The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(12)

He turned to look toward the wide street that separated Montague House from the surrounding businesses. And that’s when he saw someone running across the open courtyard in front of the British Museum. The man leapt over a bench and pushed off a tree, not slowing even for obstacles in his path.

“Grapling,” Fallon growled as he set off in the man’s direction. Slipping in between carriages, ignoring the curses of the drivers around him, he reached the courtyard and increased his pace. Grapling was now running up the steps to the museum, where no windows stood open for an easy escape.

The gap between them was shrinking. Fallon had always been quick on foot, a skill he now used to his benefit. His breaths came out in heavy puffs, and his coat billowed out behind him.

He was gaining ground on Grapling. Just a bit farther. Fallon hit the bottom of the steps and kept going, taking them two at a time. He would finally have the bastard. And unlike last night, there was no Lady Isabelle here to distract him!

*

Isabelle moved down the hall, offering a smile of greeting to both the museum patrons and the portraits alike. The portraits deserved a bit of kindness too after the way she’d heard some gentlemen criticize them only a few minutes before.

“Simple swirls of paint… Don’t listen to them for a moment,” she told the painting of the lady sitting with a bowl of oranges as she passed by.

The people depicted in these portraits were part of something wonderful. Their beauty and spirit would live on forever in these simple swirls of paint. She ran a gloved finger over the corner of the nearest frame and nodded at the young boy in the portrait.

She’d only just left her reticule, pelisse, and maid, for that matter, with the under-librarian, a kind man, in the back work area where repairs were made. The two seemed pleased with the idea of chatting while he mended a frame, so Isabelle had left them there. Now she had the entire afternoon to wander the halls of the upper rooms of the museum. She almost twirled at the thought but collected herself in time. It wouldn’t do to spin about in public, as she’d been told many times by her mother, even if in her heart she was turning with her arms stretched wide. The only thing that could make this day better would be if she could catch sight of Mr. Brice while on her walk home. There was a hop to her step as she neared the end of the gallery.

The large front doors of the museum banged open at the bottom of the wide marble staircase, and Isabelle flinched at the echoing sound.

“You have to sign in,” the porter called after someone.

Isabelle peered around the corner and through the legs of the giraffe diorama on the top landing of the grand staircase. Perhaps it was an art thief, known around the world for his rapid escapes, fleeing museum after museum with priceless stolen works to fill the galleries in a lavish home on some foreign coast. And now he’d come to take spoils from this museum during her volunteer hours! What a boon!

She moved forward, unable to resist the lure of such excitement. He would wear black, naturally, and have a mask of some sort. He’d have to have a large sack in which to stow his loot. Would he sport a mustache? Carry a knife? Would she have to defend her paintings?

Isabelle slipped down the stairs to find out. After all, a portion of the museum was under her watch between the hours of one and four. This was preferable to yesterday, when Lady Smeltings returned to continue her complaints about the lack of benches. Poor Mr. Jasper, the principal librarian, had been overwrought with anguish at her badgering. If the man couldn’t manage Lady Smeltings, he could hardly handle a thief in the museum. It was best to leave him be and deal with this herself.

Isabelle moved in silence down the stairs. Her friend Roselyn wasn’t the only one who was well suited for spy work. She smiled at the thought and slipped around the corner, into the main entrance to the museum. The large entry to the building was empty when she entered, and she caught only a glimpse of the porter disappearing down one of the halls. The doors stood open on their hinges, and she frowned at the sight. She’d taken only a step toward them when someone bounded over the top of the stairs and ran inside. The gentleman slid to a stop on the polished floor and whirled around as if looking for something he’d lost. Stopping his chase, his gaze raked over the room, dismissing her before he’d really seen her.

She stood staring at him. He ran his hand through his dark hair where it was disheveled from his quick entrance and shook his coat back into place. Mr. St. James from the ball last night? How odd that she would see him again so soon. Of course, that was marginally less odd than the way he’d run into the museum as if fleeing for his life.

“You know most gentlemen simply wander through museum doors,” she said as she moved to close those same doors behind him.

“Do they?” he asked as he stepped farther into the building, craning his neck to see down each hall that led off of the main lobby. “I’ll try that on my next visit.”

When the doors were secured, she turned and followed him to the center of the room, watching as he took in every detail of the museum entrance. His gaze seemed to linger on the shadowed corners where large plants flanked the casement opening that led deeper into the building before he spun on his heel back in her direction. He still didn’t seem to have really seen her.

“Are you…” She swerved her head from side to side to gain his attention. “Are you looking for someone, Mr. St. James? An international art thief with an exotic home on a cliff overlooking stormy seas?” She should be searching for the one who had caused the scene with the porter instead of talking to St. James, but curiosity held her captive.