There was no point in replying to this. Unfortunately the only thing I could focus on other than Lord Fortescue was not a welcome distraction: the intent look on Colin’s face as he listened to his beautifully sophisticated companion. Thick, dark lashes framed eyes that sparkled when she spoke, with lips more red than should be found in nature. I bit my own, hoping to deepen their hue, then applied myself to my rapidly cooling tea. I was thankful when Flora Clavell sat next to me.

“Emily, Gerald decided to give the British Museum that Etruscan statue you found in our house.” I had met Flora soon after her marriage to Sir Thomas’s son, and though we were not much in each other’s company, I had always enjoyed speaking with her. She and my friend Margaret Seward had attended the same school in New York when they were girls, but unlike Margaret, who had gone on to graduate from Bryn Mawr, Flora did not continue her education. Nonetheless, she was enlightened enough to have invited me to search her husband’s estate when she’d heard about the project on which I’d embarked, a quest to locate and catalog significant works of art buried in country houses.

“How wonderful,” I said. “Your family does a great service by making it permanently accessible to scholars. And I’m grateful beyond measure that you allowed me to record the rest of the objects in your collection.”

“I’ve heard of your efforts regarding this.” Mr. Harrison, who I had not met before he joined us that morning, approached us. Tall and wiry, he was all angles and bent down to give Lord Fortescue’s hand a sharp shake before sitting next to him. “They are much to be commended.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I can’t imagine your meddling in private estates is much appreciated,” Lord Fortescue said, finishing his scotch with a loud gulp and shooting Flora a strange sort of too-long look. The footman refilled the glass the moment it was drained. “Why must you harass people, Lady Ashton? Aloysius Bingham still rages about your inappropriate behavior.”