When she glanced up again, she saw a costermonger pushing his battered wheelbarrow around the corner into Waverton Street. The weathered old man was a regular in the area. Her father had several times lured the fellow away from his barrow to pose for minor characters in large-scale paintings. The costermonger was delighted to be made "forever famous."
She was about to move away from the window when a man turned the corner from Waverton. He caught her attention because of the way he moved. Erect, confident, almost arrogant. Though he wore the garb of a gentleman, his broad, muscular build was that of a laborer. An interesting contradiction.
The fellow hesitated on the corner and glanced down Hill Street. She caught her breath when he turned his head and she saw his face. He wasn't handsome—quite the contrary. His features were harsh, almost brutal, and a thin scar curved across his cheek and into his dark hair. Yet at the same time, he gave an impression of feral intelligence. A pirate in Mayfair. She could not take her eyes off him.
The spell broke when he lowered his head and began walking again. She dropped back onto the window seat and began to draw, her pencil racing to record the man while he was vivid in her mind. A few quick lines caught his physical features, but the expression eluded her. She tried again, then again, but couldn't capture that air of lethal unpredictability.
She raised her hand and looked out the window. Might the man be persuaded to pose for her? But of course he had long since gone. She sighed. Once, she would have chased him down the street to get a better view of that face. Perhaps someday that creative passion would return. She certainly hoped so.
* * *
Kenneth paused across the street from Seaton House. Being a society portrait painter obviously paid well. The wide Mayfair residence, so convenient for fashionable clients, must have cost Sir Anthony a fortune.
He wondered what he would find inside. Though Lord Bowden had called him a spy, the chief skills of a reconnaissance officer were riding and the ability to make maps and sketches of French positions. He had never had to infiltrate the enemy as he was doing here.
Mouth tight, he crossed the street to the house. He didn't like the prospect of what he must do, but for the sake of Beth and Sutterton, he could lie and betray. He just hoped to God that Seaton's guilt or innocence could be established quickly.
It took so long for Kenneth's knock to be answered that he began to wonder if Seaton had left London and forgotten to take the knocker down. He knocked again, harder. After another two minutes, the door was opened by a young maid.
"Yes, sir?" she said, panting as if she had run from the farthest corner of the house.
"I'm Captain Wilding," Kenneth said in his best commanding voice. "I wish to see Sir Anthony."
Responding to his authority, the girl bobbed a curtsy. "This way, sir." She led him upstairs to a salon at the back of the house and announced, "Captain Wilding to see you, Sir Anthony." Then she scampered away.
Kenneth walked through the doorway and was assaulted by the pungent, mingled scents of linseed oil and turpentine. Though comfortable chairs and sofas furnished the nearer half of the room, the true function was not salon but studio. Tall windows on two walls admitted great swaths of light. The other walls were covered with a jumble of paintings in all sizes and shapes, casually hung as if to keep them out of the way.
He would like to have studied the paintings in more detail, but business came first. At the opposite end of the room, a scantily draped lady reclined on a velvet sofa. Her bored expression brightened when Kenneth entered.
His gaze passed over the model to focus on his quarry. Impeccably dressed in a gentleman's morning attire, Sir Anthony Seaton stood at an easel in the center of the studio with a palette in one hand and a long brush in the other. His wiry build and coloring were like those of his older brother, but he was a far more vivid, compelling figure.
Ignoring the newcomer, Seaton continued to make delicate brush strokes on his canvas. Kenneth quietly cleared his throat. Without looking up, Sir Anthony said irritably, "Who the devil are you, and what are you doing in my studio?"
"My name is Kenneth Wilding. A friend of yours sent me because he said you're in dire need of a new secretary."
The artist glanced up with amusement in his eyes. "Who had the infernal cheek to do that? Frazier? Turner? Hampton?"
"The gentleman preferred to remain anonymous."
"Probably Frazier." Sir Anthony cast an assessing glance over his visitor. "What are your qualifications, Mr. Wilding?"
"I think he looks very well qualified," the model purred, her gaze fastening on Kenneth's groin.
"He's not applying for that sort of position, Lavinia," the artist said dryly. "The requirements for a secretary are organization and the ability to write a good, clear hand."
Having decided not to use his title but be otherwise as honest as possible, Kenneth replied, "Until a fortnight ago, I was a captain in the Rifle Brigade. That gave me experience in command and organization. I've also been aide-de-camp to a general and can write a fair hand."
"You begin to interest me, Captain Wilding." Sir Anthony set his palette and brush on the small table to his left. "Lavinia, go downstairs and have a cup of tea while I talk to this fellow."
The model rose and languidly donned a silk robe. Then she strolled for the door, passing so close to Kenneth that her trailing draperies touched his leg. The carefully arranged robe did little to conceal her lush breasts. She gave him an enticing smile, then swayed from the room. His bemused glance went after her. Working for an artist might have unexpected benefits.
When the door closed behind the model, Seaton asked, "Why would an army officer wish to become a secretary?"
"Because I need work," Kenneth said tersely. "Now that the wars are over, the army needs fewer officers."
Sir Anthony's expression kindled. "It's a disgrace the way the nation is treating the soldiers who saved civilization from the Corsican monster." He hesitated and his doubtful gaze went over his visitor's broad frame again. "However, I really can't hire a secretary who doesn't have some knowledge of art."
Kenneth was used to people assuming he was ignorant of anything more complex than laying bricks. "I've always been interested in art, and during my years on the Continent I was fortunate enough to see many great works. The churches of the Low Countries are a feast for the eyes. I was also in Paris during the occupation. The Louvre contained perhaps the finest collection in the world until the stolen masterpieces were sent back to the original owners."
"That must have been a sight to behold." The painter shook his head. "Still, a man can look at the sea without learning to swim. You must demonstrate your knowledge. Come." He strode across the room to a pair of double doors and threw them open to reveal a formal drawing room.
Kenneth followed Seaton into the room, then stopped, frozen in his tracks. Directly in front of him was the huge canvas of Sir Anthony's most famous painting.
"Do you recognize that, Captain Wilding?" Seaton asked.
Kenneth swallowed back the dryness in his throat. "Everyone in Britain has probably seen a print of Horatius at the Bridge. But no black and white copy could ever do full justice to this. It's magnificent." His awed gaze went over the canvas. The left side was dominated by the figure of Horatius. Behind him was the bridge over the Tiber. At the far end, the tiny figures of two fellow Romans worked frantically to cut the supports so that the enemy could not cross. Sweeping toward the bridge was a troop of savage warriors, with only Horatius to block their path.
"Tell me about the picture," Sir Anthony ordered.
Uncertain what the artist wanted to hear, Kenneth said tentatively, "Technically it's brilliant—your mastery of line is equal to that of Jacques-Louis David."
Seaton sniffed. "Not equal. Superior. David is nothing but an overrated French revolutionary scribbler."
No one would ever accuse Seaton of false modesty. Kenneth continued, "The power of the painting comes from the composition. There's great
tension in the angle of Horatius's raised sword. That diagonal dominates the picture and brings it to life."
Encouraged by the artist's nod, Kenneth went on, "I once saw another treatment of this subject that showed Horatius as a seasoned warrior, but the fact that you made him a boy lends great poignancy to the picture. There is fear in him, for he's never seen battle. In his eyes is a terrible regret that he might lose his life before he has had a chance to really experience it. Yet it's clear in every line of his body that he will stand fast no matter what the cost."
"Very good, Captain." Sir Anthony's gaze went from the painting to Kenneth. "What is the picture's underlying meaning?"
If this was a test, it wasn't a difficult one. "You were using the historical tale of Horatius as a parallel with Britain standing alone against the French. A more obvious painter might have used Napoleon's face on the leader of the charging enemies, but you gave only a hint of Bonaparte—just enough to make a viewer think of the French without knowing why."
"They say more prints of this painting have been sold than any other British picture in history." Sir Anthony stared broodingly at his work. "Historical paintings are the finest flower of art. They are uplifting. Educational. An inspiration to the viewer. I wish to God I could spend all my time on such pictures, but if I did, I would starve."
The artist spun on his heel and stalked back into his studio. "All the average Englishman wants is portraits and landscapes. It's a disgrace."
He led the way to an easel in the corner of the room and flipped back the covering cloth to reveal an almost completed family portrait of a handsome, hawk-faced man and his lovely golden-haired wife. Between them stood a small boy, one hand clutching his mother's hand and the other curled into the fur of a spaniel. "What do you think of this, Captain Wilding? I'm the finest painter England has ever produced, yet in order to keep myself and my daughter from poverty, I must prostitute my talent on rubbishy pictures of dukes and duchesses."
In spite of his words, it was obvious that Seaton expected praise for his work. Taking a calculated risk, Kenneth said, "I think you are a fraud, Sir Anthony."
Seaton's jaw dropped. "How dare you, sir!"
"Oh?" Kenneth indicated the portrait. "You call this rubbish, yet look at the quality. It isn't only that the drawing and colors are superb—one can feel the tenderness between the people, the protectiveness of the man for his wife and son. No one could paint with such sensitivity and power if he truly despised what he was doing. I think you have a secret fondness for portrait work, but you don't wish to admit it because it's an article of faith among your fellow artists that only historical paintings are worthy."
Sir Anthony looked as if he had been hit by a club. Then he gave a slow, crooked smile. "Caught out, by God. Even my daughter has not guessed that, I think. You have passed the test, Captain—almost too well."
Kenneth knew he had made an impression, and his flattering remarks were all the more powerful for coming from an unexpected direction. But in the pleasure of talking art, he was in danger of going too far. He blanked his expression and said, "Forgive my insolence, Sir Anthony. I should not have spoken as I did."
The painter gave him a keen glance. "Don't overdo the humility, Captain. It's not convincing."
Clearly the observational powers that made Seaton such a fine portrait artist made him difficult to deceive. Making a mental note to watch his tongue, Kenneth replied, "I'll admit I'm not good at humility, sir, but I usually try to avoid rudeness."
"Good. I'm the only one in this house who is allowed to be rude." Seaton covered the portrait again. "I dislike domestic chaos—it interferes with my work. Since I've never found a butler or housekeeper capable of managing my household, my secretary must do that as well as the usual business matters. Not to mention exercising my horse when I'm too busy to ride. For all these reasons, you must live in. The salary is two hundred pounds a year. When can you begin?"
Glad that the matter had been settled without references or other delays, Kenneth said, "As soon as I've collected my belongings from the inn where I spent last night."
"Send a footman for your bags." Sir Anthony yanked at one of the two heavy bellpulls. "My daughter, Rebecca, will instruct you in your duties. When possible, ask questions of her rather than me. However, she dislikes interruptions almost as much as I do, so the sooner you master the work, the better. Every morning, I will spend an hour with you going over business and dictating letters. After that, I do not wish to think again of business until the next day. Is that clear?"
"Blindingly so," Kenneth said, unable to keep a trace of irony from his tone.
The other man gave him a gimlet stare. "I am in a mood to tolerate sarcasm today. That will not always be the case."
"I'm sure that my desire to be sarcastic will moderate after I become accustomed to your household," Kenneth said blandly.
"You are unlike any of my previous secretaries, Captain," Sir Anthony said with a faint smile. "I foresee an interesting relationship. But not, I think, a smooth one."
The door to the hall opened and a small female swept in. She was dressed casually, with a mass of auburn hair knotted untidily at her nape and a smudge of soot accenting a high cheekbone, but her manner was that of the daughter of the house. "You rang for me, Father?"
"Yes, my dear. Meet my new secretary, Captain Wilding."
Rebecca Seaton turned to Kenneth and a skeptical gaze examined him from head to foot. He felt as if he had been skewered. Though not a conventional beauty, the "ruined spinster" had shrewd hazel eyes and a vivid individuality that was far more memorable.
She was going to be trouble. Serious trouble.
Chapter 4
Good heavens, it was the pirate! Rebecca stared at the broad figure beside her father. Every impression she had received when looking down at him in the street was magnified close up. He looked powerful and dangerous, a wolf among the Mayfair lambs. "This man, a secretary? Surely you're joking."
Her father's brows arched. "I had thought you would be pleased that the position has been filled."
Realizing how rude she had sounded, Rebecca said, "Excuse me, Captain... Wilder, was it? It's simply that you don't look like any secretary I've ever seen."
"Wilding, Miss Seaton. At your service." He bowed courteously. "I fear I can do nothing about the fact that I look more like a pugilist than a gentleman."
His voice was distractingly deep, but his accent was well-bred. So why did she distrust him? Perhaps it was the coolness of his ice-gray eyes. Or perhaps it was because a man of action seemed so out of place in a house devoted to art and ideas. His mere presence was disruptive. She gave her father a troubled glance.
"Don't worry, Captain Wilding is quite qualified. He'll start right away. Show him the house and explain his domestic duties. Captain, meet me in the office at four o'clock and I will explain my business papers." Sir Anthony turned back to his easel. "Send Lavinia up so I can resume work."
If the pirate weren't present, Rebecca would have argued with her father, but apparently it was too late to prevent the hiring. Damn Sir Anthony's impulsiveness. She guessed that his patriotic desire to employ a veteran of the wars had overcome his sense. With ill grace, she said, "Very well. Come with me, Captain Wilding. I'll show you your room first."
He silently followed her from the studio. As she led the way upstairs, she said, "You were in the army, Captain?"
"Yes, the Rifle Brigade."
She glanced back over her shoulder. "Did my father explain that a large portion of your work will be domestic? Very different from the military. You may not find it to your taste."
"Not so different. Both jobs involve commanding men."
"Commanding women may prove more difficult," she said dryly.
"I'll manage."
He did look like a man who had had his share of experience with women. The knowledge did not raise her opinion of him. She thought wistfully of her father's previous secretaries. All had been pleasant young men
of good family. Civilized. Easy to have around the house. Not a pirate in the lot.
The captain said, "While I don't mind acting as a general factotum, I'm curious about why I'm needed for such work when you are so obviously competent."
"I don't choose to spend my time as a housekeeper," she said in a clipped voice.
Responding to her tone rather than her words, he remarked, "You don't like me very much, do you, Miss Seaton?"
Good God, had the man no discretion? Well, if he preferred bluntness, she would oblige. She halted on the landing and turned to face him. He stopped a step below her, putting their eyes almost level. For some reason, that made her even more aware of his physical power. She repressed the urge to back away. "We've only just met, so how can I either like or dislike you?"
"Since when is it necessary to know someone to dislike him? It's clear that you wish your father hadn't engaged me."
"You look more like a marauder than a secretary," she said tartly. "And knowing my father, he didn't bother to ask for references. How did you learn about the position?"
His gaze became opaque. "A friend of your father's told me."
"Who?"
"The gentleman preferred to remain anonymous."
It was undeniably the sort of thing one of Sir Anthony's eccentric friends might do. "Do you have any letters of reference?" she asked. "Anything to suggest that you're not a fraud or a thief?"
There was a faint tightening at the corner of his eyes. After a moment, he said, "No, though if you don't mind waiting, I suppose I could get one from the Duke of Wellington. He's known me for years, and I think he considers me respectable."
The matter-of-fact answer was quite convincing. Tacitly conceding the point, she said, "God forbid we should bother the duke over something so trivial."
It was hard to concentrate this close to his face, which was even more fascinating than it had seemed at a distance. Piercing, charcoal-edged eyes that had seen sights she couldn't imagine. Skin tanned by a harsher sun than that of England. Lines of sternness and possibly humor. Once there must have been youthful softness over the hard planes of bone, but that had long since been scourged away. He made her think of a volcano: calm on the surface, but with unknowable depths of hidden fire.
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