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“I would remind you that this is the British Museum, not the theater,” Townsend said.

Fernsby raised his eyebrows. “By Jove, Townsend, that’s a capital notion.”

The wrinkles in the older gentleman’s forehead deepened. “What idea is that?”

“Why, to build a theater in the museum.” Ignoring Townsend’s look of horror, Fernsby continued. “It’s really quite brilliant. A simple stage at one end of the manuscript saloon where a small group of players acts out the plays housed in the museum.”

Townsend opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again.

Henry did not need to identify the color flooding the gentleman’s cheeks to know that it did not omen well. “We’d best be about our work, I think, Fernsby,” he said, starting for the door and hoping his colleague would have the good sense to follow. “Good day, Townsend. I shall write to the trustees regarding Lady Grenville’s donation today.”

He did not wait for a response. Thankfully, it appeared that Fernsby chose not to either. The sound of his footsteps echoed Henry’s into the entrance hall.

“In fairness,” Fernsby’s voice held a hint of humor, “the idea did have some merit.”

Henry stopped at the foot of the grand staircase and waited for Fernsby to join him. “On a scale of one to ten, I would place the suggestion at a one.”

Fernsby grinned. “Ever the scientist.”

Henry leveled him with a long-suffering look. “Do you need a scientist to remind you of what happens when a spark lands upon kindling?”

Fernsby’s chuckle followed them up the stairs. “I’ve missed you, Buckland. Especially yesterday, when I was required to take your tours.”

“Yes, I’m sorry about that. I did try to get back in time.” He paused. He didn’t need to defend a work-related absence to Fernsby. “I was only gone a little more than a week.”

“It was altogether too quiet for too long. Townsend and I scarcely exchanged a word the whole time.”

It was Henry’s turn to grin. “Perhaps there is a glimmer of common sense in you after all.”

They walked the length of the landing, passing the room that showcased Sir Hans Sloane’s collection and the gallery of antiquity before reaching Henry’s office. He inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. The air was chill, but the books, inkwell, and quills lying on the table were just as he’d left them. Two chairs, a glass-fronted bookcase, and a workbench made up the remainder of the furniture. Scientific equipment lined the windowsill, and on one corner of the workbench sat a pitcher of water, a bowl, and his microscope.

“Did you gather more samples?” Fernsby asked.

“I did.” Henry slid his satchel’s strap over his head, enthusiasm for his work bubbling within him. “I stumbled upon a cluster of crested cow-wheat in a woodland area not far from Grenville Manor and the first red campion of the season outside an inn in Berkshire.”

“Do you need any help with the colors?”

Asking the person who oversaw art at the museum to describe the exact hue of his flowers’ petals had been such a natural request that Fernsby had accepted it without question.

“I’ll come and find you if I do,” Henry said. “I’ve been told that pink is a reliable description for the red campion.”

“Sounds right,” Fernsby said.

Henry shook his head helplessly. Why couldn’t people refer to the flower by its Latin name? Silene dioica was a perfectly pronounceable appellation and not nearly so misleading as red campion. Pushing aside his uncharacteristic grumpiness, he unwrapped the limp plants and carefully set them on the workbench. With their shared confidence in color identification, Fernsby and the young lady on the lane would have undoubtedly gotten along very well.

Emily descended the staircase in Lady Millward’s townhouse. Morning light was streaming in through the narrow windows on either side of the dark front door, spilling over the polished marble floor of the entry below. There was no sign of the butler who had met them at the door the evening before, but the faint chink of china and murmur of voices told her that others in the household were already at breakfast.

Hurrying down the last few stairs, she reached the hall in time to hear the cogs in the longcase clock whirr and the chimes begin. Ten o’clock. She grimaced. After the long drive from Berkshire, the comfortable bed in the beautifully appointed guest bedchamber she’d been assigned to use during her stay had been most welcome. She’d slept well. But arising so late on her first day in London would surely not recommend her well to Phoebe’s aunt, Lady Millward.

Upon their arrival last night, Phoebe’s exhaustion had shown on her face, and Lady Millward had declared that all conversation between them was to be postponed until everyone had rested. Phoebe’s relief had been obvious. As had Adam’s. He had assisted Phoebe to her bedchamber without delay, and Emily had followed in their wake, secretly glad of the reprieve from socializing with a virtual stranger for one more night.

Lady Millward was not exactly a stranger, of course. The lady had attended Adam and Phoebe’s wedding, and Emily had spoken to her briefly several months later when she’d visited Phoebe’s parents at their house near Dunsbourne Manor. But they had never exchanged more than polite pleasantries, and although Phoebe had always spoken fondly of her aunt, Emily was still not quite sure what to make of the lady whose personality exuded as much flamboyance as Miss Glover’s did restraint.

Adam’s voice reached her from an open door on her left. This must be the dining room. Squaring her shoulders, she ran her hands down her peach-colored gown, took a deep breath, and walked in.

Pale-blue wallpaper covered the walls. Paintings of various sizes and compositions added additional splashes of color. Three large windows looked out upon a small garden and were currently shedding light on a large, highly polished dining table in the center of the room. A dozen chairs surrounded the table, two of which were currently occupied.

“Ah, Miss Norton! I am so glad you are come.” Lady Millward offered her a welcoming smile as Adam came to his feet. “How did you sleep?”