by Jo Goodman
“That is when you assumed his responsibilities.”
“Yes.”
“You are compensated for your services?” Restell did not miss her surprise at this notion. Clearly she had not considered such an arrangement and apparently her uncle had not suggested it. “Mother says it is beyond vulgar when I broach the subject of money, so I beg your forgiveness if I have offended you, but clearly you are engaged in the same enterprise that put coin in Mr. Johnston’s pocket. It cannot be outside all expectation that you might be reimbursed for your efforts.”
“I should very much like to make the acquaintance of your mother, Mr. Gardner. She seems an infinitely sensible woman.”
“She certainly takes pains to remind me.”
Emma could not help but smile at his wry tone. She went on to explain, “I am not compensated for what assistance I lend my uncle. I do it gladly, and I am given food and shelter and an allowance sufficient for my needs. I am in no way neglected.”
“You are the poor relation, then.”
Unoffended by this characterization, Emma’s slight smile deepened. Hadn’t she said the same to him upon their initial meeting? She could hardly take exception. “Like you, Mr. Gardner. It is a position we share in our respective families.”
Restell nodded slowly as he considered the import of her observation. He felt no obligation to correct her. “So it would appear, Miss Hathaway. Have you a need to marry for money?”
Emma’s dark eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. “Do you never temper your tongue, Mr. Gardner?”
“To what purpose?”
“Civility.”
What Restell did not try to do was temper his amusement. His grin was deep and hinted at the wickedness of his thoughts. In contrast, the dimples that appeared on either side of his mouth made him seem wholly innocent. His laughter was short and sharp, entirely robust and unrestrained.
“You have no use for observing proprieties?” Emma asked rather more sharply than she intended. “Or are you laughing at me?”
Restell reined himself in. “I have the greatest respect for you.”
Emma supposed that answered her question. It was his regard for socially correct behavior that was suspect.
“You have not answered my question,” he said. “I am noticing that you have a talent for turning me from the end I have in mind.”
“It is a talent apparently in need of refinement. You are like a dog with a bone.”
“You flatter me.”
Emma sighed. He was perfectly intractable. “I have no need to marry at all, Mr. Gardner. My uncle is content to have me under his roof. I am given to understand that upon his death he will settle his fortune upon his daughter, but l expect to have a comfortable living.”
“But not so much that you will become the target of fortune hunters.”
“Goodness, no.” She chuckled at the thought of it. “There is nothing about that prospect that is appealing.”
“There is something to be said for being the poor relation,” Restell told her. “At least I have always thought so.”
“That view does seem to explain why you choose to accept favors for your services rather than expect remuneration.”
Restell’s small smile saluted her perspicacity. “Do you have occasion to see Mr. Johnston?”
Emma wondered what sort of partner Mr. Gardner would be in the waltz. She credited herself with being an accomplished dancer but in this particular milieu she was incapable of following his lead. More than once she felt as if she’d trod upon her own toes in an effort to keep up. “Mr. Johnston was able to secure a position as a clerk with the firm of Napier and Walpole. They underwrite business ventures, similar to Lloyd’s.”
“I am familiar. The firm is almost as revered as Lloyd’s. It is somewhat surprising that Mr. Johnston was able to find employment there, given the fact that Sir Arthur supplied no character.”
“My uncle is not vindictive, Mr. Gardner. He did not oppose Mr. Johnston’s efforts to seek another position. He expressed some concerns when he learned that Mr. Johnston would be working for the insurers, but he believed, rightly I think, that there would be such an examination of his work that there would be no opportunity for embezzlement.”
“So no one, in fact, informed Napier and Walpole that they were employing a thief.”
“No.” She regarded him with sudden alarm. “You would not take it upon yourself to—”
Restell shook his head. “I would not. It is most assuredly not my place.” He saw that her relief was palpable. “I imagine his current wages are not what they were in your uncle’s employ.”
“I don’t know,” Emma said. “It is likely you’re right.”
“Does he have a family?”
“His wife and his father.”
“Can you conceive that he might be the sort of man to be moved to an act of vengeance?”
“Vengeance? Mr. Johnston? No, it is not possible.” She considered why he was posing the question. “Are you suggesting that he might be responsible for abducting me?”
“I do not recall suggesting anything. Did it seem that way? I believe I asked if you could conceive of spiteful behavior in the man.”
“Mr. Gardner, I can hardly conceive that he is guilty of theft. That he would act on a plan of revenge, or even entertain the notion, is quite outside my comprehension.”
“That is all I wondered, Miss Hathaway. You might have simply said so.”
Emma felt a measure of heat rise in her cheeks. She drew herself up, holding the sketches in front of her, and refused to look away from his implacable stare as if she’d committed a transgression. “Do you intend to pursue these same questions with my uncle and cousin?”
“With your uncle, your cousin, Mr. Charters, and most likely, with Mr. Johnston. I have many more questions for them. Didn’t I say there would have to be a full accounting?”
Emma sat down abruptly on the stool behind her. “I never thought…” Her voice trailed off.
“It is frequently thus,” Restell said sympathetically. “People rarely can comprehend the full consequences of applying for protection.”
“Are you persuaded that what happened to me was not a random act?”
His voice was gentle. “I think you know it was not.”
Emma’s shoulders sagged. She expelled a puff of air between her lips that completed her deflation. “Was I the intended victim, Mr. Gardner? Or mistaken for Marisol?”
“I have not yet been able to determine that. There is still much to be answered, but it seems—” He stopped because he heard the creak of the door at the bottom of the stairwell. He had been careful to close it before he followed Emma to the studio, and now it was being opened.
“Emmalyn? Are you up there?”
Emma came to her feet. “It’s Marisol,” she told him. More loudly, she announced herself to her cousin. “I’m still here. I am discussing Sir Arthur’s paintings with our guest.” She heard Marisol’s quiet tread on the steps before she’d finished speaking.
Restell turned in Marisol’s direction just as she reached the top of the stairs. He made a slight bow and awaited the inevitable introduction. Marisol, he noted, appeared to be trying to recall where she might have encountered him. As he had not tried to avoid being seen at Lady Claremont’s affair, he was not troubled that he had attracted her notice. In truth, he was more surprised that it might be so. It was his judgment that Marisol Vega saw little that was beyond the length of her own nose.
“Mr. Gardner, allow me to introduce my cousin, Miss Marisol Vega. Marisol, this is Mr. Gardner, your father’s visitor. He has come to inquire about one of Sir Arthur’s recent paintings.”
Restell did not correct Emma’s explanation of his purpose. It was true enough, but did not encompass the whole. “A pleasure, Miss Vega.”
“Mr. Gardner.” She glanced at Emma. “Father sent me to find you.”
Emma doubted that. It was much more likely that Sir Arthur had instructed a servan
t to do that task, and Marisol had offered her services instead. What her intention might be, Emma could not divine.
“I fear I have kept you overlong, Miss Hathaway. Are we settled on the sketches?”
“You truly want them?”
“I do.”
Marisol walked over to the table and held out her hand to Emma. “Those sketches?” she asked. “Allow me to see.”
Restell did not miss Emma’s infinitesimal hesitation. He understood her reluctance as caution when he observed how Marisol held the drawings without regard for the placement of her fingertips. She seemed to have no awareness that she might smudge the sketches or curl the paper. He was tempted to take them from her hands himself but feared she would shred the paper with her nails, so tight was her grip.
“I do not understand, Mr. Gardner,” Marisol said. She flicked her thumbnail across the upper corners of the papers to separate them. “These are singularly dull. Pencil renderings only. Do they not beg for the application of watercolor?”
Restell picked up the sketches the moment Marisol let them slip out of her fingers and drift to the tabletop. “I could not say whether watercolor would improve the look of them. I have no expertise in matters of art, so I purchase such pieces that interest me. These interest me, Miss Vega.”
She sighed so deeply that a wayward strand of curling, ebony hair fluttered at her forehead. “As you wish, but I think it would benefit you to speak to my betrothed before you are seized by another impulse. Mr. Charters is completely agreeable to sharing his views on the essence of art. He is accounted to be an expert, you know.”
“While your father merely creates it.” He offered this with no trace of the irony it suggested.
“Well, of course there is that,” Marisol said blithely. Her gaze swiveled sideways to Emma. “What is your opinion of the sketches?”
“I don’t believe I’ve formed one.”
“No, you would not, would you? You must needs sell everything my father has done, even when such a sale might cast a shadow on the whole of his work. Neven advises the exercise of prudence when putting new pieces before the public.”
“Marisol,” Emma said, her tone gently chiding. “Your father directed me to show Mr. Gardner these sketches as well as an early, and only partially complete, painting of the fishing village. It is possible that he is willing to part with them.”
“He is the artist,” Marisol said. “Not the expert. Did you not hear Mr. Gardner agree with me on that very point? Naturally Father wants his work to be seen, but you cannot always indulge him. It does not serve, Emmalyn.”
Diverted, and in anticipation of blood sport, Restell’s eyes darted between the combatants. Knowing he was of two minds, he wondered if he could trust his own judgment. While throttling Marisol Vega had a certain appeal, he believed it would ultimately be less satisfying than kissing her cousin.
Chapter 4
Sir Arthur did not rise to his feet when Marisol, Emmalyn, and Mr. Gardner returned to the library. He was comfortably ensconced in an oversized armchair—dwarfed by it, really—and had no desire to remove his aching legs from the hassock on which they rested.
“So you are come at last,” he said by way of greeting them. “I hope, Mr. Gardner, that my niece did not insist you look at every piece in the studio. She is perhaps too ardent in her approval of my work.”
Marisol went directly to her father and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Emmalyn does indeed admire your talent, Father, but offers no more praise for it than is your due. Look, she has encouraged Mr. Gardner to consider the purchase of your fishing village pencil drawings.”
Restell was much impressed by Marisol’s tactics. She and Emmalyn had been unable to resolve their differences of opinion in the studio. The verbal sparring had simply ended when Emmalyn refused to engage her cousin by defending her own position. Once Marisol realized she’d had the last word, she turned on her heel and started down the stairs, supremely confident that she would be followed.
She was…eventually. Restell did not make to exit until he observed that Emmalyn had composed herself. That she was embarrassed by her cousin’s behavior was evident in the color in her cheeks and the hitch in her breathing as she tried to calm it. He had considered telling Emmalyn that she was not responsible for Marisol’s impolitic attempts to discourage the sale of the sketches, and hadn’t she, in fact, tried earlier to dissuade him of the same? He elected to keep his own counsel. His experience with the women in his own family suggested this was the wiser course. Females did not seem to appreciate the interjection of logic and reason into their emotional arguments. On the one occasion he pointed this out to his mother and sisters, they turned on him.
A hint of a smile crossed his features as that memory came back to him. He almost missed Sir Arthur’s inquiry. “I am quite taken with these sketches,” Restell said, holding them out to the artist. “Miss Hathaway was uncertain if you would have need of them.”
Sir Arthur accepted the drawings and studied each one for several long moments before passing them back to Restell. His fine, aristocratic features were set with a certain wistfulness as he explained, “I had entertained the notion of painting the village on a much larger canvas. It would have been a self-indulgent exercise as there is no interest among my patrons for a painting of the dimensions I envisioned.”
“Then it was not a series of paintings you meant to do,” Restell said, glancing at the drawings. “But one.”
Sir Arthur nodded. “It speaks to my dissatisfaction with the finished work. Mayhap Emmalyn told you.”
“She did.”
Marisol moved to stand behind her father’s chair and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Neven’s advice was sound, Father. The painting would not have sold, and you would have been heartsick that it was not well-received. How you would have disliked seeing it sitting in the studio day after day. I shouldn’t wonder that you would eventually be moved to pitch it from the balcony where it would fall on the head of some hapless gentleman and strike him down. The trial would be scandal, and although you would plead that a fit of artistic temperament prompted your action, you would nevertheless be transported to Van Diemen’s Land. I would be inconsolable, and Emmalyn very nearly so. Neven might very well decide he cannot marry me. A gentleman does not, you know, often choose to marry the daughter of a murderer.”
Sir Arthur’s bright blue eyes, so like his daughter’s, revealed his tempered amusement. “You quite make me believe it would happen thus.” He reached up to his shoulder and patted one of Marisol’s hands. “Certain tragedy has been averted. Would you not agree, Mr. Gardner?”
“I can find no fault with Miss Vega’s exposition.”
“I am accounted to be the artist in the family, but I daresay that it is Marisol who paints the more colorful and dramatic pictures.”
Marisol gave her father’s shoulders a squeeze. “You know I do not paint at all, so have off with your pretty compliments.”
Restell observed Sir Arthur shared an indulgent, almost helpless, smile with Emma when Marisol failed to understand the import of his words. Clearly Marisol was the victim of her father’s lowered expectations. The surge of pity Restell felt for her caught him unaware. He ruthlessly suppressed it but understood he would have to consider what it meant later. It was the sort of emotion, he’d found, that made him vulnerable.
“Am I to be permitted, then, to purchase these sketches?” Restell asked.
“Of course,” Sir Arthur said. “I would make you a gift of them, but my niece will not allow it. Is that not correct, Emmalyn?”
“Someone must protect you against these moments of impulsive generosity,” Emma said. “But before I arrange the sale, Uncle, I would be remiss if I did not tell you that Mr. Gardner’s interest in your work is not all that brought him here today. You must listen to him first and then decide if you want him to have your drawings.”
Sir Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Is that so, Mr. Gardner?” He brushed his daughter’s
hands aside as he sat up straighter. His feet remained supported by the hassock, but his bearing had become more formal. “What is it that Emmalyn knows that I do not?”
Restell placed the drawings on a walnut end table. “You recall, do you not, that Miss Hathaway explained that she and I are previously acquainted?”
“Yes, yes, what about it?”
Sir Arthur’s query was made almost inaudible by Marisol’s exclamatory response. “Oh, there is to be a proposal! That is it, isn’t it? There has been an affair conducted entirely in secret, and now there must be a proposal. Emmalyn, you are a sly boots.”
“Marisol!” It was Sir Arthur, not Emmalyn, who intoned her name as a chastisement. After a moment, in more agreeable tones, he said, “Will you not ring for refreshment? Unless I have misjudged the situation even more than you, I suspect it would be welcome.”
Behind her father’s back, Marisol pressed her lips together. The thin white line spoke eloquently of her annoyance, but she honored his request.
Sir Arthur indicated the sofa opposite his chair. “Please, Mr. Gardner. Emmalyn. Be seated. Marisol, you will bring a chair from the window and place it beside me.” His gaze moved between Emmalyn and Restell, his expression merely thoughtful, not judgmental. “What is there to tell me?” he asked before Marisol joined them. “I think I should like to hear from you first, Emmalyn.”