He would hate to think he came from such stock. He moved on to the next life-size image hanging from the towering wall—and it took him a moment to realize it was a woman not a man, the tall, ruffled collar dating the image to the time of Queen Bess.“Excuse me—are you . . . ?”Christopher turned at the female voice. A girl—possibly a teenager—stood halfway down the enormous gallery hall, wringing her hands . . . though she looked curious, not worried. He flourished a bow toward her. “I’m Christopher Dearing. And you are?”The pale face broke out into a huge smile. “I am Miss Florence Buchanan.” She made a slight curtsy. “You’re my American cousin.”“I am? Well, if that don’t beat all.” He grinned and winked at her.Miss Florence Buchanan giggled and flushed to the roots of her black hair. Even the bell shape of the skirt of her green dress couldn’t mask the languid lankiness of her frame—especially with two skinny stocking- and boot-clad ankles sticking out under the skirt and petticoats.
