sir.” Her voice turned frosty, her cheeks flushing. “How fine for you.”
He barely bit back an oath, realizing too late that she’d misunderstood him again. He’d meant the dangerous investments and other merchant ventures with high-risk profits that had become his specialty, while she’d thought the stakes were her and her charming little person—her virtue, as ladies liked to call it.
“Oh, blast, I didn’t intend it that way,” he said, taking her by the arm so she’d have to look at him, so she’d understand he meant her no harm “Here now, miss, listen to me. I’ve never had to rely on a wager for a woman’s company, and I’m not about to begin now.”
“No,” she said curtly, staring down at his fingers around her upper arm as if his touch had scalded her. “But then I don’t imagine any woman willingly shares your company, not for the sake of love or money.”
He sighed with impatience, wondering why in blazes she’d suddenly turned so priggish and prim. “Now that’s not what I—”
“Isn’t it, sir?” she said, the curving brim of her bonnet quivering with indignation. “I may be from the country, but I am not completely ignorant of the wickedness to be found in this city!”
Other people around them were beginning to turn with curiosity, and Richard lowered his voice to give them less to hear. “Listen to me, sweetheart, and stop speaking of things you know nothing of. You wouldn’t recognize wickedness if it tripped you in the street.”
“I am not your sweetheart, and I will thank you not to fancy I am.” She jerked her arm free of his hand. “Now leave me, sir, before I demonstrate exactly how much I know of your wickedness, and summon one of Mr. Christie’s guards to have you removed. Good day, sir.”
She gave an angry final twitch of her black skirts as she cut her way through the crowd, as fast and as far from him as she could get herself.
And that was fine with Richard. If ever he’d needed another reminder that London ladies would be difficult, then this red-haired chit had given it to him. He’d thought at first she’d be different, and speak plain, but without warning she’d become just as self-righteous and sharp-tongued as all the rest in this city. Finding one who wasn’t would be his greatest challenge so far.
But he was willing to take his time. He’d decided that, even before his ship had rounded Needham Point and left the last of Barbados behind him. He had made his fortune, and he had bought his fine bespoke clothes and his carriage and horses and an ancient, grand country house awaited him. Now all he needed was a high-bred lady-bride to complete the transformation, and make the world see that Dick Blackley, collier’s boy, had become Richard Blackley, gentleman.
He glanced one last time toward where the young woman in mourning had disappeared. He was sorry she hadn’t turned out to be his match; he’d liked her looks and her spirit, before she’d gone and turned so sour over nothing.
And he’d be damned before he’d let her steal his painting away from him.
The auctioneer had made his way to the podium and stood testing his gavel against the palm of his hand, while his assistant was ringing the bell to signal the beginning of the auction. Most people hurried to find seats on the long benches, while a few others lingered for a final glimpse of the paintings hung and stacked along the walls. A footman carried the first painting, a murky landscape, to the front of the room, taking care to balance the ornate gold frame on the tall easel for all to see.
Richard didn’t sit, choosing instead to stand along the wall where he could keep one eye on his old bawd. He crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his hat over one eye, leaning against the wall as he prepared for a long wait before his painting would be called. He glanced across the benches, but saw no sign of the red-haired woman in mourning. Perhaps he’d chased her off; perhaps she’d never had a real interest in the painting.
Slowly the sun slid across the skylights overhead as the auctioneer droned on, cracking his gavel to seal each transaction as the footman switched paintings. At last the footman lifted The Fortune Teller onto the easel, and Richard stood away from the wall and straightened his hat.
“Next is an Italian painting in oils from the sixteenth century entitled The Fortune Teller,” the auctioneer announced. “Opening with a reserve of five pounds for this very fine work by an old master whose name is lost to time, but not the product of his genius. Five pounds to start, then, who’ll give five pounds?”
Richard raised his hand just enough for the auctioneer to notice. He could see it hung in his dressing room at Greenwood already.
“Five pounds to the tall gentleman at the wall, a pittance for a work of this quality, of this sensibility, of this—”
“Seven pounds!”
“Seven pounds to the lady in mourning!” the auctioneer called. “The lady knows her art, gentlemen, benefit from her knowledge and—”
“Nine pounds.” Richard had spotted her now, sitting on the far end of one of the benches, with all but the brim of her black bonnet hidden by a fat man in a gray coat.
“Nine to the tall gentleman at the wall, will anyone give me—”
“Fifteen!” The young woman hopped to her feet, her program rolled into a tight scroll in her black-gloved hands.
Excitement rippled through the crowd; no one had expected any serious bidding for this particular lot of paintings, especially not between a gentleman and a lady.
“Fifteen to the lady with a connoisseur’s eye for an old master, fifteen to—”
“Twenty.”
The woman turned and glared at Richard. When he nodded and smiled, she twitched her head back toward the front, refusing to acknowledge him.
“Twenty-five,” she said, her voice ringing clear and loud in the auction room. She wasn’t afraid to make a spectacle of herself, and Richard liked that. What a pity she’d learn soon enough that his pockets were deeper than she’d ever dreamed.
“Twenty-five to the lady!” the auctioneer crowed with near delirious fervor. “Twenty-five for—”
“Fifty,” Richard said, and the audience gasped.
“Fifty-five!” the woman cried, tossing her head for good measure.
Richard smiled. She did have spirit, he’d grant her that.
“Fifty-five to the lady!” His round face flushed with excitement, the auctioneer peered expectantly at Richard over his spectacles. The room was nearly silent, the audience holding its breath together. “Fifty-five for this most excellent work, fifty-five for—”
“One hundred,” Richard said. “Even.”
The crowd exploded, whistling, swearing, applauding, cheering. The auctioneer turned back to the girl.
“One hundred for The Fortune Teller,” he thundered, his voice fair glowing with the importance of such a bid. “One hundred from the tall, dark gentleman for this magnificent work. Do I hear one hundred five? One hundred five?”
But the young woman only shook her head and sank back down onto the bench, behind the fat man.
Obviously
