“I daresay you cannot be waiting for me with such eagerness,” Colin says. “Then who—”
The door opens, and Lord Devonshire enters, dressed splendidly in a dove gray three-piece suit, his Homburg hat held in one hand. My heart thuds painfully in my chest.
“Lord Devonshire,” Hale announces and closes the door of the study behind him.
“Good afternoon,” Lord Devonshire says, his eyes searching mine.
“I see you made good on your promise to call on Lucy,” Colin says. “A bold choice,” he adds, nearly under his breath, as he sits in the wingback chair beside Papa’s.
I shoot him a pleading look to be on his best behavior. To Alexander I say, “Would you care for some tea?”
“I was hoping, actually, that you might join me for a tour of the National Gallery. I’ve never been, you see, and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather go with.”
“Pretty words and a respectable venue,” Colin says before I can say anything. “Is your motorcar outside?”
“It is.”
“I have an engagement with my friend Rose later this afternoon, but I would love to go with you,” I say in the midst of the two men’s staring contest. I can only pray that James doesn’t suddenly join us. If only I weren’t so weary! But I will just have to put on a good show of it—the thought of not going is far worse than any fatigue.
Alexander’s eyes flick to mine, a warm smile lighting up his face. “I’ll be sure to have you back here in time, then.” He turns to Papa. “Do I have your permission, Lord Sinclair?”
Papa laughs. “Yes, yes, of course. If Colin here hasn’t barred you from entering his home, then I’m sure I will find no fault with you.”
I lean down and kiss Papa’s cheek. “Thank you, Papa.” To Colin I say, “You’ll tell Wren where I’ve gone, won’t you?”
Colin nods, still watching Alexander. “Have a good time,” he says as we move toward the door. “Just not too good of one. Oh, and Lucy? Take Emily with you.”
I roll my eyes as the door shuts behind us.
“Your maid, I presume?” Alexander says with a knowing smile.
“Yes, but we should be thankful he didn’t insist on accompanying us himself.”
“I’d like to say I wouldn’t be bothered,” he says, his warm voice just barely louder than our footsteps on the marble floors, “but I have to admit, I would hate to give up the chance to have your full attention.”
I bite my lip at the corner to keep from grinning madly.
Alexander leans closer, smelling of cardamom and clove. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”
My gaze jumps to his. “Do what?”
“Hide your smile.”
“You’re too observant,” I say with a blush. Before he can reply, I call out to the butler, who waits by the front door. “Mr. Hale, would you ask Emily to accompany me? She can play chaperone for Lord Devonshire and me at the National Gallery.”
“Of course, Miss Lucy.”
When he leaves, Alexander turns to me. “You address your maid by her first name?” His expression is a curious mix of genuine interest and confusion.
“I do—she’s been with me since I was fourteen. My family and I tend to grow rather close to our servants.” He seems to turn my words over in his head before nodding, but I can see he doesn’t understand. “Have you never had any you were close to?”
“In truth, I’ve never really had servants,” he says. I must look at him aghast because he laughs and says, “I’m sure you’re imagining me living in a hut, only, now that I’ve experienced what it’s like living with a house full of servants, I think I rather like having to rely upon myself. Though of course, I wasn’t a complete barbarian. I had a housekeeper who was also a fantastic cook.”
“No servants? How terribly independent of you.” I grin.
His answering smile makes his eyes glow like topaz. “This is why I like you, Lucy. Not only do you not judge, but you make my ordinary existence seem dashing.”
An electric joy fills me at his words, but two servants interrupt us before I can formulate a witty response. They carry trunks bound for Bath—mostly my clothes, I think with chagrin.
“Ah, this must be for the trip you mentioned the other day.” Alexander gestures toward the trunks.
“Yes, and I’m sorry James was being so cryptic. We’re only going to Bath for a few days.”
He nods thoughtfully. “My father has a townhouse there, or so my solicitor tells me.”
“Have you ever been?”
“No, but it’s always appealed to me—I do enjoy hot springs.”
Emily joins us just then, helpfully bringing both my hat and gloves, and smiles serenely at us both while I introduce her to Alexander. Emily is not much older than I am, but I’ve always been drawn to her calm, unflappable nature—which is probably why I usually take her into my confidence far more than I should. Still, the Sinclair servants are a different sort—chosen for their ability to maintain our family’s secrets. Emily is kin to Mr. Baxter, my father’s butler, who has been with the family for more than forty years now. A confidence shared with her is as safe as one shared with any member of my family.
With Hale watching from the doorway, Alexander leads us to his motorcar. His chauffeur opens the door, carefully avoiding meeting our eyes. I climb in and smooth my skirts while Emily sits beside me and Alexander takes the seat across from us.
The seats are black leather to match the car, and the interior smells like Alexander: cardamom and clove.
Conversation is limited in such a small space and with Emily beside me, but every so often, I catch Alexander’s eyes studying me—leaving a little trail of warmth wherever they land. It makes me thankful I decided to wear one of the new beautiful frocks the French modiste designed. The entire dress is made of Irish lace and trimmed in satin ribbon. My hat is so wide and ornate that poor Emily must lean away from me to have a bit of room. The whole ensemble makes me feel terribly cosmopolitan. Wren may think a love for fashion is vapid, but I disagree. For someone who has to actively work not to be shy, a beautiful dress can be like a suit of armor, granting me the ability to smile back when Alexander and I lock eyes.
The car rolls to a stop in Trafalgar Square, just before the massive white columns of the National Gallery. As we alight from the car, my gaze is immediately drawn toward the impressive dome atop the building and the sheer magnitude of the Gallery.
“Well, this should keep us occupied,” Alexander says, his eyes sweeping across the building.
“Oh, I could spend days here.” My voice is hushed though we haven’t even entered the gallery.
“Have you been here often?” He offers me his arm, and I take it, my ivory gloves bright against the gray of his jacket. Emily follows behind, her footsteps quiet. I know she is trying to be inconspicuous, and I love her for it.
“Several times, but the last was a few years ago. I see something different every time I come, so it’s always a new experience.”
“I look forward to hearing your opinion on the paintings,” Alexander says.
“I can’t think why,” I say with a self-deprecating smile, “though I love to hear you say it. I’m no art expert, after all.”
He shakes his head. “Let me be the judge of that.”
We stroll toward the first exhibition room—paintings from the late sixteenth century. A hush falls over me as it always does in the presence of such beauty. Even the room itself is awe-inspiring, with marble floors and soaring ceilings. Alexander proves himself to be a superb painting-viewing partner, as he quietly takes in each painting, lingering over the brush strokes with what I recognize as a knowledgeable eye.
The majority of paintings in this room are portraits, and as we view each one in turn, my mind searches each for any signs that the artist was more than just a mere mortal. It’s a game I’ve long played, for surely there must be others like us? My family cannot be the only half-Sylvan people in all of England. Lord Blackburn, for a
ll his evil, did us one favor in that he proved that we are not alone—there have been others.
“What could you be thinking of?” Alexander asks quietly beside me. “Surely this gentleman’s portrait cannot be as unattractive as all that.”
I let out a tiny laugh as I relax the furrows between my eyebrows. “You’re right; this painting hardly deserves such a scowl.”
“Come, let us look at something that may bring a smile instead,” he says and leads me to the next painting, aptly titled Boy Bitten by a Lizard. “What are your thoughts on this?”
My eyes take in the whole magnificent work, the lovely rich colors, the amusing subject matter—if only because it’s so unexpected. As the title suggests, the painting is of a boy being surprised by a bite from a small lizard hiding amongst a vase of flowers. Caravaggio has captured the boy’s combined look of surprise and pain mid-action, and I can almost hear the boy crying out. The longer I stare, the more I see: the boy’s magnificent auburn bouffant hair, his rosy cheeks, the single white flower in his hair.
“Do you know what it reminds me of?” I ask in hushed tones. “It reminds me of the time a bee stung me.”
“Of a bee stinging you?” Alexander repeats, confusion and amusement dancing across his face.
“Yes, I remember being very small—barely out of diapers—and my mother and I were in the garden. I’d just watched this beautiful yellow and black bee land upon a rose, and I reached out to touch it before Mama could stop me.” I rub my finger absently through my glove. “I still remember the pinch and the surprising pain. It was the first time I experienced pain—or at least pain that I was cognizant enough to recognize. This painting reminds me of that—this boy expected the soft touch of a flower and got a bite from a cheeky lizard instead.”
Alexander lets out a snort of laughter. He turns to me with mirth shining in his eyes, but his smile transforms into a more serious expression. “I don’t think I would ever tire of your companionship, Lucy.”
I can feel heat rush to my cheeks as I give him a quick smile before returning my attention to the painting before us. Coward, I chide myself.
We continue our perusal of the room, Emily following a few paintings behind, giving us a bit of privacy. When we come to yet another portrait, I pause, my head tilted to the side. The painting is titled Portrait of a Young Woman, but the artist has chosen to paint the subject with one breast exposed. Strangely, viewing this small bit of nudity beside Alexander doesn’t make me as uncomfortable as I would expect—a good thing, too, since this is by far the least graphic of the nude paintings in the Gallery. Perhaps it’s because of his quiet contemplation beside me—no sign of nervous fidgeting or furtive glances or anything so juvenile. I watch his eyes trace the artist’s brushstrokes, and I see in his expression the appreciation of an artist.
When we move into the next room—works from the eighteenth century—my attention is immediately snared by the closest painting. I head directly for it, a smile sneaking across my face as I take it in. Though the landscape and colors are lovely, what I truly admire is the painting’s subject: a young married couple about to go for a ride together. “I adore this one,” I say. My hand reaches out toward the painting as if it has a mind of its own, and I feel a sudden tingling in my fingers. Hastily, I return my gloved hand to my side.
“Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Coltman,” Alexander reads. “A quintessential conversation piece, to be sure. My father’s estate has one or two like it.”
“I love the familiarity and ease the couple shows with one another, so different from the stiff poses of portraits. Mrs. Coltman’s horse, too, is delightful. See her ears back? I can practically hear her scolding the dog.”
Alexander smiles. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you could hear the horse’s thoughts.”
I glance up at him, expecting his attention to be on the painting, but a little shock runs through me when I meet his heady gaze instead. I’m sure his comment is meant to be innocuous, but I’ve been trained by both my sister and brother-in-law to be suspicious of everything. And the fact of the matter is, Wren can understand animals. My heart races as I stare back at him, my mind hurrying to catch up. Should I ask him what he means? But then he smiles, and the moment passes, and I berate myself for my nervous thoughts.
As we move to the next painting, footsteps ring out behind us purposefully.
“Lord Devonshire?” a deep voice calls, and we both turn.
A bear of a man stands before us in a dark suit, the silver strands in his black hair belying the smooth skin of his face. Beside me, Alexander stiffens as the man stares at me openly.
“Lord Wallace,” Alexander says cautiously. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
Slowly, Wallace drags his gaze to Alexander’s face. “Are you? By all accounts you’ve been in London over a week now. I’m afraid when you didn’t immediately come to call, I sought you out myself.” Again, his focus shifts to me. “Your stay in India has dulled your social mores, Devonshire. You have yet to introduce us.”
Alexander shifts his weight subtly so that I am behind him. “This is Miss Lucy Sinclair. Miss Sinclair, might I introduce to you Lord Tavish Wallace?” His words are brief and to the point, and he doesn’t even enlighten me as to what Wallace is lord of. I find that I cannot bear to shake hands with the man. There is something about him—something that makes the arcana tingle just below the surface of my skin. A warning. Lord Wallace’s lips pull back to reveal strong white teeth, and Alexander adds, “She is Lord Thornewood’s sister-in-law.”
The words hold a hint of warning, and for once, I’m thankful for my overprotective brother-in-law.
Wallace’s expression turns cunning. “Are you telling me I should keep my distance, then, Devonshire? I have heard talk of Thornewood’s intense scrutiny of anyone who comes near his family. Strange that he should allow you of all people to escort his sister-in-law.” Alexander’s shoulders tense, and I feel a ripple of anger go through me. Wallace turns and looks at Emily, who quickly looks to me for guidance. “And with only a servant for an escort. I’m impressed, Devonshire.”
Alexander has gone as stiff as a threatening wolf, and I can feel the animosity coming off him in dark waves.
Before he can say anything, I speak my thoughts, “I do hope you aren’t referring to his country of birth.” My voice cuts through the silence of the Gallery, surprising us all. “It would be terribly small-minded.”
“How pretty you are when your cheeks are flushed,” Wallace says, and my eyes narrow at his condescending tone. “You must care for this man very much to defend him so ferociously.”
His words cause my mind to flounder in surprise for a few moments before I can respond. “I would defend anyone in just the same way, because it is right.”
“We must continue on, Wallace,” Alexander says, his tone gruff as though his anger is barely in check. “We came to view the paintings, not to submit to an interrogation.”
Before Wallace can respond, Alexander turns and offers his arm to me and leads me away.
“I’ll come to call at a later time, then,” Wallace says as we walk away, the amusement in his voice grating. Alexander ignores him and continues to another room.
We resume our tour of the Gallery, but Wallace’s unsettling presence remains. We lose our easy banter, Alexander moving stiffly and silently beside me. Alexander’s extreme reaction to this Wallace is both strange and worrisome. My instincts tell me Wallace is not to be trusted and that his notice of me is a decidedly bad thing. Worse, it reminds me of Grandmother’s warning.
“How do you know him?” I ask Alexander after the silence becomes unbearable.
He takes a moment to answer, as though searching for the right explanation. “He is one of the few Englishmen I was acquainted with in India. With so few of us in the northern villages, we were often forced into each other’s company—even when it was intolerable.” I stay quiet to see if he will say more and am rewarded for my patience. “He also happened to be
one of my father’s closest friends, and he always had the unofficial job of keeping himself and my father updated on my activities.”
I look at him aghast. “So he spies on you?”
He nods once. “How else would my father have known if I was behaving in a manner worthy enough to be his heir?”
I rub my arm, suddenly chilled. “Well, I must admit, I didn’t much care for him.”
“You’re putting that mildly, I think.” He sighs and hangs his head. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am that you were forced to meet. He has a nasty habit of showing up unannounced.”
“It’s not your fault, and I have been having a lovely time …” I trail off, my eyes shifting away from his.
“… until he showed up,” Alexander finishes for me. “No, I quite understand. I’ll take you home now—you have a late afternoon engagement anyway, right?”
“I do, but I hate to end the day with you on such a note.”
He takes my hand in his, warm through the kid leather of my glove. “Then think of this instead: this hour spent with you has been one of the most relaxed and enjoyable I can remember for a very long time. I could walk and talk with you for days. And it’s because of this that I should take you home—I don’t want thoughts of Wallace to overshadow that.”
I smile as the warmth from our hands spreads throughout my body.
“I hope you will give me another chance to come to call on you,” he says, his eyes intent on mine.
“Of course,” I say, even as I know I may not be able to.
Perhaps our trip to Bath could not have come at a more opportune time.
ALEXANDER makes it to his study before releasing a string of curses. His servants would gossip even more if they saw him so obviously agitated, but he can barely bring himself to care. He paces the room like a tiger, his body cutting through the swaths of light the windows cast upon the floor.
The Order of the Eternal Sun Page 11