The Lady Travelers Guide To Larceny With A Dashing Stranger

“I see.”

“Once I reclaim the painting, I intend to offer it for sale.” She shook her head. “I have no other means of support, Poppy.”

“You could marry again.”

“And I am not the least bit opposed to marrying again.”

Although the next time Willie plighted her troth she would be somewhat more discriminating about who she plighted it to. A man of responsibility and maturity would be a welcome change. Not at all the type of man she ever imagined she might want but then she had never been thirty years of age before with few prospects and no financial security. Although finding a man of that nature who was not, as well, extraordinarily dull might prove difficult. Such a man was not the type to marry frivolously. And aside from everything else, Willie wanted a man she could love. Admittedly, it might well be easier to swim to Venice than find the sort of man she wanted.

“I do not, however, have the slightest desire to marry simply because I have no other choice.” Her jaw tightened. “That painting is my salvation. As much as I would hate to sell it, proceeds from the sale will support me for several years.”

Poppy studied her for a long moment. “Your grandmother would have it no other way.”

Relief washed through Willie. “You don’t think she’d mind, then?”

“Oh, I think she’d mind a great deal.” Poppy paused. “I daresay you’re not aware of how she came by the painting but it was given to her by a gentleman she cared for deeply. Who I believe shared her feelings. I don’t know all the details—your grandmother could be remarkably discreet when she chose to be—but I do know he was married and nothing could come of their feelings. He gave her the painting as something of parting gift.”

“I had no idea,” Willie murmured. Indeed, the thought of her very respectable grandmother having a liaison with a married man was somewhat shocking.

“So yes, she would mind but not nearly as much as she would mind your being penniless or having to marry simply to keep body and soul together. She would mind that far more.”

“As would I,” Willie said wryly then paused. “You wrote me about your Lady Travelers Society, how you and your friends started it and then sold it. But you also said the three of you still play an active role in the society.”

“Oh my, yes.” Poppy nodded. “Why, we give lectures and produce pamphlets and lead fascinating discussions with our members as well as offer sage advice on the caprices of travel. We are consulting travel advisers.” A smug smile curved her lips. “And we are quite good at it.”

“I’ve no doubt of that,” Willie said, although she was fairly certain Poppy had never actually traveled to any great extent beyond a few months in Paris as a girl.

“I must tell you, Wilhelmina, that the most wonderful things in life are often those we least expect. We are having a grand time. Who would have imagined at our age?”

“No one deserves to have a grand time more than you,” Willie said firmly. “I was hoping, as you and the other ladies are the founders of the society and are still involved in it, that you might assist me in arranging some way to travel to Venice. As inexpensively as possible,” she added quickly. There were still one or two antiquities that had been stored in the attic that might fetch enough to pay at least part of her way to Italy. Although she would have no way to return home.

“Oh, I haven’t the vaguest idea how to do that, dear. However...” Poppy rose to her feet. “Gwen and Effie might have a thought or two. I have learned through the years that when one of us has no solution to a difficulty, all three of us together come up with the most brilliant ideas.” She nodded firmly. “I had planned on meeting both of them at the Lady Travelers Society offices in an hour or so. We shall put this dilemma to them and we will have a means to get you to Venice in no time at all.”

“Why, Poppy.” Willie grinned. “You sound most efficient.”

“I am a woman of business now,” the older woman said primly.

“Are you indeed?”

“I am.” Poppy nodded. “And it’s all perfectly legitimate. Why, I’ll have you know, there isn’t even a suggestion of fraud or anything the least bit illegal.”

Willie stared. “I never would have imagined such a thing.”

“Oh well...good.” Poppy beamed then her smile dimmed. “Although after the society was purchased by Mr. Forge, Miss Charlotte Granville was put in charge. She’s most efficient, horribly well organized and really rather brilliant. And she’s American, as is Mr. Forge, which is endlessly interesting. I’ve never known an American beyond a casual introduction in passing. Malcolm, however, knew any number of Americans. Quite candid I would say, although with Charlotte one is never sure if she finds you amusing or annoying. It scarcely matters, I suppose. She is usually quite pleasant under even the most trying of circumstances.”

“I thought you and your friends ran the society.”

“Oh dear, no. At least not anymore. We are simply figureheads. Consultants and wise purveyors of indispensable travel guidance as it were. It would be absurd for us to try to manage an undertaking of this magnitude.” Poppy started toward the door. “Why, none of us have the least bit of a head for business.”

* * *

“YOU HAVE TO ADMIT, Charlotte,” Lady Blodgett said with a knowing look. “Having Lady Bascombe escort a flock of Americans and their daughters on a grand tour is nothing short of brilliant.”

“I’m not sure brilliant is the word I would use,” Miss Charlotte Granville said with a tolerant smile. No doubt she had heard any number of brilliant ideas from the septuagenarian trio in the past. “And it is hardly even in the realm of a petit tour as opposed to a grand tour. It includes only Paris, Monte Carlo, a few stops along the way in Italy, including Venice and Rome, in barely a month’s time. But it is what they requested.”

Poppy and her friends had explained that Willie was eager to travel as she was still trying to cope with the unfortunate loss of her husband. Since Willie had abandoned black some time ago, she wasn’t sure Miss Granville was convinced. The older ladies might not have noticed but Willie could see at once that Charlotte Granville was a force to be reckoned with and not someone easily deceived.

“However, I’m afraid the tour will not come together as expected.” Miss Granville’s brow furrowed in annoyance. “We have already had one mother and daughter withdraw. Oddly enough, it’s the very woman who inquired about a private tour in the first place with specific requests as to what it would include. The others are now uncertain as to whether or not they wish to proceed.” She cast Willie a sympathetic smile. “I am sorry but I am nearly ready to cancel it altogether.”

“Understandable,” Willie murmured, trying to ignore the sense of utter defeat that knotted her stomach.

“Oh, that would be a shame,” Mrs. Higginbotham said with a heavy sigh. “I daresay you poor, unfortunate Americans rarely get the opportunity to see those sights that are practically in our own back gardens.”

“I would suspect the chance to travel in the company of a genuine viscountess is yet another opportunity that rarely comes along for those poor, dear ladies. Pity really.” Poppy glanced at Lady Blodgett. “They don’t have titles in America, do they?”

“No.” Lady Blodgett shook her head in a mournful manner. “Not a one. Unless I’m mistaken. Charlotte?”

“No,” Miss Granville said thoughtfully. “We do not have titles.”

“One always wants what one doesn’t have,” Mrs. Higginbotham said in a wise manner. “It’s the nature of mankind.”

“But particularly the nature of women,” Poppy said.

“Are these American mothers and their daughters wealthy?” Lady Blodgett asked brightly.

Miss Granville nodded. “Our services for a private tour such as this do not come lightly.”

“But you said there was indecision as to whether or not there would be a tour at all?” Poppy asked.

Again Miss Granville nodded.

“I would think the chance to make the acquaintance of a viscountess, perhaps becoming friends during the length of even a short tour, possibly with an eye toward having her at some point introduce their daughters to an earl or even a duke...” Lady Blodgett shrugged. “Well...”

“And you do know very nearly everyone who is anyone in London society, don’t you, dear?” Poppy cast her an encouraging look.

“Not everyone, of course.” Willie adopted a confident smile. “But I do have a large circle of friends and acquaintances. I would say that—”

“And have you traveled widely, Lady Bascombe?” Miss Granville interrupted.

“Well, I—” Willie began.

“Goodness, Charlotte,” Lady Blodgett said in a chastising manner. “Lady Bascombe’s husband’s family can trace its heritage back numerous generations. Wilhelmina’s father is an earl with a proud and noble heritage and Wilhelmina herself is a graduate of the prestigious Miss Bicklesham’s Academy for Accomplished Young Ladies.”

“Yes, well, that’s very nice but—”

“I assure you, Charlotte, no prominent family in England would allow their offspring to go into the world without first making certain they have the appropriate knowledge of the capitals of Europe,” Poppy said in a lofty manner. “The very thought that Lady Bascombe is not more than capable of leading a small group of Americans around those same capitals is patently absurd.”

Miss Granville’s cheeks flushed. “I do apologize, Lady Bascombe.” Apparently, wealthy Americans weren’t the only ones somewhat cowed by British titles. “Of course, you’re more than qualified.”

“Thank you, Miss Granville.” Willie smiled in what she hoped was a confident manner.

“You’re right, ladies.” Miss Granville nodded at Poppy and the others. “Having Lady Bascombe escort the tour could be just the thing to get those interested to commit once and for all. Indeed, her addition might well be irresistible.”

“Although really, Charlotte—” Lady Blodgett leaned toward the American in the manner of one confidant to another “—I’m not sure you wish to use the words lead or guide or escort even if that is what she’ll be doing.”

Miss Granville’s brow rose. “I don’t?”

“It just seems to me that if you offered a tour hosted by the incomparable Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe it sounds much more like a group of old friends off on a grand holiday.” Lady Blodgett smiled knowingly. “Don’t you agree, Charlotte?”

The younger woman considered her thoughtfully. “You never fail to amaze me, Lady Blodgett.”

“Thank you, dear.” The modest note in her voice was belied by the smug twinkle in her eye.

Miss Granville directed her attention to Willie. “We will, of course, provide for your expenses. All your lodgings and transportation. In addition, you will receive a stipend for unexpected costs as well as our standard compensation for the leaders of tour groups.”

“Oh, I think it should be somewhat more than standard compensation.” Lady Blodgett shook her head. “She is after all Lady Bascombe and more than likely the reason this tour will proceed at all.”

Miss Granville thought for a moment. “I see your point. I will see what I can do. Lady Bascombe, in addition to the stipend, you’ll receive half of your compensation upon your departure, the other half when you return. If that is acceptable?”

Willie resisted the urge to grin with delight. “It will do.”

“We were originally set to depart in three weeks. While there remain arrangements to finalize, I think that is still possible. Can you be ready by then?”

“Well, I—”

“Of course she can,” Poppy said.

“Not merely ready but willing and extremely capable, as well,” Mrs. Higginbotham added.

“I must say, I am somewhat envious.” Lady Blodgett’s eyes gleamed with triumph. “My dear departed Charles spoke very highly of Americans. He thought they were an exceptionally interesting lot. And the chance to go off on even a modest tour with Americans, why, it’s a venture simply fraught with exciting possibilities. Don’t you agree, Lady Bascombe?”

All eyes turned toward Willie—three pairs filled with encouragement, the fourth somewhat more skeptical. For a moment Willie had no idea how to respond. She still wasn’t sure exactly what had happened, although her dear, sweet Poppy and her equally innocuous friends had somehow managed to convince the obviously intelligent and competent Miss Granville that Wilhelmina, Lady Bascombe, was more than up to the task of shepherding young Americans and their mothers on a tour of Europe—regardless of whether it was petit or grand. And had, as well, persuaded her to offer financial compensation above what would normally be provided. This in spite of the fact that Poppy knew Willie had never stepped foot off the shores of England. Still, with up-to-date maps, brochures and travel guides, how difficult could leading—or rather hosting—a tour be?

It struck Willie that Poppy and her friends, and even Miss Granville, were placing their faith in her and the oddest determination not to disappoint them swept through her. She’d never had any particular responsibilities but it was time she did. She could certainly do this and do it far better than she—or anyone else—expected. And wasn’t it past time to live up to expectations? To become a trustworthy, reliable adult?

“I do, Lady Blodgett.” Willie beamed. “I do indeed.”

CHAPTER TWO

Two weeks later...

“GOODNESS, DANTE.” ROSALIND, Lady Richfield, heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I have no desire to spend a month in the country, let alone travel Europe. I can’t imagine why you think I would wish to do such a thing.”

“Come now, Roz.” Dante Augustus Montague glared at his sister. “You needn’t be so dramatic. It’s not as if I’m asking you to go to the far corners of the world. To some uncivilized, untamed region populated with headhunters and cannibals and deadly vipers. I’m talking about Paris and Monte Carlo and Venice and Rome.”

“I don’t want to go either,” her daughter, Harriet, added. At age eighteen, Harriet had just completed her first, and judging by her mother’s comments, extremely successful season. She had, as well—at least in her uncle’s eyes—become more than a little conceited and most annoying. In many ways, exactly like his sister.

“I understand that, brother dear.” Roz’s eyes narrowed. “But what you are proposing is not a trip for the purposes of education and refinement and culture. You are planning nothing less than a farce.”

“A French farce really,” Harriet said with a smug smile. She looked from her mother to her uncle. “A French farce? Because the tour includes Paris?”

“Ah yes, quite.” Dante offered a perfunctory smile.

Someone had told Harriet she was a natural wit and she’d considered herself most amusing ever since. Dante suspected the culprit responsible had been trying to curry favor with the lovely young woman. His sister had mentioned their drawing room was as often as not filled with suitors eager to win the hand of Lady Harriet. Roz was both proud and a bit taken aback by the social success of her only daughter.

“It’s not at all a farce.” Dante resisted the urge to roll his eyes toward the ceiling but that would only serve to irritate his sister. Some five years younger than Roz, even as an adult, Dante never tired of annoying her. Under other circumstances he would find that most enjoyable. Today, however, he needed her help. “Perhaps you don’t understand how important this is. Perhaps I should explain it again.”

“I believe we are both well aware of how important you think this is,” Roz said. “There is no need for you to expound yet again.”

“Goodness, Uncle Dante, we’re not idiots.” Harriet sighed and ticked the points off on her fingers. “One—a valuable painting that belonged to great-grandfather was replaced longer ago than anyone can remember with a copy and no one apparently noticed until you recently did. Two—the records of Montague House make no mention of the substitution of the original—a Portinari I believe—which has led you to suspect it was not legitimately replaced and might even have been stolen. Three—you have discovered through the efforts of an investigator that the original painting was at one time in the possession of the Viscount Bascombe who is unfortunately dead.”

“God rest his soul,” Roz said firmly.

“God rest his soul,” Harriet echoed and continued. “Four—that same investigator learned the painting was used as collateral for a loan between the viscount and some man in Venice. Five—the widowed Lady Bascombe is about to lead a group of American debutants and their mothers on a trip to Italy, among other places, and you believe she intends to reclaim the painting as part of settling her husband’s affairs or something like that. And six—you wish for Mother and I to join this tour so that you too may come along because you certainly can’t join it by yourself. Is that correct?”

Dante stared. “I had no idea you listened to me.”

“We listen to you constantly,” Roz said. “It’s impossible not to. Ever since you discovered the substitution of the painting—”

“Ever since you took over management of Montague House,” Harriet added.

“—you’ve rarely spoken of anything else. You’ve become quite dull.”

“I have not.” Dante scoffed but even to his own ears it did not ring quite true. Still, it couldn’t be helped.

His grandfather, the Marquess of Haverstead, had divided his nonentailed assets upon his death, leaving them equally to his three sons. His youngest son—Dante and Roz’s father—had proved surprisingly gifted at all matters financial and, through shrewd investments and sound business endeavors, doubled it. Dante had taken after his father in this respect and at the age of thirty-three had amassed a fortune significantly greater than his father’s. Which was all well and good but there was more to life than the acquisition of funds—an edict his grandfather had lived his life by.

Dante only vaguely remembered Grandfather as he had passed on when Dante was six years of age but he never forgot the old gentleman explaining the importance of art and beauty, whether they be depicted in painting or marble or by the fine hand of a master craftsman in a pottery urn created thousands of years ago. “Art,” he had once told his grandson, “is man’s very soul made manifest.”

When the marquess died, his will decreed his grand London house become a private museum, open only to scholars and those with a deep appreciation of art and antiquities and willing to purchase a subscription to help defray costs. He left, as well, a trust to maintain his collections. A curator was hired to catalog the late marquess’s acquisitions, organize and display the house’s contents, and manage membership as well as all the other varied and sundry details an endeavor of this nature required. Through the years there was another director and another—all with various skills in the management of small museums and Montague House took its place among the lesser sights of London.

Unfortunately, the only one of Lord Haverstead’s numerous offspring who shared his fascination with fine art or the remnants of antiquity was Dante. He spent much of his boyhood at Montague House studying the works of Renaissance masters or paging through ancient volumes in the well-stocked library or trying to decipher the Greek or Latin inscriptions on the ancient coins and other metalwork kept behind glass doors. The influence of Montague House lingered through Dante’s school years and he considered becoming a scholar of art and antiquities until business and finance proved to be a passion every bit as strong and far more challenging.

“I am not the least bit dull,” he said staunchly.

Roz and her daughter traded knowing glances.

“I know that look.” He glared at his sister. “Go on, say what you’re thinking.”

“We’re not saying that you’ve become dull only because you’ve thrown yourself into Montague House,” Roz began.

“Although you have taken up residence in the flat on the upper floor,” Harriet said under her breath.

“It’s most convenient.” He huffed. “Besides, it’s where the facility director has always lived.”

With only cursory family notice paid to Montague House, it was inevitable the museum would fall prey to mismanagement. A state of affairs only discovered some two years ago. In spite of the trust, the enterprise was losing money. Hemorrhaging it really, one of the uncles pointed out. Between maintenance of the building and care of the works it housed, it would be insolvent in no time. And then it would either have to become fully open to the public—an idea that made the more conservative members of the family shudder—or it would be closed and Grandfather’s life’s work dispersed.

Dante’s uncle, the current marquess, assembled his brothers and their children to discuss the fate of Montague House. While none of them wished to see their father’s, or grandfather’s, wishes ignored, they did realize something needed to be done and perhaps trusting someone outside of the family was not wise.

Upon reflection, Dante wasn’t certain who had first raised the idea of his taking over supervision of Montague House. After all, he did have an excellent head for management and business enterprises as well as firm appreciation and understanding of the world of art and antiquities. In certain circles he was considered something of an expert. Certainly he could put Montague House back on solid financial footing and establish a respectable reputation in the process. If not, perhaps it was time to donate Grandfather’s collections to a more venerable institution and sell the house. Or use it as the residence it was originally intended to be. Several of Dante’s cousins expressed interest in that possibility. Obviously the only one who could—or was willing—to save Grandfather’s legacy was the only son of his youngest son.

“We are simply pointing out that it seems the oddest sort of coincidence that you took up residence at Montague House at very nearly the same time you were publically rebuffed by Miss Pauling.”

“It is indeed a coincidence and I was not publically rebuffed.”

“You were according to what I heard.” Harriet shrugged. “Everyone said so.”

“Gossip rarely has anything to do with truth,” Dante said sharply. “And I was not rebuffed as I was not especially interested in Miss Pauling.”

Admittedly, he—along with very nearly every other single man in London—had found Juliet Pauling lovely and exciting. One never knew what to expect from her. She was adventurous and daring and exhilarating. He had indeed called on her several times but eventually realized she had her sights set on bigger fish than the untitled grandson of a marquess. Regrettably, she was as calculating as she was charming, as designing as she was delightful. Which was why it took him far too long to realize he was little more than a pawn in her quest for a title, a means to make a better catch jealous. Unfortunately, thanks to the unrelenting gossip of people exactly like his sister, his name had been linked with hers. When her betrothal to the son of a duke was announced, it came as a surprise to nearly everyone in society and to no one more than to Dante. He hadn’t thought she was quite so devious as to not give him even a glimmer of warning.

“We shouldn’t tease you about this,” Roz said in a sincere manner he didn’t believe for a moment. “A broken heart is nothing to make fun of.”

“It is dreadfully sad though.” Harriet heaved the sort of sigh only a romantic young woman could manage. “The love of your life throwing you over for another man even if he was the son of a duke.”

“She was not the love of my life. Nor did she break my heart.”

“Obviously a mistake on my part.” Amusement shone in his sister’s eye. “Silly of me to confuse a broken heart with badly bruised pride.”

“I’m quite sure I have mentioned this before, any number of times by my count, but neither my heart nor my pride was broken or bruised,” Dante said firmly. Only to himself would he acknowledge that a broken heart was a fate he had narrowly averted and there might possibly have been the slightest bruising of his pride. “Furthermore, that was two years ago.”