“Not until I give him leave.” She hurried to the door, turning at the last to ask Ellie, “Will you be staying and keeping an eye on the gentleman, miss?”
She nodded. “I’ll watch over him.”
Harry stood back to let Mrs. Kemp past, then tipped a salute Ellie’s way and followed the housekeeper from the room, closing the door behind him. Ellie wasn’t surprised that he’d gone; at twenty years old, Harry harbored more interest in grooms and horses and carriages than in their masters.
Left on her own with the sleeping Cavanaugh, Ellie folded her arms and allowed her gaze to rest on his face. With his dark hair and pale skin, dark slanting brows, patrician nose, sharp cheekbones, the long, rather austere lines of his cheeks, his squarish chin, and thin but finely drawn lips, his face called to mind that of the classic fallen angel, but was saved from such cold perfection by the shallow lines bracketing his mouth. She was willing to wager that when he smiled, he would sport distracting dimples.
She scanned his unresponsive features, then watched the rise and fall of the covers over his chest. He was alive. “And at least he’s not truly comatose,” she muttered.
Seeing him lying there, so still and quiet, and with an insistent intuitive sense that he was normally a vital, active man, Ellie felt—and acknowledged—the guilt that now rode her shoulders.
He’d been on the road to be caught by the storm and reduced to this only because he’d been sent to assess their painting. Him being caught in the storm wasn’t their fault, yet it wouldn’t have happened if they—she—hadn’t written to the gallery and offered to sell the Albertinelli.
Regardless of the family’s need of the funds from the sale, their need wasn’t worth any man’s life. It definitely wasn’t worth Cavanaugh’s life.
She knew such thoughts weren’t entirely logical, yet the incipient guilt, the weight that hovered over her, was real nonetheless.
Cavanaugh had to recover. That was all there was to it.
How long she stood and studied him, she couldn’t have said, but a knock on the door preceded it opening cautiously, then Pyne looked in, saw her, and smiled. He opened the door fully and walked in, followed by Morris and Masterton.
“Came to see how the gentleman was doing,” Pyne offered.
Morris added, “We thought he might like some company.”
Ellie lowered her arms and waved at the bed. “As you can see, he’s yet to regain consciousness.”
Pyne frowned at the still figure beneath the covers. “He’s still out to it? That’s odd, isn’t it?”
Masterton, who had hung back by the door, blandly observed, “He and his groom caught the worst of it. I ran into the storm not far from here, but they must have battled on for quite some time.” He glanced at Ellie. “I heard the groom is awake.”
She nodded. “Mrs. Kemp is seeing to him, but I gather he’s got his wits about him enough to ask after his master.”
“He”—Masterton indicated the sleeping figure with a tip of his head—“was all but carrying the groom when I came upon them. He wouldn’t have had much in reserve.”
That, Ellie thought, explained his collapse. “Mrs. Kemp believes he’ll come around in time.”
Morris had approached the bed and had been studying its occupant. “He’s not that old, is he? I would have expected the National Gallery to send someone more…well, scholarly. More experienced.”
“Hmm.” Pyne joined Morris in considering the sleeping man. “One has to wonder how much authority the opinion of a man as youthful as he will carry.” He glanced at Masterton. “You saw most of him. How old would you say he is?”
Masterton slid his hands into his trouser pockets. “He’s in his early thirties, I would say.”
Morris humphed. “Older than I thought, then.”
“But still hardly august or impressive in experience.” Pyne glanced at Ellie. “Hardly comforting, given how important his opinion on this painting will be to the Hinckleys.”
Until then, Ellie had bitten her tongue and resisted the urge to leap to Cavanaugh’s defense. “He was the National Gallery’s choice. They wouldn’t have sent him if they didn’t have faith in his assessment. No matter how relatively youthful he might be, the gallery clearly respects his opinion.”
Masterton added, “And ultimately, it’s the gallery’s acceptance of what he says that counts.” He nodded at Ellie. “You’re right. They chose him, so he must be up to the task.”
She dipped her head Masterton’s way. He and she didn’t always see eye to eye, but he was in his