"Yet you became friends."
"Our talents might not be equal, but our love of art is," Hampton said musingly. "It's the same with Malcolm Frazier. Under his aristocratic hauteur, he has a fierce passion for art. For over thirty years, that bond has kept the three of us friends, despite all our other differences."
That shared passion had even preserved their friendship through Hampton's affair with Helen Seaton. Kenneth would not have been so tolerant if the woman in question were his wife. He wondered if the engraver had found secret satisfaction in cuckolding his more successful friend. Jealousy could take many forms.
He glanced around the vault. Cool and dry with high, narrow windows, it was filled with racks specially designed to hold paintings. He slid the nearest canvas from its slot. Both disturbing and lovely, it depicted a seductive water nymph drawing a vain youth to his doom in a forest pool. He remarked. "Surely this is by Rebecca, not Sir Anthony."
Hampton gave him a look of mild surprise. "She's showed you her work? A rare mark of favor. Yes, it's one of hers. That was done not long after her elopement." Humor glinted in his eyes. "The chap being dragged into the water bears a distinct resemblance to the young swine who seduced her."
Kenneth returned the canvas to its slot, glad that Rebecca had found a small way to even the score. "Is the Chateau de Hougoumont painting the same size as the others in the series?"
"Yes, which means it's probably in this rack." Hampton pulled a large canvas out, then caught his breath, pain on his face.
Kenneth understood the reaction when he saw the painting. It was a swiftly executed oil sketch of Helen Seaton, but not the laughing Helen of the portrait in the study. Instead, she was dressed in Greek draperies and wailing to the sky with grief, her auburn hair streaming over her shoulders like old blood. "Good God," he said involuntarily. "What is this supposed to be—a Trojan woman after the destruction of her city?"
"Perhaps. Or perhaps it was... simply Helen." Expression bleak, Hampton shoved the picture back into the rack and reached for another canvas.
Wondering what the devil that meant, Kenneth said, "I heard you were the one who discovered her body after the accident."
Hampton nodded somberly. "I was taking a ride through the hills that day, following one of my usual trails and thinking of nothing in particular. Then from the corner of my eye I saw an odd motion, out of keeping with the setting. I turned to look more closely just in time to catch a glimpse of a green shape tumbling from Skelwith Crag."
"You actually saw her fall?" Kenneth said, startled. When the engraver nodded, he continued, "Was there anything else strange about the scene?"
Hampton frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Was someone with her at the top of the cliff?"
"Of course not," he said, puzzled. "Though my distance vision is so poor that I suppose a coach and four could have been on the cliff without me noticing. I simply saw that frighteningly human shape fall. Then I galloped to Ravensbeck, which was the nearest house. I was hoping against hope that Helen would be there and laugh at me for my fears, but... but I was not surprised when she was not."
A pity that Hampton's vision wasn't better. "Why weren't you surprised?"
"Why are you asking so many questions?" Hampton countered, his gaze sharpening to hostility.
Making his expression earnest and uncomplicated, Kenneth replied, "Everyone acts so strangely about her death. I've been concerned because I know that Rebecca is still troubled."
The hostility faded, but Hampton's reminiscences were over. "Everyone was troubled by Helen's death, Captain. Pull out that picture on the end. I believe it's the one we're looking for."
Silently Kenneth obeyed. He had been given another puzzle piece—and it was just as useless as all the others.
* * *
Kenneth helped Hampton crate the picture for transport to the engraver's studio, then headed upstairs. On the second floor, he encountered Rebecca and Lavinia, their arms overflowing with colorful fabrics.
"You two look pleased with yourselves," he observed. "What have you been up to?"
"Finding me something to wear to the ball," Rebecca explained. "Lavinia suggested altering one of my mother's gowns." She caressed a shimmer of amber silk that spilled from the top of her pile. "This one, I think."
Kenneth lifted the trailing hem and held it alongside her face. "Perfect. The color makes your eyes seem the exact same shade of amber."
Her lashes fluttered when he inadvertently brushed her cheek with the silk. She glanced away, a pulse visible in her throat. "I assume that you've also received an invitation to the ball?"
He nodded. "Luckily I had some evening wear made up when I was stationed in Paris, but I warn you, there is no chance whatsoever that I will steal your thunder."
"I'll have no thunder to steal," she said dryly. "However, Lavinia assures me that I shall not be a disgrace."
"Will you be too busy to paint this afternoon?"
Rebecca glanced at Lavinia. "Am I going to be too busy?"
"I'm afraid so," Lavinia said, smiling like a fond aunt. "We must go to my house so my maid can start the alterations. Then we'll have to choose your accessories. But it can all be completed today. Tomorrow you can return to your work."
As he watched the two women, he realized how much Lavinia was enjoying herself. She liked being helpful. A pity that she had never had children. He remarked, "There seem to be quite a pile of garments there."
"Lavinia wants me to be prepared in the unlikely event that I behave well enough to get invited somewhere else," Rebecca replied before the two women proceeded on their way.
As he watched the graceful sway of Rebecca's figure, he thought of a small gift that he could make for her in honor of her first ball. And unlike oil paintings, it was something he knew he could do.
Between the frustrations of his investigation and his painting, he would welcome a project that went well.
Chapter 16
Lavinia's maid, Emma, made a final adjustment to Rebecca's hair before whisking away the cloth that protected the amber gown. Then Emma and Lavinia studied their handiwork.
"You'll do very well," Lavinia announced. "You may now look in the mirror."
Rebecca obeyed, then inhaled in surprise, causing the crystal beads on her bodice to glitter with light. She hardly recognized herself. Emma had altered the gown to fit perfectly, and the braids and waves of her coiffure lent her a much-needed air of sophistication. "I think you two have finally succeeded in the ancient task of making a silk purse out of a sow's ear."
While Emma giggled, Lavinia said sternly, "Nonsense, my dear. You've always had looks, despite your best efforts to obscure them. All you need now is some jewelry."
Rebecca opened the lacquered box that had belonged to her mother and was now hers. Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she selected several pieces, all of them gold. A necklace and bracelet of intricately woven links, delicate swinging earrings, a filigreed comb. "These."
Lavinia frowned. "Aren't they a bit plain?"
"No." Rebecca slid the comb into the heavy coil of hair at her nape, then donned the other pieces. She turned her head to study the effect. The gold was a dramatic complement to the shimmer of amber and auburn.
"Splendid," Emma said with a sigh of satisfaction.
"It's a pleasure working with an artist," Lavinia agreed. "You look wonderful, my dear. Now it's time for Emma to render me presentable. A much harder task at my age, I fear."
Rebecca laughed. "None of this nonsense about your age. You look at least a decade younger than you are, and you have a presence that a queen would envy."
"No queen would want to look like me, but a really successful courtesan might," Lavinia said breezily. "Au revoir. I shall see you at the ball."
After the other women left, Rebecca analyzed her appearance with the detachment she would use on one of her paintings, but she could find no flaw. She looked as good as she was capable of looking. After picking up her ch
ocolate-brown velvet cloak, she left the room and went to tap at her father's door. "Father? I'm going down now."
When Sir Anthony opened the door, his face went blank. Then he drew a shaky breath. "You look almost eerily like Helen."
"I'm smaller and not beautiful." She turned in a circle so that he could get the whole effect.
"Smaller, anyhow." His perceptive gaze went over her. "Colors suit you much better than those white muslins you had to wear for your come-out. I'm sorry I won't see your triumph."
"You received a card for the ball, didn't you? Surely you could change your mind and come."
He shook his head. "I've lost my taste for grand affairs. With Kenneth, you'll be in safe hands."
"I'd better be. This was all his idea," she said darkly. She turned and went down the stairs to the drawing room, where they would wait to be picked up by Michael and Catherine Kenyon in the spacious Ashburton coach.
Kenneth was already in the drawing room. He turned at her entrance. She was surprised at how well formal dress suited him. Since he was too broadly built for fashion, he had wisely chosen stark simplicity. The cream-colored pantaloons, plain buff waistcoat, and dark blue coat made him look every inch a gentleman without obscuring his physical power and natural authority. All in all, he was a most impressive sight. But this time she didn't want to paint him; she wanted to kiss him.
He came forward to take her hand. "You look magnificent, Rebecca. You'll be as grand as any lady there."
The admiration in his eyes sent a tingle up her spine. She thought more seriously about kissing him, but heaven knew where that would lead. "I'll settle for fitting in unobtrusively." She squeezed his hand lightly, then released it. "All things being equal, I really would rather stay home and paint."
He laughed. "You will have a splendid, memorable evening. I promise it." He crossed the room and lifted something from the table, then turned to her hesitantly. "I have a trifling present for you. A memento of your first ball."
He gave her a fan. She spread the ivory sticks, then burst into laughter. The silk fabric was hand-painted with a lovely, rather oriental design of leaves and flowers—and lurking under a blossom was a playful ginger kitten. "You painted this yourself, didn't you? No one else would create this design." She held the open fan against her gown. "And exactly the right colors."
"Not difficult since I had seen your gown." His tone was casual, but she could see how pleased he was at her reaction.
This time she did kiss him, standing on her toes to touch her lips swiftly to his before retreating even more swiftly. She set aside the fan she had purchased two days before and studied Kenneth's gift more closely. Though custom-painted fans were not unusual, this one was exceptional. "Your watercolor technique is really excellent. You have the knack of layering the washes to take full advantage of the transparency of the medium."
"Painting the fan was a welcome change from the problems of working with oil," he said wryly.
"If you decide to abandon oils, you could do very well as a watercolorist. Watercolor paintings can be submitted to the Royal Academy, you know."
He looked surprised. "I don't think I did know that. I've never been to one of the exhibitions."
She snapped the fan shut and slipped the loop over her wrist. "You should submit some of your watercolors to be hung."
"I can't submit to the Royal Academy!" he said, appalled.
"You most certainly can," she retorted.
He was still looking dumbfounded when the rattle of hooves and wheels sounded in the street. Visibly relieved, he went to the window and drew back one of the draperies. "The Kenyons are here. Time to go."
He took her cloak and held it for her. She slipped into the garment, her heightened senses making her extra aware of the lush velvet and Kenneth's warm, solid body behind her. She yearned to lean back against him. His arms would come around her, and perhaps he would kiss the side of her throat....
A little breathlessly, she said, "It must be convenient to have a duke for a brother. Michael and Catherine can enjoy all of the amenities of Ashburton House without any of the costs."
"It's more than convenient—in this case, it's a minor miracle." Kenneth donned his own cloak, then opened the drawing room door for her. "For most of the years I've known him, Michael was as estranged from his family as I was from mine. In some ways, more so—at least I was in communication with my sister. It's to his brother's credit that when Stephen inherited the dukedom last year, he took steps to mend the breach."
She found the story interesting. Was there any chance her father and his brother might end their feud? Probably not. Lord Bowden would have to make the first move, and he was obviously not a forgiving sort. With a sigh, she went outside to the coach. There were too many feuds in the world.
* * *
A ball was a marvelously visual event. The lacquered shimmer of carriages, the torches flaring against the night, the sumptuous shine of rich fabrics. Unfortunately, Rebecca's desire to bolt interfered with her appreciation. She felt overpowered by the sights and sounds around her. Realistically she knew that few people were likely to notice or care that she was present, but her hand locked on Kenneth's arm as they advanced through the receiving line. She hated crowds. She really, really hated them.
Just ahead, Michael and Catherine greeted the Candovers. She recognized the host and hostess from her father's recent portrait: the duke, tall and dark and commanding and his lovely blond duchess, who managed to be both regal and vivacious.
As the duchess and Catherine hugged, Michael said, "I'd like to present two particular friends of mine. Lord Kimball, a fellow officer of the 95th, and Miss Seaton."
Rebecca wanted to vanish. But the gazes that turned to her showed only friendly interest, without the condemnation she had come to expect after her disgrace.
The duke shook Kenneth's hand warmly. "Welcome. Michael has spoken often of you." Then he bowed to Rebecca, a playful light in his eyes. "It's a pleasure to meet Sir Anthony Seaton's most beautiful creation."
As Rebecca colored, the duchess said, "I'm so glad to finally meet you, Miss Seaton. I don't blame you for avoiding your father's studio when we were having the portrait done—my son was in a dangerous state the whole time!"
Remembering how Catherine had liked hearing a compliment about her baby, Rebecca said shyly, "It's hard for a young child to sit still for so long, but I thought the picture of your son came out very well. He's a beautiful little boy."
The duchess glowed. "Thank you. I think so, too. He looks very like his father, doesn't he?"
Rebecca wondered if that was the answer all proud mothers gave. Perhaps only those who adored their husbands; the same kind of subtle bond that joined Michael and Catherine also connected the duke and duchess. If these people weren't careful, they would give marriage a good name.
As their party moved into the ballroom, Kenneth murmured, "How are you managing?"
She made a face. "Overwhelmed."
He patted her hand where it curved over his arm. "Not surprising. To someone who is intensely aware of colors and forms and motion, a scene like this has entirely too much going on. Rather like drowning in a flood of visual stimulation."
"Good heavens," she said, surprised. "Do you think that's why I've always disliked crowds?"
"It's probably a good part of the reason. Add in natural shyness and"—he smiled teasingly—"a wicked past, and it's not surprising that you've avoided the social gatherings."
"But if I find a ball overwhelming because I'm an artist, it must have a similar effect on you."
"I generally avoid such events if possible," he admitted, "but I'm inured. This is almost restful compared to the average battlefield."
She smiled. "I take your point."
The orchestra began to play a waltz. "May I have this dance, Miss Seaton?" he asked formally.
"It will be my pleasure, Lord Kimball."
She was glad to have an excuse to move into the safety of Kenneth's arms
. Even through gloves, she was keenly aware of his touch, and the seductive feel of his hand resting on her waist. She sighed with pleasure as they swirled into the music.
"Does that sigh mean I've stepped on your foot already?" he asked with foreboding.
"Not at all." She smiled at him with deep affection. "It means that if you don't stray more than a yard from me for the rest of the night, I might actually enjoy this ball."
He smiled back. His calm flowed through her, dissolving her fears and creating a warm glow of desire. An afternoon's lesson with her old dancing instructor had helped her confidence. Her body not only remembered the steps, but took wordless pleasure in the rhythm and movements. She also found that, for someone who claimed an aversion to balls, Kenneth was a very capable dancer. Yes, this occasion would be a success.
Their party's corner of the ballroom became a gathering place. The Kenyons brought over friends and introduced them to her and Kenneth. She met the identical twin countesses and their handsome husbands; a petite, exotic-looking American woman who was married to a wickedly charming blond man who had met Kenneth on the Peninsula; a dark gypsy earl and his serene wife; other guests who knew and respected her father and his work.
She danced with the men and laughed with the women, fully aware that she was being cocooned with warmth and protection. All a result of Kenneth invoking Michael's help on her behalf. She had not known how great a gift he was giving her.
After a reel with Michael, she fanned herself and chatted with her partner while waiting for Kenneth to return from dancing with Catherine. Then Lord Strathmore, one of Michael's friends, approached with a young man in tow. "I've been asked to make an introduction," he announced.
She smiled encouragingly, wondering if she had made a conquest. Not that she wanted one, of course. Especially one who must be younger than she. But he did look pleasant.
Strathmore continued, "Miss Rebecca Seaton, please meet the Honorable Henry Seaton."
"Good heavens," she exclaimed. "Are we related?"
"I'm your cousin Hal," he said with an engaging smile. "Lord Bowden's heir. Just because our fathers haven't spoken in donkey's years, I see no reason why we should be enemies."
River of Fire: Book 6 in The Fallen Angels Series Page 17