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Chapter One

Edinburgh, 1875

THE CURLING PEACOCK plume woven into Ina Duncan’s upswept hair bobbed as she looked around the well-appointed drawing room, desperate for an escape. All around her, guests of Mrs. Moira Sullivan—celebrated hostess, notorious matchmaker, and well-loved bon vivant—were clumped in little groups, discussing the monologue they’d just seen performed by one of London’s leading actresses on a tour of Scotland. The conversation was lively, as it always was during one of Mrs. Sullivan’s salons, but, unlike at most of these gatherings, Ina wasn’t enjoying herself one bit.

The blame lay solidly at the feet of Mr. Bartholomew and Mr. Gable. She’d made the mistake of wandering too close to them as they were in the midst of a heated discussion, and their talk had so offended her sensibilities she could hardly tear herself away. Now, if she wasn’t careful, she was liable to upend a tray of wineglasses on these pompous buffoons.

“Most women don’t have the capacity for the serious study of art,” said Mr. Bartholomew.

“On that we can both agree,” said Mr. Gable. “It’s preposterous the Royal Academy’s started letting them sit classes.”

Classes Ina would’ve given both her pinky fingers to attend—not that they knew or cared.

“What’s next? Live draping?” asked Mr. Bartholomew.

Mr. Gable scoffed, sending a cloud of condensation into his glass. “Can you imagine? A nude man sitting in the middle of a roomful of women.”

“That would give the ton the vapors.”

“It’s no matter,” said Mr. Gable. “The gentler sex has no eye for art.”

“Then why teach your daughters to paint and draw?” Ina asked, inserting herself into the loathsome conversation. “And Her Royal Highness Princess Louise sculpts. In fact, there have been a number of talented women sculptors. Mary Grant. Caroline Shawk Brooks. Alina Forsman. I could continue.”

“Those names are not familiar to me,” Mr. Bartholomew said with a shrug, as though his ignorance was the fault of her sex.

“Surely you don’t wish for ladies to exhaust themselves with such physical labor, Miss Duncan,” said Mr. Gable, clearly not sensing that she was a steam engine ready to explode. “Ladies need protection from themselves. That is why you’ll be under the care of your father until you’re married and your husband after that.”

“Ina Duncan need protection? That will be the day.”

She didn’t have to turn to see who’d come to her aid. She’d be able to pick Gavin Barrett’s voice out in a crowded room until her dying day.

“Mr. Barrett, perhaps you’d like to weigh in on this debate,” said Mr. Bartholomew.

She felt her friend stop right at her elbow, and when she stole a glance at him he wore that bemused look he so often donned when near her.

“I’m afraid I must steal Miss Duncan away for a moment,” he said apologetically. “Our hostess is asking after her.”

“Oh, what a shame,” said Ina, her voice as dry as French wine.

Gavin plucked up her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. To the casual observer, it was an innocent gesture, but the truth was he was clamping her fingers tight as a vise.

“This way,” Gavin said, leading her through the crowd of people, nodding hellos every few feet.

“If you value that hand, you’ll let go,” she whispered.

“Not until I’m certain you won’t pick up a fire poker and hit both of them,” he said, leaning in so only she could hear.

“I would do nothing of the sort.” Though now that he suggested it . . .

“Only because the poker was a good dozen feet away,” he said with a chuckle. “You look positively murderous.”

When they were well out of earshot of most people, Gavin loosened his grip and she snatched her hand back.

“That hurt,” she said as she shook it out dramatically.

“No it didn’t. You’ve got hands of steel from all your years of sculpting.”

She scowled. “Those hands won’t do me any good if you break them.”