CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SIX MINUTES UNTIL THREE—a scant two minutes later than the last time Willie had looked at the clock on the wall.
Willie sat alone in a private conference room at Mr. Hawkings’s office, the very picture of unruffled serenity. Exactly the image she wished to portray. Precisely how she wanted to appear to the world. But with every tick of the clock, every move of the hour hand closer to twelve, her stomach clenched.
She fully expected Dante to charge in at any minute with some way to prove ownership. Or his admission that he couldn’t live without her and would give up his claim. Something that would prove he cared more about her than the blasted painting. It did seem that three o’clock was the appointed time not only for his proof but for the rest of their lives. It was probably silly but she couldn’t shake the firm conviction that if he didn’t do something by three o’clock, any chance of a future together would be gone forever.
Five minutes until three.
The Portinari sat on the table, the image of Orpheus begging for his wife a constant reminder of eternal love. And what one man was willing to do for it.
She hadn’t heard from Dante since their return to London. Surely a man who said he loved her, who’d asked her to marry him, wouldn’t give up this easily? Unless, of course, it had all been part and parcel of his ploy to acquire the painting.
Four minutes until three.
She didn’t want to believe that of him. But really, how well could you know a man you’d met only a few weeks ago? A man who had spent much of that time lying about his real purpose. Why, she’d known George longer when they had wed and look at the mistake that had been.
Three minutes until three.
Still, Dante was nothing like George. He was extraordinarily nice and quite, quite wonderful. Poppy had taken it upon herself to ask some of her acquaintances about Dante and, aside from that business with Juliet Pauling, there was no untoward gossip about the man. His reputation was spotless. He was not at all the kind of man to lie to a woman to get what he wanted. But he had, even though he had, as well, tried to make amends for it. He was rational and sensible and yet he couldn’t understand her need not to depend on anyone but herself.
Two minutes until three.
Poppy had also learned he was quite passionate about Montague House, although really Willie had assumed as much. Fine. Willie did hope he and his museum were very happy together.
One minute to three.
Surely he would not let this hour pass? Surely he would storm in at the last possible minute? Her heart thudded. This was the last possible minute. Where was he? Was he really going to let her go without so much as a word?
The clock struck three.
For a moment, the world stopped. Her breath caught against an ache in her throat. And her heart shattered.
The door opened and Mr. Hawkings stepped into the room, a bundle of envelopes in his hand. “The time has come, Lady Bascombe. I have the bids and they may now be opened.” He studied her cautiously. “Are you all right?”
“I have rarely been better, Mr. Hawkings.” She mustered her brightest smile. “This is simply quite exciting.”
“It is indeed, Lady Bascombe.” The gentleman chuckled and took a seat at the table. “We gave all interested parties a minimum acceptable amount and we have here a total of eleven bids. Most of them were received before your return to London but several came this week and the last only this morning. Frankly, having never dealt with a Portinari before, I didn’t know what to expect. If you’re ready, I can begin.”
“Please do, Mr. Hawkings.” Under other circumstances, she would be quite proud that she managed to adopt a composed smile—calm, steady, pleasant tempered with aloof. Exactly the kind of smile a woman who was not in serious financial straits would wear. The smile of a woman whose heart had not just broken.
“I’m not sure if you are aware of the importance of Portinari,” Mr. Hawking said as he slit the first envelope with a pearl-handled letter opener, “but he has only recently been recognized as the genius...”
Willie hadn’t imagined she would ever be pleased by any man droning on and on about art but at least it was easy to pay no attention whatsoever and simply nod on occasion. She needed all her strength not to dissolve into a small quivering puddle of despair.
She had no idea how long the entire process took—it did seem endless. Mr. Hawkings had any number of papers that needed her signature and he was constantly being called from the room for one thing or another. But at last she was in a cab pulling up to her house.
What on earth was she doing?
The thought struck her like a bolt through her battered heart. She had been waiting for Dante to prove his love for her. She hadn’t given the tiniest thought to proving that she loved him. Her mind raced. If she sold her house, she and Majors and Patsy could find something smaller and less expensive to run.
Willie called to the driver to return to the solicitor’s office. She would cancel the sale, retrieve the painting and donate it to Montague House. Anonymously. Yes, that would be perfect. There was no need for him to know this. She would not have him taking pity in any way on her. Even if he had never loved her, she had loved him. And that was enough. She was not about to start a new life funded by the very thing that brought them together only to tear them apart and leave her in shreds.
A practical, rational voice in the back of her head noted that she had given up this sort of impulsive behavior when George had died. That she would regret this. She ignored it.
“Mr. Hawkings.” She swept into his office. “I am sorry to inform you of this, but I have changed my mind.”
He stared. “I beg your pardon?”
“I have reconsidered, Mr. Hawkings,” she said in her best Lady Bascombe tone. “I assume you have not yet deposited the payment into my accounts.”
“Well, no, but—”
“Excellent.” She nodded. “Then we may consider the sale canceled. If you would be so good as to fetch my painting, I shall be on my way.”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Of course you can.”
“The painting is gone, Lady Bascombe. It’s already on its way to its new owner.” He shook his head. “There is nothing that can be done about it. I am sorry, but it’s too late.”
* * *
APPARENTLY, THERE REALLY WASN’T anything that could be done. The highest bid had been submitted through a solicitor, the buyer wishing to remain anonymous. That was that then.
As much as she hated the idea of funding her life with the proceeds of the Portinari there was nothing to be done about it now.
A scant twenty minutes later she was once again in a cab pulling up in front of her house.
The only consoling thought was that as Dante hadn’t made any effort to contact her, their affection was obviously one-sided. Best to learn that now before he had a series of lovers and mistresses that she would pretend not to know about. With George it had been annoying. With Dante it would have been devastating. She would not live the rest of her life that way.
“Lady Bascombe.” Majors greeted her at the door. “There have been some, well, deliveries and you have callers.”
“I wasn’t expecting anything or anyone. I’m certain you can see to the deliveries and I am in no mood for visitors.” She heaved a weary sigh. All she really wanted to do was to curl up in a small ball and weep. “Could you please inform them I’m not feeling well and ask them to leave?”
“There are quite a few of them, my lady,” he said and opened the parlor door.
Willie stepped into the room and pulled up short. There were indeed quite a few. All her new friends as well as Aunt Poppy and her cohorts were milling about her parlor. A parlor now filled to overflowing. Flowers in urns and vases were everywhere. Several tall, classical statues were scattered throughout the room. Venetian masks dangled from the chandelier and the draperies and, somewhere, a violin was playing.
“What on earth?” Willie stared but there was entirely too much to take in.
“We have no idea what this is about although it certainly is intriguing,” Jane said, stepping forward and skirting around—good Lord, was that a gondola? In her parlor? “We went to your solicitor’s office but you had already left.”
“You didn’t think we’d let you do this alone.” Marian smiled.
“And we did want to know what happened with the painting.” Geneva glanced around. “Although this is interesting too.”
“Did you sell it?” Tillie asked.
“Or did Mr. Montague sweep in to rescue you and the painting?” Emma’s eyes sparkled. “Did he make a grand, romantic gesture at the last minute? He does seem the type.”
“My uncle?” Harriet scoffed. “I don’t think he has a romantic bone in his entire body. Or at least he never has before.”
“Go on, dear.” Poppy waved. She, Lady Blodgett and Mrs. Higginbotham sat in the gondola. “We are all dying to know what happened.”
“I must say, this is quite unique,” Lady Blodgett said, looking around. “A few too many flowers perhaps but I might have to get a gondola for my own parlor.”
“What happened?” Willie shook her head in an attempt to clear it. What was going on here? “Nothing unexpected.” She shrugged. “I sold the painting to the highest bidder. The proceeds will enable me to live quite nicely for a number of years. But...” This was remarkably difficult to say even to these women who were on her side and truly her friends. “I changed my mind. I realized I didn’t want anything to do with the painting or the income it would provide. I didn’t want to live my life dependent on the very thing that might have destroyed my chances for...well, happiness, I suppose. Even if that might have been nothing more than a delusion on my part. I decided to give it to Montague House, anonymously. And sell this house to make ends meet.” She glanced at Rosalind. “You were right. Principles are difficult to live up to.”
“I am usually right,” Rosalind said.
“Unfortunately, I was too late.” Willie shook her head. “The painting was already on the way to its new owner and there is nothing I can do.”
“Oh good Lord.” Rosalind heaved a resigned sigh. “Dante didn’t want you to know—which I thought was ridiculous, mind you. But he found documentation that would have allowed him to claim the painting.” Rosalind met Willie’s gaze firmly. “He destroyed it.”
“What?” Willie stared.
Emma nudged her sister. “Grand romantic gesture. I knew it.”
“It doesn’t seem to have made much difference,” Tillie murmured.
“Why would he do such a thing?” Willie asked slowly but the oddest flicker of hope flamed inside her.
“Come now, Willie. Don’t be as much of an idiot as my brother.” Rosalind rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “He gave up the painting for you, you tried to give it up for him. The reasons why are obvious.”
Rosalind’s words were not making a great deal of sense. Willie shook her head. “I don’t under—”
“Because I love you.” Dante’s voice sounded behind her and she swiveled to face him. He was dressed as he had been for the conte’s ball, complete with powdered wig and satin pants. He looked completely absurd and absolutely wonderful. “Because I may have loved you from the moment I opened that damnable dossier.” He stepped toward her. “Because nothing is more important to me than you.”
“Oh?” Willie tried to maintain a measure of calm.
“My grandfather gave that painting to the woman he loved.” He moved closer. “How could I not give it up for the woman I love?”
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” He chuckled. “I had planned on being here when you arrived back from your solicitor’s but I had a slight delay.” He cast an annoyed look at his sister. “What I did not expect was an audience.”
“You did all this?” Willie waved at the room. “For me?”
“I would do anything for you.”
“Grand romantic gesture,” someone murmured.
“You gave up the painting for me.”
“And you tried to give it up for me.” He grinned. “It seems we are a perfect match.”
“But we scarcely know each other.” It was not what she wanted to say but it was true.
“We know enough.” He took her hands in his. “I know how you look when you’re deep in thought gazing over the city of Paris from the top of a cathedral. I know how your eyes shine with awe and newfound understanding when you study a fresco on a church ceiling and how they flash with all the anger of an avenging goddess when you’re challenged by, well, an idiot in a Roman arena. And I know how you inspire me to do things I never would have thought I could do.”
“Larceny?”
“Larceny is just the beginning.” His tone sobered. “I think you will inspire me every day for the rest of our lives.”
“I say, Mr. Montague, you should kiss her now.” Bertie’s voice rang from somewhere in the room. Willie hadn’t even noticed him. “I would.”
Somebody giggled.
“Not quite yet, Bertie.” Dante’s gaze locked with hers. “You said you wanted a proper, romantic proposal. Here it is.” He paused. “Wilhelmina Bascombe, you now have the income to live an independent life. You have proved you can manage your own life. You have no need to marry anyone for reasons other than those of affection.” He drew a deep breath. “I have made one serious mistake in my life—”
“Just one?”
“Perhaps two. I should have told you about the Portinari from the very beginning.”
“And the second?”
“Not realizing sooner that the most important thing in the world to me is you.” He paused. “All I am asking is that you continue to let me prove you can trust me. Let me love you and try to make you happy for the rest of my life. Willie, would you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”
She stared up at him and adopted a lighthearted tone. “Even if I don’t intend to be the least bit convenient or easy?”
“I would have it no other way.”
She considered him for a long moment.
“Was that not proper or romantic enough?” He frowned. “I tried to get pigeons but the blasted birds were not the least bit cooperative and I thought possibly—”
“I think perhaps the best thing to do, Mr. Montague—” she raised her chin and smiled into his dark eyes “—would be to take Mr. Goodwin’s advice.”
“Gladly, Lady Bascombe.” He grinned and pulled her into his arms. His lips met hers and Willie sent a silent prayer of gratitude to dear, departed George, wherever he might be.
Oh, not for dying of course, but for setting her on a journey. Not merely to Paris and Monte Carlo and Venice and all those places she had never been but to the person she needed to become. A woman who could depend on herself. A woman she could be proud of.
And to the dashing stranger who would be by her side and hold her hand in his for the rest of their days.
Larceny was indeed only the beginning.