Gabriel drew a small card and wrote a short message. “Ask for a table piece, not a church display. Tell Mrs. Hale the bride would like to see the work, not the height.”
Kenworth took the card with a short nod. “Very good, my lord.”
The conversation turned to lighter matters. Lady Marchmont admired the ribbon swatches, Mrs. Bainbridge asked after Leticia’s aunt. Barrington spoke of the wind off the water that morning, lifting the gulls like scraps of white paper.
Erica, lingering near the vase, remarked that she had heard the watch was out late the previous night. The words carried a soft ripple through the room. She smiled as though it were nothing more than gossip. Leticia set her teacup down with care. Gabriel said nothing, but his attention sharpened in a way that she could feel, like a faint tightening in the air between them.
The clock on the mantel chimed. Lady Marchmont turned toward the sound. “We must not keep the society waiting. I promised my voice for a cause that will take most of the afternoon if I am not careful.”
“We would not have you late on our account,” Mrs. Bainbridge said.
Erica reached for her gloves slowly, smoothing each finger, and glanced toward the vase again. She did not say she wished to stay, but some part of her was reluctant to leave.
“Come along, my dear,” Lady Marchmont said with pleasant insistence. To Mrs. Bainbridge, “If the vase pleases you, keep it through the wedding, and send a note after. If I need it sooner, I will send a footman.”
“Your kindness is more than I could ask,” Mrs. Bainbridge said.
Pleasantries were exchanged. Sanderson opened the door. Lady Marchmont offered a last friendly nod before leaving. Erica followed,half turning back as if to speak, but only smiled faintly and went on. The door closed with a soft, well-bred thud.
The room eased into a quieter shape. Kenworth returned with a fresh pot of tea and sugared biscuits. Sanderson lifted the tall chrysanthemums and carried them away to wherever unsuitable displays went to be reborn.
Gabriel poured for Leticia. The cup was warm against her fingers. “We are no closer than we were last week,” she said, steady rather than complaining.
“Townsend’s report added little,” Gabriel said. “The ledger is stubborn. It’s filled with names we already know, the rest written by a cautious hand.”
Barrington drew up a chair. “If the auction lists do not give us the seller, perhaps the carriers will give us the buyer. Sanderson knows the coachmen. We might learn who collected the items and where they went.”
Gabriel nodded. “Two lines, then. The jeweler’s quiet commissions, and the carriers’ trails.”
“Tomorrow,” Leticia said. The rightness of the plan steadied her. “We divide the work and report at noon.”
Mrs. Bainbridge’s gaze softened. “Set it aside for today and enjoy our supper like sensible people.”
“We agree,” Barrington said, rising to offer her his hand. “We are outnumbered and overruled.”
“You are neither,” she said, though she took his hand. “Only well guided.”
Sanderson entered the room. “Dinner is served.”
They went through to the dining room with the cheerful ease of people long accustomed to one another. The scent of roasting meat and fresh bread mingled in the air. Candlelight picked up the gleam of polished wood and silver. The Sèvres vase had found the mantel here, the painted roses approving their new vantage point.
The first course was a clear soup, steam curling up with the bright scent of herbs. Spoons touched china in a gentle clink. Barrington leaned back, one arm over his chair. “Reminds me of the first days of my commission. I was so determined to look the part that I wore the Major’s spare boots without realizing it. They pinched so hard I had blisters the size of coins before we’d marched a mile.”
Mrs. Bainbridge winced as she lifted her spoon. “Surely you changed them at the first opportunity.”
“I did,” Barrington said, “though the Major never saw his boots again.”
Kenworth, serving with a perfectly straight face, murmured as he refilled Barrington’s wine, “He claimed to the end of his days some scoundrel spirited them away.”
Barrington grinned. “A scoundrel? Never. I merely ensured they were… unavailable.”
“Which is a polite way of saying you hid them,” Mrs. Bainbridge laughed, setting her spoon down with a light clatter.
“Exactly.” He raised his glass in mock solemnity. “To the comfort of one’s own boots.”
Mrs. Bainbridge shook her head, still smiling. “That reminds me of a summer garden party years ago. It began in bright sunshine and ended with three ladies of great consequence huddled under a chestnut tree in the rain. Their feathers drooped so badly they looked like bedraggled hens.”
“What happened?” Leticia asked, resting her elbow on the table as if leaning in for the answer.
