by Liz Tyner
‘I am hoping my brother has one of my paintings, or he knows of it. And I must also check Somerset House in the morning. I had a picture of an old harridan I had hoped to display and perhaps they thought I meant now and sent someone for it. I might be in a mess again, Arthur.’
‘You’ll have to call me Arturo if you wish for my help.’
She growled before speaking. ‘After your father died, I asked how you would like to be addressed as you are dear to us. You said there was only one Standen, and you would be pleased to remain Arthur. Then you started correcting me every time I use it, telling me Artemus, several times, Aristotle once. I asked Mrs Standen. Your real name is Arthur.’
One brow raised enough that she could see an entire eye. ‘My dear wife also believes I am the most handsome man in all England and that I am the by-blow of a duke.’
‘If you do see a rather large painting about—and this must be handled with the utmost of stealth—I will pay handsomely for its discreet return.’
His lips bunched and his eyes squinted. His chin gave an upturn of agreement. ‘And what is this painting of?’
‘A male’s most private parts.’
‘A male’s most—?’ He studied her face. ‘Attached?’
‘Yes. To a complete person.’
His eyes widened and so did his grin. He looked twenty years younger. ‘You didn’t.’ He chuckled. ‘And it is lost?’
‘One should never confess until one is completely presented with the facts and perhaps not even then if a good story of innocence hasn’t been fashioned.’
‘Lady Riverton. It is an honour and privilege to work for you.’
‘But you must not let anyone know.’
‘I will not speak of it. Surely no one would be interested in such a painting. No one would be so depraved as to view such a thing.’
‘Mr Standen, you are not to make me feel worse. If you see the painting arrive here, you must alert me immediately.’
‘I will.’ He smiled. ‘But I might also show it to Mrs Standen. I would not want her to miss something like that. She will, of course, be aghast at such impropriety.’
‘Arthur.’
He bowed quickly. ‘Lady Riverton, I cannot promise to keep such a thing from my wife and you know we are both deeply devoted to you. You can be sure if even a whisper of such a painting is made and I hear of it, I will immediately alert you and do all I can to assist.’
‘And if Lord Andrew sends a sincere apology, I might like to hear of it.’
‘Of course.’
‘Or if he arrives looking a bit overwrought, perhaps innocently send him in a direction away from my true location and alert me.’
‘I suppose I do not have to ask whose most private parts have been painted?’
‘Please do not.’
Arthur’s head creaked up and down. ‘I will do all I can to help. I will have a trunk ready in the event you need to leave the country.’ He smiled. ‘Mrs Standen and I will both travel with you and we will make sure you are quite comfortable. And if Lord Andrew arrives, I will be sure to handle the questions as you wish.’
* * *
Near Foxworthy’s house, Andrew stopped the carriage with a thump to the roof when he saw Foxworthy walking.
Andrew pushed open the door, Foxworthy jumped inside and the carriage wheels rolled again.
‘You were right about Tilly,’ Foxworthy informed him, grasping his own coat at the lapels, pulling it straight so he could sit comfortably beside Andrew. ‘And that there is a parcel which seems to be of import.’
‘You discovered this so soon?’
Fox stared at Andrew. ‘I work best when naked women are involved. You should know that.’
‘And did Miss Tilly have anything to say of import?’
Foxworthy smiled. ‘Correct of you to think of her. My good Miss Tilly seems to know quite a lot about what goes on in Lady Riverton’s world. It seems her mother and Lady Riverton’s mother are quite close sisters.’
‘Does anyone know where Lady Riverton is now?’
‘Her brother’s house. She is trying to make certain the portrait does not arrive in London without her knowledge. Tilly is watching every move anyone makes.’
‘So you keep me waiting.’
Foxworthy gave a la-di-da wave of his head.
‘Do the men with the carriage know what the package contains?’ Andrew asked.
‘I’m not sure. Tilly is trying hard to get the information from her mother, but they are not exactly on good terms because Tilly upset Lady Riverton. Tilly’s mother refuses to tell her what is going on.’
‘How unlikely is it that Tilly will not find out all she wishes to know?’
‘She will find out. She is begging her mother’s forgiveness every day. But the important thing to note is that Tilly suspects Beatrice’s mother of taking the art.’
* * *
Andrew waited outside the door of Wilson’s house, hearing a scrambling noise just before the door opened with a quick snap. The servant stumbled backwards, in the way of one whose momentum had suddenly changed from full speed to rapid stop. He gulped for air.
‘May I speak with Lady Riverton?’ Andrew asked.
‘She is not at home. She did not inform the staff of her destination.’ The man’s chest heaved.
Andrew nodded, not believing him for a second. ‘Is Wilson here?’
‘No. He is away as well.’
‘Might I wait for him?’
‘Oh, I could not let you do that. The cat has died.’
‘My sympathies. I will wait though.’
‘The stench might be a bit overwhelming and I could not let you suffer so.’
‘The stench?’
‘Dear Fluffy somehow got into the walls to chase a mouse and was not able to escape. The yowling was atrocious and then it stopped, only to be replaced by a distinctly foul odour, which permeates all the upper rooms of the house.’
‘That is so strange. But do not worry, I can handle a bit of a stench.’ Andrew bounded up the stairs.
‘I hope so,’ he heard muttered, mixed with the man’s steps, behind him.
In the room, Andrew sat on the sofa, extended his arm across the back and challenged the butler with a glare.
‘I will see if Lady Riverton is returning,’ the servant said. He moved out of the line of Andrew’s vision at a sedate pace, but as soon as he rounded the door, the sound of footsteps on the floorboards quickened.
If Andrew admitted the truth to himself, he wanted to see her. The painting did not interest him overly. Then he stopped his thoughts. That was not entirely true. If Bea had painted another portrait of herself, perhaps wearing even less clothing than before, he would certainly like to see it.
But if such a thing came into public view, Beatrice’s reputation would never recover. She must learn to control the storm and to create rainbows. Perhaps she could do a series of rainbow paintings in different settings. A boy looking from the window at one. A mother holding a child and pointing to the colours overhead. A crofter walking from his doorway to look at the sky after crops had been watered by the heavens.
He realised he lied to himself. Beatrice could no more paint a rainbow than she could paint a daffodil. She liked portraits. She liked flair. One did not collect skulls in order to better paint flowers.
He sighed. Beatrice enjoyed notoriety.
She was the storm and rainbow all in one. But he could not have his life a tempest. Even now he should be checking out some properties he’d heard about in Bristol. He did not trust the drawings he’d received of them, and his man of affairs was not experienced enough to make a decision on such a large purchase.
Andrew sniffed. The air in the room didn’t move, but it did have the scent of cleaning. No perfume to cover anything dead. Even the servants around Beatrice did not seem able to concoct a suitable fable. He should have said she’d been called away to visit an ailing relative or had a megrim. Something suitably dull.
Move
ment from the doorway caught his attention and he looked up to see Beatrice plunge into the room, her dress a blur of blue. His heart stirred.
She had the side of her skirt loosely grasped and released it.
He stood, pleased he had the likeness of her to keep. ‘Your mother may have the missing painting.’
Instead of the relief he expected, she reacted much the same as a chicken might who’d just had a major feather plucked, including the squawk.
‘Mother? Oh, this could not be worse.’ She lowered her voice. ‘This could not be worse.’
‘I said your mother may have it. Your mother.’
She tumbled forward, reaching out, both hands landing on his chest without force. But the blow tingled in him.
He clasped her elbows, holding her steady.
‘Andrew. My mother has it?’ She stared at him.
‘I’m uncertain. But it’s possible. We must ask her.’
‘I suppose.’ She knocked her head against his shoulder. ‘A man in a carriage came for it and I had assumed it was you. But Mother could have sent someone.’
‘Simply ask her. We can leave now. My vehicle is waiting.’ He slid his hands up to her shoulders, aware of the thin fabric and the energy of her beneath it. ‘I’ll escort you and return tonight. We’ll get this settled.’
‘I don’t think Mother lets things settle well.’
‘Can you leave now?’ he asked.
‘I can go alone,’ she said, stepping back, reaching out to pat him. As if he were some puppy she wanted to appease. Except she patted too quickly. Too something. Her head turned away.
‘I’m going with you,’ he said. ‘Or alone. Now. The carriage is ready and, by coincidence, I have nothing better to do.’
‘I’ll gather my things,’ she said. ‘There is something...’ She paused. ‘Perhaps I will show you the painting when we recover it.’
He took her arm. ‘You can be sure when we recover the art, I’ll want to see what has caused this uproar.’
She stopped all movement. Wide eyes caught his. Her mouth opened but no squawk, or whisper or purr.
‘Bea,’ he reassured her, ‘don’t concern yourself that I will be shocked by what you’ve painted. Remember, Foxworthy is my cousin and, disreputable though he may be, we are friends. I have travelled the same trails as he, I have just not detoured into all the bedchambers.’
Fox had once been the patron for an artist. Fox ended up with quite a collection of sketches which would never be on a wall, but had been passed around in a few taverns.
‘You say that...’ Beatrice let the words trail away.
‘We will concern ourselves with it later,’ he reassured her. ‘The first step is to have the image back in your hands. Now, we must proceed in that direction.’ He put a hand at her back and moved her along.
When they left the room, he didn’t lessen his touch. The gesture gave him a connection with Beatrice that settled into him and he didn’t want to lose it.
She sighed, slowing to relax against his side. ‘To be travelling alone with you at night. What of my reputation?’
‘I assume it will help it.’ He chuckled. But she didn’t. ‘I’m jesting, Bea.’
‘But it’s true,’ she said. ‘I cannot quite stop being who I am. I am not sure I wish to try any more. I gather even more notice as I try to have less.’
* * *
In the carriage, Andrew turned to her. ‘No one wants you to stop being who you are. I wish everyone could see the truth of who you are.’
‘Truth?’ Her fingers lingered against the wood of the window frame, bouncing with the movement of the wheels. ‘The truth is in the scandal sheets. That is why it is so damaging. I did hurt my husband with the scissors. I did break the glass on the coach. I did marry Riverton and he was above my station. I closed my mind to everything but love.’
‘That cannot be so wrong.’
‘You’ve never been in love.’
The carriage turned and then he answered, ‘I’m not certain.’
‘Oh, no.’ She shuddered. ‘Love is why the little cupids on my ceiling all have arrows. Sharp.’ She raised her brows. ‘Pointed. Something that hurts. I wanted to be able to see the beauty of the ceiling. The pretence at love. Little floating cherubs. And then the arrows to pierce the life right out of me.’ She shrugged. ‘You’re the first person I’ve told. I don’t think I needed the reminder above me, but it was nice to have my own private thoughts on the ceiling.’
‘The mythical Cupid did not want his wife to see him,’ Andrew said. ‘He preferred her to think him a beast than to see the truth, and he was not hideous at all. He merely presented himself that way to her. Perhaps he wanted to see if her heart was true.’
‘If you think you are convincing me that I am a good sort on the inside, then you are wasting words.’ She relaxed into the seat. ‘I am quite sure of that already. But it is not me you think to convince, Andrew. It is the world.’ And himself, but she could not say that. ‘When Psyche saw Cupid’s true face, because she had disobeyed him by viewing him against his wishes, he felt betrayed and deserted her.’ She shrugged.
Perhaps Andrew was her Cupid. But Andrew was not comfortable with his passions. Riverton had doused his in smoke and women. Andrew hid his under a black waistcoat.
The comparison of Andrew and Riverton resurfaced her memories of the past.
Her husband’s passing had filled her with relief, guilt and very little grief. The day after his funeral, she’d overheard a servant humming and noticed a fresh brightness to the house. Laughter from below stairs had even wafted up through the walls. That had never happened before.
‘Riverton deserted me on the day of our marriage, or at least immediately after. He wasn’t sober as he said our vows. I was stunned. When we courted, he had stumbled a few times from drink, but nothing, nothing like what I discovered after we wed.’
She stared at a bit of road dust on the panes. ‘Riverton did not care at all for himself and if he could not think anything of his life, how could he love anyone else? He would have liked to, I’m sure. He would have preferred not destroying so much. But he could not help it.’
‘Are you making excuses for him?’
‘No.’ She touched the back of Andrew’s hand. ‘He could not help it. He died. Simple as that. If you are willing to sacrifice your life for moments when you have lost sight of the true world, then certainly, you cannot help it. You die for an imagination while you ignore the truths around you. The sun may be shining, birds singing and spring bursting from all corners or a snow may be covering the world with a different kind of magic, but he ignored that because it meant nothing. The truth inside his head was more real than life. Even his own.’ She clasped Andrew’s hand. Fingers lean. Strong. ‘It does not change anything. It does not change how I wanted to dip his head in a chamber pot, along with the rest of him. Can you guess how that would have sounded, my drowning my husband in a chamber pot? Don’t think I didn’t consider it.’
Love was no different than the imagination Riverton sought. A swirl of magic the same as a night-time dream. She tried to create it much in the same way he tried to live in a sotted world and claim it correct. But her imaginations did not work as strongly as his and she stepped away from them.
If she were to love someone like Andrew, he would be constantly trying to change her into a simple, unassuming wife. He was chasing the same smoke vapour she’d been lost in. Only his surrounded her.
How could she enjoy the sparkle in her world if someone tried to quash her?
‘Do you ever wear any colours but black and white, Andrew?’
‘They do me well.’
‘Vermilion suits me.’ The words were true. But it was soft colours concerning her now. The flesh tones.
Chapter Eighteen
Andrew clasped her fingers, stilling them. The whole of the time in the carriage she had tapped her foot or moved her hands or changed expressions.
‘If your mother has the portrait,
no harm will be done.’
‘You can believe that. I don’t. But if she took it, then I will have a better chance of finding it and taking it back. I hope.’
Even as he held the fingers immobile, he noted her slipper tapping again. ‘She can’t want to cause ill to you. You’re her only daughter.’
‘Ha. She claims to have had others, before me, but drowned them at birth. She said she only kept me because it was a slow year.’
Her hand slid from his and now her fingers clasped over his. He didn’t think she was aware of the movement. But she didn’t want to feel captured.
‘Beatrice. Her sense of humour is cracked.’
‘So is her sense of motherhood.’ She swayed his hand slightly as she talked.
He leaned back, leaving their hands together, listening as she told tales of her mother’s infractions during Beatrice’s childhood. Beatrice had no anger or resentment. In fact, she chuckled a few times at her mother’s exploits.
This was not the world he had known. The duke’s household could not waver in its perfection, at least on the surface. Even though Andrew’s father had died, the household continued just as his father would have expected. Andrew’s choices with his inheritance had been questioned, but he’d risked his brother’s censure, and the family had accepted his need to have the living he wanted. Andrew needed secure funds to continue in the world of the ton and he had not wanted to step out of it.
His father had given all his sons the same education, training and discipline. He’d said all his sons were extensions of the ducal heritage. A father did not only give his sons names, he also gave them preparations to be men.
Secretly, Andrew hadn’t wanted to be so far surpassed by his older brother. He’d been determined to create his own elegance around him. He wanted the finest carriages and a home just as well equipped as any ducal residence.
He looked across at Beatrice.
She’d taken off both her gloves and fanned herself with one, wafting the scent of lavender towards him.
‘Do you think we could go faster?’ she asked. ‘I just do not like to think of Mother...’