LITMIR.BIZ

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Please,’ he urged, refusing to remark on that shadow for fear she would see any encouragement he offered as pity. ‘We’re a thousand miles from Kuban. I hardly feel like a prince this far from home.’ He liked it that way. The further from Kuban he got, the easier it was to forget he was a prince, the easier it was to live simply, to be a man only, not a title he’d acquired by an accident of birth. If only others felt that way too. Unfortunately, they were all too keen to remind him of the chasm that separated him from other men.

      Evie took the invitation as he’d hoped. ‘All right, then, Dimitri, the tapestry is this way.’ She led them through a warren of hallways to a gallery that ran the length of the back of the house. The tapestry was easy to spot. It was of considerable size and hung in the centre of the left wall in a large glass frame. Even with the glass protecting it, Dimitri could tell it was of fine and authentic quality. He stepped towards it, unable to resist doing anything else, drawn to the vibrant hues of blue, red and orange. ‘This is remarkably well preserved...’ he breathed in real appreciation, letting his eyes roam the story of the tapestry. ‘Arthur’s wedding to Guinevere, if I’m not mistaken.’

      ‘Yes, my father has spent considerable amounts of time researching it. He’s in the final stages of writing a book about the tapestry,’ Evie offered. He stared at it a while longer, asking questions, before turning his attention to other artefacts in the room. The gallery was a repository of history. There were other, smaller, tapestries hanging from the walls, unprotected. He wandered over to one depicting a unicorn set against a blue-flowered field.

      ‘This one is quite fine as well. Is it of some import?’ He wondered why it wasn’t under glass too. It seemed familiar, as if he’d seen it somewhere before.

      Evie shook her head. ‘No. It’s one of mine. It’s merely a copy of a famous French tapestry.’

      Dimitri peered closer, studying the stitches. ‘You did this? It is marvellously well made.’

      Evie shrugged off the praise. ‘I drew the pattern from a piece of art. I like to work with cloth, sewing, weaving. I draw my own patterns.’ That was interesting indeed; a historian and a seamstress, although that seemed too menial of a word for what she’d done here, and an artist. Evie Milham was a trove of hidden talents.

      He spied a framed collection of ink work hanging on the wall. ‘Are these some of your patterns?’

      ‘Yes. I drew them for one of my father’s books, but he liked some of them so much he wanted to frame them.’ Evie blushed. ‘A father’s prerogative, I suppose. Some would say he’s biased.’

      Dimitri looked closer. The work was exquisitely done, meticulous and clean. ‘I don’t think he’s biased at all.’ An idea came to him. He could use someone with a decent artistic eye at the site.

      They strolled the perimeter of the room, he asking questions and Evie answering, each answer a revelation. Evie Milham might appear to be somewhat quiet and unassuming, but beneath that exterior, there was much of her waiting to be unwrapped, waiting to be discovered. She was knowledgeable about history, able to answer his questions with impressive intellect; she could replicate medieval tapestries with an expert’s skill; she was sensitive to others’ feelings, perhaps too much so.

      Did she make a habit of casting herself in the subordinate role in conversation? He’d seen it at the assembly. She’d put herself forward when Andrew had failed to introduce her, but the moment she perceived she was an interloper, she’d withdrawn, content to defer to the wishes of others. But today he’d applied considerable skill in drawing her out, in making her an equal in the discussion, and she had blossomed. He could not remember enjoying a conversation this much. There was no pressure to perform, to be the Prince. He had only to be himself.

      They passed out into the gardens off the gallery and into the sun. There was more order to these gardens than the ones in front of the house, probably because these gardens were designed to show off statuary. Most of the statuary were broken. There wasn’t a whole statue among them, but that only reinforced their authenticity. ‘Shards my father has picked up over a lifetime,’ Evie explained with a rueful smile. ‘These are from Italy, from his Grand Tour twenty-eight years ago.’ She gestured to a twin set of partial busts.

      Dimitri made noises of suitable impressment. He was more interested in how the sun caught Evie’s hair, the auburn flame of it flickering in the smooth brown depths. The statues couldn’t compete. Her hair was beautiful, even coiled in a tight braid that wound neatly about her head. He imagined for a moment undoing that braid and combing his fingers through it. Undone, her hair would be long, and straight, the smoothness of it falling through his fingers like Chinese silk. It made him wonder what Evie Milham would be like undone in other ways. What other secrets lay beneath her unassuming exterior? What would she reveal to the man who uncovered those secrets? What would she discover about herself? He felt a flicker of regret that he couldn’t be that man.

      ‘Miss.’ The housekeeper caught up to them on the gravel path, breaking his attention on Evie’s hair. The woman was huffing from the exertion. ‘Mr Adair is here, shall I send him out?’

      Evie’s face split into a smile. ‘He can join us. Please, bring some lemonade and the little cakes Cook baked this morning, if it’s not too much trouble. The lemon seed are his favourite.’

      Evie’s gaze moved to a point over his shoulder, her smile widening, lighting up her whole face. Dimitri didn’t need to turn to know it was Andrew striding down the path. A fierce little spark of competitive maleness lit in him. He wanted that smile for himself, not for Andrew, who didn’t want it, and didn’t appreciate it. His friend’s boldness bordered on arrogant. Andrew hadn’t waited for permission to join them. He’d assumed he’d be welcomed and the presumption was irrationally annoying. Why did he care if Andrew joined them?

      They sat for lemonade and cakes at a table under a shade tree and Dimitri knew why he cared. Evie, who had become relaxed during their tour of the gallery, had suddenly become self-conscious and tense, too eager to please: Was the lemonade sweet enough? The cakes fresh enough? The whole while, Andrew took the demure obsequiousness as his due, oblivious to Evie’s efforts once more.

      ‘I must get the recipe from your cook.’ Dimitri reached for another lemon seed cake, easily his fourth. ‘These are delicious.’

      ‘Too simple for the court of Kuban, though.’ Andrew threw out the thoughtless insult and helped himself to a fifth cake. ‘Can you imagine these plain little things on a tea tray along with those frosted delicacies of yours?’ Andrew glanced over at Evie, the first real look he’d given her since he arrived. ‘You haven’t seen a tea until you’ve had tea Kubanian style.’

      Dimitri watched Evie brighten at the comment directed at her, willing to overlook the insult delivered to the cakes Andrew claimed to prefer and which she’d especially thought of serving on his behalf. Didn’t she see the comment wasn’t for her benefit, but for Andrew’s? This was a chance for Andrew to show off. His suspicion was confirmed when Andrew launched into a detailed description of the one time he’d experienced a Kubanian tea at Dimitri’s apartments in Naples where they’d met.

      Evie listened, enrapt. Dimitri wanted to kick Andrew. Andrew had adopted quite the superior attitude since they’d arrived in Sussex. It was not something that had stood out to him in their travels.

      ‘Is that how you met? Over tea?’ Evie turned her attention his direction, playing the polite hostess who recognised one guest had dominated the conversation for too long. ‘I had no idea Andrew had made it as far as Kuban.’

      ‘He didn’t,’ Dimitri put in quickly. Maybe it was selfish, but he wanted to disabuse her of the notion that Andrew had been to the remote Russian kingdom in the steppes. In fact, Andrew had not strayed from the conventional path that made up every Englishman’s Grand Tour. ‘We met in Naples. I was hosting a gathering for expatriates around Europe to celebrate work I’d completed at Herculaneum. My team and I had uncovered a mosaic destroyed by the eruption of Vesuvius. We spent that spring restoring it.’

      ‘Wonderful stuff. What the Prince was doing in Herculaneum rekindled my

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