The captain said, "Am I missing any of the usual features?"
"Faces interest me, especially those that have been well lived in." Her gaze went to the scar that curved from his cheek into the thick, dark hair at his temple. There was no puckering, only a pale, slightly raised line. She wanted to touch it, to find if it felt as smooth as it looked. Restraining herself, she asked, "Was that scar made by a saber?"
It was not a tactful question, but he took it in stride, saying, "Yes, at Waterloo."
So he had fought in that ghastly carnage. She had a vague recollection that the Rifle Brigade had been in the thick of the battle. "You were lucky not to lose your eye."
"Very true," he agreed. "Since I wasn't handsome to begin with, I lost nothing of value."
She wondered if he was trying to disconcert her. That was not easily done to a woman who had grown up in an artist's unconventional household. "Quite the contrary," she said thoughtfully. "The scar adds interest and emphasis to your face, like a highlight on a painting. Quite artistic, really. The Frenchman did a good job of cutting."
She turned and resumed her ascent of the stairs. At the top, she led the way along the corridor. "The family bedrooms are on this floor. My father's is behind us, mine is to the left, and yours is here, overlooking the garden." His room shared a wall with her own chamber. That seemed far too close.
She swung the door to his room open, then winced when she saw its state. "Sorry. This should have been cleaned after Tom Morley left." She should have known that one of the housemaids never did a lick of work if she could avoid it. The other, Betsy, was willing, but couldn't do everything. Rebecca had known, actually, but hadn't cared. She had an almost infinite capacity to overlook subjects that didn't interest her.
Unperturbed, Wilding said, "Introduce me to the staff, and I'll arrange for the work to be done."
"I'll take you down to the servants' hall in a few minutes." She drew a finger along the edge of the wainscoting and frowned at the thick dust that accumulated on the tip. The housekeeping really was disgraceful. "I look forward to seeing you turn them into models of hard work and efficiency."
"If any of your present servants are irredeemable, I presume I have the right to discharge them and hire new ones."
"Of course." Rebecca turned and headed to the stairs. "No need for you to see the attics. The servants' quarters are there, and my private workroom. If you wish to speak with me, pull on one of the red bell cords. They ring into my workroom."
"So that is how your father summoned you," he murmured as he followed her. "Will you respond to me as quickly?"
For some reason, her face heated. "No," she said brusquely, "so I hope you're resourceful at solving problems on your own."
Gloomily she led the way downstairs. The captain was going to be every bit as disruptive as she had feared. She hoped he would soon decide that the life of a secretary was not for him.
* * *
Kenneth found it hard to keep his attention on the house tour and Rebecca Seaton's crisp description of his duties. The lady was quite a distraction in herself, with her tart tongue and her penetrating gaze. Equally distracting was the art that was everywhere—paintings, watercolors, etchings, even sculpture.
The visual richness left him as dazed as a daylong French cannonade. Works by Sir Anthony were intermixed with paintings by other masters. No wonder Rebecca had wanted proof that he wasn't a thief. Luckily, she seemed to have accepted his honesty, even if she liked nothing else about him.
The next stop was on the first floor. She opened the door of a small chamber at the rear of the house. "This is my father's office, though you'll spend more time here than he does. The desk in the corner is yours. As you can see, business has accumulated since Tom Morley left."
An understatement; the secretary's desk was completely covered with untidy piles of paper. "I see why your father was eager to hire the first available candidate."
"Actually, Papa turned down the replacement Tom suggested. Said he was an ignorant young puppy."
"I'm glad to know that Sir Anthony rates me more highly than that," Kenneth said gravely.
She gave him a sharp glance. Mentally he kicked himself. His job was to be an efficient, unobtrusive secretary. If he didn't learn to hold his tongue, he'd end up on the street and Sutterton would be lost.
She continued, "Father's solicitor handles major financial affairs, but you will be responsible for correspondence and the household accounts. Ledgers and writing supplies are kept in this cabinet." She took a key from the secretarial desk and opened the cabinet. Kenneth glanced at a ledger. It was similar to an army captain's company accounts. He'd manage well enough.
Rebecca handed him the key and turned to go. He locked the cabinet and started to follow, then stopped when he saw the portrait above Sir Anthony's desk. A striking woman of mature years was posed in front of a misty landscape, her gaze mischievous and her red hair tumbling over her shoulders.
He glanced at his guide, then back to the painting. The woman looked like a wanton, sensual Rebecca Seaton. It had to be the late Lady Seaton, and Kenneth was willing to swear that Sir Anthony had painted the picture with love. Could the caring visible in every stroke really have turned to murderous hatred?
Rebecca looked back to see why he wasn't following. Thinking it was time to start gathering information, he said quietly, "Surely this must be your mother."
Her fingers whitened on the doorknob as she nodded. "It was done at Ravensbeck, our house in the Lake District."
Even more quietly, he said, "I've heard no mention of Lady Seaton. I gather she is dead."
Rebecca looked away and said tightly, "Last August."
"I'm sorry." He studied the painting. "What happened—some sudden disease? She seems so vital. So alive."
"It was an accident," Rebecca said harshly. "A horrible, stupid accident." She pivoted and went out the door. "I'll take you down to meet the servants now."
He followed, wondering if her response was straightforward grief, or if she had secret doubts about the circumstances of the death. If her father had really murdered her mother, it would be a horror almost beyond imagining.
He took a last glance at the portrait. Seeing it made him recognize the latent sensuality in Rebecca Seaton. Unlike her mother, she rigidly suppressed that aspect of her nature. He wondered what she would look like with her glossy auburn hair cascading lushly around her piquant face and slim body....
Damnation! He yanked the door closed behind him. He could not afford an attraction to the prickly daughter of the man he had come to destroy. Luckily, she wasn't the flirtatious sort. Quite the contrary. Nonetheless, there was something very appealing about her.
On the way to the back stairs that led to the kitchen and servants' hall, they passed through the main dining room. Rebecca said with delicate sarcasm, "Since secretaries are gentlemen, naturally you will share meals with my father and myself."
It was blazingly clear that the lady thought Kenneth fit only for mucking out stables. What had Lord Bowden said about her elopement? The fellow had been a self-proclaimed poet. Presumably that meant Miss Seaton preferred men who were weedy and wordy—if indeed the experience hadn't put her off men entirely, which seemed quite possible from her behavior.
The painting above the sideboard interrupted his musings and brought him to an abrupt halt. Catching Rebecca's impatient glance, he said apologetically, "I'm sorry. It's hard not to become diverted. I feel as I did the first time I went to the Louvre. How can anyone eat when there is this to look at?"
Apparently the idea that he might appreciate art surprised her, but her tone was milder when she said, "For the first week after the picture was hung, I didn't notice a single bite I ate. It's called Charge of the Union Brigade and it's part of a four-painting Waterloo series Father has been working on for the last year and a half. He hopes to exhibit all four pictures at the Royal Academy this year."
The enormous canvas depicted half a dozen cavalry hor
ses and riders racing directly toward the viewer. The lethal hooves and glittering sabers seemed ready to explode from the canvas. Kenneth suppressed a shiver. "Magnificent. Though it's not realistic, it certainly brings back memories of having the French cavalry thundering down on me."
She frowned. "What do you mean, not realistic? Father arranged for troopers of the Household Cavalry to charge right at him again and again so he could get accurate sketches. A miracle he wasn't crushed beneath their hooves."
"He's jammed the horses together until they're virtually touching, which would be impossible in battle," Kenneth explained. "But the painting would have less power if the horses were spread out more naturally. This captures the essence of what it's like to be attacked by cavalry."
"Father always says that in painting, the illusion of reality is more important than technical accuracy." She cocked her head thoughtfully, then gestured for him to follow her into the adjoining breakfast parlor. "Here's a different kind of battle picture. Boadicea, the warrior queen, just before her final battle with the Romans. What do you think?"
Kenneth studied the painting, which depicted a barbaric, auburn-haired woman with a spear in one hand and a raised sword in the other. Her back was arched and the wind whipped her white draperies and wolfskin cloak about her as she commanded her troops to follow her to death. She reminded him of a fierce, uncompromising Rebecca. It must be the red hair. "Though she's not a convincing warrior, as a symbol of courage and the passion for freedom she's splendid."
"Why isn't she convincing?"
"Too slender. It takes muscle to wield such weapons. And too unscarred. Anyone who had been fighting the Romans regularly would probably have acquired some marks of battle."
Rebecca's gaze went from his marred face to his hands and wrists, where the faint scars of half a dozen minor wounds were visible. "I see what you mean. At least you'll be useful as a battle consultant."
He supposed he should take her left-handed compliment as a step in the right direction. His gaze went back to the picture. Thinking out loud, he said, "It's very fine, but the style is rather different from the other examples of Sir Anthony's painting I've seen. Was this an experimental work? The dramatic composition and richness of color are characteristic, but the lines are softer, with a quality that is almost poetic."
Rebecca didn't answer, merely watched him from narrowed eyes. Perhaps this was another test. He glanced at the corner of the picture, where Sir Anthony marked all of his work with a small AS. This time, however, the initials looked like RS. He stared. "Good God, did you paint this?"
"Why the shock?" she said waspishly. "Are you one of those men who think women can't paint?"
Stunned, he looked at the picture with new eyes. "Not at all. It's only that I had no idea you are also an artist."
And what an artist! Technically she was very nearly her father's equal, with a distinctive style that was simultaneously akin and different. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised; historically, female artists were usually daughters or wives of male painters. It was the only way a woman would have the chance to learn the necessary skills. "No wonder you don't want to spend your time on housekeeping. That would be a criminal waste of your talent."
For a moment Rebecca looked almost bashful at the praise, but her voice had its usual bite when she said, "I couldn't agree more. That's why it's essential to have someone capable to run the household." Her expression made it clear that she doubted he was up to the job.
It was time to prove his competence. "Before I meet the staff, I need to know more. How many servants do you have?"
She thought a moment. "There are currently four female and three male servants."
"Have they been with you for a long time?"
"Only the coachman, Phelps. The rest have been here only a few months."
A pity. Servants could have been a prime source of information. Kenneth would have to cultivate the coachman. "Why so many new people? And why hasn't it been possible to keep a capable housekeeper?"
"My mother preferred to manage the household herself. Since her death, everything has been chaotic. My father has not... been himself. I tried two different housekeepers, but neither understood the requirements of running an artist's house. Father would become provoked and discharge servants who irritated him. The ones he didn't fire soon left for more orderly establishments. Then Tom Morley began overseeing the servants. That worked fairly well, though the dusting suffered."
"Are there any positions currently vacant?"
"We're in dire need of a cook and a butler." A wicked gleam showed in her eyes. "Two applicants for cook should be here soon. You may do the interviewing and selection."
He nodded as if that were the most natural thing in the world. But as he followed her downstairs, he wondered wryly what the men in his regiment would think if they could see him now.
Chapter 5
The servants were relaxing over tea and buttered bread in their sitting room off the kitchen when Rebecca arrived with Captain Wilding. The buzz of conversation died down and six pairs of eyes swiveled toward the new arrivals. Everyone but Phelps, the groom, was present.
"This is Sir Anthony's new secretary, Captain Wilding," Rebecca said tersely. "You will be taking your orders from him." She made an ironic gesture that transferred all responsibility to the captain.
As he surveyed the group, the maid who flirted with everyone glanced slyly at her favorite footman and gave a knowing giggle. Wilding's calm gaze went to her face. Her expression instantly sobered. Not a word was spoken. Then the smaller maid, the hardworking one, got to her feet. One by one, the other servants followed her lead. Before Rebecca's bemused eyes, the casual group began to resemble a squad of well-disciplined soldiers.
Captain Wilding said in a cool voice, "Standards have been lax. That will change. Anyone who considers the work too burdensome is welcome to seek employment elsewhere. Problems and complaints are to be brought to me. Under no circumstances are Sir Anthony and Miss Seaton to be disturbed unnecessarily. Is that clear?"
It was clear. The captain went around the room and learned the names and duties of everyone before he dismissed the group. The servants filed out, looking not precisely intimidated, but certainly impressed. Rebecca had to admit that she was impressed, too.
The captain had interviewed the two candidates for cook with equal efficiency. The first applicant was a very grand Frenchman. After examining the letters of recommendation, Wilding asked the Frenchman to prepare something for himself and Miss Seaton. Offended at the idea of having to prove himself in such a lowly manner, the applicant had stalked out.
The next candidate was also French, but female, plump and placid. Her references were not quite as glowing as those of her predecessor. However, when asked to prove her skill, she had merely raised her brows for a moment, then set to work. Twenty minutes later, she sent her judges a tantalizing dessert omelette and a pot of steaming coffee.
Rebecca's doubts about the hiring process vanished with her first bite. "Lovely." She took another bite. "Clever of her to use brandied cherries for a quick sauce. Will you hire her?"
Captain Wilding, who sat on the opposite side of the breakfast room table, swallowed a substantial bite of omelette. "Yes. Madame Brunei passed all three tests very well."
Rebecca cut another bite. "What three tests?"
"First and most important was attitude. She was willing to do what was necessary." The captain drank some of the excellent coffee. "Secondly, she was ingenious. In a matter of minutes, she determined what she could make from available ingredients that would be swift and impressive. Lastly, her results were delicious."
Rebecca's fork paused in midair. "Shouldn't her ability to cook come first?"
"All the skill in the world is wasted if someone is too temperamental to do the job. A cooperative nature is doubly important in a household where there have been problems."
Thoughtfully Rebecca finished her omelette. The new secretary had a better understan
ding of human nature than his stevedore's appearance implied. He also seemed fond of art. Perhaps Sir Anthony hadn't chosen so badly after all. She got to her feet. "You're off to a good start, Captain. I will see you at dinner."
His dark brows rose. "So I've passed your tests?"
Uncomfortably aware of how skeptical she had been, she said, "You were hired by my father. It is not my place to test you."
"You are too modest, Miss Seaton," he said with a hint of irony. "I'm sure your father would not retain a secretary whom you found disagreeable."
"True. But I would not quickly complain of a man who pleases my father." She found herself staring at him again. What really went on behind those craggy features? He had been a model of courtesy, but she felt sure that blandness was not his real nature. What had made him so different from the other men she knew? She would never find out as long as he felt constrained to watch every word for fear he would be discharged.
On impulse, she said, "No one should have to be always circumspect, so I give you leave to speak freely around me. I won't use your words to persuade my father to get rid of you."
His brows rose. "You're giving me carte blanche to be a crude, tactless soldier?"
"Exactly."
A mischievous light glinted in his clear gray eyes. "You wouldn't object even if I expressed a desire to kiss you?"
She stared at him, hot color rising in her face. "I beg your pardon?"
"Excuse me, Miss Seaton. I didn't meant that I actually do want to kiss you," he said smoothly. "I was merely trying to establish the boundaries of permissible remarks."
"You have just exceeded them. Don't do it again." She spun on her heel and stalked out of the breakfast parlor. He certainly wasn't bland. But for the life of her, she wasn't sure what bothered her most: his outrageous comment about kissing her—or his claim that he had no desire to do any such thing.
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