The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(14)

“A twin sister, exact likeness to you, but this art that you watch in the afternoon is your own, your responsibility. I believe I do understand.”

He studied her with eyes so dark they reminded her of black oil paint. Yet unlike the paint, they held a warmth that she couldn’t quite define. If he were still and contained within a gilt frame, she would stare into those eyes for hours, complimenting the artist on the fine work with warm, dark tones, the way his gaze heated the skin and followed the viewer. But she couldn’t stare at Mr. St. James in such a manner. He was her friend. Perhaps he was a pirate, perhaps not. But she knew with all certainty he was not made of paints. Isabelle blinked and looked away.

“Friends always do understand,” she said a moment later after she’d collected herself.

“Do they?”

“Certainly,” she said, chancing a glance back at him. “You have other friends. Only last night you were with—”

“Brice,” he supplied. “I have known him for many years, I suppose.”

“Yet you don’t consider him a friend?”

“Of course I do. My friendships are just a bit more complicated than—”

“A shared disastrous event at a ball?”

“Disastrous?” He quirked a brow at her, and his gaze seemed to lighten with amusement.

“Well, we did have to run from the scene of a crime covered in evidence.”

“Delicious evidence,” he murmured. His voice was deep and smooth, the kind of voice that washed easily over one, all the while hinting at the danger of diving in any deeper. Even when speaking of cake, he sounded like a delightfully villainous character from a novel. It was marvelous! She could listen to him speak forever.

“Are you a pirate?” she blurted out before shaking off the question. “I’m sorry. I’m sure that even if you are a pirate, telling me would be against some sort of code of secrecy.” She turned to look at the painting of the young boy in the field. Her cheeks were burning. This was why her cousin, Evangeline, always said she should examine her words before they rushed out of her mouth. Perhaps she was the complete ninny Victoria had called her only that morning. “There’s no need to answer my question,” she muttered.

“You sound rather hopeful at the idea.”

She glanced up at him, instantly comforted by the lack of irritation on his face. Instead of the usual eye roll and laughter that she seemed to receive from everyone, there was what she could only define as interested curiosity. Mr. St. James was indeed different from anyone else of her acquaintance—a fact she was quite enjoying. “I’ve never befriended a pirate before.”

“It’s true, pirates aren’t usually the friendly sort.”

Her eyes widened as she watched him. “Then you know from experience.”

He chuckled.

“I see you don’t deny it. I’m sure you’re one of the good pirates, always searching for treasure yet taking the time to give a bit of it to help those who require assistance. A fine leader of men. You’re a Robin Hood of sorts!”

He turned and looked at her as if she were a fortune-teller whose prediction had hit the mark. Mr. St. James seemed the type of man to carefully protect his thoughts, but just then she could see some truth shining beneath his carefully brushed-smooth surface.

She’d stood in awe of paintings like him before, wondering at the meaning behind the images. What emotions lingered behind each stroke of the artist’s brush? And just like a silent portrait, St. James didn’t divulge any further information. She would have to form her own view of him. And to her, he was the very image of treasure-hunting Robin Hood, commanding men by day and saving ladies in distress by night.

“Come along, my piratical friend. There’s a small collection of paintings inspired by the sea I think you’ll enjoy.”

“You know I’m no—”

“Shh. Don’t destroy the illusion.”

“Very well. Tell me who you are, then. If I’m not simply a gentleman who resides in town and occasionally visits the museum, then neither are you a lady making the rounds of the season. Are you a siren on a cliff perhaps?”

“No.” She recoiled at the thought. “I wouldn’t wish to harm your crew or your boat.”

“Ship,” he corrected.

“Oh, quite. A mighty ship with a large crew under your leadership.”

His brows drew together as if her words were true indeed, but he said nothing more. They fell into a companionable silence as they rounded the corner into the next room. But his silence revealed more than words. He was comfortable with the idea of managing a large crew and navigating dangerous waters. That much of St. James’s life story must be true.

Isabelle broke the silence at last. “If you are a pirate, then I’m a poor fisherman’s daughter in search of my family who were lost at sea. Or perhaps I’m the one lost at sea. Yes! I’m a lady lost at sea.”

“How did you meet such a fate?” he asked, looking up at a marble statue as they passed by.

“An evil lord. All such tales can be traced to an evil gentleman at the root of the problem.”

He turned to look at her, studying her as if she held great wisdom. “I agree completely.”

“Do you?” No one ever agreed with her. It was rather disconcerting to have it happen now, with him. He must share her love of fables and myth. “Do you enjoy the theater? Books?”