Page 130 of The Marriage Method

“Why surprising?” Nell asked.

Lady Upshott withdrew her needlework from her bag. “I thought her too sensible to be taken in by a man. She was a young gal but not a stupid one. Used to have the running of the place when the old baron was ill.”

“Some gentlemen can be very persuasive,” Nell said.

“Expect he was.” Lady Upshott gave another snort. “I never met him. No one did. Jane Fawn-Purvis kept her secrets close. I’d have said she was a confirmed spinster right up until the day she eloped with the fella.”

“An elopement,” Lady Belwood murmured. “That is a scandal, indeed.”

Nell deliberately avoided looking at her. Their conversation had left her emotions too raw. Too confused. She couldn’t afford to be distracted. “Not an insurmountable one, surely,” she said.

“It is if the man’s a wrong ’un,” Lady Upshott replied. “Not one of our class, according to Amstead. Some rogue in London with no money or prospects. Miss Fawn-Purvis cast her lot with him, and ruined her good name in the bargain. Amstead was obliged to wash his hands of her.”

“A sad tale,” Nell said. “Was Lord Amstead the one who told it to you?”

Lady Upshott commenced her sewing. “Miss Fawn-Purvis could hardly do so. She’d up and went, hadn’t she? Less than a fortnight after her father died. And without a word to anyone, the sly cat.”

Nell collected her own needle and sampler to resume her work. Her mouth curved in a pensive frown. Could it be that this was the significance of the second date in Mr. Cowgill’s notebook? That it was the date of Miss Fawn-Purvis’s infamous elopement?

But they had only Lord Amstead’s word that it was an elopement.

What it if hadn’t been? What if it had, in fact, been something far more sinister?

33

The long gallery on the third floor of Northwick Hall ran the length of both wings, with a line of silk-draped windows on one side and a row of aged, gilt-framed paintings on the other.

Nell strolled at Miles’s side down the narrow, red-patterned carpet, her hand tucked in his arm, as Lord Amstead gave an abridged history of the most important of his noble ancestors. The gentlemen had only returned from shooting at five, and with dinner at seven they had little time for more than a cursory tour.

In other circumstances, Nell would have lamented the missed opportunity to gather more information about the Fawn-Purvis family, but not today. She hadn’t been alone with Miles since he’d got back and was anxious to tell him what she’d learned from Lady Upshott—and about the conversation she’d had with Lady Belwood.

“My great-grandfather, Alfred,” Baron Amstead said. “It was he who rebuilt the east wing after the fire and laid out the plans for the formal rose gardens. A true visionary.” He glanced at Nell. “But you must see it up close, Mrs. Quincey.” He offered his arm. “If your husband will permit.”

Miles made no objection.

Reluctantly releasing his arm, Nell moved forward to take Lord Amstead’s.

The baron covered her hand with his. “The portrait was painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds,” he said, drawing Nell up to the frame. “It was he who recommended my great-grandfather wear a red coat with gold buttons. It gives the pose a martial air, does it not?”

Nell murmured her approval. “All of the portraits we’ve seen thus far are of distant ancestors,” she said as he drew her on to the next painting. “Do you have none of more recent generations?”

“Of myself, do you mean?” Lord Amstead chuckled. “Is that what you’d like to see, ma’am? A portrait of me?” He flashed a grin back at Miles. “Your wife flatters me, Quincey.”

Miles kept pace behind them, his hands clasped at his back. His face was absent humor. “Doubtless she’d like to see your parents.”

“Or perchance your sister,” Nell said. “Is her portrait here?”

Lord Amstead’s arm stiffened under Nell’s hand.

“I do appreciate the way the artists depict a woman’s clothing,” Nell continued, with what she hoped was creditable guilelessness. “The prevailing styles and the texture of the fabrics. It’s an art in and of itself.” She glanced at Miles. “Is it not, my love?”

“As you’ve often remarked,” Miles replied.

Lord Amstead tugged Nell forward. “My parents are further on,” he said. “As for my sister…a middling painter took her likeness as an infant. The result is nothing worth your notice. It’s stored somewhere in the attics, I believe. This next portrait, however—”

“Lord Amstead!” Innes’s voice echoed down the length of the gallery.

Lord Amstead came to a halt, and Nell and Miles along with him.