His argument stung. In truth, she was little more than the daughter of a once well-respected purveyor, and she should be eager to make an advantageous marriage instead of pursuing professional recognition. Yet she'd spent most of her life in this shop at her father's side, learning the nuances of antiquities and other such artifacts. It was a significant aspect of who she was and how she lived her life.
Unwilling to let the topic drop, she trailed Uncle Thomas as he stormed from the receiving room into the warehouse. The familiar scent of dust and disuse tickled her nose as they entered the humid, dimly lit space. "No, I'm not an agent, but I know just as much, if not more, than most. And this is a good opportunity."
"Opportunity for what?" Thomas stopped at the desk where one of their agents, Russell Crane, was seated and lifted a stack of unopened letters. "I've never heard of her collection. I doubt anyone has. This scheme is likely a desperate attempt to claim whatever money she can, now that Francis Milton is dead. It's probably not even worth the trip, but instead of consulting me, you reacted based on emotion."
Olivia clamped her teeth over her lower lip and resisted releasing the sarcastic retort simmering on the tip of her tongue. She despised this feeling—of her knowledge and experience being devalued...of not being considered a significant contributor simply because she was not the son who could ensure the business's future. She might be a woman of two and twenty, but she was still at her uncle's mercy in many ways. After all, he was the de facto owner of their business, and as such, he provided the roof over not only her head but her younger sister, Laura's, as well.
"Need I remind you that when Edward died, he asked me to care for you until the day you meet a man I feel is worthy enough to be your husband?"
An uncomfortable tightness pinched in the pit of her stomach as she recalled the conversation at her father's bedside, hours before his death. "I remember it."
"Your father thought me the best person to help guide you, which I've attempted to do. Now you've committed yourself to traveling hundreds of miles to a home where you know no one to evaluate a supposed collection. And what do you know of Mrs. Milton's nephew? Anything?"
Olivia remained silent.
"I will enlighten you, then. The ears of every purveyor, seller, and collector perked when word of Francis Milton's death became public. By all accounts young George Wainbridge is a wild young man with a dubious reputation. Who knows what manner of person will be present at this so-called house party?"
Olivia's defenses—and confidence—faltered. She suddenly felt quite small, like a child reprimanded for impulsive behavior. "Mrs. Milton will be there, and surely—"
"We've worked with Mr. Milton, not Mrs. Milton," he countered. "And now that her husband is dead, who is she?"
The holes he was attempting to poke through her plan were widening. Perhaps her excitement had trumped her sense of reason, but she could not back down. Not now. Her pride would not permit it.
She forced aplomb to her tone and straightened her shoulders. "It's widely known that Mrs. Milton is one of the most prominent women in polite society. You've said yourself that such clients are the exact foothold we need. What's more, she'll be my chaperone. Honestly, I don't see what harm could be done in such a short time."
"You don't see what harm could be done in a country house?" Thomas jeered. "That's the precise reason I should forbid it."
"I'm a grown woman, Uncle, and I'm not a fool. I know exactly what sort of people could be in attendance. But it is for a fortnight at most. The assessment aside, I have spent my entire life within London's city limits, and I might very well spend the rest of my life here without seeing any other part of the world. You know full well that Father always promised that when I came of age, he'd take me traveling. He's gone, but he always made his intentions clear. Give me credit, at least, for having a sensible head on my shoulders."
At this, Thomas fell silent.
Her words had landed with some effect. Maybe it was the reference to his late brother. Maybe it was the fact that he himself had a role in her isolation.
Thomas folded his arms across his barrel chest and stared at her for several seconds. He narrowed his deep-set, coffee-hued eyes, and his tone grew curt. "Very well. Do as you wish, then. You are, as you have said, a grown woman. But by doing so, you accept responsibility for the possible ramifications. I'll have no part of it."
He tucked the stack of letters beneath his arm, snapped up a small crate from Russell's desk, and stomped back toward the receiving room.
Olivia inhaled a shaky breath.
She had not won that argument. Nor had she lost it.
