Page 54 of Ruined by the Wrong Earl

They continued onward and Dixon led them to a large collection of curiosities from Sir Hans Sloane, a London doctor and scientist who married the widow of a wealthy Jamaican planter. ‘Sloane’s will established the foundation of the museum itself,’ Dixon remarked. ‘His collection includes a tremendous volume of dried plants from as far away as Rome, Greece, Sudan, Egypt, and the Far East.’

Ralston addressed the guide. ‘I understand there is an exhibit of Hugh Cuming, the shell collector.’

Dixon spoke up. ‘Yes, but that exhibit is not yet for viewing.’

Nora felt a twinge of disappointment. She’d looked forward to seeing the Cuming collection, but she refused to allow her frustration to ruin their afternoon.

‘I’m sorry, Nora. I know you wanted to see it,’ Ralston said. ‘We can return once the exhibit is open.’

Nora’s smile was weak. ‘It’s all right, my lord. There are many other wonders to see.’

‘Let’s continue then, shall we?’ Dixon said.

Dixon led them on to an alcove of Greek sculptures and tapestries of Greek gods. One tapestry caught Nora’s eye. Cupid, with his bow and quiver of arrows, above two lovers, the woman feeding the man grapes. After a minute gazing at the art, she realized Ralston wasn’t by her side. In fact, she appeared to be alone. Scanning the area, she saw neither him nor Dixon. Just as she was about to call out, Ralston reappeared from behind a marble bust of Apollo.

His lips curled in a mischievous smile. ‘Nora, come quick. I got us inside.’

‘Inside where?’

Ralston grabbed her hand and ushered her along. The exhibits blurring as she passed. More Greek gods and goddesses and colourful hand-painted pottery from the Far East. They stopped short at a door that read: CLOSED TO PUBLIC.

‘Wait!’ she said. ‘I don’t understand.’

He opened the door, took her hand once again, and led her through. Dixon followed.

She stopped short at the sight spread out before her. ‘Oh, my goodness!’

A splendid display of shells was arranged on velvet-lined drawers set out on tables. Somehow Ralston had managed to get them this clandestine entry into the not-yet-open Cuming exhibit. She looked at Ralston then Dixon. ‘I thought you said it was closed to—’

Dixon’s smile was broad. ‘Your husband can be very persuasive.’ He gestured to the room. ‘Come close and see, my lady. Some of these shells are from Hugh Cuming’s voyage to the Society Islands, colonized by the descendants of the mutineers of the Bounty.’

The air left her lungs, but her shock shifted quickly to curiosity as she approached to soak it all in.

Dixon continued. ‘Cuming befriended Queen Pōmare of Tahiti and spent a year at the coral reef islands, many of which had never been visited by a naturalist. His second voyage was to South America. He was a man of charm, and the Chilean government gave him access. He spent two years shell hunting, and many of his conchological novelties are here.’

She wandered about the space, reading the descriptions beneath each piece. There was a sacred chank, which was plated in gold and ornamented with rubies and had been part of the regalia of the kings of Burma. A melon shell from Australian waters had been used by the aborigines. And there were angel wings from the Americas, which became phosphorescent at night.

‘Here we have the snow-white and spiky shells from China—the spines of this shell encourage marine growth of all kinds to adhere to it, thus camouflaging itself. But my favorite is here,’ Dixon said, leading them to a separate shelf on which sat a single shell. ‘Cowries are plentiful, but the rarest is our most famous, the Cypracea leucondon. There are only two known specimens in existence, and we are fortunate to have one.’

Nora leaned close. It was a small oval shell with creamy spots on a buff background. It didn’t look like anything special, except for one trait. ‘Look at all the teeth on the shell!’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’ Dixon nodded. ‘The pronounced teeth are what make it unique. They are as plentiful as in the jaws of a shark, just not as sharp.’

‘Cuming’s collection was first exhibited in his London house in Gower Street and it kept naturalists occupied for years before it was donated to us,’ Dixon said.

‘Where is Mr Cuming now?’ Ralston asked.

‘Last I heard, Cuming is currently away on his clipper, the Discoverer, to the Philippines.’

After they’d seen all there was to see, Dixon left them at the entrance to the museum.

Nora looked up at Ralston as they waited for their carriage. ‘Tell me truly how you gained us admittance to the closed exhibit?’

‘I made a donation to the museum.’ He shrugged as if it were of no consequence.

‘You made a donation to gain us entrance? For me?’

‘What good is my wealth if I can’t spend it to please my wife?’