“The drawing room?” he asked, as though he didn’t realize what room it was that he had been about to wander into.
“Yes, and I hate to disturb you, but there’s a painting on the wall near the dining room that I’m curious about. I was wondering if perhaps you could tell me a bit about it.”
“Certainly.” He followed me without either hesitation or enthusiasm.
It was not all a ruse, for the piece had caught my eye every time I had made my way to the dining room. It was a market scene done in vivid colors and seemed to date to the Renaissance.
We went to stand before it, and Mr. Winters gazed at it with a somewhat blank expression, almost as though he was looking through it.
I knew that drugs had not been uncommon among the Lyonsgate set in their heyday, and I couldn’t help but wonder if Mr. Winters still indulged. Somehow, however, I didn’t think so. It wasn’t as though he was in a stupor; it was more of a perennial aloofness, as though he was half in this world and half in some world of his own.
“It’s an authentic piece,” he said, after examining it for a moment longer, “but not worth much, I should think. There are, however, a great many pieces of value here at Lyonsgate. Reggie might have sold them off long ago if he didn’t intend to return.”
Perhaps Mr. Winters was more mentally present than I had assumed he was. Perhaps the vagueness was only a ruse that he used in order to protect himself from society. One thing was certain: he was more observant than I had given him credit for.
“I see. There is a similar piece at our country house, and I only wondered if it might be something worth insuring.”
“Perhaps,” he said vaguely.
“There do seem to be a good many lovely pieces here. I don’t know much about art, of course, but I do enjoy looking at it.”
“The best of the art here at Lyonsgate is in the portrait gallery. There are some fine pieces there: an Eakins, a Rubens, and an excellent portrait of Angelique Lyons, done by David before the Revolution. That one, I expect, would fetch a pretty penny if Reggie could bring himself to part with it.”
“I shall have to look at the portrait gallery,” I said.
“I’ll show you now, if you like,” he said. It was the first hint of any real interest that I had seen in Mr. Winters, and I hated to dampen it. Besides, it would give me an opportunity to broach the subject of Isobel’s murder.
“I should like that,” I told him.
As we proceeded up the stairway, I attempted to bring the conversation around to the matter at hand. “I’m surprised the inspector hasn’t been back again today.”
“I suppose he will return soon enough,” he answered with no hint of emotion.
“I still can’t believe this has happened. It’s shocking.”
“Yes.”
So far our conversation was not at all encouraging. I suspected it was going to be difficult to draw any sort of information out of Mr. Winters.
The long gallery, extending the length of the front of the house and paneled all in oak, was an impressive example of Tudor architecture. Though the curtains were drawn and it was quite dark, I could tell at once that it was a beautiful space.
Mr. Winters went with uncharacteristic quickness across the room and pulled back the red velvet drapes that hung across the wall of the windows, allowing the morning light to spill into the room. Dust mites danced in the sunbeams, and the carpets were faded, but the room was very beautiful, nonetheless.
Mr. Winters, too, was shown to best advantage by the room’s illumination. His curls gleamed golden and his startlingly pale eyes nearly glowed, the color something akin to light shining on cool water. He was rather like a piece of art himself.
I turned to the wall opposite the windows, which held an impressive array of artwork, and studied it. Here were the members of the Lyons family arrayed in all their glory: dashing gentlemen in ruffled shirts and feathered hats, beautiful women bedecked in spangled gowns, solemn-faced children, and a fair share of dour-looking elderly forebears.
“That’s the Rubens there,” Mr. Winters said, pointing out a portrait of a stern-faced gentleman. “And the Eakins is that lady dressed as a shepherdess.”
“Which one is the David?” I asked, but I thought I already knew. I was by no means a connoisseur of art, but I knew a fine piece when I saw one. The woman was very beautiful, dressed in a flowing blue gown.
“Do you notice anything about it?” he asked, looking at me expectantly.
I studied it. “It’s an excellent portrait. Should I recognize it?”
“She looks rather like Beatrice, don’t you think?”
I looked up again at the pale, cool gaze of Angelique Lyons and could, perhaps, see the resemblance. “Beatrice does look a bit like her.”
“Angelique Lyons killed her first husband in France,” he said casually.
My brows rose. “Indeed?”
“It was he that had commissioned David to paint Angelique. Then they had a row not many months later, and she stabbed him. She left Paris with a box of jewels and her portrait, taking Ivo Lyons for her second husband. He must have been a very understanding man.”
I thought it likely that Angelique Lyons had been a very persuasive woman.
We walked along the room in silence, looking at the pieces. I spared the occasional glance at Mr. Winters as we went along, amazed at the change that had come over him. He was more animated than I had yet seen him, his eyes bright, his expression clear. It was as though the art had acted as some sort of tonic.
We reached the far end of the gallery, and I stopped, surprised, before a painting hung on the periphery.
“This one is of Miss Van Allen,” I said, unable to hide my surprise.
A sad smile appeared on Mr. Winters’s lips. “Yes,” he said. “I painted it that summer. Isobel had me hang it at the far end of the gallery as a sort of joke. I suppose Reggie never noticed. Or perhaps he just didn’t care.”
I studied the painting. It was an excellent likeness. There was something different, softer about her face, though her sharp eyes held the same mischief that I had seen in them across the dinner table. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was a reflection of who Isobel had been or who the artist had wanted her to be.
“It was inevitable, I think, that Isobel would come to a bad end,” Mr. Winters said reflectively. “She lived her life recklessly.”
I hid my surprise. “In what way?”
He looked over at me. “In every way possible. You must have noticed how she goaded us. It was because she enjoyed the danger of it. She was always that way, always pushing people, trying to see how far she could go. It was as though…” His voice trailed off for a long moment before he finished. “It was as though she was most alive when she was tempting fate.”
I felt there was no choice but to be direct with Mr. Winters. We would get nowhere if we both remained vague. “Do you think she was killed because of what she was writing in her second book?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “It might have been. Or it might just have easily been her young man.”
“Mr. Roberts seems terribly distraught.”
He shrugged again. “I have never been good at seeing the insides of people. It is the outside that interests me.”
He studied me as he said this. I had become somewhat used to his eerily searching gaze, but I still found those pale eyes a bit unnerving, especially as they almost glowed in the bright light of the portrait gallery. I wondered if he was contemplating who might have killed Isobel, but when he at last spoke it was on a different topic entirely.
“Have you ever been painted, Mrs. Ames?”
It was clear that he was trying to change the subject, but I had the feeling he would not respond well to being pressed. I would have to broach the topic another time.
“As a child,” I said in answer to his question. “My mother had a portrait done.”
I had not enjoyed the experience at the time, sitting still for hours in a stiff gown o
f rose-colored taffeta with an itchy lace collar.
“You should be painted now, as a beautiful woman.” He said these things in an offhanded way, but I was not entirely convinced he was as innocent as he appeared. It certainly contributed to his charm, the seemingly careless way he showered one with compliments as though they were flower petals. Nevertheless, I wondered if it was all part of his carefully orchestrated persona. One could never to be too careful with artists, after all.
“It would be nice to have your youth memorialized, don’t you think?” he asked. “Time passes swiftly.”
It was true, if a bit morbid. Nonetheless, I had never particularly desired to have my portrait painted. Nor did now, shortly after a murder, seem an especially appropriate time to discuss such things.
“I’ve never thought much about it,” I said lightly.
“I should love to paint you, Mrs. Ames, if you’d let me.”
I hesitated. This conversation was not going at all as I had planned it. Somehow he looked as though my answer was important to him, and I did not think it would be right to dismiss the suggestion out of hand, especially if I hoped to gain more information from him in the future. “That’s very kind of you. I shall have to think about it.”
“I won’t charge you for the portrait. It has been a very long time since I’ve seen someone that I wanted to paint.”
“Oh, I would be happy to pay for it,” I assured him. “Only I’m not certain that I have brought anything proper to wear.”
He shook his head. “No need for that. I’d much rather paint you in the nude.”
My brows rose. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nude,” he repeated without hesitation. “I can tell from the way your clothes hang that you have beautiful lines.” There was something very earnest about him, a straightforward intensity that left me at a loss as to how to respond. I was not sure whether I should be flattered or insulted. I knew it was common for artists’ models to pose in the nude, but I also knew with some certainty that it was not at all de rigueur among society women. However, I felt almost sure he was not attempting to make an improper advance. The entire conversation was becoming so bizarre I was not quite sure how to respond.
He seemed completely oblivious to my discomfort. He stepped closer, his eyes roaming me freely now. I felt vaguely as though I was a piece of meat in a market.
His hand came up to my face and hovered there. “May I?”
Without waiting for my response, he took my chin gently in his hand and turned it to the side. His finger traced the line of my jaw before his hand dropped and he stepped back.
“Yes, you’ve lovely lines. Your facial structure is perfection.”
“Thank you,” I said, for lack of something better to say. Not only had I lost the reins on this particular conversation, they were flapping wildly in the wind where I had no hope of regaining them.
He didn’t seem to notice my hesitation, and was, in fact, gaining momentum. He stepped back, continuing to look me over, and I felt somehow that I no longer had any say in this. I had gone from a person to a subject.
“Now, let me see where I could paint you. If it was summer, I would suggest in the garden. But the conservatory would be nearly as good, I think. Where the light would play off of your lovely alabaster skin. And, of course, your eyes are magnificent in bright light.”
“Thank you,” I said again, hoping to disentangle myself from this conversation. “But I’m afraid I shall have to think it over.”
My words seemed to bring him back from some faraway realm of artistry. “Eh? Oh, yes. Of course. But I do hope you’ll let me do it. I’m sure your husband would love the portrait.”
While I was quite sure that Milo had no objection to nudes in general or a nude of me in particular, I was not about to strip naked in a deserted conservatory with a man who might possibly be a murderer.
“I … I will let you know,” I said, ready to escape.
“Very well, but I do hope you’ll consider it.”
He turned then, back to the painting of Isobel Van Allen, and I felt that I had been dismissed.
It didn’t seem to me that I would be getting any more information out of Gareth Winters at this point. Instead, he had managed to chase me away. As I moved with haste from the long gallery, I began to wonder if that had been his intention all along.
* * *
HAVING HAD ENOUGH of conversation to last me for the moment, I went back to my room to read. Winnelda was not there, and I intended to take advantage of the solitude. I sat in the chair closest to the fire and picked up The Dead of Winter.
Truth be told, I did not have very high hopes that the book would divulge any great secrets. While it made for very interesting reading thus far, I had yet to find anything that might prove useful. Subtlety, after all, had not been Isobel Van Allen’s strong suit, and I could not see that there were any secrets lurking beneath the surface of her lurid prose.
It all seemed fairly straightforward to me. While Isobel likely had taken liberties with the facts, the characters she had drawn continued to accurately reflect the various personalities as I had seen them thus far.
The gentleman meant to be Reggie was restless and uneasy, scarred by his experiences in the trenches of France and still trying to regain his footing in a society that had changed while he was gone. The artist, meant to be Mr. Winters, was charming and vague, lost in a fog of drugs and a world of his own making. My former schoolmate Freida was reckless and grief-stricken in the years following the death of her fiancé. Phillip Collins, the man who would eventually become her husband, pursued her with a subtle relentlessness and was just as dark and quietly menacing in fiction as he seemed to be in the flesh.
I was relieved to find that Laurel played little part in the story. I had avoided reading the book when it had been released in part because I knew it would make me angry to see my cousin’s name maligned. As it was, she was usually mentioned in passing. Isobel had retracted her claws where my cousin was concerned.
The stormy romance between the character that represented Beatrice and the two gentlemen had begun to simmer by chapter seven. Beatrice’s character was lovely, cold, and restrained. Which was what made it all the more curious that both Edwin Green and Bradford Glenn should have both fallen to fighting for her hand. Perhaps she had represented some sort of dream to the young men, her intangibility making her love seem like something to be attained at any cost.
In any event, Isobel had done a fine job of creating an atmosphere of thwarted passion and growing resentment. It was clear very early on that she meant to cast Bradford Glenn as the villain of the piece, for she presented him with a brooding nature that hinted things would not end well for those who crossed him.
So absorbed was I in the book, that I didn’t hear Milo enter the room until he spoke.
“Hello, darling.”
I didn’t bother looking up. “Hello.”
“Reading that book again?”
“Yes.” I pulled my eyes reluctantly from the page. “How was your walk?”
“Cold and dull.”
I glanced at the clock. “Yes, I imagine nearly two hours out in the winter air might be.”
“Lindy is quite a tireless little thing.”
“Milo…” I hesitated, the words on my lips. There was a time, not very long ago, when I would not have wanted to speak plainly, to tell him how I really felt about the matter. As things stood between us now, I thought that I should be honest.
“It won’t do to make her fall in love with you, you know,” I said softly. “It isn’t fair. She doesn’t know you don’t mean half of what you say.”
He smiled, my concerns summarily dismissed. “I have been the model of propriety.”
“Your idea of propriety is not the same as other people’s.”
“I don’t want anyone in love with me but you, darling.”
“Yes, well, it’s not you I’m concerned about.”
“Let me assure you that Lu
cinda Lyons is perfectly aware of how mad I am about my wife.” He dropped a kiss on my lips and took the chair opposite me.
I didn’t intend to press the subject, at least not at the moment. Instead, I went back to reading my book.
“You’re determined to finish that thing, I suppose,” he said.
“Yes, but it’s much easier to do it in silence,” I told him pointedly.
He picked up a magazine that had no doubt been left by Winnelda and began thumbing through it. I wondered if he meant to continue sitting there while I was trying to read.
“How did your chat with Mr. Winters go?” he asked, his eyes on the page before him.
“Oh, famously,” I replied. “He wants to paint me.”
“Naturally he does.”
“Quite naturally. Au naturel, in fact.”
Milo’s eyes came up from the magazine. “Does he indeed?”
“Yes,” I went on in a casual tone. “He thinks the light in the conservatory would highlight my alabaster skin.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Milo said dryly.
“He’s a very unusual man,” I said, closing the book. “I don’t quite know what to make of him.”
“Don’t you?” Milo replied. “I think it’s quite clear what he’s about.”
“Oh, I don’t think he meant anything improper by it.”
“Your naivety is quite adorable, my love. He must believe me to be a very accommodating husband.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “He assured me that you’d love a portrait.”
Milo smiled. “Why would I need you on the wall when I have you in the bed?”
“I told him I’d consider it.” I was not, of course, considering posing nude for Mr. Winters, but I didn’t like Milo to think I was utterly predictable.
He was unimpressed with my threats. “Well, do be careful you don’t catch your death of cold. I’m sure the conservatory is very drafty this time of year.”
I frowned at him and went back to reading my book.
A moment later there was a tapping at the door, and Winnelda entered, her expression disapproving.
“Madam, that inspector is here again. He wants to see to you.”
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