The Golden Leopard by Lynn Kerstan Page A

inflated sense of self-importance as he beat out the Duke of Devonshire for not one but four valuable pieces. They were not nearly so valuable as the price he paid for them, but he would boast of his success for a good long time. She must remember to praise him for his excellent taste when next they met.
    Lady Fitzmorris had bought the blue-eyed figurine, bringing along her son-in-law to do the bidding for her. Jessica checked the list to see what she had paid. Oh my. It more than made up for the trouble the woman had tried to create at the reception.
    By Helena’s report, Mr. Christie was delighted with the results of the sale, although he was taking great pains to claim all the credit for Jessica’s ideas. He very well ought to be pleased, considering the money he had made and the attention she had brought to his auction house. Most of the guests had never thought of setting foot there until Lady Jessica made Christie’s a fashionable place to be.
    She skimmed several anecdotes, knowing that Helena, with her acerbic wit, would tell the stories far better in person. Then she came to a long postscript at the end of the letter.
    “A gentleman, Lord Duran, was inquiring for you at the auction. I gathered he had applied first at Sothingdon House, which was confirmed by Phillips when I returned home. Naturally we did not provide Lord Duran with your direction, as you had told us it was to be kept private. But the gentleman, who is newly returned from India, claims to have made your acquaintance several years ago and appears most anxious to speak with you on a matter of some urgency. Should you wish to make an exception for him, please let me know by return post. He has called twice this very day, and I must tell you, Jessica, that he is a difficult man to fend off.”
    Didn’t she know it!
    Jessica spent the next three hours writing letters, one to Helena with strict instructions to have Duran turned away whenever he called, and the others to clients who would wish to know the price their merchandise had fetched. She’d have taken pleasure dispatching so much excellent news, had not Duran felt all but present in the room. She had put distance between them, but she could not stop thinking about him.
    She dropped hot wax onto each of her letters and stamped it with her seal, using exceptional vigor. Take that! she thought. And that! Every one of those letters declared her independence. She had worked exceptionally hard for nearly six years to build her reputation, endured criticism and sometimes downright ostracism from the high sticklers, and finally made a glorious success.
    Never mind what she had given up in the process. She had made her choices, and it was too late to second-guess them now.
    Oscar had emerged from beneath the bed to twine about her ankles, which he only did if he was hungry. When she tried to pet him, wanting to touch something warm and alive, he jerked away, the fur along his spine standing straight up in an unmistakable sign of rejection.
    “Come along, wretch,” she said, gathering her letters and heading for the passageway. “When I’ve got Father to frank these, we’ll go to the kitchen and find you something to eat.”
    Oscar trotted alongside her, tail high with anticipation, until she came to a halt at the top of the main staircase that curved down to the entrance hall. Male voices, several of them, echoed from the high walls and domed ceiling.
    She nearly turned back, but what was the use? There would be no escaping them so long as she remained at High Tor. She still wore her plain brown walking dress and half boots, and her hair was coming loose from its pins, but none of her father’s grouse-hunting friends cared anything for that. The men invited to Sothingdon’s famous shooting parties came precisely because there would be no females demanding their attention and requiring them to be on good behavior. She often thought that she could arrive at the dinner table wearing only her chemise