The Painted Castle

by Kristy Cambron

  As was his folly, he’d dressed impeccably even for so early in the morning in a fur-lined morning jacket of red-and-gold damask and a cravat of shiny satin. He moved about with intention, curling his lip at the silver servers of cooked meats and rich sauces, choosing little for his plate—only the delicacy of fresh fruit and hot water with lemon that the butler seemed to know he must set in front of his chair.

  “Guten Morgen,” Franz announced, then tossed a napkin on the table and sat—loudly, as if everyone should notice his entrance. He knew how to hold a room enthralled, carry the posture of a gentleman, and make polite conversation. Yet it was as if he entered every room and surveyed whether it was to his liking, and then would put his practiced manners into play only if and when he so chose.

  “You are to be commended, Huxley,” he continued with a preening smile. “A delightful evening has given way to a remarkable morning spread. As ever, you prove to be a most refined host.”

  It was a flagrant jest, given the meager sight of grapes rolling around on his plate. But Elizabeth was shocked to look up from it, just for a breath, and find what met her immediately after—a smile. Not from Franz, which would have been icing on the cake of his presence in any room . . . but upon the lips of the viscount himself.

  A tiny flinch at the corners of Viscount Huxley’s mouth revealed the battle to suppress an almost tooth-revealing grin.

  His friend had entered the room and the gentleman must have found some solace in the presence of an ally, so much so that he dared become . . . real. And humored? Whatever the provocation, it lasted no more than a breath. So fast Elizabeth couldn’t be certain it had happened at all, as she seemed the only soul in the room to have noticed his slip of character from austere to affable.

  What to make of a man who held such a degenerate secret from his youth yet could smile so easily at the quip of a friend puzzled her to her core.

  “Might we inquire, Mr. Winterhalter, as to the delights of breakfast tables at which you’ve dined before if the viscount’s is so warm in comparison? They must hold remarkable tales,” Elizabeth interjected, her mask of serenity firmly in place.

  Toe to toe.

  “My, Huxley, but you have won a prize. She is a clever Fräulein.” Franz laughed and lounged with his back against the chair in a mild repose. “Please do indulge me with every detail of what I’ve missed with my fashionable lateness to this grand breakfast.”

  “We were just discussing the extensive gardens here at Parham Hill, Mr. Winterhalter.” Ma-ma spoke up first. Of course. “Would you care to join us on a walk through them today? I should like to hear your view of how the color and light affect the blooms. I do find the artist’s life to be such a fascinating adventure.”

  Elizabeth’s insides churned. To accept anything of the viscount’s world made her ill, especially given the ire that her mother had shown for artists just a day before.

  “I wonder if Lady Elizabeth would prefer the library instead,” the viscount challenged, his tone soft, perhaps even caged, but his words direct.

  Elizabeth’s attention snapped up and she stared back at him, his words stoking the need to challenge those eyes. “And why should I prefer the library, sir?”

  “There is an abundance of sights that may hold interest for you. Art. Books. Stories. Haven’t you such a library at your Yorkshire estate? It is said the late earl was quite the reader and that he valued knowledge like few men before him. Perhaps we should visit you, to inform the rest of us how a library ought to be properly cherished.”

  The countess dropped a fork to her plate. It clanged, and she of course made every delicate apology she could in the seconds after. A sea captain sitting opposite joined in, engaging her in conversation of the most animated inappropriateness, discussing the visceral trials of nervous complaints and dining while at sea. Her color turned as green as if she were on a ship deck herself.

  “Could any estate in Yorkshire claim less, sir?” Elizabeth kept her voice low.

  “I wasn’t asking after any estate in Yorkshire. I was asking after yours.”

  Tick tock. He does shoot straight.

  Perhaps she should too.

  “And why should you care after ours?”

  “I should take an interest in any venture of my betrothed’s. Would not any estate you own fall to your husband’s management once you are wed?”

  “I assure you, sir, that any assets of mine would be managed quite well were there a marriage contract involved or not. But as this house party is coming to a close, would not our host choose to have his library back to the privacy of his own enjoyment?”

  “How nonsensical would that be when the banns have not even been read yet? We’ve weeks yet to entertain the viscount’s generosity as we plan the wedding,” Ma-ma twittered, rejoining their conversation, her voice wavering though her smile remained steadfast. She turned to Elizabeth, her eyes chastening in narrowed slits. “Elizabeth, dear . . . Lord Huxley wishes to endear us to his estate, now that you are to be wed. Would you not wish to see the grounds of your future home?”

  “Of course, we should be delighted to tour your gardens.” Elizabeth nodded. “And any secret haunts you might wish to include us in.”

  “Lady Elizabeth is an artist, Huxley.” Franz popped a grape into his mouth. “No doubt she would enjoy the view from your gardens. Give her something to paint, perhaps? So we might assess her skill.”

  The gaze of steel and jagged gold turned back, the viscount meeting her with piqued interest flickering in his eyes. “Is this true?”

  Elizabeth shifted in her chair, under both the viscount’s questioning gaze and her mother’s harsh scrutiny, which was growing boundless as nervous seconds ticked by.

  “All wellborn ladies are instructed in the art of drawing, among other studies.”

  “I would caution you. Mr. Winterhalter is quite the competitor. If he believes you are of the artistic bent, he will wish to engage you in a battle of wits and skill with a brush.”

  “Is that so?” Elizabeth flitted her gaze to Franz, issuing a direct challenge with the sweetest smile she possessed. “Then I would hope the gentleman arrives aptly armed with both.”

  Franz bellowed out a laugh and slapped a palm to the table, startling one of the ladies downwind so she yelped.

  “You see? She attempted the same evasion with me in the library. I believe Lady Elizabeth is equipped to outmatch us all. And I suspect her interest in the brush is more than a passing affection. You must draw this out of her, Huxley, so we might know the truth. I desire a walk this morn, to shake off my inhibitions. Gut—we shall all go,” Franz added, a cool smile in place. “If you agree, of course, as our host.”

  The viscount looked across the table to her, though something hid away again, and his eyes forgot their openness. “I am Lady Elizabeth’s humble servant. She has only but to wish something of me, and I will obey.”

  “Splendid! We walk. And, Travers—” Franz signaled the butler with a raised teacup and a wink. “You do prepare the perfect temperature of hot water this side of Buckingham Palace. You are to be commended, sir! When in this room, I’d have thought you only had ice water to work with.”

  If there was to be a row between the betrothed parties before they were a full twenty-four hours into an engagement, it appeared Franz wished to be front chair to witness the exchange. He goaded awkwardness like a zookeeper poking a caged lion with a stick. His smile said he read far more between the lines than what had been said. What was more, he seemed to revel in it.

  Ma-ma twittered a squeaky laugh, finding the straightforwardness of their artist a tough pill to swallow. But Elizabeth, never. She conferred a soft smile on both men, revealing nothing save for the serenity of a dove who knew her place as a dutiful marriage match.

  She sipped her tea, seemingly unaffected. But inside, a fire blazed.

  One day Elizabeth would no longer be caged by the pain of her past or the rigid expectations of her future. One day she’d find a way
to escape the gilded bars of both and then . . . she’d be free.

  As Franz illuminated their party with talk of the throne rooms of Europe, Elizabeth spent the remainder of breakfast in the privacy of her own head. Which manor rooms kept the viscount’s secrets well hidden, and just where might she uncover them?

  Upon reaching her chamber to change for the afternoon, however, she found the reticule—and her revolver with it—was long gone, its place behind the top of the wardrobe bare, and the dusty corner void of any upper hand she’d hoped to gain.

  Parham Hill indeed had its secrets . . . and unwittingly Elizabeth had added yet another to its ample number.

  Ten

  Present day

  Parham Hill Estate

  Framlingham, England

  Parham Hill must have a breakfast room, a dining hall, a kitchen—if it could boast any greatness at all, more than one of each. And with the American habit Keira had developed of caffeine first thing in the morning, she was up before dawn and on the hunt from the moment her feet hit the hardwood.

  She slipped on boots over jeans and shrugged into an ivory tunic, and as it looked to take half the national debt just to heat the place, she wrapped a thick fisherman’s-weave sweater around her shoulders. Entire wings of the manor might be without heat, and if she would be exploring them in the dark, it was best to dress for the occasion.

  Keira poked her head into several rooms, finding the gem of a light switch on the wall in a few. Shutters were open in some areas, clamped tight in others. Curtains in evergreen and gold brocade hung with dust weighing the folds over some windows, while other panes were bare, with no obstruction preventing the viewer from looking out over the vast estate acreage. And most rooms, while immaculate in their Victorian styling, lacked warmth. Or evidence of once having had real people in them. Even less evidence of the modern world. Each room attempted a personality with papered walls, wainscoting, showcase hearths, and gilding but little else to show it had ever been part of a real home. Rogue pieces of furniture sat in random corners in a manner that conveyed no intention whatsoever.

  The long hall she’d first stepped into appeared around a corner, and Keira knew where she was. It beckoned with sconces glowing through the arch from the marble entry hall, in a mix of light and shadow all the way down to the library door at the far end. It was where she turned and found Emory, sitting in one of the built-in window seats with his back up against the wall and legs stretched out, pecking away by the glow of a laptop screen.

  “Morning, Foley,” he said, thumbing through a book at his side and typing without glancing up. “You lost?”

  “Oh—Emory, I’m sorry to have interrupted you.”

  “Not a bit. Just finishing up.” He still thumbed through the book next to him. He paused, seemingly finding what he’d been searching for, and swiped a pen to scribble a note in the margin of the page. “I assume you’re looking for the butler. We have staff here, but only to see to the housecleaning. If you want tea, you’ll have to heat a kettle on your own.”

  “Coffee, actually.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m afraid I might be an anorak about it now that I’m back in the UK, but I’m a typical coffee addict when in New York. Became more American than I expected, I suppose.”

  Emory pulled cordless earbuds out of his ears and tossed them in his backpack. “What hooked you?”

  “A little shop on West 20th Street—Ivy Grove.”

  “Chelsea. Been to that part of the city a time or two myself.”

  “I’d stop in every morning on the way to the gallery. I befriended the owners and they’d save me a table tucked in a back corner by the window, where trees hid me from view of the sidewalk. I probably spent half my time in New York right there, watching the entire city walk by. And I still say that no one makes a better blonde Americano in all of Manhattan.”

  “Well, we don’t have Americanos. What we do have is M. J.’s makeshift coffee bar setup in one of the drawing rooms. It’s just a paint-peeled old door spread over a couple of sawhorses, but she said it would prevent the deaths of all men on the team were she to have a decent cup of coffee at sunup. And that’s what we have until this place has a kitchen that’s up and running.”

  “Seems like Carter knows how to get things done.”

  “Actually, he tasked his on-site assistant with it.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Me.” Emory tapped the laptop screen closed and set it and the book aside on the cushioned bench. He jumped to his feet. “Should I take that as a compliment? I’m not very sharp before I’ve had my caffeine.”

  “If you find coffee, then be my guest to receive it in any manner you choose.” Keira peered back through the marble entry. Shadows lingered through the arched doorway, catching corners in a hazy blackness offset by the checked marble floor, but everything was still. Same down the other way at the far end by the library door. “Where is everyone?”

  Emory grimaced, as if he were in pain on their behalf. “Carter stayed on. He and the crew, uh . . . they had a late night down at the pub. I tried to convince them otherwise, but I believe you English would call it something of a bender.”

  “Oh. Thick heads this morning. That explains the sleeping in.” She laughed under her breath. Bless them—they’d probably have a rough go of it when they did emerge from their chambers.

  “They’re young,” he said, as if that explained all. “But then, so are you. And you didn’t venture out.”

  “You forget—I was born on one side of a Dublin pub. That kind of thing doesn’t interest me after years of living around the routine. Pubs are more gathering places than American bars anyway, and I’d rather go to eat a good meal. What about you?”

  “I stayed back to clear debris from the entry to the library so we could move in more equipment today. And I actually enjoy waking up with the birds. You don’t miss out on the sunrise that way.”

  “Sounds like you didn’t get much sleep then either.”

  Emory ran his hand through his hair, mussing the ebony locks about his crown, and slid his palm down to his neck and squeezed. “Wish I had, to be honest. I don’t sleep well in new places. Makes me want to fire up that espresso machine along with you if you don’t mind.”

  Coffee with him was easier than without, especially since he knew where this elusive drawing room was. It wouldn’t hurt to have one cup.

  “Right then. Lead the way.” Keira fell into step alongside him as he started down the hall.

  “So, did you sign the contract?”

  “Yeah. I did. So I’m bound to the estate and Framlingham for the next couple of weeks. With Carter’s blessing I’ve already requested the borders for the original portrait—a friend still works in the archives at Kensington Palace and she owes me a favor, so she won’t ask any questions as to why I’m looking into it. We’ll start there.”

  “Will you have to go to London?”

  “Maybe. Even if we can compare border images of the original portrait with Carter’s, we’ll have to send Victoria for a chemical analysis. After we have her x-rayed. It’s a must if we want verifiable clues as to who painted her.”

  “Because . . . Winterhalter never sketched his canvases first.”

  “Right. He painted directly to canvas. Rather brilliant when you think of it. He was a camera before cameras had their time.”

  Emory stopped at a side hall that branched off the larger one, leading her to the end. He opened a door and flicked on a wall switch, and a trace amount of light shone from sconces on either side of an oversize fireplace. A gilded mirror hung over the mantel, catching the shimmer of light and their reflections in the room’s warm glow.

  Keira followed him into the drawing room of pinstripe wallpaper in rose gold. It was near empty like the other rooms she’d seen, save for a striped settee positioned opposite the fireplace, the makeshift coffee bar set against the side wall, and floor-to-ceiling windows that spanned the back.

  “Wel
come to the Rose Room, Miss Foley—Parham Hill’s version of an old Suffolk coffee shop.”

  Through leaded glass, dawn was just breaking apart on the horizon. It cut the clouds like an explosion of fire, yellow and orange lacing through sweeps of a rare deep crimson. Hues spread like paint fanned from a brush and reached down to mingle with mist that still clung to the hills and hollows of the meadow.

  Keira paused, breath arrested. “The Rose Room claims quite the view.”

  “What room doesn’t in this place? And the crew never wakes for hours, so they miss this nearly every day.”

  “Ah . . . creatives. An unpredictable lot unless it involves early rising.” Keira couldn’t help but smile; she was one of them. Gladly.

  Emory stepped over to the coffee bar and went to work in the little light they had. He knocked something over, and a bar spoon clanged to the floor. “Well, whatever that was, we’ll find it later. I’m still not turning on the overhead lights. For all its secrets and for lack of a table tucked in a corner, Parham Hill has one thing nowhere else in the world can boast.”

  “This view,” Keira answered for him.

  “Right. The view,” Emory echoed.

  Keira stood still as dawn continued its slow climb over the horizon, outlining the distant spires of Framlingham Castle against the clouds and layers of green hills that cut through the mist like ship sails through wind on an open sea.

  “And seeing this, you sure a week or two is all you want to sign on for?”

  She couldn’t take her eyes off it. “It’s all I promised Carter, even with the view. You?”

  “However long it takes to finish the job.” He paused the small talk, turning toward her. “Milk? Sugar?”

  “Both. Medium.” Keira looked from the view to the back of him as Emory worked, his shoulders squared to stainless steel, hands tamping grounds that would become espresso, and wondered at how swiftly he’d transitioned a nonchalant view of life to asking how she took her coffee. He continued working on their drinks, taking café mugs from a row of white lined up against the wall, and opened a mini fridge beneath it to retrieve some milk . . . without the least bit of play in him.