She went to stand in front of ten frames enclosing rows of gray and beige moths. Each one had been labeled. It must have taken hours to collect and sort all of these. Yet, with them lined up like this, she could see the differences between them.
She felt Kevin’s presence next to her.
“Moths, not butterflies,” she said.
“Everyone has butterflies.”
She looked at the frames, then at him. She chuckled.
“You find this amusing, do you?”
“Moths? It must be quite a struggle for your guests to say something polite when they see these.” She imagined a young Kevin Radnor, serious and studious, reading off the names and explaining how this moth was different from that one. No doubt he had enjoyed the social discomfort he created. “It is all a joke, isn’t it?”
A slow smile formed. “Don’t give it away. No one else has guessed.”
“That is because your humor is too sly.”
“Not for everyone, it appears.”
She laughed and walked away. Moths.
The bookcases drew her attention. Her gaze moved over them, and the many books they held. “Are these all your father’s?”
“Some are mine. Some he acquired. Others he inherited. My grandfather was a bibliophile and had his library broken up among his sons when he passed.”
“Your family history be on those shelves.”
“I never thought of it that way, although I have discovered a few rarities that have probably been in the family for generations.”
Side by side they perused the leather-bound volumes. If she purchased one a week she would never own this many books.
Suddenly, something poked at her bum, startling her.
“Mr. Radnor, you surprise me. Please remove your hand.”
“My hand?”
“The one on me bum.”
“Appealing though the notion is, I assure you that I am never that crude.” He held up both his hands to prove his innocence.
She frowned. “What—” She turned around abruptly. “I have never—” She backed up.
He also turned, and sighed. “Father, you really shouldn’t,” he called out, reaching down to stop the apparatus from advancing further.
She leaned down to peer at a metal contraption with a painted metal face, wearing old-fashioned clothes, boots, and a tricorner hat. “It looks like a big doll.”
“It is an automaton. An unusual one, because it rolls.” He lifted it to show the wheels at its base. “A flawed idea, because once it is set off, it keeps moving unless it unwinds or hits something. Like your, um . . . like you.” He pointed to the salver held in one of the mechanical man’s hands, projecting out.
As he held up the mechanical man, its eyelids opened and shut, and a smile formed and unformed while a low, metallic hum sounded. The wheels continued to turn.
“Father, show yourself! Come meet my guest.”
“Did you build this?” she asked, examining those wheels and trying to peer inside the figure.
“It was built for my uncle, the late duke. However, I fixed it once my father got hold of it. Part of the mechanism had broken. Ah, there is the mischief-maker.”
She looked up to see a tall, lean, white-haired man standing right inside the doorway. He was smiling broadly, clearly pleased with his joke. She looked from him to his son, and then back again. It was like seeing the same man at different ages, they were so similar.
He proceeded into the room, and Kevin made the introductions.
His father took the little man from Kevin. “It wasn’t supposed to hit you. The intention was for it to roll past.”
“Hardly,” Kevin muttered under his breath. “Perhaps you need to work on your aim, then. It always moves in a straight line.”
“Yes, well, perhaps I should. Welcome, Miss Jameson. My son has told me that you have finally been found. He is much relieved, as you can imagine. As am I. You seem fascinated with my mechanical butler. Come and I’ll show you the others.”
Down a stately corridor they strolled. Up a grand staircase with pale blue walls and finely carved white moldings. The senior Mr. Radnor opened two doors with a flourish to reveal a huge chamber full of tables and pedestals, all of them holding automatons.
“This is his drawing room,” Kevin murmured while his father strode forth and began turning keys and levers, making the contraptions come alive.
“He must be very fond of these,” she whispered back.
“Oh, yes.”
“Come in, come in, Miss Jameson. No need to be timid,” his father called out. “Unlike the little butler automaton, these don’t move around the chamber.”
She entered and admired the variety of the collection. There had to be close to a hundred of them. Large or small, each one had specific movements. A little squirrel fluffed its tail and bit a nut. A clock rang the hour and a group of figures emerged from within and began sawing and chopping wood. Two men sitting on either side of a table appeared to be playing a game of cards.
A large swan in particular fascinated her. At least four feet high and made out of hundreds of pieces of shiny, painted metal, it crooked its neck, turned it, and preened at feathers that rose up and down. Then it turned back, dipped its head, and lifted it with a tiny metal fish in its bill.
“I have the finest collection in England. The biggest too. Quite likely the largest in the world, but I dare not make that claim lest there is some secret hoard of which I am unaware. This one here is from Bavaria. That one came from Naples.”
“What are they for?”
“For? Why, they give delight. They amuse. They show the ingenuity and art of their creators.” He glanced askance at her. “Ah. You mean how are they useful. I see you have found a kindred mind in your partner, Kevin. Someone else who believes something has no value if it is not producing something or making someone money.”
“She did not say they did not have value, nor that they did not make anyone money. After all, you paid handsomely for them. And should you ever sell them, their value, which is considerable, will be apparent.”
That received a deep frown. “Parsing through my words, as is typical of you.”
“Have you seen your full, Miss Jameson? I believe the cook will be sending up a luncheon soon.”
“I be both done and dazzled. Thank you for sharing your rare collection, sir.”
Kevin escorted her out. His father, to her dismay, came right along with them.
The luncheon was delicious but a trial. She tried mightily to use the right implements for each dish, and to speak properly. It progressed fairly well, with the senior Mr. Radnor filling the time with one-sided speeches about how the rabble were making Town unlivable, what with their demonstrations and complaints. The meal was punctuated by sharp, brief arguments when father and son disagreed.
The inevitable question came, just as the footman brought in a cake.
“I am curious, Miss Jameson. How were you acquainted with my brother, Hollinburgh?”
She chose her words carefully. “We had a mutual friend. When she became ill, I cared for her.”
“And for that he left you a fortune?”
She shrugged. “I cannot know what his thoughts were. Because he was your brother, perhaps you can.”
He speared her with a long gaze, then smiled and chortled. “Explain his mind or intentions? As if anyone could. Besides, I barely saw him the last ten years and not at all the last five.”