists one sees everything more favorably with champagne in hand.”
They entered the receiving room beyond, where conversation rose beneath the warm gleam of candle chandeliers. Footmen in livery threaded through the crowd, silver trays of crystal flutes catching the light. Perfume wove with beeswax and champagne until the air was velvet with scent.
Across the room, two ladies whispered behind their fans.
“…after the theft at the masquerade, she guards them like a dragon with its hoard,” one murmured, her eyes darting toward a nearby case.
Leticia turned toward the display, unwilling to appear curious. The mention of the masquerade still scraped like flint beneath the surface. She might have lingered to hear more, but Miss Erica Notley arrived at her side, her expression bright and her gaze already sweeping the room. “Such a crush,” she observed. “I imagine the noise becomes invisible once one is accustomed to it.”
“It does,” Leticia said, keeping her tone mild and her attention elsewhere.
They moved together toward the wide archway leading into the long gallery. To the right, an alcove displayed historical texts on loan from private collections. A figure stood there, bent over a glass-topped case, hands clasped behind his back.
“Professor Tresham,” Leticia said, pleased to see him.
He looked up, his reserve easing a fraction. “Lady Salisbury. I did not expect to find you here among the relics.”
“Professor, may I present Miss Erica Notley?”
“A pleasure, Miss Notley.” His tone was courteous, his manner precise.
“The pleasure is mine, Professor,” she replied, her smile even.
“These are remarkable,” Leticia said, leaning closer to the display.
“Several from Lord Harrington’s collection,” Tresham told her. “This charter,” he indicated a sheet of vellum, “is a sixteenth-century grant reaffirming Sommer-by-the-Sea’s market rights. The seal is unusually well preserved.”
Miss Notley tilted her head toward another. “The hand looks different.”
“Fifteenth-century copy of an older text,” Tresham confirmed. “More rounded, as was common then.”
Leticia smiled. “I envy your skill.”
“Only practice,” Tresham replied.
From the corner of her vision, Leticia noticed Gabriel a few paces away, his posture relaxed but his gaze trained on the far end of the gallery, where Mr. Denholm now conferred with a uniformed guard. He moved to join her with unhurried steps that belied his focus.
“If you will excuse us, Professor,” Gabriel said smoothly. “Lady Salisbury, there is something I would like to show you.”
Miss Notley’s smile was pleasant, if faintly edged. “Enjoy the rest of the exhibition.”
Gabriel guided Leticia toward the jewel cases. The gallery light caught on emeralds, rubies, and sapphires, each gem catching the light as guests shifted before the glass. The air was quieter, as though the jewels themselves demanded it.
“I never tire of these,” Miss Notley said lightly, reappearing beside them with the ease of one accustomed to slipping into conversations. “One wonders what scandals their histories would tell.”
Gabriel’s eyes lingered on a necklace. “Morton estate. Acquired at auction.”
