by Liz Tyner
Wilson lunged into the doorway, one hand grasping the frame. He stood, bear-like, spotting Andrew, the butler stopping at Wilson’s back.
‘You vile heathen.’ The architect moved into the open doorway, his eyes bulging in rage and hair flying wild. He clasped wadded newsprint.
‘Leave,’ Andrew spoke to the butler. After squinting to make sure Andrew looked at him, and receiving a brief nod, the servant departed, leaving Andrew and Wilson alone.
The architect’s voice blasted and he held a scandal sheet crumpled in his hands. Walking forward, he sputtered before he could speak. ‘Your last breaths will be taken as you choke on this. You let my sister...’
Fawsett bounded into the doorway from the opposite side.
‘I cannot imagine what you are talking about.’ Andrew shook his head, raising a hand in supplication, trying to calm Wilson enough so he could figure out the problem. Then he realised. The portrait of Beatrice. He could understand her brother’s wrath.
‘It was not something I asked her to do.’ Andrew stepped towards Wilson. He’d never seen a man so lost to his rage before. He saw Fawsett reaching for a lamp behind the architect. He caught Fawsett’s eye and gave a snapped shake of his head.
‘You cannot expect me to believe that. First you have her dress in clothing unbefitting her and now this. You will die.’
‘I did not know anything of it,’ Andrew said. ‘I did not.’
‘It is all across London. Everywhere,’ the architect said. ‘And you say you did not know? My sister painted this and you did not know?’
The architect thrust the wadded paper forward. ‘Did you have your eyes closed?’
Andrew reached to the paper. He pressed his hand over the newsprint, smoothing enough to see the engraving. To read the heading.
He stepped back, the invisible blow of the sight rocking him. A likeness of him—supposedly an engraving of a portrait—stark naked except for a strategically drawn bit of foliage. Above it the words: Beast Bares Beloved.
He faced the raging eyes of the architect and his mouth opened but he could not speak. He shook his head, and forced his mouth to form words. ‘I am—’
‘You’re wearing a damn flower over your private parts.’
Explosions louder than any Vauxhall fireworks, even ones setting the stages alight, rocked inside the confined space of Andrew’s mind.
The architect’s head twisted sideways, but his eyes never left Andrew’s. His hands shook. ‘You— Beatrice— This is— They even spelled the names.’ The wildness of his hair was calm compared to the rest of him.
‘I assure you. This was not my idea—’
‘You let her paint you—naked.’
‘No.’ Andrew forced himself, while trying to gasp in deep breaths of air, to look again at the article. But he’d already grasped the whole of the story. In three words. Beast Bares Beloved.
‘I didn’t pose—for that,’ Andrew said. ‘I would never. Never.’ He looked at the architect. ‘Never.’
Calm entered his body. A semblance of it anyway. He could breathe. He could speak. He could form sentences. He could see red-tinged shapes. ‘This is the first—’
‘I cannot believe you would let her—’
‘Oh,’ Andrew bit out the words. ‘I posed. But I did not even remove my cravat. A formal portrait.’
He pointed to the picture on the wall.
‘Then this is a lie.’ The architect jerked a hand to the paper.
His vision finally lost the red tint. He could see lighter colours now. ‘I somehow doubt it.’
The architect took the biggest breath Andrew had ever seen a man inhale. ‘Why?’
‘I do not know why. Beatrice listens to her own voice and her own ideas. She does not follow rules. She does not know the rules even exist.’ He sat at his desk, elbows on the wood, and used his fingertips to massage his temple. ‘I would like to talk to your sister.’
‘You—’ the architect pointed a finger ‘—were supposed to be a calming influence. To keep her from the scandal sheets.’
Andrew raised his eyes. ‘Boadicea herself could not do that.’
Merde. He looked at the print again. His face was there. His body was there. But his clothing?
‘I cannot believe she painted such a portrait and you did not know.’ The architect didn’t stop moving. He paced the room, fists at his sides.
Andrew stood, leaning forward, using splayed fingertips against the desk to help hold him upright. He kept his voice low.
‘I can.’
Beatrice had whims and acted on them. She’d had an impulse for the artwork and before she’d known what had happened the thought had taken over her mind and controlled her. A flutter of an idea had captured her like the flutter of a woman’s skirt might capture a man’s eyes and cause him to forget all the years of his life before. Rash behaviour and thoughts. An innocent mote of an idea and it grew and grew, taking everything along with it. A grain that could turn into a massive storm. A whirlwind destroying the very beginning of its existence. Not stopping until it devoured everything good around it.
Andrew looked to Fawsett. The valet’s eyes looked as if he felt superior to everyone in the room and his hand hadn’t strayed from the lamp. Andrew frowned.
‘You will never speak to my sister again,’ the architect ground out to Andrew.
Andrew snorted and moved within an arm’s length of Wilson. ‘I will speak to her as soon as I can find her.’ He flung the paper from his hand.
The architect took a step closer. Their noses almost touched, both men leaning across the desk. ‘I...’ Andrew thumped his chest ‘...am in the scandal sheets. I have been wronged by your sister. I will be getting my hands on a certain portrait and I will personally destroy it.’ His voice trembled with rage. ‘And if you try to hinder me, I am quite certain the scandal sheets will quite enjoy the tale of how your face became black and blue and you ended up tossed from a window.’
‘You would not dare tangle with me.’ A fist swung Andrew’s direction. Andrew dodged.
Words fled Andrew’s mind after he heard dare. Dare registered. His fist answered, moving forward before his mind alerted him of the action and warned him from it. He connected with the architect’s jaw even before he realised he’d moved. The architect’s head snapped backwards and Fawsett stepped aside as Wilson dropped to the carpet.
Wilson lay there, breathing hard. Fawsett looked at Andrew and he raised the lamp in his hand. ‘Sir,’ he said softly to Andrew. ‘Lamps break. However, they do not feel bruised the next day as your hand will. And I would have taken care of that for you.’
Andrew looked to the architect, but spoke to the valet. ‘With my luck a blow to the back of the head would have killed him. I did not want to see a caricature of that in the shop windows.’
Wilson pushed himself to his feet, checking for blood and missing teeth. A drip of red formed at the slice on his cheek from Andrew’s ring. His mouth was slack and his eyes wide. Andrew doubted anyone had punched him before.
‘I don’t know how to destroy a man twice, but I will find out.’ The architect’s eyes flashed. He rubbed his jaw.
‘You’re too late,’ Andrew said, giving a hollow laugh. ‘Your sister has beaten you to it.’ Andrew nodded to Fawsett. ‘See that my carriage is readied—now.’
Fawsett scurried away.
‘But,’ Andrew continued, almost quivering in his own anger, ‘I will be speaking with your sister. Is she at your home?’
‘I will not tell you.’
Andrew reached for the architect’s coat, fisting his hands in the fabric and pulling them face to face. Even though the architect blustered, Andrew kept his grasp on the coat. ‘I swear to you I will not hurt her, and I swear to you I will hurt you if you do not tell me.’
‘You are destroying your life and your reputation.’ Blood trickled down his cheek.
‘No.’ Andrew tightened his fists on the fabric, pulling them closer. ‘Your sister did that to me.
’
‘Not alone.’
Andrew thrust his hands from the architect’s coat and both men stepped back.
‘You will pay for this,’ the architect snapped.
‘I already have,’ Andrew said.
‘She truly did this on her own?’
He nodded.
Realisation dawned on Wilson’s face. He touched his cheek lightly, checking the damage. ‘I can believe it. She is off the rails. A fool without a care in her thoughts.’
‘Do not speak of her so.’ Andrew turned to the architect. ‘It is my bare arse on display. Not yours.’
‘She—’ the architect speared the other man with a look ‘—is my sister. I can speak of her any way I wish.’
Andrew’s fist clenched. ‘Not if you don’t wish to find yourself on your back again.’
‘How did she? How did the scandal sheet find out?’
‘You mother stole the painting.’
‘Mother?’ The architect uttered the word softly. Then his eyes shut, his jaw clenched, his head twisted up and he spoke the word again towards the sky—hardly moving his lips. His face relaxed and his words were whisper-soft. ‘You were in my house and I thought it a wonderful opportunity for Bea. I thought—she needs to marry again. She’s not living in her own home and she flits from one place to another. And she was being indelicate with someone so particular he used his handkerchief to dust off a drawing I placed on his desk. He would never, ever cause scandal as Riverton did. No. No.’ His voice rose. ‘He’s a duke’s son.’
‘Who put you flat on the carpet,’ Andrew said. ‘And it was Aubusson. And now it’ll need cleaning.’
‘If you take a brandy...’ Wilson pointed a wavering finger at Andrew ‘...you never even empty the glass. You can’t have posed like that. Not you. Not the man who counselled the workmen to keep their waistcoats buttoned because a maid might pass by.’ The architect nodded, dropped his hand and his head tilted to the side as he turned to Andrew. ‘You really didn’t pose. You couldn’t have.’
Andrew shook his head.
Nodding as he spoke, Wilson said, ‘I think she might owe you an apology.’
‘You could say that.’
The architect stepped backwards. ‘I’m seeing things more clearly now. Brilliant plan, Lord Andrew. You certainly diverted some of the talk of her.’ He snorted in laughter. ‘I can hardly wait to read the next mention.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll do all I can to help you in your quest to take the notice from her. I’ll purchase another copy of the paper to show The Naked Knight at the taverns. Wouldn’t want anyone to miss hearing about it.’
Andrew watched the architect’s retreating back and, when he disappeared out the doorway, Andrew heard another snort of laughter from Wilson and the words he called up the stairway as he exited echoed in Andrew’s ears. ‘She’s at her house, Sir Knight.’
Seconds later, he heard the thump of the door closing.
She didn’t. She couldn’t have. But she did. She must have painted him in the same style of her Boadicea painting, only—
Surely the scandal sheets had subtracted the clothing. He wanted to believe it, but couldn’t. The stories printed of Beatrice had been based on truth. Perhaps they had wavered a little, but were still accurate underneath.
He shut his eyes, capturing control.
Forcing himself, he swiped a hand to the floor, picking up the scattered paper. Nothing about the engraving looked like him. Nothing, except the face.
Yet the words.
Reading quickly, he read hints of many painting sessions followed by unknown activities of the smouldering sort. A brief recounting of Beatrice’s past followed, then a lengthy mention of him. It read almost as if he had died and they were recounting his life.
Almost. No. He had died. His life as he had lived it was a thing of the past. Now all, even in death, would be overshadowed by this.
Clenching the paper in his fists, he ripped it apart and slammed it to the floor.
Beatrice. She had destroyed the order of his world. She had taken scissors to him as well, cutting the clothing from his body and brought the eyes of the ton to him, exposed.
Temples pounding he stared at the shreds in front of his feet, seeing only the caricature of himself.
She had taken his life and done the same to it as he had to the paper.
He left the room, forcing each footstep to be unhurried and each breath to go in and then to leave his body.
He would see her and hear from her why she had done such a thing.
As the carriage pulled to the front and he stepped towards it, he saw Fox, coat-tails flying, riding his horse in Andrew’s direction. He had newsprint in his hand. ‘Andrew,’ he gasped, holding the paper up, eyes alight. He slid from the horse, still holding the paper out. ‘You devil, you.’
Andrew brushed by him. His hand was already throbbing. His head pounded. His teeth ached. And he could even feel the puckered skin of the bite mark.
He heard Fox chuckling. ‘I’ll leave the paper with Fawsett. You’ll want extra copies.’
* * *
Beatrice looked at the curtains and wondered if the house had been worth it. She had made a monumental mistake in that marriage.
Then she heard the sound of a carriage in the drive and she immediately went to the front door.
She didn’t know why her mind didn’t accept the threat of impending doom, but perhaps her arrival home had filled her with such trepidation, she couldn’t feel anything else.
Or so she thought, until she opened the front door—and saw the murderous face of Andrew.
At that moment she looked into his anger-glazed eyes and she realised she truly loved him. That was indeed unfortunate.
Andrew stopped. He breathed as if he’d rushed a long race. He stood less than an arm’s length from her.
His face emitted anger, except for what could have passed as the hurt of betrayal.
He knew. She bit the inside of her lip. He knew. He stopped, his hair completely disarrayed, and his clothes continuing the windstorm look. He’d never looked so creased before—he even had bruised and bloody knuckles.
Her courage, her voice, deserted her.
This didn’t seem to be the time to admit anything, or deny anything. She opened her mouth, thinking to choose her words more carefully than she’d ever done in her life.
‘Might we speak a moment?’ Andrew’s fury blasted through his face, causing his eyes to darken, his lips to thin, and everything about him flashed blackness. He emphasised each word.
Andrew continued, his voice thunderous. ‘You painted me—without my permission—didn’t you, Beatrice? You bared my person to the world.’
‘I did paint you. Your form is better than Adonis.’
Andrew didn’t move forward.
She looked at his face and realised he had no intention of stepping foot in her house. No intention of staying. Her heart beat, even though the little pierced, charred bits of it were hardly big enough to matter.
‘Would you come in?’ She moved her hand only a fraction towards the house.
‘Why?’
She looked back, making sure no one was listening, and moved a step closer. Andrew inhaled sharply, eyes dark and lips thin. Riverton had not looked so coldly at her after she’d stabbed him.
‘I could not help myself, Andrew. The brush worked of its own accord. You were my masterpiece. Like Michelangelo’s David, but in oils.’
‘Why didn’t you put another man’s face on it, Beatrice? You certainly couldn’t have been using my body?’
‘Your face. It had to be your face and it is your body. Maybe imagined in places, but I’ve touched you. I know your shape. I watched when you posed and not only your face. I saw the muscles and form through your clothes.’
He shook his head, side to side. ‘No. You do not know my body. We have been intimate, but you do not know my body.’
‘I look at you with an artist’s eyes.’
‘Nonsense.’ He looked
at his carriage, still waiting, and then turned back. Examining the house, he said, ‘I would like nothing better than to leave. To step into your house, under these circumstances—it feels like the bowels of hell and I am immersing myself.’ His eyes. Cold. Hard. ‘But I must have that painting and it must be destroyed.’
‘No.’ She put her hand to her heart. ‘It’s my masterpiece.’
His chin went down and his eyes snapped into hers. ‘Then you had better plan on painting another one, Beatrice, of someone else. Of this one thing, I am sure—I will find the painting and destroy it.’
‘You don’t have it now?’ She could not believe so much grief—if he had not seen the painting.
‘Of course I do not.’ If anything, his fury increased.
‘Then how do—?’ She feared the answer.
‘The scandal sheets.’ His lips closed on the words and his eyes condemned. He continued. ‘I guess you’ve not been reading them here. But there’s a small story concerning a certain painting of the Beast’s. You will be pleased to know not much was written—’ His voice might have been considered a purr, but one to cause the hair on the back of the neck to rise. ‘Because they needed the space to display the caricature of the painting.’
He turned back, and with a wide sweep of his arm, he indicated to his carriage driver to take the horses to the stables. ‘I am going to search this house again.’
Beatrice would not have thought there was room for him to move by her without touching her because of the posts on each side of the steps, but he had no trouble.
When he passed by, she turned, seeing the broad shoulders, the dark head, the man of any sane woman’s dreams, and one particular daft woman. And she had stabbed him in the back. She could imagine the splashes of vermilion on his coat.
Chapter Twenty
Walking into the parlour, Andrew lifted the decanter, staring at it, and crashed it down with a thud after filling a glass.
‘Mother has the painting and she will correspond with someone eventually and I have let everyone know they are to send me her location. It’s Mother. She will not be able to remain from my life long,’ Beatrice said. ‘Then we will retrieve it.’