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ever seen.”
    Caro shrugged. “I don’t have it. I believe Robert sold it to Marcus.”
    “Now that’s something I haven’t heard before. I must see if I can locate our old comrade Lithgow. Last I heard, he was in Naples.”
    Excellent. That should fob Julian off for a few weeks. Before his unexpected inheritance, he’d been an art dealer with a well-deserved reputation for terrier-like tenacity in pursuit of an Old Master. If he really believed she still had the Titian, she wouldn’t put it past him to tear her house apart. She didn’t think he knew about the closet. Robert had always clung to the secret of its existence, and she’d never told a soul. Not even Oliver, thank God.
    M iss Anne Brotherton was perfectly happy. She could scarcely believe she’d managed to get away from Miss Agatha Smart, her pious companion, and Lord Morrissey, her equally officious guardian. Only the unlikely coincidence of Miss Smart’s sister’s last illness coming just as Morrissey was appointed to the viceroyalty of Ireland had enabled Anne to escape the echoing halls of Camber. Morrissey would never have let her visit Caro and the cozy house in Conduit Street. Anne hated to think what he’d do when informed of her present whereabouts by Mr. Thompson, his fellow trustee of the Brotherton fortune.
    She’d cross that bridge when Morrissey crossed the Irish Sea. Meanwhile, she had a large purring feline on her lap and the company of her favorite person in all the world.
    “Why did you name him Tish?” she asked.
    “Well,” Caro said, with the special look that presaged a story, often a tall one. “He appeared at the back door one day, just a tiny kitten. So hungry and piteous, though you wouldn’t think it to look at him now, the spoiled, lazy beast. I named her Letitia.”
    “Her?”
    “The name turned out to be a mistake so he became Tish.”
    “I don’t believe you.”
    “I’m wounded.”
    “Admit you invented the whole thing.” Anne reached over and tugged playfully at Caro’s curls, which she found fascinating, never having seen such a style in the depths of the country. “Admit you made it up!” The subject of the argument growled ominously.
    “Never!” Caro said. “Not even under the direst torture.”
    Anne could only laugh. Ever since she was a small child, Caro had been the source of fun and giggles, the likes of which she seldom encountered in the household of her loving but elderly grandfather. On her only-too-rare visits, Caro would tear into the grand mansion, running and laughing in the passages, teasing her uncle, Anne’s grandfather, who couldn’t resist her any more than Anne could. Not Anne, Annabella. Caro had pronounced Anne too dull a name for her darling cousin. When she was with Caro, she felt like Annabella, a beautiful, exotic creature instead of the plain, quiet, well-behaved heiress known as Anne Brotherton.
    Their guests had gone, though most would have stayed all night given the slightest encouragement. Except Castleton, who hadn’t even prolonged his call sufficiently to elicit an invitation to dine. The duke seemed very proper, exactly the kind of man she was used to.
    Caro edged along the sofa and took Anne’s hand, prompting the cat to stretch his claws into the delicate stuff of his mistress’s gown. “Stop it, Tish! He’s such a naughty boy,” she said. “What do you think of him?”
    Anne deduced that the question was addressed to her and “he” was not the cat. “I hardly know. We’d scarcely spoken before Denford and Oliver started baiting him. I suppose you put them up to it.”
    “There was no need. Denford is naturally contrary, and Oliver is suffering agonies of passionate jealousy.”
    Anne began to giggle. No one, including her late fiancé, had ever subjected her to such overt and overblown worship. “I like Oliver. He’s sweet.”
    “Which is precisely why he’s always in the throes of unrequited love. Poor dear! A gentle character combined with a