“‘Mrs. Hoodless’?” Ted asked, his gaze flickering toward his sister.
“Yes.” Addie rounded on her brother. “I will be helping Mr. Cameron establish himself in society.”
“Interesting,” Ted murmured. “But what of your obligations to me? Where will you find the time for Mr. Cameron?”
For some reason, Jack did not quite believe the peevish tone. He was sure they masked an altogether different interrogation. Ted was studying Addie closely. There was more here than a spoiled man who did not want to share his sister’s attention.
“I have a sitting with Miss Zephrina Drouhin in less than a month,” Ted continued. “And after that the Black Dragoons will be invading my studio.”
“Black Dragoons?” Addie echoed. Her lips parted, a single anguished moment, before she gave her head an angry little shake.
“Yes.” Gerald Norton beamed. “Those military chappies are quite inundating Ted with petitions to paint them now that Whitehall has commissioned their senior officers’ portraits. These army types seem to travel as a herd.”
“Well,” Addie said, “I daresay I can pour Miss Drouhin tea, but I doubt very much whether a Black Dragoon needs my company to ensure his reputation. More than likely the presence of a lady would only make him self-conscious.”
“Too true,” Ted said. “Self-conscious enough that he might actually hold his pose.”
“Ted.”
“You promised.”
She drew a deep breath. “Yes. I did.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Lady Merritt muttered impatiently. “Addie promised. Now, I have news.” She patted Jack’s arm fondly. He had to keep his mouth from dropping open. “Not only is Jack Mr. Morris’s protégé, he is also Cuthbert’s great-nephew.” She fairly twinkled with malicious pleasure. “Cuthbert’s Scottish great-nephew!” She laughed, unable to contain the bubble of delight.
“Really?” Ted asked, fixing a puzzled frown on Jack.
“Yes,” Addie said, returning to Jack’s side. With her back to the rest of the party she caught his eye and gave him an encouraging smile.
“Deuced fortunate for you, old chap,” Gerald said, scowling. He clearly couldn’t decide whether or not he ought to give up his protective posture and welcome his hostess’s relation into the artistic “fold” or treat Jack as potentially usurping his place in the affections of a very generous patron.
During his convalescence, Jack had judged Norton an amicable fellow. His next action proved it. With a sudden sigh of capitulation, he clapped Jack on the shoulder. Unfortunately, the well-meant blow landed squarely on his wound, causing Jack to catch back a hiss of pain.
“Indeed! How fortuitous. One might even say convenient,” Ted said blandly.
“Oh, Ted. Leave off, do!” Addie said. “You are cursed with a suspicious nature.”
“Suspicious?” Lady Merritt said. “There’s no reason to be suspicious of Jack. Lord Merritt’s estate is entailed, there is no possible way Jack could ever inherit the title, and certainly his chosen profession isn’t going to ingratiate him with his uncle. Why on earth would anyone want to impersonate Cuthbert’s Scottish great-nephew?” Apparently Lady Merritt had put some thought to the question herself.
“Why, Ted, why indeed?” Gerald asked, shooting Ted a disgusted look. Having decided to befriend Jack, he did so wholeheartedly.
“Yes, why, Ted?” Addie demanded. Even Wheatcroft appeared to arch a brow disapprovingly.
From his place amongst the semicircle of his unexpected champions, Jack smiled innocently at Addie’s brother. Ted shrugged. “I can’t think of a single reason.”
With a sniff, Lady Merritt beckoned Wheatcroft forward as Addie, having won her brother’s capitulation, offered Norton a cup of tea. For a second, Jack faced Ted without witnesses.
The smile never left Ted’s face as he softly added a single word for Jack’s ears alone. “Yet.”
Tell me, Cameron, what do you think of Whistler’s Nocturne?” Ted asked without lifting his gaze from the white-clad croquet players determinedly swatting balls on the dark green expanse of the Merritt lawn.
Autumn had the countryside firmly in her bittersweet embrace. The sky overhead was the paling blue of late October. The air was crisp and sweet.
From his place beside Jack, Gerald Norton popped a chocolate-cloaked strawberry between his lips and mumbled around the mouthful of fruit, “Indeed, tell us, Cameron. What do you think of it?”
Masking his unease, Jack, reclining in a hammock set between two ancient beech trees, swatted idly at a honeybee that had wandered from Lady Merritt’s nearby herbaceous border, looking for a last bit of pollen.
In the two weeks since he’d begun his masquerade, Ted alone remained suspicious. He was constantly, if subtly, quizzing him. Thus far, Jack had managed to duck those subjects with which he was unfamiliar, or answer in such an exaggerated and affected manner that the weak substance of his remarks was obscured.
Now he bought time, searching his memory for some reference Wheatcroft might have mentioned regarding a nocturne. He hadn’t realized he’d need to know something of music as well as art. But clearly from Gerald’s expectant expression, it was assumed he would.
“Very . . . pretty,” Jack allowed cautiously.
“Agreed,” Gerald said, “but his use of—”
“Yes, yes,” Ted cut in. “But what element do you find the ‘prettiest’?” His gaze was challenging.
Jack returned his regard placidly and tossed up a strawberry with his good hand, catching it expertly in his mouth before answering. “La!” he said. “Why, the strings, of course!”
Gerald stared at him a second before abruptly bursting out in a loud guffaw. “Did you hear that, Ted?” he asked. “The strings, the man says! One would think he was serious. Good show, Cameron!”
Jack nodded complacently, having no idea what had garnered him the accolade.
“You are a wag, Jack, there is no doubt of it,” Gerald said. “Strings, indeed! You’ve turned the orchestral title of the painting subject into a bon mot.”
“Thank you, Gerry. It is so nice to have one’s wit appreciated.” Damn. Nocturne was a painting.
“I take it, then, that you do not approve of Whistler’s smears of yellow and cobalt?” Ted asked, looking a bit irritably toward Gerry.
“Not entirely,” Jack said carefully. Ted was the one person he needed to befriend. Yet, despite his obvious distrust, Ted seemed more than willing to accept his company. In fact, he’d gone so far as to insist that Jack be included in all of Lady Merritt’s plans for his upcoming shows, fêtes, and introductions. Jack was at a loss to explain why.
His thoughts were interrupted by Lady Merritt’s arrival. Dressed in swaths of drab blue fabric, girdled with bright yellow chains and wearing some sort of turban device atop her head, she looked like an odd hybrid between medieval abbess and penny opera singer.
“This is late, even for Addie,” she complained as she approached. “I am growing concerned. If Ted were with her, I’d not mind—but Ted came earlier. Without his sister.” She shot Ted an accusing glare.
He shrugged. “I told her that if she were more than a quarter hour delayed she would be arriving alone.”
“I can’t support such a lack of civility,” Lady Merritt said sternly.
“Quite right,” Ted replied equitably, deliberately misunderstanding. “For all that I’m quite fond of her, one mustn’t encourage such impoliteness, even in one’s sister.”
“Oh, Ted, behave. Go and fetch her,” Lady Merritt said, abandoning her disapproving stare.
“I really must decline, Lady Merritt. I have declared, on principle, that I would not be late for one more social engagement on my sister’s account. On principle, I must adhere to my resolve.”
Lady Merritt, obviously miffed by Ted’s lofty and—Jack suspected—contrived refusal, tapped her foot impatiently.
“I’m sure she’s all right,” Ted said.
“Well, I’m not!
”
“Allow me to go and fetch dear Addie,” Gerald offered gallantly.
“No, no, and no,” Lady Merritt said, stamping her foot in emphasis. “The Dowager Blumforth has specifically requested you partner her in the next round of croquet. She is the most tiresomely insistent woman.” Ted and Gerald exchanged an amused glance.
Her gaze turned on Jack. “You will have to go and fetch her, Jack.”
“But Lady Merritt,” he said. “Would that be seemly? I am, after all, not a relative or even a friend of long standing.” He did not want to go to Addie, to find her, to be afforded the pleasure and pain of her rare company. He had no rights there and he had spent too many hours with her already, hours of disturbing pleasure riddled with guilt. Hours of deception when he only learned even more about her, his knowledge keeping pace with the understanding that the very masquerade that gave him access to her, once it came out, would put her forever beyond his reach.
She would never accept his deception as necessary. Never forgive his using her brother . . . and her, no matter how good the reason.
He had tried to stay clear of her but circumstance and Addie’s own unaccountable determination to champion him threw them together. In the past two weeks he’d added a visual vocabulary to the things he’d learned about her without ever laying eyes on her: the way one corner of her lip crooked when she was trying to suppress her amusement; the soft inhalation that accompanied her spontaneous appreciation of a novel she was reading; above all the telltale deadening of her expression whenever her husband was mentioned.
“I really do not think it would be seemly for Mrs. Hoodless to be alone, unchaperoned, with an unmarried man.”
“Oh, Jack.” Lady Merritt tittered in real amusement. “I don’t think anyone could take exception to you driving her here.”
He had apparently managed beyond his wildest expectations in his depiction of a fop. No one, least of all Lady Merritt, considered him capable of compromising a lady . . . or anything else for that matter. Even Gerald was trying to hide a smile behind his hand.
“Yes,” Ted prompted. “If I am unconcerned, I doubt anyone else would raise objections. Run along, Jack.”
There was nothing he could do but acquiesce, eagerness and pain his tandem companions as he made his way to the stables.
How can I always be so late? Addie asked herself as she clucked to the mare.
She had thought she’d given herself plenty of time to get ready for Lady Merritt’s picnic. But ever since Jack Cameron had arrived she had found herself spending more and more time at her toilette, choosing and discarding gowns, having the maid arrange and rearrange her hair, fussing with her few pieces of jewelry.
And then, when she’d finally gone downstairs, having decided she simply wasn’t going to look any better no matter how many more gowns she tried on, it had been to discover that she’d given the footman—who occasionally acted as her driver—the day off.
In a rare, confident mood, she’d told the groom to hitch the rig and announced her attention of driving herself. It had proved a happy decision. As a girl she had often handled the carriage reins, letting her horse fly over the countryside lanes and roads. Now the air’s clean, sharp tang revived dim memories of other freshening winds, winds of nearly forgotten autumns. Exhilarating autumns.
With a sound of pleasure, she urged the little mare to a faster pace, uncertain whether the breezes or the thought of seeing Jack Cameron brought the color to her cheeks.
She had just crested a small rise when she saw a rider. For a moment fear made a lump in her throat. Then, nearly as quickly as it had surprised her by appearing, her fear surprised her again by vanishing.
After all, what was there to fear? A casual rider chance met on a glorious autumn day. What was the danger in that? Her lack of trepidation delighted her and she laughed out loud. It was only when he drew closer that she recognized him and her heart leapt in response.
Jack.
He was seated on a mild-looking roan hack, looking for all the world born to the saddle. It was only when he kicked the horse forward that she noticed how awkwardly he held the reins.
“Mrs. Hoodless,” he hailed her. “I am come to rescue you.”
“Rescue me?” She tilted her head. He was so handsome, so lean and splendid, he put her in mind of a greyhound, quivering with nerves and barely contained power.
Power? she wondered uneasily, backing away from the estimation. Powerful men were dangerous. Besides, he looked barely able to rein in his horse. She relaxed.
“Yes, dear lady. From your toilette.” His lazy, casual gaze traveled over her lilac-edged, pearl-gray gown.
She laughed. “As you can see, you are too late to play the savior. I have long since escaped the clutches of my dressing table.”
“But not before it has exerted its influence. Might I say, you look very charming.”
She dimpled. “Thank you. Now, Jack, why are you really here?”
“Lady Merritt was concerned for your safety.”
Addie felt herself blush. “Am I so late?”
Jack nodded. “You’ve missed lunch. Or will have by the time we return. Norton was gobbling the dessert with unprecedented speed when I left. By the time we return, he may well have eaten his way through the centerpiece’s wax fruit.”
Addie laughed again but then grew sober. “Is Lady Merritt very unhappy with me?”
Jack waved his hand dismissively, squinting in feigned contempt. “She’ll survive. Frankly, I think she’s more upset about not having won a single game of croquet. As I was her partner, I believe sending me off to look for you served a dual purpose. Now she can find a more worthy teammate.”
“She sent you?” Addie could not keep the disappointment from her voice. Jack noticed and at once dropped his teasing manner, studying her with gentle eyes.
It was one of the things she most liked about him. For all his foolish wit and insouciance, there was little that escaped his attention. He always managed to say just the right thing to make people feel good about themselves. He was so perceptive, so innately kind, traits that were rare in most men.
“She sent me, aye. But her request only sanctioned my own desire.”
He’d spoken lightly enough, but there was something in his gaze . . . Sadness? Why would wanting to be with her make Jack sad?
“Shall I drive?” he asked. “Or do you prefer to continue?”
In answer, she slid over on the narrow bench. Jack dismounted and tied his horse to the back of the rig and then climbed up next to her. He moved with smoothly oiled economy.
She pulled her skirts away and he took the seat, his thigh pressed intimately along hers. Her heart thudded dully and she was aware, even through heavy skirts, of the length of his leg and its hardness.
“I feel obliged to warn you, you are undoubtedly vastly better at it than I.” He took the reins from her and clucked at the mare, starting her forward in a leisurely gait. Addie glanced over at Jack. His jaw was set and a small frown scored his high forehead. He was concentrating fiercely on his driving.
They rode for a while in silence, only the birdsong from the hedgerows and the rustle of papery leaves beneath the carriage wheels accompanying the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves.
“You must be looking forward to London after so long an absence,” Jack finally said.
“I enjoy the atelier,” she returned, skirting the question.
“Have you ever acted as your brother’s hostess before?”
“Oh, yes. Brother, father, uncle . . .” She trailed off.
He raised a questioning brow.
“My family is rife with artists. My father, you know.”
He shot her a questioning glance and she studied him in interest. Perhaps she was overly proud of her parent, but she was surprised he didn’t seem familiar with her father’s work. He was quite a well-known artist.
But then, she decided, Jack was the sort of considerate gentleman who would pretend ignorance just
to offer his companion a topic for polite conversation. So, she obliged.
“My father was a member of the Pre-Raphaelites for a time. Before he turned to the Nabis.”
“Ah. And your uncle?”
“Another avant-garde.” She grinned. “Yes. I’m afraid the lot of them are bohemians. Along with myself, my mother is the sole practitioner of conventionality in our family, and she is not, I am afraid, very good at it. Which is why the hostess duties fell to me. Mother was always too . . . distracted.”
“You are conventional?” His tone bespoke skepticism.
“Relatively speaking,” she allowed laughingly. “Even when I was a child, Mother claimed I was always trying to bring order to our household. But it was like trying to bring order to a typhoon. People coming and going, showing up unannounced in the middle of the night and staying for weeks or months.”
“People? What sort of people?”
“Oh, every sort. Models and travelers, artisans and historians. They gravitated toward our house like iron to a magnet.”
“You enjoyed it?” It was not a question.
“More than I realized,” she replied softly. “I am afraid that like many young people I had scant appreciation for what I had and longed after that which I did not.”
“Which was?”
The flippant response she had been about to give faltered on her lips as she thought back to her girlhood aspirations. “Order, consistency, stability. A family that did all the normal things. You know. Tea with the vicar, servants one did not have to hush, decorous conversation”—she smiled—“decorous dinners.”
“You did not have these things?”
“Lord, no! Father hates the vicar. He keeps trying to have my father excommunicated.”
“Your father is an atheist?”
“No. The vicar just doesn’t like him. He created a stained glass for the church’s nave. Judgment Day.”
“That hardly sounds like a reason for animosity.”
“It does when the vicar’s face is plainly depicted next to Christ’s index finger,” Addie said and felt the corner of her mouth twitch. “His left index finger.”
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