Free That Summer: A Novel by Lauren Willig

presence, he turned, holding out a hand to her. “Imogen, my love. Come and greet our guests.”
    What a misleading word, that our . It pleased Arthur to pretend that she had some role in the household, as gracious chatelaine, if nothing else. It masked the fact that her only task was to be ornamental, to smile at him with the feigned echo of the love she had once believed she bore him.
    Sometimes she thought back with astonishment to that sixteen-year-old girl she had been, poor, naïve sixteen, still dreaming of knights in shining armor, convinced that Arthur was the embodiment of all her maiden dreams.
    The years had been kind to Arthur, but there was no disguising the fact that he had broadened and settled into comfortable middle age. His once ginger hair had faded in parts to gray; the whiskers she had once found so dashing had grown bristled and bushy. He looked more and more like the portrait of his father that hung above the mantel, a prosperous merchant with a merchant’s mind, smug in the constant counting of his treasures.
    Of which she, for some reason, was one, acquired and cataloged like the porcelain in the cabinet or the books on the shelves.
    She supposed it was better than being a pensioner in her uncle’s home. That was what she told herself, and there were times when she even believed it.
    Arranging her paisley shawl more securely around her shoulders, Imogen moved gracefully across the room, taking her husband’s proffered hand, letting him tuck her arm through his. Arthur liked to show her off, she knew, just as he liked to display the Book of Hours in the study, or the fifteenth-century triptych in the hall. Outside, it was dark already, the early dark of February, but the firelight reflected prettily off the purple poplin of her dress, picking out the richness of mother-of-pearl buttons and silk braid.
    “Gentlemen,” she said, her smile nicely calculated to include them all, while marking no one in particular. Over the years, she had become very good at playing Arthur’s hostess, at showing the face he wished for her to show. “Welcome.”
    “We are now,” said the man with the wild dark curls, flashing her a smile intended to be dangerous. Imogen couldn’t help but be amused by it, the dash and bravado of it all, a little boy playing at Casanova.
    “My love,” said Arthur, leading her forward like a visiting dignitary, “I should like to present to you Mr. Rossetti.”
    The man with the careless cravat and the tousled curls pressed his hand to his heart.
    “Mr. Fotheringay-Vaughn.” Blond and elegant, the second man essayed a languid bow. He had cultivated the look of perpetual ennui that went with his tightly tailored waistcoat and carefully tied cravat.
    “—and Mr. Thorne.” That was the third man. He inclined his head in greeting but made no move closer. He put Imogen in mind of a jungle beast, quiet and alert. “They have come to visit our collection.”
    There was no need to specify which collection; there was only the one that counted, Arthur’s medieval objets d’art, carefully selected and enlarged over time. Imogen could see lying open on the card table Arthur’s pride and showpiece, her father’s Book of Hours.
    “You must have a powerful love of antiquities to venture out on such an inclement day,” said Imogen lightly. The rain had been hissing and spitting down all day, the sky the color of sleet, the ground an unappealing blend of mud and slush. “Are you also collectors, then?”
    “Call us admirers, rather,” said Rossetti. His teeth flashed in a smile. “We haven’t the tin. Our pockets are to let.”
    The blond man, Fotheringay-Vaughn, looked pained. He fingered his expensive enamel watch fob. “Yours, perhaps.”
    Thorne made no response. Alone of the three, he stayed clear of the female presence, withdrawing with Arthur to the table by the window.
    “These gentlemen are all artists, Mama.” Evie hastened to fill the gap. “They have come for