ICAP 2 - The Hidden Gallery by Maryrose Wood Read Free Book Online

a large and forbidding portrait of Admiral Percival Racine Ashton hanging in Lord Fredrick’s taxidermy-filled study. “I believe the admiral was the current Lord Ashton’s great-grandfather,” she explained. “What a coincidence that your great-uncle was acquainted with him.”
    â€œIt’s a very large sea, to a sailor,” Simon answered thoughtfully, “but a small world, to be sure. Say, that’s pretty good.” He jotted down this bon mot with his pencil nub. (As you may already know, a “bon mot” is a clever saying. Agatha Swanburne would be a good example of someone who was adept at crafting bon mots, but Simon Harley-Dickinson certainly showed some talent in this regard as well.)
    Penelope glanced over her shoulder at the stately house marked Number Twelve. She knew it was long past time for her to take the children inside to settle in their new, temporary quarters, to have supper and a bath and a bedtime read-aloud. But she felt in nohurry to go in. And the boys were engaged in fishing a bit of string out of a curbside puddle with a stick. Surely it would be a pity to interrupt them.
    â€œMr. Harley-Dickinson, if your great-uncle is an old family friend of the Ashtons, perhaps you would care to bring him over for tea sometime?” She made the offer quickly, even recklessly, for she knew it was hardly her place to invite people to tea—yet she found herself grasping for any excuse to have this intriguing Simon person visit Number Twelve Muffinshire Lane again.
    â€œUncle Pudge, come to tea? Impossible, I’m afraid. He’s in the old sailors’ home, in Brighton. Not quite all there in his wits anymore, but he’s got more wild seafaring stories in that gray head than you could shake a stick at. You’re awfully kind to think of it, though.”
    Simon shoved his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight around a bit, then blurted: “Say, Miss Lumley—do you like to go see shows?”
    â€œI certainly do!” she exclaimed, with a bit more enthusiasm than the question warranted. “That is to say, this is my first trip to London, so I have not had the opportunity to seen any shows before, but, in theory, I believe I would enjoy it very much.”
    â€œThat’s good to know. Theoretically speaking, Imean.” He was still fidgeting every which way. “I’ll be off, then.”
    Cassiopeia, who had not left his side this whole time, reached up and tugged at his arm. “Resembawoo?”
    He frowned, confused. “Rezzawot? What’s that you say?”
    Penelope smiled. “Cassiopeia means that she would like you to elaborate on the comment you made a moment ago, about there being some resemblance between me and the children.”
    He scratched his head. “You got all that from what she just said? Amazing. All I meant was that the four of you look a bit alike. You’ve got nearly the same color hair, for one thing.”
    â€œApples,” Cassiopeia agreed. By that she meant reddish, although a person who was accustomed to talking about hair would be more likely to describe it as a rich auburn. All three Incorrigibles had that same striking, auburn-colored hair. For as long as Penelope could remember, her own hair had been dark and dull, but in recent months it had begun to take on a similar (and rather more attractive) hue—ever since she had stopped treating it with the Swanburne hair poultice. Come to think of it, all the girls at Swanburne had dark, dull hair. Perhaps the poultice’s lice-repelling andscalp-rejuvenating properties affected color as well. Penelope made a mental note to ask Miss Mortimer about it.
    â€œApples? I like apples, sure, who doesn’t? It’s very pretty, too. The hair, I mean.” Simon sounded bashful all at once. “Good day, then. It’s been a pleasure.”
    â€œThank you again for all your help. I hope your creative difficulties are