Page 44 of Isabel and the Rogue

“And I do.” Sirius gestured with the glass in his hand toward the exhibition beyond the reception doors. “I was here on opening day for a tour of the collection. The items are quite remarkable.”

“Indeed they are.” Westhope leaned back in his chair and speared a glass of wine between his fingers. “I hope the rest of my guests find them remarkable as well.”

Sirius shrugged. “Some will. But most are here to partake of your excellent company.”

“No doubt you’re right,” the viscount said, taking a sip of his wine. “If only the ton knew how wrong your reputation was.”

The change in topic caused Sirius’s thoughts to stumble, but he quickly recovered. “Oh, but it’s not wrong. The ton may not know of my intellectual pursuits, but I am still a rake and knave.” Sirius tossed back his brandy in one stinging gulp. “And will be for the foreseeable future.”

Sirius fought the urge to fidget with his cuff links, certain his action would not go unnoticed by the viscount, who had proven himself to be quite perceptive.

Westhope scoffed even as a smile crossed his face. “Still, I’ve learned over the weeks of our acquaintance that there’s much more to you than you reveal. It’s almost as if you use your roguish reputation to keep others at bay.”

Perceptive indeed. Sirius pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. “People see what they want to see and believe what they want to believe. They think me a merry rake, and I’m content to allow them to think as much. Therefore the only actions they choose to note are those that support their assertions of me.”

“Like your interest in North African cultural objects.”

Sirius grinned. “Precisely.”

“Well. I’m glad to know that bit of information about you. It makes you more real,” Westhope said with an answering smile.

“More real?”

“Come now, Dawson.” Westhope slapped him on the back. “You’re an earl’s son, a famed hero from the Crimean War. Plus, your gold curls and blue eyes have snared the admiration of one half the population of the ton. That could be a bit intimidating for us simple folks.”

Sirius looked at the viscount askance. “Westhope, you’re a bloody viscount. Even if you were missing all your teeth and were as old as Methuselah, women would be intent on earning your notice and winning your hand.”

“Oh, no doubt.” Westhope tossed back the remainder of his drink. Patting his mouth with a napkin, he set his empty glass on the table. “And I’ve never been particularly interested in marrying, especially because I knew the chances were high that any bride I chose would be just as interested, if not more so, in being my viscountess as she was being my wife.”

“There’s a difference,” Sirius agreed.

“I’m glad you understand that. And truly, I can’t blame a woman for thinking of such things when their choice of a husband determines whether their future will be one of comfort or not.” Westhope turned his gaze to the other side of the room, the corners of his green eyes crinkling. “But I’m beginning to think that perhaps I have found someone who is more interested in me as a person than my title, and I am quite pleased about it. If you’ll excuse me.”

Sirius watched as the viscount walked away to greet new guests who had just entered the room. The man seemed quite serious in his admiration for Isabel, and how could Sirius blame him? But what would Westhope think if he knew Sirius had kissed senseless the woman he sought to make his viscountess? His imaginations were petty, but Sirius could not stop the satisfaction that coursed through his blood at the thought.

Yet the prospect of watching Westhope court Isabel turned his stomach.

There was a break in the crowd by the door at just that moment, and Sirius’s breath stuck in his throat when his eyes met a pair of familiar dark brown ones. Isabel stared back at him for the length of two heartbeats before she blinked and looked away. She turned to greet a couple who had come up to welcome them, before she smiled up at Lord Westhope, who was grasping her gloved hand. Sirius hated that Westhope was touching her, greeting her with smiles and warmth as if all of Isabel’s smiles and warmth should be reserved for him and him alone.

Sirius’s blood pounded in his ears throughout dinner.

Dinner and drinks were a lively affair, and much laughter and interesting discussions were had. It appeared Westhope had tailored his guest list to friends and members of society who would most appreciate the private viewings of the Maqdala treasures, for much of the talk during the meal revolved around the objects and how the museum was able to bring them into the country.

“I do wonder how the British Museum had the authority to acquire historical artifacts from other countries.” Gabriela Luna ran a finger around her glass. “I’m curious, hypothetically of course, of a situation in which a member of the Austrian Empire was to acquire a prized painting from the Elizabethan period. Do you believe England would allow such a seizure to occur so easily?”

“Definitely not,” an older gentleman said, his voice harsh. Sirius narrowed his eyes as he tried to remember the man’s name. Pfeiffer? Pearson? A professor at Oxford, he believed. “The British government has done much to protect British antiquities and keep them safe within British hands.”

Gabriela nodded, her pretty face contemplative. His grip on his utensils tightened because Sirius knew better than to underestimate the youngest Luna sister. “That is good for the British, I would say, but unfortunate for other countries who are in the midst of war or colonization and who cannot protect their own histories from those who would exploit their vulnerability.”

“Vulnerability?” Professor Pfeiffer wrinkled his brow. “Surely you are not claiming the museum took advantage of Maqdala’s political turmoil to acquire these objects.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, sir.” She chuckled and waved her hand, as if Professor Pfeiffer had told a joke. “It is a move that comes from the colonizer’s script, I’m sure. Identify a region in flux and sweep in to either grasp power, destabilize the current government”—Gabriela ticked these items off on her fingers—“or loot what resources or treasures can be found while the local people are unable to protect it. I’d wager that is exactly how this museum came to possess the objects in this collection, and possibly a good deal of other items on display.”

The older gentleman opened and closed his mouth for a moment, before he grasped his glass of wine and took a drink. “Artifacts need to be protected, and if a mother country cannot do it, it is the responsibility of others to step in to do so.”

“Responsibility?” Isabel interjected. “Why is it that there is a responsibility to things and not to people?”

Sirius’s heart stuttered a beat at Isabel’s question. It was not like her to enter a conversation in an argumentative way, and he almost smiled as he took in the proud tilt of her chin and the flashing light in her eyes.