Follow My Lead by Kate Noble Page A

‘old’ men out there,” Lord Forrester cautioned, but kindly. He took a moment, stared out the window at the people milling about the courtyard by the fountains of Somerset House. “Yes, it is interesting just how much attention the Historical Society has garnered in the last few weeks. We’ve had more than our fair share of press, more people than ever applying for membership, and certainly more than a few museums interested in that.” He pointed to the Adam and Eve painting on the wall. So innocent, so innocuous, and yet at the center of the biggest scandal in the Society’s existence. “It is amazing how knocking the dust off old men’s spectacles makes everything look new. And as president, I have to relish the attention.”
    He took a deep breath, then turned away from the window and met Jason’s gaze.
    “You’ll forgive me if I speak bluntly, but do you know how many fellows we have that have little or no academic background? Over seventy percent.” Lord Forrester sighed. “But they have money, and enjoy stature.”
    “And I would be included in that seventy percent, I assume,” Jason drawled, leaning back in his chair.
    “I’m afraid so, yes. You, however, did more than most for your membership. You actually had your paper published,” Lord Forrester said, clearly commending him. Jason felt it wise to not mention at this juncture that he had had his paltry ten-page paper published by a press he happened to own. “Like the Royal Society, the Society of Historical Art and Architecture of the Known World was founded with the intention of fostering new ideas and thoughts, of learning about our past with a hope to directing our future. And those gentlemen who were academically minded but underfunded could meet up with better-heeled men who had an interest in this field of study but other obligations that kept them from pursuing it.”
    “In other words, academics that needed patrons, and patrons who needed a hobby.”
    “Precisely. And like the Royal, somewhere along the lines we lost sight of that. And so, once more like the Royal, I intend to do what I can to rectify the situation, before our Society becomes little more than a club like White’s, simply with better art.” Lord Forrester had put his hands behind his back and taken to pacing, as if giving a lecture. Likely one he had been composing for quite some time, Jason thought.
    “That is all very admirable,” Jason replied, “but I don’t understand what that has to do with Miss Crane.”
    “Because if this is meant to be a learned institution, we cannot reject learning. No matter the package it arrives in.” Lord Forrester sighed resignedly, and went back to his chair, adjusting his weight stiffly.
    “When the brouhaha began over C. W. Marks’s identity,” he continued, “Alexander asked me to keep it secret that he had been sending in the articles. And I will admit, I had some suspicion that it might be Alexander himself who was writing them. Marks is his wife’s maiden name, you see.” Jason nodded, and he carried on. “Perhaps it was a student, perhaps another colleague who wanted to keep his opinions separate from his documented work. But I never thought of his daughter. I should have—he had written quite frequently of her talents. And it disturbs me that I did not. Because those papers . . . !”
    “I’ve read them,” Jason supplied knowingly. “They are remarkable works.”
    “Which is one reason I have chosen you for this task,” Lord Forrester concluded.
    “And what is this task you speak of?”
    “I need an escort.”
    Jason sat up in his chair. “An escort.”
    “If the Historical Society has been receiving this much attention, imagine the amount of attention Miss Crane is having to deal with,” Lord Forrester replied.
    Jason did not have to imagine, he knew. Phillippa Worth had taken Miss Crane under her wing and practically exploded her onto the London scene. According to the papers, she was seen at one