“Yeah, that’s the chapel. It’s not used as a church anymore, and hasn’t for decades, but the light is excellent, and it could easily be transformed into a fantastic art studio for painting, or for other any other staging work you may need to do with the collection. I’ll show you after we’re done here.”

“Are you really suggesting your chapel could be my workspace?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes, if you think it’ll suit your needs. It’s plenty large enough once we clear out benches and such to make room for the easels and tables, or whatever you need. The altar will have to stay though. It’s… special, and I don’t want to tear it out. I’ll show you later and you’ll understand.” I couldn’t wait for her to understand why the altar would definitely be staying put. That altar was the pièce de résistance for me and her.

Because I was going to arrange her upon that altar at some point like the decadent feast that she was. And then I was going partake of my lovely feast at the altar de Gabrielle—and by partake I mean fuck—and it would be something of the marvelous for both of us.

“Oh my God, there will be no tearing anything out on my account, Ivan. Jesus, don’t scare me,” she said with wide eyes and a shake of her pretty head. “No altars or any structures are being torn out to make room for me to work. Let’s just keep things very simple, for me to evaluate and do no harm while I’m here. Please?”

Her worry made me want to reassure her, but it would be a lie. Too late for doing no harm, kitten. She’d done some… to my heart. Made it vulnerable again. The one part of meeting her I did not care for at all.

She switched the subject smoothly a moment later, probably sensing my change in mood. Such an intuitive little kitten. “So, is this where you do your work for Parliament? Tell me you get to pore over secret government dossiers sometimes. Any answers to mysteries from the ages that you can pass along? On the down-low, of course. I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

“Such as?” I couldn’t wait to hear this.

“The Shakespeare authorship question. Who wrote it? The man from Stratford, or the Earl of Oxford under a pseudonym?”

“Look at you, just bursting with the need to know, Miss Hargreave. My money’s on the Earl of Oxford.” I winked at her. “I’m related to him too.”

“Ha! Of course you are, Mr. Everley. You’re related to so many important people, czars included, why not the man who penned Shakespeare?”

Kitten has absolutely no idea how close she is to being pounced on again. “I don’t have the definitive answer mind you, but I can get you invited as a special guest to either society, Stratfordian or Oxfordian, and you could ask them yourself. I’m sure any of those stuffy old geezers on either side of the question, would be thrilled to spend an evening sharing their opinions on the matter with someone who looks like you.”