Chapter Sixteen
The long gallery of the Sommer-by-the-Sea Historical Society was not yet visible from the vestibule, but Leticia could already hear the low murmur of voices and the occasional ring of polite laughter.
The mingled scents of beeswax and champagne rode the crisp breath of early autumn, slipping through the high windows to brush her awareness.
The afternoon promised the pleasure of fine company and remarkable displays, though she never trusted first impressions, not at gatherings like this.
The receiving room ahead glowed with lamplight and polished wood.
Sir Albert Westcott stood just inside, offering bows and handshakes with the precision of a man long trained in Parliament.
His once-dark hair was silver now, but his stance remained soldier-straight.
Beside him, Lady Westcott, tall and elegant in pale blue silk, greeted each arrival with an appraising glance and a smile that warmed or cooled according to her estimation.
Gabriel inclined his head. “Sir Albert, it has been some time. The last occasion was Lady Stanhope’s musicale.”
Sir Albert’s eyes softened. “Ashcombe. Yes, though my ears never fully recovered from the violins.”
Lady Westcott’s laugh was light but controlled, as though amusement were a form of courtesy.
Sir Albert turned to Leticia, studying her with a statesman’s thoroughness. “And this young lady?”
Introductions were made. Lady Westcott’s smile deepened by a fraction. “Lady Salisbury, how pleasant. I have heard of your aunt’s work with the reading society. Do convey my regards.”
“I will,” Leticia said, her voice steady though her awareness sharpened. Lady Westcott’s approval might set doors swinging wide. Her favor could open doors, or quietly keep them closed.
Before she could say more, Lady Westcott’s gaze shifted past them. “Colonel Barrington. Mrs. Bainbridge. We were just speaking of you.”
The couple stepped forward. It was Barrington with the quiet authority of a man accustomed to command, Mrs. Bainbridge with a smile warm enough to coax confidences from strangers.
“You must be deep in preparations,” Lady Westcott continued. “Two weddings in such close succession will be the talk of the county.”
Mrs. Bainbridge’s eyes sparkled. “Preparations, yes. Agreement on the guest list, not yet.”
Barrington’s mouth curved. “We are narrowing the options.”
“Or expanding them, depending on whom you ask,” she countered, drawing a ripple of polite laughter from those nearby.
Lady Westcott’s attention returned to Leticia, her eyes bright with interest. “And for you, my dear, congratulations are in order. Such a romantic proposal. It made my heart flutter.”
Heat touched Leticia’s cheeks. “It was… rather unexpected.”
Gabriel’s gaze met hers for a moment, steady, unreadable, before drifting over her shoulder to a tall, neatly dressed man standing a discreet pace behind Lady Westcott. The fellow carried a leather folio and had the precise bearing of one accustomed to balancing accounts.
“Mr. Denholm,” Gabriel murmured for her alone. “Her ladyship’s affairs man.”
Lady Westcott gestured toward the adjoining chamber. “Do take a glass before you view the collection. Sir Albert insists one sees everything more favorably with champagne in hand.”
They entered the receiving room beyond, where conversation rose beneath the warm gleam of candle chandeliers. Footmen in livery threaded through the crowd, silver trays of crystal flutes catching the light. Perfume wove with beeswax and champagne until the air was velvet with scent.
Across the room, two ladies whispered behind their fans.
“…after the theft at the masquerade, she guards them like a dragon with its hoard,” one murmured, her eyes darting toward a nearby case.
Leticia turned toward the display, unwilling to appear curious.
The mention of the masquerade still scraped like flint beneath the surface.
She might have lingered to hear more, but Miss Erica Notley arrived at her side, her expression bright and her gaze already sweeping the room.
“Such a crush,” she observed. “I imagine the noise becomes invisible once one is accustomed to it.”
“It does,” Leticia said, keeping her tone mild and her attention elsewhere.
They moved together toward the wide archway leading into the long gallery. To the right, an alcove displayed historical texts on loan from private collections. A figure stood there, bent over a glass-topped case, hands clasped behind his back.
“Professor Tresham,” Leticia said, pleased to see him.
He looked up, his reserve easing a fraction. “Lady Salisbury. I did not expect to find you here among the relics.”
“Professor, may I present Miss Erica Notley?”
“A pleasure, Miss Notley.” His tone was courteous, his manner precise.
“The pleasure is mine, Professor,” she replied, her smile even.
“These are remarkable,” Leticia said, leaning closer to the display.
“Several from Lord Harrington’s collection,” Tresham told her. “This charter,” he indicated a sheet of vellum, “is a sixteenth-century grant reaffirming Sommer-by-the-Sea’s market rights. The seal is unusually well preserved.”
Miss Notley tilted her head toward another. “The hand looks different.”
“Fifteenth-century copy of an older text,” Tresham confirmed. “More rounded, as was common then.”
Leticia smiled. “I envy your skill.”
“Only practice,” Tresham replied.
From the corner of her vision, Leticia noticed Gabriel a few paces away, his posture relaxed but his gaze trained on the far end of the gallery, where Mr. Denholm now conferred with a uniformed guard. He moved to join her with unhurried steps that belied his focus.
“If you will excuse us, Professor,” Gabriel said smoothly. “Lady Salisbury, there is something I would like to show you.”
Miss Notley’s smile was pleasant, if faintly edged. “Enjoy the rest of the exhibition.”
Gabriel guided Leticia toward the jewel cases. The gallery light caught on emeralds, rubies, and sapphires, each gem catching the light as guests shifted before the glass. The air was quieter, as though the jewels themselves demanded it.
“I never tire of these,” Miss Notley said lightly, reappearing beside them with the ease of one accustomed to slipping into conversations. “One wonders what scandals their histories would tell.”
Gabriel’s eyes lingered on a necklace. “Morton estate. Acquired at auction.”
Miss Notley’s tone was almost idle. “I remember a brooch there once, diamonds forming a larger diamond, something dark at the center, onyx, perhaps. I never looked closely.”
The casual remark struck like a pebble against glass, rippling through Leticia. Her mother’s brooch, hidden away for years, shared the same arrangement.
Gabriel shifted subtly, his shoulder brushing hers. His fingers brushed hers, steady, deliberate, before falling away, a silent reassurance or warning.
Miss Notley’s smile did not falter. “Funny how some things find their way back, even after all this time.”
“Others are best left where they belong,” Leticia returned, her reflection in the glass meeting Miss Notley’s.
Gabriel straightened. “If you will excuse us, Miss Notley.” His tone was courteous. The meaning final.
“Of course,” she said lightly, though her eyes followed them as they turned away.
They moved toward the far end of the gallery, their steps unhurried. “There’s a teahouse around the corner from here,” Gabriel said quietly. “A pot of Darjeeling and a quiet table might suit after this crowd.”
The suggestion was simple enough, yet it carried the undertone of something more, a small withdrawal from the public stage, and perhaps the chance to speak without so many ears nearby.
Lady Westcott intercepted them near the exit, her smile gracious. “I trust you have enjoyed the afternoon, Lady Salisbury. Lord Ashcombe.”
Gabriel inclined his head. “An impressive collection.”
They exchanged farewells and stepped outside.
The air was cool with a salty scent from the harbor.
Leticia took his arm, aware of the warmth of his earlier touch and of the questions crowding her thoughts about the brooch, Mr. Denholm, and the ease with which Miss Notley had threaded herself through the afternoon.
Too many threads. All too neatly tied. And one of them, she was certain now, was Erica Notley.