by Barton, Anne
She drew up short. “Why would you want to know that?”
Why, indeed? “I am a student of human nature. I like to know why people behave the way they do. You, Miss Honeycote, are something of a puzzle.” He also wanted to know whether Robert had some connection to her and how he’d come into possession of her portrait. What if his friend had loved her? It seemed as though that should change things, but Ben wasn’t quite sure how. He needed information, and he needed time to sort through it all.
“I suppose that is fair,” she said at last. “I will confide in you if you will do your best to help me recover the second portrait.”
He faced her and ceremoniously shook her hand. “We have a deal. I will arrange a time and place for us to talk and send word to you.”
“With each day that passes, the risk of discovery increases.”
“I understand the urgency of the matter and am at your service.”
She gave a smile that warmed him to his core. This could well be the most enjoyable assignment he’d ever had. And where his heart was concerned, it could also be the most dangerous.
Daphne and Lord Foxburn slipped quietly into the drawing room through the French doors at the rear during Beethoven’s concerto, and thankfully, no one seemed to notice them.
Daphne returned to her seat in the back row, which was otherwise unoccupied—until Lord Foxburn sat in the chair directly beside hers. She endeavored to act indifferently, as though she couldn’t care less where he chose to sit, but the truth was that delicious shivers swept over her whenever he was near.
She told herself that this strange and powerful response to him was only because he knew her secret and could ruin her, if he chose to.
But deep down she knew it was more than that.
It was desire.
He was so close that she could see the dimple in his cheek and a hint of stubble on his chin. She wondered what it would feel like and checked the wholly improper urge to strip off her glove and run a fingertip along the length of his jaw.
Good heavens. This would never do.
She flipped open her fan and leaned slightly toward the earl. Under her breath she said, “Please don’t feel that you must remain here with me. I don’t mind sitting alone.”
“Neither do I,” he said, flashing a wickedly handsome grin. “But I like this spot. It affords a nice view.”
She felt herself flush.
“Of the musicians, I mean.”
“Of course.” She was starting to grow accustomed to his teasing, but not to her traitorous body’s reaction. Her heart beat so loudly she feared he would hear it. She fanned herself lightly and resolved to turn her attention to the performance.
But instead, she found herself staring at the hand he drummed on his thigh in time to the music. What would it feel like to have his hands on her skin, caressing her shoulders or the swells of her breast? She swallowed and fanned herself faster. Though she was not normally prone to such impure thoughts, it was shockingly easy for her to imagine him stroking her legs, particularly the soft skin at the tops of her thighs and the curve of her bottom. Worse, she wanted to run her hands over him—to explore every inch of him, from his broad shoulders to his narrow hips to the hard length of his…
Dear God, what was wrong with her that she should think such wanton thoughts while her own dear mother sat a few yards away?
Daphne coughed, and Lord Foxburn leaned closer, which did not help matters in the least.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Just a bit parched,” she lied. “I think the concerto must be over soon. I’ll fetch a drink at the intermission.”
He looked at her curiously for a moment, as though he were capable of reading all her wayward thoughts. Then he unleashed a slow smile that washed over her like a wave, leaving her skin tingling in its wake.
Daphne resumed fanning herself—with a bit more vigor—and kept Mama firmly in her sights so that she would not be tempted to let her thoughts stray to the earl again.
The quartet was composed of the Seaton sisters and two other young ladies, all of whom played prettily. As soon as the intermission began, Daphne stood and—eager to put some distance between her and Lord Foxburn—went to speak to Mama. “May I fetch you and Lady Bonneville some refreshments?” she asked.
The viscountess, whose feet were propped on her ottoman, waved a bejeweled hand. “No need. I have already sent my maid in search of sustenance. Something substantial shall be required if I am to endure another hour of mediocre talent.”
Daphne looked behind her to make sure the musicians hadn’t overheard. “Begging your pardon, Lady Bonneville, but I think the quartet is quite good.”
The viscountess raised her lorgnette and, through it, glared at Daphne for several seconds. Turning to Mama, she asked, “Were you aware your daughter lacks a musical ear?”
Mama smiled. “My Daphne is an idealist.” Funny, it almost sounded as though she were apologizing.
Lady Bonneville clucked her tongue. “Thank God she has sufficient beauty to balance out the deficiency.” To Daphne she said, “Loveliness such as yours is rare, but it’s both a blessing and a curse.”
Daphne shook her head to clear it. “What’s wrong with being an idealist?”
The viscountess harrumphed as though Daphne were quite hopeless. “Mingle, gel,” she said, pointing the way with her lorgnette.
Olivia and Rose had headed for the refreshment table, so Daphne joined Miss Louise Seaton, who was once again industriously tuning her violin. “I’m enjoying the concert,” said Daphne. “You must have taken up the violin at a young age to have developed such talent.”
“Thank you. Mother thrust the bow at me when I was barely four. I wish I could say the violin is a passion of mine. The truth is, I’m dreadfully tired of practicing.”
“Really?” said Daphne. “Then why do you do it?”
“Mother believes it is the only way Jane or I will gain a gentleman’s attention. This whole evening is a blatant attempt to showcase our talents and catch the eye—or ear, as it were—of prospective husbands.”
“Oh.” Daphne glanced around the room. “Has any gentleman here captured your fancy?”
A blush stained Miss Seaton’s round cheeks, and she twirled a brunette curl that dangled in front of her green eyes. “Lord Biltmore is very handsome, is he not? Mama was over the moon when he accepted our invitation.”
“The viscount is as kind as he is handsome,” Daphne added.
“Here he comes,” Miss Seaton said in an urgent whisper, “and Lord Foxburn is with him.”
“Good evening, ladies.” The timbre of the earl’s voice made Daphne’s body thrum like the violin’s strings. “Miss Seaton, you are to be commended for your flawless execution of the songs as rendered on sheet music.”
“Why, thank you, Lord Foxburn.” Miss Seaton beamed, clearly unaware that he was having fun at her expense. Daphne made a mental note to swat him with her fan later.
“It is a wonderful performance,” Lord Biltmore said, “and I look forward to the second half.”
Miss Seaton smiled shyly. “Thank you for your encouragement earlier. I realize my playing is far from perfect.”
“Nonsense,” Lord Biltmore said.
“The fourth string is a tad sharp.” Lord Foxburn inclined his head toward Miss Seaton’s instrument.
Her smile faded, and Daphne clenched her fan as she shot him a scolding look.
“Though it’s hardly noticeable,” he amended. “Miss Honeycote, I wonder if I might have a word?”
“Of course.”
Placing his hand at the small of her back, he guided her to the side of the stage. She tried to ignore the breathless feeling that overcame her the moment the earl touched her, and as soon as Miss Seaton and Lord Biltmore were out of earshot, she whirled to face Lord Foxburn.
“You were very rude just then.”
“Would you rather I be dishonest?”
“Yes! Well, no…”
>
“I must go,” he said abruptly. “I just wanted to let you know that I’ll contact you so that we may formulate a plan. Soon.”
“I can’t believe we’re having supper at Vauxhall Gardens!” Olivia sat at her dressing table, scrutinizing her new pearl earbobs in the looking glass. “Are you eager to see Lord Biltmore?”
Daphne, who was standing behind Olivia, met her gaze in the mirror and shrugged. “I’m looking forward to a pleasant evening with our entire party.”
Their party consisted of Lord Biltmore, Olivia, Rose, James Averill, Daphne, and Lord Foxburn. He’d arranged it all, of course, and Daphne was certain that he’d gone to the trouble just so that he could speak to her about the next steps in their quest to locate the second portrait. She hadn’t realized that the undertaking would require this level of subterfuge and didn’t like the idea of the earl going to such lengths and such expense. She would prefer not to be beholden to him—or any man. But that was the problem with secrets.
Lord Foxburn had invited Anabelle and Owen as well, but her sister had confessed she was quite possibly expecting—if her violent nausea of the past few days was any indication. Owen, ever the doting husband, had been simultaneously horrified and elated and insisted on calling for the doctor at once. Doctor Loxton confirmed the happy diagnosis and prescribed plenty of rest for the duchess.
Olivia turned her attention back to her reflection and pulled out the pink ribbon that Rose had painstakingly woven into her curls just a half hour before. “I think I should use the gold instead.” She held up a length of shimmery silk. “Will you help me?”
“Of course.” Daphne plucked the ribbon from her fingers and plotted out a course through Olivia’s chestnut tresses.
“It’s a bit more sophisticated, don’t you think? I want James to see me as a woman—not as the adoring girl who tirelessly dug up worms for him to use as bait.”
“I should think he’d owe you a debt of gratitude after that.”
“I don’t want his gratitude, Daph. I want his admiration, his devotion… his love.”
“I know.” Inviting Mr. Averill had been a brilliant move on the earl’s part. Olivia would be unable to focus on anyone but the handsome solicitor, and Rose would be busy keeping watch over her sister. That left just Lord Biltmore to occupy, and Daphne felt sure that Lord Foxburn would have a plan.
All she had to concern herself with was how much to reveal to him.
His carriage arrived at eight sharp. Dressed in a claret evening jacket, black breeches, and gleaming Hessians, he looked breathlessly dashing. He’d offered to escort Daphne, Olivia, and Rose. Mr. Averill and Lord Biltmore would meet them at the private supper box that the earl had reserved for the evening.
They took the Westminster Bridge route, and if Daphne was the tiniest bit disappointed that they didn’t use the water entrance, well, that was absurd. The point of this excursion was to initiate their search; any fun that she gleaned from the evening’s amusements was purely incidental.
And yet, the atmosphere at Vauxhall Gardens was too festive and exciting for Daphne to remain unaffected. The other gentlemen joined them and the party dined on ham, chicken, and hearty salads.
After supper, they ventured onto the promenade and enjoyed the many sights. Mr. Averill was drawn to the artificial ruins, and Olivia was drawn to Mr. Averill. Rather than chase after the pair, the remaining four chose to sit on a couple of benches where they could observe the amusements and hear the orchestra playing. Daphne was so caught up in the merry music that she was startled by the sound of the earl’s voice.
“My leg is in need of a stretch,” he said, standing. “Might I prevail upon one of you lovely ladies to stroll through the gardens with me?”
This was her chance, and yet she didn’t wish to appear too eager.
“I should stay close by and wait for Olivia,” Rose said.
Daphne let out the breath she’d been holding. “I’d be delighted to see more of the beautiful scenery, if you’re sure you don’t mind, Rose.”
“Not at all. I could listen to this orchestra all night.”
“I’m sure Averill and Lady Olivia will return soon,” said Lord Biltmore. “We shall join you on the trails then. We’ll want to secure a prime spot for watching the fireworks later.”
“Quite right. Shall we, Miss Honeycote?”
Lord Foxburn might have been a little less abrupt, but Lord Biltmore was no doubt used to the earl’s abrasive manner. Daphne took the arm he offered and gave Rose a reassuring smile as they wandered down a pebbled path, away from the music and the crowds.
When they were relatively alone, Daphne said, “Thank you for arranging this. You must have gone to a great deal of trouble.”
“Indeed. Walking with a pretty young woman in Vauxhall Gardens is a great sacrifice, I assure you. You look especially lovely this evening, by the way.”
She checked his expression to be sure he was not mocking her. He was not the type of gentleman who handed out compliments freely. Or ever. “Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “What would you like to know? I shall attempt to answer your questions as completely and honestly as I can.”
“Who is the artist?”
“A family friend, Thomas Slate. Both of our mothers are widows and pooled what few resources they had in order to see that Thomas, Anabelle, and I had food in our bellies and a roof over our heads. The three of us were often thrown together, and when Thomas grew tired of sketching the chipped vases and ramshackle furniture in our apartments, he began drawing my sister and me. He was quite good.”
“His technique leaves something to be desired. The proportions are off. For example, in the portrait I have, your nose should be slightly higher on your face.”
Daphne blinked. She supposed she should have been offended, but he stated his opinion so matter-of-factly that she couldn’t summon indignation. “I thought you liked the portrait.”
“I do. In spite of the fact that it lacks technical merit.”
“And yet you were able to identify me as the subject almost immediately. Were you bluffing, then, when you claimed you knew it was me?”
“Oh, I knew it was you. Your friend may not have the best eye for scale, but he captured your essence beautifully, as only a good friend—or a lover—could.”
Daphne stopped in her tracks and whirled to face him. “What are you implying, my lord?”
“That this Thomas person was either an intimate friend or your lover. He would have to have been in order to paint you with that kind of clarity and truth.”
He was trying to provoke her, and for that reason alone, she refused to be baited. Let him think what he liked.
They began walking again, winding their way down a narrow path lined with thick hedges. Lamps hung from festoons in tree branches, swaying in the night breeze like tremulous stars. He steered her to a bench in a little alcove formed by a semicircle of dense shrubbery, and they sat, admiring the softly gurgling fountain in the small clearing in front of them.
Daphne reminded herself of the business at hand. “So you will concede that Thomas is talented, then.”
Lord Foxburn inclined his head noncommittally. “I admire his work.”
Heat crept up her neck, dash it all. “He is the person I was waiting for at Gunter’s.”
The muscles in his forearm flexed beneath her hand. “Ah, yes. The gentleman who left you standing in the rain.”
“It wasn’t his fault. I discovered the next day that he’s on the Continent having a grand tour.”
The earl seemed to consider this. “Who did he paint the portraits for? Does he have a patron?”
“A country squire commissioned most of his work, including the portraits of me. I don’t know much about him. Thomas said he wasn’t fond of town life and spent most of his time rusticating in the country.”
Lord Foxburn grunted.
“What?” she demanded.
“It sounds like the sort of thing a scheming artist would say to conv
ince a young woman to pose for a scandalous painting.”
Daphne bristled. “Thomas isn’t like that—he didn’t coerce me in the slightest. You must think me quite dimwitted if you imagine that I would allow myself to be manipulated or taken advantage of so easily.”
The earl’s eyes flashed with interest and… something else. Perhaps respect. “Why don’t you tell me the real story, Miss Honeycote. Why did you do it?”
Chapter Seven
Tint: (1) Any color or hue that is mixed with white. (2) A pale, delicate color, as in Her skin, smooth as cream, had the tint of a ripe peach.
This was the moment Ben had been waiting for, the reason he had arranged the entire evening. He needed to understand why Miss Honeycote had risked her reputation—the only thing she’d really had. But mostly he needed to understand her. To be close to her light for a while.
The lanterns above lent a soft glow to the Eden-like setting. Her cheeks had turned a lovely shade of pink.
“It’s quite simple.” She flicked her tongue over her lips as though it were anything but. “My mother was sick—dying, actually. For months on end she suffered from raging fevers and violent coughing attacks. I’ll never forget how pale and thin her face looked as she lay in bed. Her skin was like white parchment stretched over bone.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
She paused for a moment, and when she resumed her story, her voice was clear and strong. “Anabelle and I believed Mama had consumption. The doctor prescribed various vapors and medicines to restore her lungs and keep her comfortable. He was expensive, and so was the medicine. My sister was working twelve-hour days as a seamstress to try to raise the money we needed. I did the occasional mending, but my priority was caring for Mama. The money I made from the portraits… well, it was my contribution.”
As Ben imagined Daphne’s desperation and worry for her mother, his chest tightened. But the angle at which she held her chin told him she didn’t want pity. “What does your sister think about your current dilemma?”
She grasped his wrist and locked her gaze with his. “She knows nothing about the paintings, and she mustn’t find out.”