The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(13)

When he didn’t respond but continued to look around, she filled in his clear response. “No, I suppose that’s not the case at all.” Her imagination must have gotten well away from her this time. An art thief—ha! “Your dog then? You’ve lost your dog. How awful that must be for you.”

“No, I’m…” He blinked at her as if just realizing with whom he was speaking. “I’m here…to look at art. And you? Why are you here? Did you see—”

“I’m here for the art as well.” She lifted her arms out to the sides and glanced around at the spacious first floor, which housed the museum’s collection of ancient drawings. “I have volunteer responsibilities in the afternoons from one o’clock to four.”

He took a few steps away to peer down one of the long halls before returning to the center of the room. He watched her with a sharp gaze as if the answer to some great riddle rested with her. “What are you voluntarily responsible for in the afternoons?”

“I watch the art.”

“You watch art,” he repeated, his brows now drawn together. He shook his head and stepped back to look down the opposite hall. Then he moved to her once more, running a hand through his hair again, clear agitation showing through his serenely asked questions. “Is that eventful?”

“Oh, quite,” she confirmed with a smile. What had St. James so wary this afternoon? He was acting oddly—even for him.

“The art doesn’t need to be watched in the mornings?” he asked with a raised brow.

What an absurd question. She laughed and nudged his elbow with her own. “Of course it does.”

“Of course…” He looked dazed as he stared down at her.

“And I ensure the lemonade served in the lobby remains in the lobby. That’s terribly important. Lemonade could be doused all over a book older than we are or, heaven forbid, a portrait that could never be replaced. You don’t require a drink while in the lobby, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Good, then you may come with me,” she said, indicating the grand staircase. “This is the third part of my responsibilities: leading tours.”

“Do you lead tours for any gentleman who walks through the doors?” Though he was talking to her, Isabelle had the distinct impression that St. James was listening to every noise in the museum at the same time.

Her theory was proven true a second later when a door shut somewhere out of sight and he lunged to the side to get a view of the action. She couldn’t imagine that a dog on the loose inside the museum would be this quiet. There would be shouts and barking…

St. James must be thinking the same because a second later he sighed and turned back to her, giving her his complete attention. Poor man. She hoped he found the furry scoundrel soon.

“I’m not a librarian, but I am allowed to assist on occasion.” She reached out and grabbed his arm, forcing him to escort her. A walk around the museum would do him some good. Together they started up the stairs to the upper rooms, where she worked. “I usually get the older ladies who can hear only half of what I say, but I’m making an exception for you.”

“For me? Why?” He paused and studied her, his hand on the ornate metal stair rail.

“Because we’re going to be friends, Mr. St. James. It’s already been decided. And the librarian is in the workroom with the under-librarian, a footman, and my maid, so no need to worry over my reputation.” She tugged on his arm until he moved again, ascending the stairs at her side.

“Why would you wish to be friends with me?” he asked, as if friendship was the most foreign concept of which he’d ever heard.

“We’ve already survived potential scandal together. Really, what further test of friendship does one need beyond being set upon by a giant display of cakes?”

“Friends,” he said, appearing to test the word on his lips.

“Come this way,” she insisted as they walked through the door at the top of the stairs and were instantly surrounded by her family’s paintings. She spoke over her shoulder as she pulled him with her to the far side of the room. “I want to show you the pieces of this collection, and you have to start at this end of the room and walk to the right. Always walk to the right. You’re traveling through time with the paintings instead of moving past them. It makes a remarkable difference. Do you see? Begin here.” She smiled up at the first painting and squeezed his arm, unable to contain her excitement over the artwork all around her.

“How long have you volunteered at the museum?”

“Only since the beginning of the season.”

“That’s all? How do you know the works so well?”

“Oh! I didn’t mention that, did I? This collection was my grandfather’s. It’s on loan to the museum. My favorite visits with my grandfather were the days spent among his paintings.” She sighed over the memory. “And not because my sister was always busy elsewhere,” she laughed.

He shook his head as if trying to remember some memory that had long since faded away. “Is she older than you are?”

Isabelle drew him along a few steps to the right and admired the next piece in the collection. “Only by minutes. She’s my twin sister, Victoria. She’s… You would have to meet her to understand.”