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  Zoë was no historian and knew little about antiques, but she was sure she was looking at the finest that money could buy in the eighteenth century.

  “Do you like it?” came a male voice, and she turned to see a tall man, dressed all in black except for his white shirt, standing in the doorway. She knew who he was since she’d drawn him several times. He looked like the picture of Nathaniel Hawthorne that Faith had found in one of Jeanne’s books. In other words, he was divinely handsome.

  More important, he had a manner about him that let her know he owned the house. If this man were wearing rags, he’d still be in command.

  Zoë found that she was completely tongue-tied as she looked at him. Between his beauty and the fact that she was a stranger snooping in his house, she didn’t know what to expect. When did they do away with drawing and quartering as a punishment for crimes?

  He walked across the room to stand beside her. “This furniture is modern and some people do not like it, but I do.”

  When Zoë still didn’t speak, he went on. “My mother always said that a true aristocrat sits on gold, but I never liked gold furniture. What do you think?”

  “No gold,” Zoë managed to say, then got hold of herself. “I didn’t mean to trespass, but—”

  “I am used to Amy’s strays,” he said, smiling and looking even more handsome. “She is going to bankrupt me.” His words would have been offensive from someone else since they were referring to her, but from him, somehow, they put her at ease.

  “Amy said she’s been here for nearly a year,” Zoë said, searching for conversation.

  “Fourteen months,” he said, and she had the idea that he could tell her how many days it had been. He’s in love with her! Zoë thought. He is flat-out, no-holds-barred in love with her.

  Zoë turned away from him, afraid that he would read her thoughts. If he was in love with Amy, how was he going to feel when she disappeared in just three weeks? On the other hand, someone who seemed to be Amy had been here for a year, so maybe that person would stay.

  Zoë could feel him looking at her, as though he expected her to say something. She was searching for words when she saw a miniature portrait nestled in a white napkin lying on the top of the sideboard. It was no more than four inches tall, in oil and probably on ivory. She picked it up. “She’s pretty.”

  When he said nothing, she looked back at him. He suddenly looked as though he might cry.

  “I’m sorry,” she said as she put the picture down. “I didn’t mean to be rude.” She stepped back from him.

  “It is I who should apologize,” he said as he picked up the little portrait and gazed at it. “Usually, this is in my room, but the frame has a crack in it, so it’s to be repaired.”

  “I could do it,” Zoë said.

  “You? Do you have experience in this?”

  “I’ve been working with framing for several years now,” she said. She was watching him and figuring out who the woman in the picture was. Unfortunately, Zoë’d had quite a bit of experience with that look. Many of her clients had looked at photographs of deceased loved ones like that.

  “Who was she?” Zoë whispered, letting the “was” tell him that she understood.

  “My wife,” he said, his eyes still on the portrait.

  “I can make a larger picture from that,” she said. “I can make copies for you.”

  He looked at her, blinking for a moment, then he smiled. “You are a painter?”

  “Yes,” Zoë answered and straightened her back. If she had a job here she wouldn’t feel as though she were trespassing.

  He put the picture back on the napkin. “I have a painter living here,” he said, “and he will repair the frame. And he will make copies for me. He is painting my sister now. You will have to ask his permission if you are to work for him.”

  With that, he gave a little bow and left the room.

  For a moment, Zoë stood there staring after him. He had dismissed her, and she had no doubt that it was because she was a woman. He’d said she was to work “for” the man. Didn’t he think a woman could paint as well as a man?

  While it was true that Zoë had never been to art school, had never had a lesson in her life, she had certainly read a great deal on her own. She knew what itinerant portrait painters in the eighteenth century did. Sure, there was a Stuart now and then, but mainly they painted on boards in a style that was stiff and, to Zoë’s eye, ugly.

  She went down the stairs to the kitchen where Amy was at the table kneading bread.

  “I met your big, beautiful boss,” she said from across the table. The people in the room didn’t exactly stop what they were doing, but they did slow down, and the voices ceased.

  “What’s he done now?” Amy asked, not pausing in her kneading.

  “I volunteered to paint some pictures of his wife, but he said he already has a painter. If I don’t draw and paint, why am I here? What am I to do for three weeks? Play the pianoforte?”

  “He told you about his wife?” Amy asked. If possible, it got quieter in the room.

  “Not really,” Zoë said, “but you remember that I’ve been living in other people’s houses for years now, and I know what it means when their eyes look at a portrait in that way.”

  Amy quit kneading and wiped her hands on a damp cloth. After a glance at all the people in the kitchen who were staring at them, she put her hand under Zoë’s arm and ushered her up the stairs.

  “This place gossips more than any tabloid,” she said when they were upstairs. “Zoë, I know that I brought you into this and I’ll fix everything that I can, but it’s true that he has a painter living here right now. If I’d known that when we were in Maine I wouldn’t have asked you to come. I’m sorry. But couldn’t you just enjoy what you see here? I can get him to buy you some paper and pens and you can sketch what you see. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  “Why do you always call him ‘he’? Doesn’t he have a name?”

  “Sure,” Amy said. “It’s Tristan, but it’s also the eighteenth century. I can’t call him by his first name because I’m a lowly housekeeper, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to call him ‘my lord.’” She gave Zoë a pleading look. “I really do have a lot of work to do. Feeding the people who live here is a major undertaking every day. If I run out of anything I can’t just go to the supermarket. I have to wait for it to grow!”

  “So you’re telling me to entertain myself and get out of your hair.”

  “Pretty much,” Amy said. “Why don’t you find the painter and talk to him about his work? Maybe you two could…” Amy was looking at Zoë as though she’d never seen her before.

  “Could what?” Zoë asked. “Paint by duet? Maybe I could set up a school and train some of these roving painters in modern techniques.”

  “I think that’s a great idea,” Amy said, still looking at Zoë in wonder.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I was just thinking about something. You know that it’s been said that there are no coincidences. Maybe you came back with me for a reason.”

  “And that reason was…?”

  Amy smiled brightly. “To let you give lessons to these bad painters who travel around and make rotten pictures. I think you should go talk to Russell.”

  “Russell being the painter?”

  “Yes.”

  “And since you can say his name that means he’s not of the upper classes.”

  “He certainly isn’t.”

  “So how do I find him?”

  “He’s usually in the stables this time of day. Beth—that’s Tristan’s young sister and who he’s painting—goes out riding now, so Russell hangs around the stableyard.”

  “Waiting for her?” Zoë asked. “Amy, what are you up to? Is he in love with his subject? The master’s nubile sister?”

  “Maybe,” Amy said. “But I think you should make up your own mind.”

  “Okay, I’ll go so you can get back to baking your four-an