“I did not finish it until you had been gone for several months,” LaFrance said. “There was much emotion – much in my soul that I needed to express. After all, I was heartbroken.”
“There was nothing – nothing to be heartbroken over,” Catherine said coldly.
LaFrance watched her for a moment. Then he shook his head. “You would not understand, perhaps. But to capture innocence and womanhood at the same time – to capture fear and courage – to an artist it is like an invitation to witness Adam and Eve in the Garden.”
“You exaggerate,” Catherine said. She attempted to laugh, but another spasm was gripping her, and she looked away, trying not to grimace.
“If there is any hope for me as an artist, it lies in that portrait,” LaFrance said. He looked in the direction of a stack of paintings leaning against the wall on which the sun still fell. Catherine followed his glance.
“Surely, you do not keep it there, where anyone could find it!” she gasped.
LaFrance walked over to the stack and pulled aside a velvet curtain that hung next to it to reveal a framed canvas with a blue silk cloth draped over it. He reached out to pull the cloth away.
“Stop!” Catherine cried. LaFrance stopped. He looked at her over his shoulder.
“I have no wish to see that … that thing,” she gasped. She was out of breath, as if she had run all the way from Wansdyke, and the tight band about her middle was squeezing again. She grasped feebly at the seat before her then let go to totter in LaFrance’s direction. He gave her a quizzical look.
“Are you all right?”
“I am fine – would be fine –” she said hoarsely, “if you would just let me buy that portrait from you.”
LaFrance stiffened. “No. My answer is firm. This portrait will show the world that I am a man of talent. I cannot let it leave my hands.”
“Michel, I beg you. If you hold – if you ever held – any affection for me. Please.” She limped unsteadily to where he stood, stiffly guarding the silk-draped shape. “Please. My reputation, my child’s reputation – my marriage.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
LaFrance reflected for a moment. The harsh contours of his body seemed to relax slightly. “And what of this sudden marriage, my lady? Do you love this man?”
“I do love him. But he will not love me in return if he ever discovers this portrait.”
“I would never divulge your identity.”
“I know you would not want to, Michel. But someone might force you. Or find out somehow. Surely you understand my predicament.” Catherine wrung her hands. “I am no longer the crippled and forgotten daughter of an earl whose title is reverting to the Crown. I am the Countess St Clair, and my son will be the next Earl St Clair. My husband does not care that I have a withered leg. Do you not see? I might be happy – I might be happy, like any other woman.” She was weeping openly now, the tears trickling down her cheeks as she spoke. “You would ruin me, Michel.”
LaFrance turned away. He seemed to contemplate her words, to turn them over in his mind. “You broke my heart,” he said finally.
“I am so sorry. I did not mean it. I was very young. And I was terrified. I did not believe that anyone could ever love me.”
“But I, I loved you,” LaFrance said bitterly. “My poor soft heart was bruised beyond recognition by the harsh way you dealt with me. All that I had of you was the portrait.”
He lifted a corner of the silk as he spoke, and slowly drew it away. Catherine lifted her head, the brightness of the blue winter sky reflecting off the wall and glittering through the tears that clung to her lashes. What she saw made her catch her throat, bite her lip until it bled.
“There it is, my lady. This is what I have been protecting with my life. It is worth more than your entire estate, more than the wealth of all the crowned heads of Europe. It is my brush with brilliance. I will spend my life attempting to meet it again.” He looked at Catherine, his face filled with pity. “I will never give it up.”
“Oh, Michel!” Catherine said. She tried to speak, but no more words came. She stared at the portrait, feeling the vice beginning to grip her again, her pulse race. It was indeed a spectacular portrait – a far cry from the sheaf of pleasant sketches on his desk. She had never seen anything like it. She stared at it until her eyes hurt.
This was it, then. She turned away and lumbered to the door.
“My lady,” LaFrance called. She ignored him, the tears streaming steadily down her cheeks as she opened the door and let herself out into the hall. Once there, she leant heavily against the door and wept silently, half-hidden in the dark shadow of the doorway. Her body shuddered, and she twisted her veil in her hands until it was a sweaty sodden mess.
I did not know, she thought. I did not know this about love: that it could lead to such desperate despair.
She had not loved him. He had shown her what it might be like to be a woman, a whole woman. But she had not regarded him as a human being with feelings. And that misstep would be the ruin of any happiness she might ever have had.
Unless she were to murder him, to burn the house down, she would never get the portrait away from him. And she could not grant him the brilliance he sought to retrieve, it could only well up within him. He needed to seek it, he needed to find his muse for himself. And he would hold that portrait fast until he drew his last breath.
It was time to leave London and return to Wansdyke.
From there, to Wales – far away from any society.
But she had one last duty to perform.
* * *
Jocelyn was contemplating a tempting display of baked goods in a window when his attention was caught by a lumbering navy-blue form clinging to the elbow of a young woman. The lumbering form was heavily veiled. But he recognised it in an instant. Catherine.
He watched as they laboured to make their way down the street. The bustling crowds paid no attention to them. They stopped once, twice, and Lydia murmured something to Catherine. Was Catherine in pain? Was she ill? He was tempted, so tempted, to rush over and offer assistance. But something, some poisonous inner voice, forced him to stay put.
They climbed into a hackney and sped away. Jocelyn turned away, the baked goods forgotten. Catherine knew his direction in London. She could find him if she chose to do so. She had not mentioned any plan to visit London. So what could she be doing in town – in her condition?
The thought of Catherine and her round belly both saddened and aroused him. He turned into the wind and began to trudge in the opposite direction to that taken by Catherine’s hackney.
Chapter 31
He’d had a most satisfying run of luck at faro. Generally speaking, Sir Lyle was not a gambler and he disdained the dandies and fools who thought that the various gaming hells about London were the very apotheosis of adventure. The idiots led such sheltered lives that they did not have the faintest clue about true risk, true danger. He would love to see some of them sail through a storm on one of his ships. Just once.
But, since he was in London …
Sir Lyle slowly swirled the port in his glass. It had a pleasing aroma of cherries and dark wood. Although not nearly as good as the vintage he procured for himself, it was perfectly acceptable.
He snorted, a little irritated. It wasn’t as if he really wanted to be in London at all. He was extremely busy, and his man of business in Dover was sending him frantic message after frantic message. It was difficult, dealing with a ship and its cargo from a distance. He loathed the fact that he was not there to personally supervise activities in port.
He was not, however, concerned about being found out. Too many important officials were in his pay for that to happen.
He turned his mind to Jocelyn Avebury’s sorry predicament. Pity that he could not risk involving any of his connections in the affair.
He had done some digging around: not content to sit still and wait for his Irish friend’s report, he had taken it upon himself to follow Avebury’s hearings and t
o try to find out how he came to be in the navy. There actually was something quite strange about the captain. He appeared to have no family, no friends, no connections of any kind – respectable or otherwise. He came from Yorkshire, London, Scotland – Sir Lyle’s naval contacts had offered all sorts of guesses about Avebury’s family and origins. The only vague consensus was that he had entered the service through the good graces of a well-connected relation, although no one seemed to know who that relation was.
It would help, Sir Lyle thought tiredly, if he could see the man’s files. But that would take time, and some finessing. It hardly seemed worth it.
He stood abruptly, went over to one of the tall windows and pulled back the dark red curtains. The moon glimmered through the sleet, scattering sparks of light over the cobblestoned streets. Snow from an earlier shower had collected here and there, but it did not seem there would be any more.
Why do I do this to myself?
The answer was one that he did not want to consider. Because he loved her. Loved her still. “What kind of a fool am I?” he muttered with a grimace.
He turned away from the window, downed the rest of his port, and slammed down the glass down so viciously that it shattered, imploding in the palm of his hand. He ignored the pain, shaking the glass easily from his fingers. Worse things had happened. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed lightly at his hand. Little flecks of blood appeared on the snowy white linen. He tossed it onto the table beside the mess.
A soft knock at the door. Sir Lyle crossed the room to procure another glass. “Come in,” he said over his shoulder. He sloshed the rich red liquid into the glass, slightly spattering onto the marble tabletop.
“Have I come at an inopportune moment?”
“You have a talent for poorly timed arrivals.” Sir Lyle picked up a second glass. “But I suspect that is due to your trade. You specialise in a most distasteful art. I assume that you will not have port, my fine Irish friend.”
“I am not so proud, Sir Lyle. I will always drink with a friend.”
Sir Lyle muttered as he inspected the decanters. He selected one. “I regret to say that my whiskey seems to have gone missing.”
“We finished it, Sir Lyle. The last time.”
“The last time – ah, yes. The last time.” Sir Lyle let out a bark of laughter. “I barely remember. I should never have attempted to outdrink you.”
The man removed his coat and gloves and placed them on a nearby table. Sir Lyle handed him his drink. “What, did my butler not take your coat?”
“Your butler is asleep, Sir Lyle. There are not many hours till daybreak.”
“I will not ask, then, how you managed to enter.”
The man cocked his head. “You should know better.” He raised his glass in salute before downing the drink.
Sir Lyle walked over to the fireplace and bent to inspect the cheerful orange flames before turning to look at his guest. “Well?”
“It is a long story.”
“I have time. But let me ask you something first. Is the man honest? Or was I mistaken in his character?”
The man gazed into his glass, rolling it between his palms. There was a pause. Then he laughed. “A difficult question, Sir Lyle.”
“Never. A man is either true or he is not. I believe I know how to judge character – if I did not, I would be dead – but I want to know. Was I wrong about Avebury?”
“Life is filled with grey, Sir Lyle. All is not black or white.”
“Yes, yes, I know what you think,” Sir Lyle said impatiently. “Rubbish, all of it. I know what I know. If I was mistaken in Avebury—” If I gave Catherine up to a lying sailor, he finished silently, I will kill him myself. And ask God to rot all lying sailors.
The Irishman heaved a deep sigh. “As I was saying, Sir Lyle. That is a difficult question. And you do not pay me to philosophise. I merely investigate.”
“Out with it, then. Avebury – liar? Saint?”
“We might as well start at the beginning. Randall.”
“Eh?” Sir Lyle had been raising his glass to his lips, but he stopped, his drink sloshing over the rim of the glass.
“His name is not Avebury at all. His name is John Randall.”
Chapter 32
He overslept yet again – the victim of fevered nightmares – and woke a sodden sweaty mess between the unstarched sheets in his rented bed. He wiped his neck with the corner of the one of them, then squinted into the sunlight, trying to gauge the hour. He felt as exhausted as if he had been running all night.
He was also extremely aroused. Disgusted, he looked down at the evidence of his preoccupation. After years at sea and years of controlling his urges between discreet visits to a certain lady in Gibraltar he thought such wakings were long in the past, something for younger men. But his brain was again a mass of urges and fantasies and obsessions. And they were let loose in his dreams with an explosion of colour and smell, feeling and taste.
“Kate,” he said aloud. He thought of her long blonde hair, how it was always getting in the way when they made love. He would spread it lovingly over her body, teasing her, kissing her. He took great delight in running his fingers through it; he had never had such a fair-haired lover before. She was so tremblingly fresh, salty and young. She never had the faintest whiff of an experienced woman about her, despite her efforts to maintain a damned air of confidence.
“Funny how easily we are deceived,” Jocelyn muttered. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed his face. Had to stop thinking about her. Had to stop before it drove him to desperation. And it would be extremely poor form to be found wandering the streets of a questionable neighbourhood in search of a certain kind of commerce while the Admiralty was deliberating his fate.
It would be another dreadful day of waiting.
Over his breakfast, he wondered whether Catherine was still in London. He wondered yet again why she had not said anything about coming to town. He wondered, reluctantly, whether she planned to visit him.
A maidservant knocked and opened the door, interrupted his reverie. “There’s a Sir Lyle Barrington here to see you, sir.” Startled, Jocelyn jerked to his feet, his napkin falling to the floor.
“Do not get up,” Sir Lyle said from the doorway. “I am sorry to interrupt your breakfast.”
“Not at all,” Jocelyn said. He gestured at the table. “You will join me, of course.”
“I will have some coffee, thank you. But let me serve myself.” Sir Lyle wandered over to the sideboard. Jocelyn sat back down.
He watched Sir Lyle walk over to a front window and inspect the street before him. Under heavy skies, with snow likely to fall soon, matrons and delivery boys hurried along the steep incline of the street. Sir Lyle sipped at the coffee and made a face. “How do you stand it, Captain? The coffee. It would never be tolerated on one of my ships.”
“Is it so bad?” Jocelyn replied mildly. He watched as Sir Lyle circled the room, sipping at his coffee and examining the pleasant furnishings with feigned interest.
“Do you not long to be at sea, Captain Avebury?”
“Why are you here, Sir Lyle?”
Sir Lyle’s back stiffened slightly. He turned. “Are we not to allow ourselves a few moments of polite chat?” His voice had gone quiet. “I understand that you are a man of honour, and you appear to disdain me as a man of business. Still, I am accustomed to a certain amount of politeness – a façade, if you will – when I am amongst gentlemen.”
Jocelyn watched him impassively.
Sir Lyle put down his cup, his hand steady. “Never mind. I do not understand what you have against me, but I know the pressure you face at this time in your career.”
“What of it?” Jocelyn rose slowly from the table. “What do you know of it, Sir Lyle?”
“I am a seafaring man, Captain Avebury, much as you are. Oh, I do not pretend that my life is as honourable as yours. I trade in something … er … tasteless, shall we say?” Sir Lyle laughed,
but he did not sound amused. “People may make of that what they wish but I have a great deal of money. I have land, mansions, horses, ships – I have a great deal of everything there is to own. The very people who condemn my work would be first in line if I decided to give my assets away.”
“Your point, Sir Lyle?”
“My point, Captain Avebury, is that ‘honour’ is a very strange word. The ones who are most protective of the notion that ‘honour’ is above all else are the very people who have something to hide.”
Jocelyn was very still. He felt rather giddy, almost relieved, as the blood rushed out of his head. Beads of sweat suddenly appeared at his hairline.
“Your behaviour in Bombay displayed a great deal of ‘honour,’ Captain Avebury. Your reluctance to leave behind an officer of His Majesty’s Navy, despite your schedule. Your insistence upon taking all the blame, accepting sole responsibility for the missed rendezvous. All truly the behaviour of a man of honour. Your record is spotless. It is with the utmost reluctance that the Admiralty holds these hearings: had the good lieutenant’s family not insisted on a full investigation, you would not be here now.”
“Say it,” Jocelyn said quietly. “You have something to say. I would hear you say it.”
“I am not a man of honour, Captain Avebury. But I am exactly who I say I am. Can you say the same?”
There was silence. The two men stared at each other.
“What do you want with me, Sir Lyle? Are you determined on my ruin?”
Sir Lyle drew back sharply. “I have made it my mission to save you from a folly which was not your own,” he said icily. “I do not know whence you arrived at such a notion.”
“You keep appearing, Sir Lyle. And every time you appear, you remind me that I am … indebted … to you.” Jocelyn spat out the word with difficulty. “I neither understand nor desire the debt, and I do not know what sort of favour you imagine your friends in the Admiralty can offer. I beg to be left alone.”
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