“I feel like a thief. Why are we sneaking about?”
“If Lady Falstone realized I was in her private gallery she would have my head upon a platter.” Mary wrinkled her nose in displeasure. “The paintings were given to her by her fiance, who disappeared only days before they were to wed. She kept the collection as some rather pathetic shrine to his memory and not even Lord Falstone ever entered without her approval.”
Simone found it impossible to believe the surly old woman had ever cared enough for anyone to create a shrine to his memory. Especially a gentleman who had jilted her at the altar. It would be far more in character to have burned them in the nearest fire. Still, it appeared that she had once upon a time possessed a heart.
“Will the door not be locked?”
Mary gave a short laugh. “Lady Falstone is too filled with her own self-worth to presume anyone would possess the audacity to defy her orders. Would you grab a candle?”
Simone dutifully collected the candelabra on a nearby table and followed her friend into the room. She was startled to discover that it was far larger than she had expected. Nearly a hundred feet long with a modillion cornice in a coved ceiling, the walls were covered by pictures, some enormous and hung in heavy gold frames, while others were small and grouped together. There were no furnishings beyond an ornate chimneypiece and a lone chair set next to a window.
She could have spent hours admiring the masterpieces that had been hidden away, but Mary was already headed toward the far end of the room. She swiftly caught up just as Mary halted next to a small portrait that had been hung by itself in a corner.
“There.”
Simone raised her brows in bewilderment. “It is a portrait.”
“Look closer,” Mary commanded.
Biting back an impatient sigh, Simone lifted the candelabra and studied the dark picture. It took only a moment as the soft light revealed the finely hued countenance of the gentleman for her heart to skid to a halt.
“Good heavens,” she whispered. “It is Mr. Ravel.”
“That is what I thought, until I noted the small plaque,” Mary retorted.
Lowering her gaze Simone read the words engraved into the plaque. “Lord Ravel. Penwhick Castle. 1520 A.D.
“I assure you that it gave me quite a start when I first noticed it.”
Simone’s disbelieving gaze returned to the portrait, noting the heavy velvet and lace that the gentleman wore. Certainly there was no gentleman today who would choose such garments.
“It is impossible.”
“It does look remarkably like him, even that gold ring he wears.”
Simone gave a shake of her head, her breath oddly elusive as she searched for some hint that this was not Gideon.
“It looks precisely like him,” she muttered.
“I suppose it must be a relative of Mr. Ravel’s,” Mary continued to chatter, unaware of the tension gripping Simone.
“Yes,” she agreed, although deep within her she could not make herself accept that it was mere coincidence. She had always looked much like her sister, both of them with the same golden hair and slender frames. They both even had a similar birthmark upon their hip. But this ... this was not mere resemblance. Every feature, from the glossy dark hair to the arrogant tilt of his chin was precisely the same.
“He looks quite dashing with that ruff and lace. Do you suppose he was as sinfully charming as the current Mr. Ravel?”
Simone shivered. “No doubt.”
“Penwhick Castle. I have never heard of such an estate, have you?”
“No.”
“Well, perhaps it has changed titles.”
Simone was incapable of coherent thought. She had to be alone, to consider this in a rational manner. It could not be true. This could not be Gideon. At least not him in 1520.
And yet, she could not shake the disturbing tremors that raced through her body.
“I must go.”
Mary turned to glance at her in surprise at her sharp tones. “You are pale. Do you not feel well?”
“I am a trifle dizzy,” she replied in all honesty.
“Shall I call for a servant?”
“No.” She pressed her hands to her tightly clenched stomach. “I will return home. Thank you for revealing the portrait. It is quite ... astonishing.”
Mary frowned with concern. “When you get home have a nice, large shot of brandy. It will soon have you set to right.”
Simone smiled but she feared that it would take several bottles of brandy to set her to right. She was uncertain that all of France possessed enough brandy for such a feat.
“Yes, a most tempting notion,” she murmured, turning on her heel to hurry from the room.
