The air thrummed with sexual tension.
Was she remembering the moment he pushed deep into her body?
Was she imagining him doing so again?
She snapped open the old fan and waved it before her flushed cheeks. Yes, her mind was engaged with illicit visions. Perhaps they should see what lay behind the painted picture of fruit and then move to more pleasurable pursuits.
“May I look at the vignettes on the fan?”
Vivienne handed him the delicate object. “They’re scenes of love and courtship.”
Evan studied the white-wigged figures dressed in clothes fashionable seventy years ago. One vignette showed the couple dancing. One showed them sitting beneath a tree, the gentleman reading while the lady listened. One showed the gentleman bowing over his lady’s hand, ignoring the scantily clad women bathing in the lake behind.
“Interesting,” he said, for a harem of naked women could not tear him away from Vivienne Hart.
“Perhaps you should get on your knees and examine the gift from your grandfather.”
Evan thought to tease her. Livingston Sloane had sent him a sea nymph bursting with intelligence and passion. No other gift could compare. “I’ll get to that once I’ve disco
vered what lies behind the painting of fruit.”
He stood, took the painting hanging in the space left by Livingston Sloane’s portrait, and placed it on the floor before the hearth.
Vivienne came and knelt beside him. The nearness of her body made it hard to concentrate on the task, but he took his knife and set to work prising the stretcher bars away from the frame.
“I thought there might be a label on the panel—the name of the artist.” She kept her hands clasped in her lap and watched intently. “But then your grandfather wouldn’t want you following a false trail.”
“No, clearly it’s not important.” The wood groaned and creaked against Evan’s assault, but he freed the stretched canvas from the gilt frame, leaving the painted board of a fruit basket still in place.
They both gasped when Evan turned the canvas around to reveal the same painting of Livingston Sloane that had hung to the left of the mantelpiece since he was a boy.
“How odd,” she said, drawing his mind back to the moment she entered the bedchamber, and his world changed for the better. “It’s identical. The table, the window, the date, they’re all the same.”
“Not entirely the same.” He pointed to the open book. “Now we know the name of the poem.”
Vivienne squinted. “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. It’s a poem about death. How might a person be remembered? How some are forgotten while others live on in people’s memories?”
“I’m not familiar with it.” He avoided anything morbid. “Ashwood will have an opinion. He’s fond of poetry, though usually of the more amorous sort.”
Vivienne captured the book from the chair and flicked to the relevant page. She sat reading while Evan stared at the familiar image of his grandfather, looking for other unique differences. An obvious one made him jerk his head back.
“The compass points northeast.” And there was something different about the landscape beyond the window. He tugged the bell pull and had Fitchett bring his best magnifying glass from the study. “You’ve not heard from Buchanan?” he asked when the butler returned.
“No, sir, though his first note said not to expect him back until morning.”
That was another odd thing. Howarth must have left London in his search for Golding. Thankfully, Vivienne confirmed it was Buchanan who’d written the note, else Evan might have suspected the masked rider was somehow involved.
“And what of Mrs McCready?”
“Gone for a long walk in the garden, sir. She complained about supper, about the house being dusty, about the fact she should be in Silver Street, not stuck in the devil’s lair.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary, then.”
“No, sir.”
“Mrs McCready can be rather dramatic,” Vivienne said as soon as Fitchett left the room and closed the door.
“While Buchanan’s talents are obvious, I struggle to see why you entertain the grouch.”