Trevor’s face twisted as he stood beside me, gazing up at the scene captured on canvas. “I don’t care if they are a duke’s children, there’s no way they all posed like that. Not even for a second.”
I smiled. In my portraits of children, I preferred to capture them as they were—boisterous or shy, mischievous or uncertain. Of course, all art was in some ways an artifice, for no one wanted their offspring forever immortalized while screaming, or sulking, or even drooling. But to remove all expression from them extinguished the spark of life and light that shone inside them.
I found myself wondering if Lawrence was one of the artists who had displeased the duchess by painting her not from reality, but rather from what he fancied she wished herself to be. That had been one of her stipulations when she commissioned me to paint her portrait. She insisted she wanted absolute truth, not flattery.
In all honesty, I didn’t know why Lawrence, or any of the other artists who had previously painted the duchess, would have even felt the need to resort to such sycophancy. The duchess might be almost sixty years old, she might sport a few wrinkles, but she was still undeniably lovely. My fingers twitched with the urge to paint her aging beauty nearly every time I saw her. To capture her puckish grin and lively eyes, the twinkle of a secret lurking in their depths, had thus far been an agreeable challenge.
I sighed. But one that would now have to wait until my shoulder healed and she was cleared of suspicion.
The door leading to the corridor opened to admit the duchess, swathed in an elegant kimono-type garment of rich red and midnight blue silk, with a shawl collar and decorative scarf. She clutched her small white dog under one arm. The terrier began to yap at the sight of me until the duchess tapped him on the nose, admonishing him to be silent.
“My dear Lady Darby,” she exclaimed, hastening toward me. “I hope your husband conveyed how terribly sorry I am that this should have happened.” She pressed her other hand to her chest. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am that you haven’t suffered any irreparable harm.” Her distressed gaze dipped to my abdomen, leaving no doubt she was speaking foremost about the child.
I offered her a tight smile. “Thank you. Though I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little while longer for your portrait,” I added, tipping my head toward the arm and shoulder cradled by a sling. The bandage still wrapped around my shoulder peeked out from the scooped neckline of my emerald green gown with its gold leaf print.
“Do not concern yourself for another minute about that.” She waved her hand airily. “What is another few weeks’ delay? It’s more important that you should take care of yourself. After all, I’m the one who went running off to Scotland, postponing its completion in the first place.”
Her gaze trailed over my shoulder. “Marie, yes, take him, will you?” she told her maid, who I hadn’t realized was standing in the entrance to what was likely Her Grace’s boudoir. “He will need a walk, if it can be managed in this weather.”
Marie hurried forward to take the dog, murmuring to him as they exited the way she’d entered.
Then the duchess turned to greet my brother before clasping her hands before her. “Shall I ring for tea?”
I declined, before glancing at my brother. “But perhaps you could allow us a bit of privacy.” What I needed to discuss with the duchess would be awkward enough without having an audience.
“Of course,” he replied, apparently having no qualms about leaving me alone with the duchess. “The library is just across the hall, is it not? I’ll wait for you there.”
He bowed himself out of our presence, closing the door softly behind him.
The duchess’s expression softened with regard. “Your family’s care for you does them credit.”
“It does. Though I’m afraid I don’t always properly appreciate it,” I admitted as she led me toward an oval-shaped sofa near the hearth—close enough to enjoy the fire crackling within, but not so close as to singe one’s toes.
She chuckled. “Yes, Eleanor often chafes under her brothers’ protectiveness as well, but it’s to be expected, given she’s one of the youngest and the only girl. I tell her to be thankful for it.” She turned away, tapping the turquoise cushions lightly. “Many women are not so fortunate in their brothers.”
The manner in which she said it made me wonder if she was perhaps speaking of herself.
“All of your children seem to be quite close. And quite close to you,” I said.
“Relative to most people of our rank, yes, I suppose we are.”
“You demur, but there must have been some conscious effort on your part.”
Her eyes glinted with approval. She could speak in inferences and innuendos as well as any member of the ton, but months before I had taken her measure as a woman who preferred to speak plainly. “True. Despite the demands of society, I’ve always tried to give each of my children a portion of my undivided attention. But I suspect a large part of the reason is that they’ve always known that no topic is taboo. In my presence, they can raise any subject, and I will not shush them for the impropriety.” She tipped her head to the side. “Now, the duke is another matter. For all his cavorting and philandering, he is remarkably conformist when it comes to certain things. Much like his mother.”
She leaned toward me to lightly tap my hand where it rested in my lap. “Children need to feel able to voice their concerns and ask their questions, especially as they grow older.” She sank back, her brow puckering. “Secrets are like poison within a family. When people feel they must keep hidden from those they most love the things they have forbidden, then the relationship begins to rot from within.”
She might have been offering me advice, but I could tell she was speaking of her own family. It was there in her abstract gaze and the hollowness of her voice. And as such, I could not let it pass without comment.
“Are your children keeping secrets from you, Your Grace?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The duchess turned to stare at me, her expression conflicted. A series of emotions seemed to flash in her eyes—irritation, hurt, defiance, doubt, and even fear. “I don’t know,” she finally replied, her voice tinged with either confusion or denial.
I gazed back at her silently, waiting for her to elaborate.
But it seemed denial had won the day, for she inhaled swiftly, all but brushing the question aside. “Have you received word yet from your husband’s manservant? I understand he set out for Haddington late Friday.”
“No,” I replied woodenly. “And we don’t expect to hear from him until tomorrow.”
“I suppose it’s unavoidable that the post should be delayed by this weather. Though I trust he arrived safely.”
“Does one of those secrets you spoke of involve the true paternity of your children?” I prodded, refusing to be diverted by my concern for Anderley.
She broke off from whatever she was about to say and turned to glare at me through narrowed eyes.
“Forgive me. I realize it’s impolite to broach such a subject. But given the circumstances, I’m afraid it’s necessary.” When her hard, glittering gaze did not soften, I pressed further. “Everyone has heard the rumors. And two of your children spoke openly to me about the ranks of their fathers.”
This did not seem to surprise her, but if the aggrieved sigh that passed her lips was any indication, it certainly exasperated her. Her mouth pressed into a tight line and she reached up to finger the fringe of the red scarf dangling from the lapels of her gown. “I’m not sure why this matters.” She exhaled again, tipping her head back. “Or why I’m even affronted by your asking the question.” Her cheeks flushed with mild chagrin. “It’s not as if you’re going to run off and sell whatever I tell you to the nearest scandal rag.”
She hesitated a moment longer, her gaze searching mine as if to be certain she had not been mistaken about me. “Yes, my children all know who thei
r fathers are. And Traquair and Richard are most certainly the duke’s. His heir and a spare, if you will.”
Something flickered in her eyes then, and I wondered if she was thinking of the baby Lord Edward had told me she’d lost. The boy who would have been Bowmont’s third son.
Her gaze sharpened. “I trust you don’t need to know the identities of the other four.”
Lady Bearsden’s implications about Lord Henry’s father flitted briefly through my mind, but they were not of tantamount importance at the moment. In any case, I doubted the duchess would tell me, and if I pressed the point, I might risk learning anything.
“Could someone who uncovered the truth attempt to blackmail the family?” I asked, deliberately avoiding an explanation of why such a scheme would be pertinent.
The duchess’s gaze turned cynical, having needed no enlightenment. “Someone like Helmswick?”
Heat rushed up into my cheeks, for the only people at Sunlaws with motive to silence him for such an action would be her and her family, meaning I’d all but accused her to her face. Nevertheless, I refused to withdraw the question.
“The answer is no. I was wed to Bowmont when the children were born, and he has legally claimed them as his own. In the eyes of the law, that makes them Bowmont’s children, and no one can prove otherwise, regardless of any alleged confessions.” She shook her head, her voice turning bitter. “There is nothing to be feared from such accusations except embarrassment. And believe me, we have all endured more than enough. What’s one more?”
I felt a pulse of empathy for the duchess, for the disillusionment of her marriage. I found I couldn’t fault her for trying to find happiness elsewhere once she realized the duke’s true nature, but that had been her choice. As had the fact that her children had five different fathers. I was not going to pity her the results of her dancing from one lover to another.
“Did Helmswick know who your daughter’s father was when he married her?”
“Of course. She didn’t keep the matter secret from him. Not once their relationship became serious.” She frowned. “I sometimes wonder if that might have been part of her appeal.”
She couldn’t mean her daughter’s unorthodox conception, so it must have been the identity of Lady Eleanor’s father. A royal, she had said.
“I understand that Lord Marsdale is quite close to your children.” I eyed the duchess, curious how she would respond. “That at one time there was even some expectation that he and your daughter might wed.”
She sank deeper into the rounded corner of the sofa, her shoulders almost slumping. “Ah, yes. That was my and his mother’s hope.” Her lips curled at the corners. “She was one of my dearest friends. There was a time when we were nigh inseparable.” Her voice trailed away, along with her thoughts. Until a grim cast suddenly tightened her features. “But Norwich never approved of me. And when Lavinia fell ill, bedridden at his moldy pile of stones, he barred me from her presence.” She sighed, the anger that had tinged her voice draining from her. “But that was a long time ago. I hear Norwich isn’t expected to outlive the New Year. And I find I don’t have the will to hold any further grievances on the matter. What’s done is done.”
Which was all well and good, except that wasn’t the information I sought. “Why didn’t Marsdale and Lady Eleanor wed?” I pressed.
She held up a hand forestalling me. “I’m not going to air their past differences. If you wish to know the truth about that, you’ll have to ask them. Just as I’m not going to speculate on their current relationship. Once again, you’ll have to discuss that with them.”
I supposed I couldn’t fault her for not wanting to discuss it. Whatever she did or didn’t know, she had been placed in an unenviable position. But the facts of the matter were that her son-in-law was most likely dead—killed here, at the castle, where her daughter was now carrying on an affair with possibly her first love. I could not overlook those things. Not when the death was so violent, and the concealment of the body indicated it was murder. If I did so now, for her, then what did that say about me? What did that say about all of our past investigations? Did I truly care for truth and justice, or only when it suited me?
“Why did you rush to your daughter’s aid here at Sunlaws?” She opened her mouth to speak, but this time it was my turn to forestall her. “And before you tell me it was because of the cholera, you should know that the dowager duchess told me to tell you that, if you won’t tell me the truth, she will.”
If I’d thought I’d seen the Duchess of Bowmont at her angriest earlier, I was sadly mistaken. Such fury blazed in her coffee brown eyes that I had to fight the urge to shrink away from her.
“Does she, now? Such honor, such integrity,” she sneered. “For all but her daughter-in-law and grandchildren when they ask for her assistance and discretion.” She turned her head aside with a sound of disgust.
Given the fact she’d essentially admitted she hadn’t been entirely honest with me despite promising me she would, I felt little sympathy. Her outrage at her mother-in-law was a bit like the pot calling the kettle black. But I bit my tongue, deciding I would get the truth from her faster if I remained silent.
Her long, elegant fingers drummed the upholstery for several seconds before she begrudgingly began to speak. “Eleanor was . . . unhappy in her marriage. Very unhappy. I’ll spare you the details, but she and Helmswick did not suit. At all.” She exhaled, shaking her head. “I worried about just such a thing before they wed, but she insisted he was the one she wanted. So I didn’t stand in her way. But not two months after their vows were spoken, I could already tell she regretted it.”
She stared down at the rug before her, her brow furrowed. “Helmswick had very . . . particular ideas about how his wife should and shouldn’t behave, and Eleanor could not be that woman. She didn’t want to be that woman, though she was willing to make concessions. However, Helmswick is anything but flexible. He insists on everything being exactly to his liking, and when it’s not, he has a terrific temper.”
“Did he hit her?” I asked, my stomach cramping with dread.
“No. Nothing like that,” she assured me. The look in her eyes told me she understood more about my past than perhaps I would have liked. “No, Helmswick has too much ice in his veins. He doesn’t need to use his fists when his words and will can be even more brutal.” She dipped her head. “Fortunately, he also likes to travel. Often as far as Paris or Rome. So Eleanor is spared his presence for at least part of the year.” Her voice turned droll. “Unfortunately, she has not yet produced society’s requisite spare to the heir she’s already given birth to, and yet she’s chosen to take lovers.”
“Does Helmswick know?”
She paused for one telling second before admitting in a low tone, “Yes. He knows. Or he strongly suspects.” She inhaled a taut breath. “Enough to accuse her of it.”
“When?”
Her gaze when it met mine was wary, but it must have been evident I already knew, for she replied resignedly, “Just before they came here.”
“Is that why she wrote to you? Because her husband was aware of her infidelity?”
“Yes.”
But there was more. There had to be. Or else why would the duchess have departed London so suddenly, racing off to Sunlaws when Helmswick was on his way to Paris and she already intended to see her daughter in less than a fortnight?
“Was he threatening legal action?”
She turned aside to gaze into the hearth.
“Was he threatening to take the children?” I leaned forward anxiously, recalling my conversation with the duchess’s youngest son, Henry.
Her shoulders stiffened, but still she didn’t speak. It was then that I realized.
“She confessed that she wanted to leave him, didn’t she?” I quietly guessed.
The duchess’s face turned pale. “I told her not to be a fool. That all
she needed to do is give Helmswick a spare and surely he must allow her some freedom, so long as she was discreet. But she insisted he never would. That he would never grant her such a concession, no matter how many mistresses he took himself, no matter the normal expectations of society.”
“Was Helmswick religious?”
She scoffed. “Hardly. Unless you’re referring to the worship of himself. But I suppose in that, he’s not so very different from many noblemen. Yet, hypocrites that they are, most of them at least understand they can’t expect their wives to remain faithful to them beyond the birth of their successors when they themselves are so rampantly unfaithful.”
Though I understood why the upper class arranged marriages like they did—to consolidate wealth and secure bloodlines—I was even further from approving of it than I ever had been. It was true, I’d asked my father to arrange my first marriage for me. But only because I did not care to waste my time being put on display in the London marriage market—with little hope of capturing the attention of anyone I found even remotely palatable, given my awkward nature—when I could be spending my time painting. However, time had shown how disastrous a request that had been, given what a horrid husband Sir Anthony Darby had turned out to be.
I’d learned from that mistake, but much of society had not. Not for hundreds of years. Why continue to contract marriages in such a cold manner—one where the two parties might not even enjoy each other’s company—when the results were so unhappy and led to the need to proscribe an unspoken set of rules for acceptable infidelities? Some might call me romantically foolish, but I defied them to discredit the results.
“So she felt leaving him was her only recourse,” I summarized. “Was she content to be forced to leave her children behind?”
“Of course not.”
“Then, how—?”
“She said she’d discovered something about him,” she snapped. “Something she could use to force him to allow her to live separately and continue to see her children.”
A Stroke of Malice Page 23