Free And Only to Deceive by TASHA ALEXANDER Page B

to the dining room.
    “Please forgive me,” he said in a low voice.
    “I have nothing to say on the matter,” I replied, trying to ignore the feeling of his arm on mine.
    “May I call on you tomorrow?”
    “I’d rather you didn’t.”
    “Was I so awful?”
    “I already have one father, Mr. Hargreaves. I would prefer not to have a surrogate looking over my shoulder and judging my every move.”
    “Be fair. I’ve done nothing of the sort. I only suggested—”
    “Yes, suggested that you know better than I whom I should consider an acquaintance.”
    “You completely misunderstand me.”
    “Can you explain yourself?”
    “Suffice it to say that not everyone you meet here is what he seems to be.”
    “Should that mean something to me?” I let my eyes meet his.
    “Perhaps you could just consider it the advice of a friend.”
    “I think I can take care of myself.”
    “I think you are overreacting.” We reached the table, and I removed my hand from his arm without speaking, hoping I would not find that he was my dinner partner. I was pleased to see Mr. Palmer appear beside me.
    “Hargreaves! Looks like you still don’t know how to handle a lady. Has he been torturing you, Lady Ashton?”
    “Yes, he has,” I replied, enjoying my newfound compatriot’s allegiance.
    “I assure you my intentions are the best,” Colin said. He bowed smartly and went to find his own place at the large table.
    “Hargreaves is so handsome that he can get away with any sort of behavior,” Mr. Palmer said. “Many have been fooled by his initial show of good manners.”
    “Fear not that I shall succumb to his wiles.” I sat as the footman behind me pushed my chair toward the table. “How lucky that you are seated next to me.”
    “I’ve been a bit devious, Lady Ashton, and switched place cards. Will you forgive my blatant dishonesty? I hoped to have the opportunity to speak with you again in order to plead my case concerning young widows attending the theater.”
    We chatted effortlessly for the entire first part of dinner. Then, not wanting to be rude, I turned my attention to the elderly gentleman seated on my other side.
    “I could not help but notice your ring, Monsieur Fournier,” I said. “Is it Greek?”
    “It is a Mycenaean seal, Lady Ashton,” he replied, fingering its gold surface as he spoke. “Found in one of the shaft graves Schliemann excavated. I like to think it belonged to Agamemnon.”
    “I understand that you have a considerable collection of antiquities?”
    “You are correct. Your late husband and I shared a passion for things ancient.”
    “Did you know him well?”
    “No, not particularly, but we met with some frequency, usually when trying to outbid each other for a Greek vase.”
    “They are exquisite, aren’t they?”
    “Yes. Do you have a favorite?”
    “I do,” I replied, smiling broadly. “It’s in the British Museum and shows the Judgment of Paris.”
    “I believe I know the one to which you refer. It’s by a very famous painter.”
    “Yes. It astounds me that we are able to so well identify the works of artists who left no signatures.”
    “An artist’s style is often as recognizable as his signature.”
    “I know you are correct, but I would never have thought such a thing could be said about Greek vases before I began to study them. To the untrained eye, the painting on them appears rather formulaic.”
    “Until you begin to notice the details.”
    “Precisely. And it is just those details that make the Judgment of Paris vase so spectacular. I almost wish Philip hadn’t donated it.”
    “I understand he felt very strongly that the best pieces should be in museums, a sentiment with which I do not entirely agree.”
    “Why is that?”
    “I spend much of my fortune funding archaeological digs. Museums cannot afford the patronage I give. I see nothing wrong with reaping the benefits of my investment.” He pulled the ring from his finger and held it in front of me.