Amelia shifted on the mattress. Guilt pierced her chest. She should tell Eliza about her clandestine visits to paint Brandon’s portrait and a copy of the Cuyp landscape. She’d never lied to her sister before. They’d been comrades in deception for years after their father had left. Three young, unmarried women would have faced tremendous prejudice as proprietors of a business. In order to survive, Eliza had reinvented herself as a widow. It had been ingenious and courageous.
So how could she keep her nighttime activities secret from Eliza now?
Because she wouldn’t understand.
Eliza was a businesswoman at heart. She wasn’t an artist. She’d never experienced the creative thrill of the brushstroke or the magic of watercolors or oils on canvas. She’d never spent hours laboring over a painting overwhelmed by hard work but refusing to rest until her vision was complete. She’d never been obsessed with every stroke, which could feel as difficult as lifting a mountain or as thrilling as floating on wispy clouds. It was joy. It was agony.
It was art.
Amelia could simply tell Eliza that she missed painting. But her sister knew that Amelia continued to paint for herself. The truth was she missed painting for a purpose. For years she’d sold her work at their print shop. Granted she’d used false names when she’d signed her paintings, and the people who’d purchased her work had believed the artist was male.
But she’d sold her artwork.
The validation meant her art was worth something and not just a female’s passing fancy or hobby. And most importantly, she’d helped the family put food on the table and coal in the grate. It had all been one step closer to having her own art exhibition and displaying her artwork of London’s poor. Marriage would cripple her dreams. Only as a spinster could she keep her freedom and pursue her heart’s desire.
“After tonight’s musical debacle, I believe the dowager and duchess seek a match between Lord Vale and Lady Minerva,” Eliza said.
Amelia looked at her sister in surprise. She wasn’t expecting the news. She knew Minerva was enamored of Lord Vale, but she didn’t realize both families wanted a match.
“I see,” Amelia muttered.
Eliza kissed Amelia’s cheek and went to the door. “Don’t fret, Amelia. All is not lost. There will be plenty of available gentlemen when we return to London.”
Amelia stared at the door after her sister departed, her thoughts turning in her mind.
Eliza’s statement didn’t make sense. The duchess and dowager may seek a match, but Brandon didn’t seem overly interested in Lady Minerva. If anything, he’d looked annoyed by her constant attention on the archery field. He hadn’t jumped at her request for a private garden tour. Instead he’d offered to take all the ladies.
The only female he’d shown interest in was Amelia herself.
Was she mistaken?
Nothing could come of it. She was his guest during the day and his employee at night. If she were smart, she would wish him and Lady Minerva well. She needed to think of her future—her art and her goals. Not about a troubled earl with enigmatic green eyes.
Chapter Fourteen
Amelia stood before her easel and pretended to paint while her thoughts warred between attraction and resistance.
“Is something amiss?” Brandon asked her as he held his usual pose against the desk.
She set down her brush, which hadn’t been doing her much good this evening, and bit her lower lip. “I came close to having my sister discover our arrangement tonight.”
“Chloe?”
“No. Eliza. She walked into my bedchamber just as I reached for the latch to open the passageway.”
Brandon frowned. “Huntingdon would have my head if he knew.”
“He still doesn’t know?” The earls were close friends, and she’d assumed they had talked by now and Huntingdon knew she was painting in secret.
“He knows that my grandmother wants my portrait painted to add to Rosehill’s portrait gallery. When I’d mentioned hiring you, he protested quite vehemently. I can’t say I blame him. After all, he’s your brother-in-law and he wants to please his countess.”
Amelia rolled her eyes. “Eliza is determined that Chloe and I find good marital matches. She’s wanted it for some time, but now that she’s married and we’re no longer consumed with running the print shop, it has become her mission.”
His stare was intense. “Is that what you want?”
She shrugged and looked away. “Marriage has never been important to me, but I don’t want to upset my sister.”
“You’d mislead your sister just to please her?”
She straightened and turned back to him. “You misunderstand. I love my sister. I also owe her more than I can every repay. If not for her quick thinking and clever business dealings, Chloe and I would be in the gutter. You’re aware of our father’s crimes. He was a master liar. An impeccable forger. Any deception Eliza and I have performed in the past was to survive. But I’ve never lied to her.”
He pushed away from the desk and stood before her. His steady gaze bore into her in silent expectation. “I’m sorry. I should have considered your loyalty to your sister. Do you regret our arrangement, then?”
She hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. “No. I want to do this. I enjoy my work.”
She had initially told herself it was because she desired art lessons, but deep down there was another reason. She wanted to paint him—had wanted to capture his image on canvas the first time she’d seen him stroll across Huntingdon’s gardens.
“You paint on your own. My sister Helen was thrilled with your picturesque landscape.”
Amelia had completed the painting and given it to Helen. “The painting was a gift. I only paint for myself now. I no longer need to sell my work to buy food and pay the rent.”
“Huntingdon told me you never signed your work with your real name.”
“It’s true. I used false male names. Works from unknown female artists were difficult to sell, and when they did sell, they went for much less than those from their male counterparts.”
He grinned. “You want to be acknowledged.”
“Is that so surprising? I have always longed to be acknowledged by having my own art exhibition. But I’d display very different pieces than what you’ve seen in the print shop.”
“Such as?”
“The still-life paintings and landscapes you saw at the print shop were what our customers desired to purchase for their parlors and sitting rooms. I didn’t mind catering to their fancies to make a sale, but it’s not my true calling as an artist.” She hesitated, taking a deep breath and gathering the courage to reveal her dreams. “I want to paint the neglected people of London—the struggling laborer and the impoverished. Those who have no voice, no justice, and little hope for a better future.”
“Why? Tell me.” The command was soft, but firm.
The pit of her stomach churned as memories returned in force. “We lived in St. Giles for four months after our father left. I’d often watch them through the small window of our lodgings with a sketchbook in my lap. The lucky ones would head to work at dawn and toil until well past sunset. Others were a nameless, faceless mass, and each day was a struggle to survive. I’d see an old, blind man with a battlefield of wrinkles on the street corner begging for a shilling a day. Or a gaunt mother who sacrificed too many meals to feed her young children. I watched their faces and I captured them with charcoal on paper. We didn’t spend much time there, but all the while I was thankful we escaped. But for the grace of God, it could have been us.”
He stood stock-still as she spoke, an unreadable expression on his face.
“It took me a while to determine my life’s purpose. I often asked myself why I was given this talent. Then one day as I was looking out the dirt-streaked window to the street below it struck me. I must use my art to show the plight of the poor. To use my God-given gift to give them a voice.”
“Fascinating. I think it’s a very admirable goa
l.”
Her breath seemed to have solidified in her throat. She hadn’t been certain of his reaction and had been more tense than she’d realized. Most members of the beau monde would be repulsed to learn she’d spent time in the slums. Others would give her and her sisters the cut direct, a sure sign of social transgression.
But not Brandon. He thought her goals admirable.
“You must favor your mother,” he said.
She understood. Her father had no sympathy for the deprived. He had been greedy and coldhearted and had only cared about the weight of gold in his pockets.
“My mother died of pneumonia when I was five. I don’t want to be known as the daughter of the forger of the ton. I want to be known as Miss Amelia Somerton, an artist in my own right.”
“I have no problem buying a piece of art legitimately signed by you,” he said.
A warm glow flowed through her. His admission meant more to her than praise from any art critic. Could he be different?
He motioned to his desk. “Shall I return to my pose?”
She glanced at the canvas, then up at him. “It’s not necessary. I’m painting the background for now.”
She picked up her brush and returned to her work. She tried to concentrate, but found it difficult. Her thoughts kept returning to Brandon and how he hadn’t shunned her goals, or poked fun at her, or thought she was cracked. He’d understood. She stared at the painting before her and tried to focus. She needed to complete this section of canvas tonight to stay on schedule.
Her only consolation was that he appeared as distracted as she did.
He walked to the fire and studied the ormolu mantle clock. He picked up her sketchbook from the floor and placed it on an end table. Moving to his desk, he shuffled stacks of papers into small piles, his brow furrowed.
“Something is on your mind,” she said.
He dropped the papers and looked up. “It’s nothing.”
“You asked me a question, and I was truthful.”
Something flickered in the depths of his eyes. Something deep and tormented, but it was gone so quickly she thought it a quirk of the candlelight. He was silent for several heartbeats, and she thought he wouldn’t answer.
She’d suspected he was troubled the last time she had worked in his study. She hadn’t asked him about it then, but he’d kissed her and all rational thought had fled. She stood poised with her brush in her hand, unsure whether to return to her work when he finally spoke.
“My father was a drunkard.” His voice was low and troubled.
“Pardon?” It was not the answer she’d expected.
“Your father wasn’t the only disappointment. Mine was a sodden fool and a terrible businessman. An idiot businessman to be precise.”
Oh my. “He didn’t abandon you, did he?”
Brandon’s eyes glinted green fire. “No. But we would have been better off if he had.” He came from around the desk and folded his arms across his chest. “The old earl drank, but instead of coming home and collapsing in his valet’s care like any self-respecting gentleman, he purchased businesses. Bad businesses. Economic failures. He purchased failing mines for coal, copper, and tin, a dress shop that had suffered a fire resulting in every garment and bolt of cloth stinking of smoke, and invested heavily in a doomed shipping company with ships that had been attacked by pirates in the Caribbean. There are half a dozen more. Then there are his gambling debts. He lost thousands of pounds at the gambling hells. Over the course of the past year, I’ve worked hard to salvage the businesses I could, pay off his loans, and satisfy his creditors.”
“I’m sorry. That’s sounds like quite a burden. You should be proud of your accomplishments. Most men would call them all losses and lick their financial wounds by asking rich relatives for aid.” She tilted her head to the side and regarded him. “But there’s more, isn’t there? Something else is troubling you.”
His eyes narrowed. “You have an uncanny ability to see beneath the surface. I don’t know if I admire it or fear it.”
She lifted her chin. “I’m an artist. I know how to look beneath the veneer to find my true subject. If you’ve reinvigorated those businesses, then what else is troubling you?”
He sighed and went to a sideboard and poured himself a drink. “I’m afraid I don’t have wine in my study, only stronger spirits. Would you like a drink?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He poured out two fingers and handed her the glass. She took a sip. The potent alcohol burned her throat all the way down, and she sputtered and coughed. “What is this?”
“Good Scotch whiskey. My father’s favorite stash. He may have been mindless in business, but he had expensive taste when it came to his liquor.” He took a swallow and candlelight glinted off the cut crystal. “You’re right. I am troubled. There’s one more business, a large textile mill that’s done nothing but cause me headaches.”
She lowered her glass. “Go on,” she urged.
“It makes no sense, really. On paper, the mill should be a successful and profitable business. Something even I would invest in.”
“But all is not well?”
He took another sip. “The mill is an economic disaster. Equipment keeps breaking down unexpectedly and the previous manager was incompetent. I was also appalled to discover the enterprise dependent on child labor. I resolved the management problem immediately as well as the child labor issue, but the faulty equipment remains a thorn in my side.”
Amelia was well aware that many factories employed children. During their stay in St. Giles, and even after, when they ran the print shop on Brutton Street, she’d witnessed firsthand the droves of children dressed in worn corduroy jackets and threadbare dresses, their complexions sickly from the unhealthy factory air, heading to work each morning.
“How did you deal with the child labor?” she asked.
“I hired a new manager and told him to eliminate it.”
“To stop the children from working in the mill completely?”
“Yes.”
It was an admirable goal that she respected, but she also suspected that it would not go over very well. Poor families depended on every member working in order to survive. She didn’t like it, but she understood it.
“Tell me about the failing equipment.”
“It makes no sense,” he said, his voice low and troubled. “Some wear and tear is expected with power looms and spinning jennies. But for certain equipment to have repeated failures is troubling.”
“I’d like to see the mill.” It was a chance to observe the daily working conditions of factory workers, something she’d never had the opportunity to see in the past. She’d study every detail so that she could paint the scenes afterward.
His expression darkened. “A textile mill is no place for a lady.”
She wondered why he objected so fiercely. Was he shocked by the mill’s conditions? He needn’t worry. She wasn’t a fragile female. She’d worked for years.
“You forget that I’m made of sterner stuff than the ladies you are accustomed to. I’ve observed much worse, remember?” she said.
“Forgive me. You’re right. It’s just that my visit did not go as pleasantly as I would have liked.” He ran his hand through his hair. She watched, fascinated, as the dark strands combed through his fingers. “Well, there you have it. I inherited the title along with a pile of debt. It’s enough to make anyone tense.”
She was struck by the extent of his troubles. He may be fortunate enough to inherit an earldom and all the benefits that came along with the title, but many people depended on him for their livelihood. His family, the multitude of servants at his London mansion and his country estate, his tenants who farmed the land, and now all the employees of his businesses, including the families that worked at the mill.
It was overwhelming.
“Are your sisters and the dowager aware of the state of things?” she asked.
“They know my father was a drunken entrepreneur, but they ha
ve no idea of the debt he left behind. Only my grandmother suspects. The old earl was her son.”
“You should take them into your confidence. Caroline has shown an interest in business. She was fascinated when I told her about the print shop.”
“Gentlemen don’t discuss business with ladies,” he argued.
She scowled at him. “You’re discussing it with me.”
He arched a dark eyebrow. “I suppose I am. The truth is I feel relieved to talk about it.”
She had a ridiculous urge to smooth his brow. She sipped her drink instead. The potent whiskey went down easier now and warmed her blood.
“There’s an easy solution to your dilemma,” she said. “You are not the only gentleman to inherit debt. You need both to gain capital and to sire an heir to the earldom. Wouldn’t a wealthy heiress solve the two problems together?” She spoke half in jest and half in earnest.
He shook his head regretfully. She watched the play of emotions on his face—guilt and remorse?—before he looked away. A heaviness centered in her chest. Her words of advice may have escaped unthinkingly, but it was clear that he’d already considered the idea.
Eliza’s words came back to her: I believe the dowager and duchess seek a match between Lord Vale and Lady Minerva.
Amelia felt an instant’s squeezing hurt. Don’t be foolish! He’s an earl and you are a forger’s daughter. He had promised her nothing but lessons from an art master in exchange for her work. She wasn’t a duke’s daughter. She didn’t have a large dowry or impeccable breeding to offer.
Only her heart and passion on canvas.
The trouble was that by sharing his burdens she felt closer to him and more emotionally connected when she instead should have been protecting her heart.
She kept her features deceptively composed. “I’m almost finished with what I want to accomplish tonight.”
“Of course.”
She picked up her brush and went back to her task. She worked quickly now, her brushstrokes light and purposeful. He sat behind his desk and read his papers as she painted. Nearly an hour passed in silence, save for the tick of the mantle clock.
Real Earls Break the Rules (Infamous Somertons) Page 11