CHAPTER THREE
One week later...
“...AND THE NEXT THING I knew—” Willie settled in a plush cushioned chair and cast her most pleasant smile at the first members of her group to arrive at the private train car that would take them to Dover “—I was agreeing to do the old dear a favor and accompany a group of mothers and daughters on a tour. Although I will admit I am quite looking forward to it.”
“Geneva and I are very excited, my lady.” Mrs. Henderson—Marian she had already insisted Willie call her as she was certain they would soon be fast friends—fairly glowed with barely restrained enthusiasm.
The car’s furnishings were more conducive to a parlor or an elegant sitting room than a train, with wine-colored velvet drapes trimmed with gold cord at the windows and luxurious sofas and chairs instead of the more typical train seating. Exactly the refinement one expected from a private car. Marian perched on the sofa at the far end of the car although Willie suspected she might bounce off her seat at any moment—as if even the forces of gravity could not contain her energy. Her daughter, Geneva, sitting beside her, had made appropriate murmurings at their introduction then promptly pulled a book out of a valise and buried her nose in it.
“We have never been to Europe before,” Marian continued, “and never imagined we would see anything beyond London. Gerald, my husband, is here for business and is constantly occupied with meetings, which is something of a shame as he has seen nothing whatsoever. Geneva and I simply came along because we’re from Chicago and we have never traveled at all. And we have always dreamed of seeing London. We had no further expectations beyond that.”
She paused and Willie nodded. It was apparent she would not be able to get a word in until Marian’s soliloquy had run its course. Perhaps tomorrow...
“But when Mrs. Vanderflute said she had inquired as to the possibility of a trip to Paris and the Riviera and Venice and Rome—not a grand tour exactly but more of a meandering path, I would say—well, it was one of those things that does not come along often. Certainly I would have preferred a more extensive route that included some of the northern climes but it is autumn after all and the weather being what is it, well, it did seem perfectly suitable. We have been in London for months now so thirty days on a whirlwind trip was nearly irresistible. Gerald is so occupied with business that he will scarcely notice our absence at all. And we will return to London with more than enough time to make our voyage home. How could one say no to that?”
Willie stared. “It would be difficult.”
“Besides,” Marian continued, “I am a firm believer that when unexpected opportunities present themselves one should seize them with both hands. Don’t you agree, my lady?”
For a moment, Willie could do little more than stare—her smile frozen awkwardly on her face. Certainly Willie was known for being unreserved and candid but she wasn’t sure she’d ever encountered anyone so, well, open as Marian Henderson.
“Well, yes,” she said at last. “Yes, I do.”
“I thought so. Especially since you agreed to accompany our little group at what was very nearly the last minute. I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you did so, my lady. Why, after Mrs. Vanderflute and her daughter had to return home unexpectedly, I thought surely this trip would fall apart. After all, the itinerary was her doing and, as I said, not my first choice. But she did go to the trouble of arranging the tour and I didn’t feel it was my place to make changes even after she decided not to come. You understand. But then the Lady Travelers Society contacted us at our hotel—the Savoy. Do you know it, my lady?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s new, I believe.”
Marian nodded. “It opened in August I think. And did you know, my lady, it’s entirely lit by electricity?”
“I had no idea,” Willie said faintly, although she had heard the new Savoy was both grand and thoroughly modern.
“I cannot tell you how thrilled Geneva and I were when that lovely woman from the Lady Travelers Society—oh, what was her name, my lady?”
“Miss Granville?”
“Yes, that’s the one. When she informed us, if we were still interested, the tour would now be hosted by the honorable Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe.” Marian said Willie’s name with the sort of reverence one usually reserved for royalty. Or God.
“And I am certain we shall all have a grand time.”
Marian frowned. “I did think though that there would be a tour director or something of that sort.”
“Nonsense.” Willie waved off the comment. “Miss Granville has organized everything beautifully and I assure you I am quite delighted about the prospect of leading our group of travelers and handling those minor matters that may arise. It shall be great fun and I daresay it won’t even be a particular challenge, although I do love a challenge. Besides, a tour director would prove terribly inconvenient, don’t you think?”
Marian shook her head in confusion. “Inconvenient?”
“Of course. It would most likely be a man, which would ruin the spirit of independence inherent in this group. Why, we are a merry band of ladies—of mothers and daughters—out to conquer a corner of Europe with our maps and guidebooks in one hand and our parasols in the other. We certainly don’t need anyone, let alone a man, to lead the way. Don’t you agree?”
“I do.” Marian shook her head eagerly. “I really do.”
“Excellent.” Willie cast her a brilliant smile, rose to her feet, picked up the leather-clad notebook Poppy had given her as a bon voyage present and tried not to look as if she were escaping. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to return to the train platform and greet the rest of our tour.”
“Ah yes, that would be Mrs. Corby and her daughters, my lady. I’ve met them but I can’t say that I know them. Her husband is engaged in business with mine and Mr. Vanderflute. They’re from New York if I recall correctly.” A slight frown creased her forehead. “The Corby daughters are a bit younger than Geneva, I think. She’s almost nineteen and I am hoping this trip gives her the extra bit of polish she needs to find an appropriate husband—”
Willie might have been mistaken but she could have sworn she heard a faint groan from behind Geneva’s book.
“—as she is not getting any younger. Surely you see my point, my lady? Why, I was married at nineteen and I have been happy ever since.” Marian threw her daughter a pointed look. Geneva turned a page. Obviously the young woman was used to ignoring her mother. Willie bit back a smile.
“The train is expected to leave in a quarter of an hour so I expect the others to arrive at any minute.” Willie turned toward the door.
“Mrs. Corby strikes me as being a quiet sort, my lady,” Marian called after her. “Terribly sensible but a bit timid, I suspect.”
“Then we shall do our best to make her feel she is among friends,” Willie said over her shoulder.
“Excellent. Lady...” Marian hesitated.
Willie reached the door and turned back. “Yes?”
“I hate to sound, well, stupid but I am at a loss. We don’t have titles in America, you see, so I have no idea what it is appropriate to call you, your ladyship.” Concern touched with embarrassment shone in Marian’s eyes. “Is it Lady Wilhelmina or Lady Bascombe?”
Willie studied the other woman. With light brown hair and a charming smile she was quite attractive, although Willie suspected she might have been slimmer in her youth, and no more than ten years older than Willie, if that. This was a woman who, in spite of an air of confidence, obviously wanted to be liked as well as do what was expected and correct.
“For one thing, it’s not necessary to refer to me as my lady with every breath,” Willie said as gently as possible.
Marian’s face fell.
“Goodness, Marian, as you said, you are not from England, so you cannot be expected to know all the myriad little details that accompany forms of address here. Why, I myself get confused on occasion. And I am certainly not the least bit insulted, so do not worry yourself about that for a moment.”
“Thank you.” Marian offered a feeble smile.
“My title is Viscountess Bascombe and I would usually be referred to as Lady Bascombe. However, as we will be spending a great deal of time together and I agree that we will all become good friends—”
Marian brightened.
“—I suggest you call me Willie.”
From the look on Marian’s face one would have thought the clouds had parted and a shaft of celestial light had shone upon her. Willie wouldn’t have been at all surprised if the dulcet sounds of heavenly choirs weren’t ringing in Marian’s ears at this very moment.
“Thank you, my...” Marian squared her shoulders, a brilliant smile lighting her face. “Willie.”
The oddest sort of snort came from Geneva, who never looked up but did turn the page.
Willie smiled and stepped down onto the platform. This might well be more entertaining than she had imagined. And one should always enter into new endeavors with a sense that they will turn out well. She wasn’t sure who had told her that but it was excellent advice. Certainly she had no experience at managing a group of travelers, and admittedly she had never actually traveled herself, but it couldn’t possibly be all that difficult.
Confidence surged through her. Efficient was not a word that had ever been used to describe Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe. Nor was it a description she aspired to. Yet here and now, standing by the car door in the elegant black-and-white-striped traveling dress—updated with a stitch here and tuck there by the ever-so-clever Patsy—and the jaunty hat that had long ago been ordered from Paris, her new notebook in her hand, Willie was the epitome of efficiency. Or at least her idea of efficiency, which would have to do.
That true personification of efficiency—Miss Granville—had hoped to arrange a tea to introduce Willie to her tour but it had proved impossible. Apparently, Americans in London were entirely too busy trying to see everything there was to see. Coordinating the various members of their group proved daunting even to the well-organized and eminently competent Miss Granville. Right now she awaited the rest of their assembly at the main entry of Victoria Station to see to their luggage. She had explained, while she would usually send someone else to take care of that, this tour was both exclusive and expensive and she much preferred to be present. If successful, it could pave the way for more quick, lucrative European trips, directed especially at Americans who never seemed to have as much time to spend as money. Miss Granville had added that given Willie’s experience with first-class travel, she expected absolutely nothing to go wrong. As she had said so with a pointed look Willie had blithely tried to ignore, Willie did wonder if perhaps Miss Granville wasn’t entirely accepting of the sterling recommendations given by Poppy and her friends. Still, while Willie wasn’t at all sure how businesses like the Lady Travelers Society worked, she was fairly certain what the founders of the society wanted they probably received. Regardless of her lack of experience or the fact that she had never been given any true responsibility whatsoever, Willie would not let Poppy and her friends down. She would rise to the occasion and confront any challenge head-on. And hadn’t she always loved challenges? Admittedly, she’d never taken on anything like this but it couldn’t possibly be all that difficult. Why, women these days traveled all the time.
Willie pulled a list of names typewritten on a sheet of paper from her notebook. These were her charges, the companions she would spend the next few weeks with, the travelers she had to thank for her expense-free trip to Venice. The unsuspecting tourists she fully intended to abandon there. Once she had her painting in hand, she planned to return to London at once. It would not reflect well on Poppy and her friends, and Miss Granville would not be happy, but Willie had no choice. She vowed to do whatever was necessary upon her return to make amends to all concerned.
Willie had made discreet inquiries with a solicitor, Mr. Virgil Hawkings, who was well-known in art circles. He had agreed to act as a mediator between Willie and potential buyers. When she spoke with him again yesterday, he’d said there was a fair amount of interest, adding the offers for the Portinari might be far more than she had imagined and mentioning a figure she had not dared to hope for. Indeed, he was already setting up a discreet private auction to take place next month. She’d protested that she might not have the painting by then but Mr. Hawkings was adamant that in matters of this nature it was best to strike while interest was still high. She absolutely had to be back with the painting by then. Staying with her group through their visit to Rome would put Willie’s return in time for the auction in jeopardy. Even someone who had never traveled knew any number of unexpected problems could occur, many of which were detailed in the numerous pamphlets from the Lady Travelers Society she’d read in the past few weeks.
Willie studied the names on her list in an effort to ignore the bit of guilt niggling at her. Guilt was as foreign to her as efficiency. And now that she’d met two members of their party, there really wasn’t anything to feel guilty about. Marian Henderson was chatty but did strike Willie as competent enough. She was American after all and while Willie had never known any Americans, they did have a reputation for charging forth into the unknown with unfailing confidence and a stouthearted lack of hesitation. Willie found it admirable. Besides, she would leave all her maps and guidebooks and make certain everyone in their party had the confirmation telegrams for their hotels and train vouchers and everything else they needed. They would be fine. Probably more than fine. Why, it would likely be the grandest of adventures for them. Her departure would simply add to the stories they could tell about their travels. Admittedly, Willie might not come off particularly well in those stories but she really had no choice, even if she was beginning to—
“I beg your pardon,” a quiet voice asked, barely loud enough to be heard over the din of the station. “Are you Lady Bascombe?”
Willie looked up and adopted a welcoming smile. “I am.”
A short, attractive fair-haired lady about Marian’s age stood flanked by two young pretty blonde women. Two identical young women. Miss Granville had said there were three separate family groups on the tour and according to the list of names, these three were either J. Corby and daughters or D. Montague, R. Richfield and daughter. Apparently, Miss Granville thought abbreviations were efficient. In truth, they were confusing.
“I’m Mrs. Corby.” The woman returned Willie’s smile. “And these are my daughters, Emmaline and Matilda.”
“We prefer Emma and Tillie,” one of the girls said.
“Emmaline and Matilda are names for old women.” The other girl shuddered. “They shall do I suppose when we are in our dotage but right now they don’t suit us at all.”
“You understand don’t you?” the first girl asked. “Surely you remember what it was like to be young and have a horrible name?”
“Not that it probably matters to you now, of course.” Innocence sounded in the second girl’s voice as if she had no idea she was implying Willie was old. Willie didn’t believe her for a moment. “After all, your name is Wilhelmina.” Two pairs of identical hazel eyes, both colored with a definite challenge, stared at her. Identical Cheshire cat smiles curved their identical lips.
“I think Wilhelmina is a lovely name.” Mrs. Corby cast a scathing look at her daughters. “It’s so much better than Jane, which is my name.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Jane,” Willie said firmly. “I think it’s a strong and noble name. Why, we have had two queens of England named Jane.”
“Yes, well, if I recall correctly neither of them ended particularly well.” Mrs. Corby’s eyes lit with amusement. “I will try to do better.”
Willie laughed. “I’ve no doubt of it.” She turned to the girls. “You’re right, you know. While I do not detest Wilhelmina, I much prefer Willie.”
“Lady Willie.” One of the girls made a face.
“It’s Lady Bascombe, Emma,” Mrs. Corby said firmly.
“But as we are all to be friends—” she turned to Mrs. Corby “—I do hope you will call me Willie and allow me to call you Jane.”
A slow smile spread across Jane’s face. “I would like that very much.”
“Now then.” Willie studied the twins. “You’re Emma.” She pointed at the one who had called her Lady Willie. “Which means you—” she aimed her finger at the other twin “—must be Tillie.”
“Oh no, I’m afraid you have already—” Emma began but Tillie nudged her with her elbow and glanced at their mother. Jane’s eyes narrowed. Emma sighed. “Yes, I’m Emma.”
Oh, these two were going to be interesting. Willie inclined her head toward their mother. “How on earth do you tell them apart?”
“There are all sort of tiny differences we’ve noted through the years. Depending on their moods, Emma’s eyes tend more toward brown and Tillie’s toward green but the difference is often negligible. Fortunately, as they are now seventeen, they are old enough to set aside the foolish tricks they were so fond of playing when they were children.” Jane smiled but shot a warning look at her daughters. “They understand the consequences of such misbehavior are much more significant now.”
“Oh, we do,” Tillie said quickly. “Although sometimes...”
“Sometimes it’s just too much fun.” Emma grinned. “And well worth the risk.”
Jane bit back a smile. Clearly the twins were a handful and probably always had been. Yet there was obvious affection between mother and daughters. Willie’s heart twisted.
“The tiny differences, however, are mostly in terms of mannerism and remarkably easy to miss. The best way to tell my girls apart is physical.” Jane nodded at Emma. “Emma cut her hand on a piece of glass when the girls were eight. There is a J-shaped scar at the base of her thumb on her right hand.” She shot a glance at the girls. “Show her, dear.”
Emma rolled her gaze toward the far off iron-and-glass ceiling of Victoria Station, peeled off her glove and held out her hand palm up. The scar was small but distinct if one knew what one was looking for.
“How convenient.” Willie grinned at Emma. “That will be most helpful.”
“You have no idea,” Jane said under her breath.
“We are glad to be of assistance,” Tillie murmured with a feeble smile.
Willie studied the twins for a moment. She could remember when she was their age as if it were yesterday. She’d thought the entire world was hers for the taking. The future was bright and filled with promise. Rules were silly annoying things designed only to destroy the fun and enjoyment of life itself. And nothing was impossible. Willie saw a great deal of herself in Emma and Tillie. Without question, these girls would challenge her at every step. She wished them the best of luck but, aside from pretending to be each other, Willie doubted there was anything they could try that she hadn’t attempted at their age.
Still, it would be easier for all concerned if they were well behaved. The best way to defuse an enemy was to make him an ally.
“I shall make you a deal,” Willie said. “I won’t tell anyone how to tell the two of you apart if you agree not to use this formidable weapon of yours against me.”
“We couldn’t anyway.” Emma shrugged. “You know how to tell the difference between us now.”
“Which means you needn’t make any sort of deal with us at all,” Tillie said thoughtfully. “And you are only offering to do so because you want to be friends.” She exchanged looks with Emma then grinned. “We can agree to that.”
Willie wasn’t sure she believed that either.
“The girls have also agreed to be on their best behavior.” Jane’s gaze met one daughter’s then the other’s in an unspoken message. “They’ve always wanted to see Paris and Venice and Rome and they are well aware that if they take even one step out of line, the repercussions will be unpleasant and we will be on our way back to London without hesitation.”
The twins smiled weakly.
“I can’t imagine we’ll have any problems at all,” Willie said with an air of unexpected confidence. “Now then, Mrs. Henderson and her daughter, Geneva, are inside the car. If you’d like to join them, we have one party yet to arrive.”
“I’ve met Marian Henderson.” Jane waved the girls ahead of her. “She’s quite...gregarious, I would say.”
“She is indeed.”
“This should be interesting.” Jane nodded and stepped up into the car.
“It should indeed,” Willie murmured and returned her gaze to the last names on her list—D. Montague, R. Richfield and daughter. She did hope they would arrive soon. Leaving behind three members of their party on the first day did not bode well for the rest of the trip. She glanced up and scanned the platform.
Americans didn’t look particularly different, although she did believe they walked with a certain spring to their step, as if the world truly were their oyster. She spotted a woman coming in her direction, a definite air of determination about her. She was accompanied by two young women, probably her daughters. Willie adopted her most welcoming smile.
The woman gave her no more than cursory glance as she walked by. And wasn’t that rude? Even if she wasn’t D. Montague or R. Richfield she could have at least acknowledged Willie’s presence in that vague, polite manner acceptable for a casual encounter. Goodness, the manners of some people simply—
“Lady Bascombe?” A decidedly English voice said.
Willie turned and smiled. “Yes?”
“Oh good, I was hoping it was you.” An attractive dark-haired woman, perhaps a decade older than Willie, smiled expectantly. A young woman stood behind her, also dark haired and quite pretty with a resigned look on her face.
“It most definitely is me.” Willie drew her brows together in confusion. “I do apologize but have we met?”
“Once but it was a long time ago and I daresay you probably won’t remember as I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t been reminded.”
“Oh well...” Willie shook her head. “I am sorry but you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Of course I do, and it’s terribly rude of me. I just said you wouldn’t remember me and now I’m expecting you to do just that. Obviously it’s now my turn to apologize to you.” She smiled. “I’m Lady Richfield and this is my daughter, Lady Harriet Blake.”
“You’re not American?” Willie stared.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“I see. I had no idea. I was told the tour was comprised of American ladies and their daughters so I wasn’t expecting a fellow countryman.” She glanced at her list of names. “Your names are registered simply as R. Richfield and daughter, which I fear is due to the extreme efficiency of Miss Granville of the Lady Travelers Society.”
“Ah yes, the American. She met us at the front of the station and arranged for our bags to be taken care of.” Lady Bascombe lowered her voice in a confidential manner. “Do you think all Americans are that efficient?”
Willie’s thoughts flashed to the ladies already in the train car. “Oh, I doubt it.”
“Good.” Lady Richfield nodded. “I have never been the least bit efficient and I frankly find myself somewhat suspicious of those women who are.”
Willie grinned. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“So...” Lady Richfield glanced around. “Should we be getting on board?”
“Yes, of course. Everyone else has arrived with the exception—” Willie checked her list “—of D. Montague. I thought she was part of your party but she’s not with you?”
“D. Montague should be here any moment.” A slightly wicked spark shone in Lady Harriet’s eyes. “So this tour is for mothers and daughters? Only mothers and daughters?”
“I don’t believe it was restricted to mothers and daughters,” Willie said slowly, “but it is my understanding that our members are made up only of mothers and daughters. And aside from museums and galleries, the itinerary includes a number of things females tend to enjoy that men merely tolerate—shopping and theater and gardens and the like.”
“That’s what I thought,” Lady Harriet said in an overly sweet manner.
“Harriet, dear girl, why don’t you go on and find our seats.” A firm note sounded in Lady Richfield’s voice. “You’ll have to forgive my daughter. She was not especially eager to come on the tour.”
“But, Mother, I have changed my mind. I now see how very wrong I was.” An innocent smile curved the girl’s lips.
Lady Richfield’s eyes narrowed. “No more than two days ago you were moaning about how your life was over if you were forced to leave London.”
“Any number of things can change in two days, Mother. I came to the realization that opportunities like this don’t often come along. The chance to go to Paris as well as Venice? Why, it would be quite silly of me not to go. Besides, we’ll be gone less than a month. Goodness, Mother, my life can’t possibly be over because I’m gone a mere month.” Lady Harriet cast her mother a chastising look.
Suspicion colored Lady Richfield’s eyes. “I believe that was my point.”
“And now I agree with you. You should be happy, Mother.”
“And yet...” Lady Richfield studied her daughter.
Lady Harriet stepped up into the car and glanced down at them with a satisfied grin. A bit too satisfied. This was another young woman who would bear watching. “I think this is going to be a grand adventure. Truly an experience to remember.”
“As do I, Lady Harriet,” Willie said with an encouraging nod.
“Oh, do call her Harriet. Use of a title might be awkward with the American girls.” Lady Richfield pulled her gaze from the car door. “Do you have daughters, Lady Bascombe?”
“I’m afraid not. Someday perhaps.”
“Yes, well, the idea of daughters someday sounds delightful when someday is very far off. But then someday arrives and you’re living with this clever, subtly deceitful creature whose greatest joy in life is outwitting you because she thinks you are the enemy of all she wants in life. Oh, and she’s certain you’re stupid, as well,” Lady Richfield added wryly.
Willie grinned. “Surely not.”
“Life with a daughter is a challenge.” Lady Richfield straightened her shoulders. “Fortunately, I quite enjoy a challenge.”
Willie laughed.
Lady Richfield chuckled. “And you must call me Rosalind. After all, we are going to be spending a great deal of time in one another’s company.”
“Excellent. And I am Wilhelmina but most people call me Willie as Wilhelmina is rather a mouthful.” She wrinkled her nose. “And, as I have been told by the younger members of our party, a bit antiquated, as well.”
“They are nothing if not painfully blunt,” Rosalind observed.
“I remember all too well.” Willie frowned and glanced at her list again. “I do wish your D. Montague would appear. Am I to assume she is English, as well?”
“Oh, definitely English.”
“I would hate to leave her behind. And while we do have a private car, the train will leave when expected.”
“Yes, well...” Rosalind drew a deep breath. “About D. Montague. You should know—”
“That I am quite looking forward to this.” A tall, dashing gentleman with dark hair, equally dark eyes and an impressive air of refined elegance about him—no doubt assisted by excellent, quality tailoring—stepped up beside Rosalind. He carried a black leather traveling valise, the kind used for documents by solicitors and men of business. “You must be Lady Bascombe.”
Surely she’d met a man with shoulders that delightfully broad before? And certainly she knew any number who had dimples bracketing the corners of their perfectly shaped lips beneath a sharp straight nose that was just a touch Roman. Without thinking, Willie extended her hand. “I am.”
He took her hand and gazed into her eyes. The oddest shiver ran through her. “I am delighted to meet you.”
She mustered a weak smile. “And you are?”
“Forgive me. Where was my head? Roz?” He directed his words to Rosalind but kept his gaze locked on Willie’s. “Do be so kind as to introduce me.”
Good Lord. The most unnerving thought flashed through her mind. Was this intriguing specimen of the male gender here to accompany Rosalind? Was this trip to be some sort of romantic liaison on their part? And in front of her daughter? Not to mention the other girls. While Americans were reputed to be less unyielding about any number of things, Willie was fairly certain Jane and Marian would both be shocked by this. As free-spirited as Willie had always considered herself, this she could not allow.
“Yes, of course. Allow me to introduce Mr. Dante Montague.” Rosalind cleared her throat. “My brother.”
“Your what?” Relief swept through her. Only because she would not have to take the moral high ground—which she wasn’t sure anyone would believe—and not because of the wicked sparkle dancing in his eyes. And the way he looked at her as if she were something rather remarkable. Men had looked at her in similar ways before, of course, but it had always been much more lascivious. And she had been married. And it had been a very long time since.
“Her brother.” He grinned. “We’ve been told there’s a certain family resemblance.”
“When we were children perhaps.” Rosalind scoffed. “Fortunately, we have grown out of it.”
“And your name is Dante?” For whatever reason she couldn’t seem to pull her gaze from his. Nor did she want to. “As in the nine circles of hell?”
He chuckled. “My mother had a passion for literary names. You’re familiar with Dante’s Divine Comedy, then?”
An endless, fourteenth-century epic poem that was forced down the throats of unsuspecting schoolgirls in the name of classics while they did their best to avoid it? The sort of thing a girl might only skim in order to answer the most basic questions about it? She forced a light laugh. “Who isn’t?”
“Excellent. I look forward to discussing it with you.”
“You can let go of her hand now,” Rosalind said pointedly.
Willie pulled her hand from his. “That does sound like fun.”
“I expect this tour to be a great deal of fun, as well.” Mr. Montague continued to study her as if he couldn’t bear to take his eyes away. It was at once flattering and a bit unnerving.
“I’m curious, Mr. Montague.”
“Dante, please.” There were those dimples again. “We’re going to be together every day for the next month after all.”
“Regardless, we have only just met. It would be far too improper and not at all the way to begin an adventure like this.” Oh Lord. Why couldn’t the man have had a name like Horacio or Ebenezer. Why did he have to have the name of an Italian poet?
And where on earth had this voice of propriety of hers come from? Why, she had never been the least bit concerned about rules before. It was no doubt his fault. This man, this Dante, might be very, very dangerous. Or he could be a great deal of fun. She wasn’t sure she was ready for fun and certainly not for danger. Her previous life had had entirely too much of both—or the illusion of both—and had, in hindsight, been exhausting. Although she would admit there were frequent moments when she missed it.
“Might I ask why you decided to join a tour directed at ladies and their daughters?”
“Well, I—”
“In truth, this whole thing was my brother’s idea,” Rosalind answered. “He is paying for our entire trip. The dear man.”
“It was a gift,” Dante said quickly. “And most deserved.”
“It was a bribe.” Rosalind smirked. “Also most deserved.”
“And as I was at loose ends, with nothing pressing to keep me in London at the moment—”
“Alas my dear brother has not yet found himself a wife.” Rosalind heaved a long-suffering sigh.
Dante shot her a sharp look then continued. “I thought it might be nice to accompany my dear, dear sister and her charming daughter.”
“How very...thoughtful of you.” And indeed it did appear quite thoughtful although one couldn’t help but wonder at the undercurrents ebbing between brother and sister and exactly what Dante’s bribe was for. And wouldn’t that be interesting to find out?
“And then when I discovered you were to be one of the travelers, well, how could I possibly pass up the opportunity to make the acquaintance of the legendary Wilhelmina Bascombe.”
“How indeed.” She forced a light laugh. Legendary? What utter rubbish. She did have a certain reputation—at least she used to—but it had been two years since she’d done anything at all let alone anything legendary.
“I believe we should probably get on board,” Mr. Montague said to his sister then turned to Willie. “Don’t you agree, Lady Bascombe?”
“Yes, of course,” she murmured.
Dante assisted his sister up the steps. She said something quietly into his ear then glanced back at Willie and smiled. He turned to Willie and took her hand to help her into the car. It wasn’t really necessary. But it was quite nice.
“I cannot tell you how delighted I am that I decided to come along,” he said in a low voice behind her.
A frisson of something that might have been delight—or worse, anticipation—ran up her spine. She ignored it.
It had been a long time since she’d felt any sort of attraction to a man. Certainly it was not unexpected that she would do so at some point. She had been a widow for two years after all and even at the age of thirty she did not consider herself old. Nor did she have any desire to spend the rest of her life alone.
But Willie had met any number of dashing, charming, handsome men before. George was dashing and handsome and charming. Her next husband was going to be sensible and rational and practical. A man who had more on his mind than the next ball or rout or hunt. At the very least, a man who was aware of his responsibilities and lived up to them. A man who paid his bills.
No, she was finished with men who were impulsive and wanted nothing more than to enjoy everything life had to offer. The next time she married she wanted a bit of moderation.
A man who put entirely too much effort into charming a woman—even if he was nice to his sister—was not to be trusted. Legendary indeed. Besides, a man who had the name and the charm of an Italian poet and the looks of a Roman god was the last thing she needed or wanted.
Even if she suspected he might well be irresistible.