Poetic Justice by Alicia Rasley

she revealed to John. She had not told him, for example, what he had just learned from a colleague at the Royal Society: that her inheritance was contingent upon her marriage. There was just one condition on the bequest, she had said airily, of little moment. But she had to have been dissembling. If marriage was of little moment to her, she would have married long since.
    She must have felt his scrutiny, for she faltered in explaining to her aunt his role as the Regent's art consultant. She glanced over to him, guilt lurking in those dark blue eyes, and hastily rose and went to the desk to get her aunt's spectacles, should Lady Parham want to inspect his card more closely.
    But the aunt waved the spectacles away, remarking crossly, "Do sit down, Jessica. You know your dashing about gives me palpitations. The Regent's art consultant, are you? Such a kind man. He sent the most affecting note of condolence when our sainted Trevor was taken at Waterloo."
    That explained Lady Parham's mourning dress, which posed a contrast to her niece's bright peach and cream gown. John wondered how the girl managed to stay so lively in such company, for Lady Parham's mood rather matched her lugubrious costume. Maybe that accounted for the restlessness. Miss Seton wanted to escape from all the reminders of death. So did John, after five more references to "our sainted Trevor" in the next quarter hour.
    The sainted Trevor must be the soldier with the sensitive mouth whose black-ribboned portrait hung above the mantel. John finished his tea and went over to give the painting a cursory glance. It wasn't painted from life, he surmised, but copied from a smaller portrait, for the minor details on the uniform were lacking, and the soulful expression was too obviously a post-sainthood embellishment.
    "From Sir Thomas Lawrence's studio?" he asked, earning, as he knew he would, the approval of Lady Parham.
    "Yes, it is, how clever of you to recognize his supervising hand. It was done from a miniature in my husband's study—that was all we had of Trevor. We had three of these done—one for Jessica, one for here, and one for our bedroom."
    That would make for cheerful bedtime viewing. As a work of art, John vastly preferred the mantel itself. He ran his hand along the sleek curve of an oak-carved scroll, and Jessica, coming up beside him, said, "There's another Adam mantel in the library reading room. Perhaps Uncle Emory will give me permission to show it to you."
    She said this loudly enough for her aunt to hear, and Lady Parham waved them distractedly away. "You go ask him, dear. He's in his study. I'll stay here with my sewing."
    Uncle Emory turned out to be a wiry man with sidewhiskers and not the slightest suggestion of the Seton intellect. He showed no particular knowledge about the library in his home, nodding his head when Jessica explained their request. "My father and brother—that was their passion. I'm a hunting man myself. You say there's an Adam mantel in the lobby there? Fancy that."
    An acquaintance with royalty was of more interest to him, and only after John promised several times to pass on his regards to the Regent, did Parham lead them downstairs and into the wing that held the collection.
    He opened the heavy oak door but paused there, calling out, "Mr. Wiley! Mr. Wiley!" adding in aside to John, "Alfred Wiley is the librarian here. Fine scholar. Expert on Bacon, he tells me. Sir Francis Bacon, that is. Oh, here he is."
    John noticed that Miss Seton edged back a bit, as if to make herself unobtrusive as Mr. Wiley emerged into the reading room. They were natural enemies, the librarian and his prospective employer, and she, at least, recognized it. Mr. Wiley, however, greeted them all with a slightly dotty geniality, as if he were a rustic king welcoming visitors to his domain.
    The Regent's name worked its magic here too. While Parham fled back to his study (claiming that bookdust made him sneeze), and Jessica hung back polishing the