She Hates Me Not: A Richer in Love Romance (22 page)

Charles was oblivious.  He brushed past the ticket taker, leaving Tori to apologize while she waited for their stubs.  Breezing through the exhibit, Charles wove in and out of partitions until Tori thought she’d lost him completely.

“Miss Smith!”

Following his voice, she found Charles parked in a back corner.  He stood before a massive painting of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert who gazed lovingly at one another while children and dogs frolicked around their feet.  Although their relationship wasn’t a spontaneous love match, the two monarchs grew to possess a passionate adoration for one another that appeared to border on worship.  After Albert died in 1861, Victoria mourned for years – literally.

Gasping, Tori glanced around.  Charles wouldn’t know about the Prince’s death.  She looked for any placards that might mention it, but the only informational sign discussed the artist whose name was unknown.

“You see it, too?” Charles asked.

Tori refocused on the painting.  “See what?”

“They’re wearing pendants, and the Prince Consort’s is identical to mine.”

As she stood there, slack-jawed, Tori’s burner phone buzzed.  She dug it out of her purse and checked the screen.

Death lies on her, like an untimely frost upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

Her heart began to pound.  She clutched Charles’ arm.  “Read this.”

“
Romeo and Juliet. 
Act 4, I believe.  Is it a practical joke?”

“If it is, it’s not funny.”  Saving the text, Tori gave the room a once-over.  No one else stood nearby, and the lone guard assigned to watch for rule-breakers was half asleep in his chair.  Even so, his presence helped.

“I’m sure it’s just another of those perverts whom you mentioned before,” Charles said.

Tori looked up to meet his gaze.  Charles sounded so confident, seemed so steady in the midst of his own calamity.  He was stuck in another century without money or friends, and his return home was not guaranteed.  And his success hinged on help from a woman who’d nearly whacked him with a cricket bat about twelve hours before.

Meanwhile one text had her coming unglued.  Tori knew she was tough, but Charles was a curve ball she hadn’t been taught to catch.  Neither was the mystery he brought with him.

Taking a deep breath, she put away the phone.  “Okay, they’re wearing the pendants.  What does that mean?”

“The portrait was painted in 1852, which means we can assume both pendants were still in London at that time.”

“So at some point in the past two years of your life, the pendants were stolen.”

“Certainly Her Majesty’s was if it made its way to 2014.”  Charles stepped closer to examine the painting’s details.  “Can you capture an image of this with your phone?”

His over-enunciation of the last word, which Tori thought might be deliberate, made her smile.  “Unfortunately no.  They don’t allow photography in this museum.  But they might have a copy for sale.  Stick around until you’re satisfied and meet me by the entrance when you’re done.  Okay?”

Charles looked intrigued.  “Okay.”

He did it again, elongating the word with his marvelous accent.  Tori had grown immune to the charm of hearing Brits speak, but Charles tested her resistance with his tranquilizing voice that reminded her of a lion’s rumbling purr.  Briefly she imagined how it would feel to hug Charles, to press against him while he uttered her name.

Safe.  It would feel safe in a way nothing else could.  Or had for as long as she could remember.

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