Passion and gain were the most likely reasons for murder, if indeed there had been a murder. Kenneth sighed with frustration. The longer he spent in Seaton House, the more he appreciated the difficulties of determining the truth about Helen Seaton—and the more he disliked his own duplicity. Becoming Rebecca's confidant when he was here under false pretenses was a kind of betrayal. If she ever learned what he was doing...
It wasn't a thought he wanted to complete.
* * *
Rebecca mentally berated herself as she made her way back to the safety of her studio. When she found Lavinia kissing Kenneth, she should have quietly left and returned at a later time. Instead, she'd felt a surge of jealousy. Worse, she had showed it even though she had no right to be jealous where he was concerned. The one impulsive kiss they had shared had meant nothing, even though it had affected her down to her toes. Kenneth was her father's employee, not her suitor.
Nonetheless, even though she and Lavinia always got on well, she felt like scratching the other woman's eyes out. Rebecca blushed when she remembered Lavinia's speculative gaze. Had she guessed that Rebecca had more than a casual interest in her father's secretary?
To relieve her feelings, Rebecca did a quick sketch of what Lavinia would look like if she weighed twice as much and had acquired a good set of wrinkles. The childish exercise cheered her no end. Reminding herself that Kenneth had given Lavinia no encouragement, she prepared for the afternoon painting session. It took only a few minutes to arrange the sofa, Persian carpet, and mirror that would be used for the shadow portrait.
Kenneth wouldn't come until after luncheon. She glanced restlessly around the studio. There were a dozen things she could do, none of which interested her.
Her gaze fell on the painting of Diana the Huntress. Drat, she had promised to frame it and replace the dreadful paintings in Kenneth's room.
Thinking that changing the pictures would be a subtle way of apologizing for her bad temper, she mounted Diana in a suitable frame. Then she selected two other paintings, a large Lake District landscape and a study of the Gray Ghost stalking a bird with panther wildness in his amber eyes.
She carried the two smaller pictures downstairs and knocked on Kenneth's door, entering when she received no answer. The existing paintings made her winkle her nose. All were an insult to anyone who appreciated good art. In Kenneth's place, she would have pitched them out the window.
She was hanging the Diana when her foot grazed a portfolio propped against the armoire. It tipped open, spilling drawings across the carpet. Wondering what the captain was doing with an artist's portfolio, she bent to close it.
She stopped, frozen. On top was a pen and ink sketch of a battle scene. Soldiers lunged with raised bayonets, smoke drifted, and horses reared in the background.
But what riveted her attention was the figure at the center of the page. Defined entirely by the dark lines of the background, it was a pure white silhouette of a man jerking in agony. Without a shred of detail, the outline conveyed the lethal strike of a bullet ripping into fragile human flesh. Shock and death, a moment of eternal silence set amid the horrors of hell. It was an image of profound, visceral power.
She dropped cross-legged to the floor and began paging through the portfolio. Charcoal and pastel portraits, precise topographical renderings of buildings, a handful of lovely watercolor landscapes. Though none matched the drama of the first picture, all were skillfully executed.
The last sketch was of a couple clinging urgently together. The scrawled legend said "Romeo and Juliet." Though the man and woman wore medieval garb, the aching emotion in the picture made her suspect that the two were real lovers, perhaps on the verge of a wartime separation.
She was studying the picture when the door opened and Kenneth stepped in. He stopped dead when he saw her, his expression turning thunderous. Then he slammed the door shut and advanced into the room, his usual quiet deference vanishing in a blaze of anger. "What the bloody hell are you doing?"
Repressing the urge to cower, she laid a hand on the portfolio in her lap. "You drew these pictures?"
He leaned down and snatched the portfolio away. "You have no right to pry among my possessions."
"I wasn't prying," she protested. "I accidentally knocked the portfolio over when I was hanging new paintings." Wondering why he was so upset, she asked again, "This is your work?"
He paused, as if considering a lie, then reluctantly nodded.
At a disadvantage on the floor, she scrambled to her feet. Unfortunately, Kenneth still towered over her. He was a fearsome sight; she sympathized with any unfortunate Frenchmen who had encountered him on the field of battle.
Curiosity overcoming caution, she said, "Why have you been hiding the fact that you're an artist?"
"I'm not an artist," he snapped.
"Of course you are," she retorted. "No one learns to draw this well without years of practice. Why is your work such a secret? And why are you acting like a raging bull?"
He drew a deep breath. "Sorry. My drawing isn't exactly a secret, but I'm a mere dilettante. It would be presumptuous to mention my sketches to you or your father."
She made a rude noise. "Rubbish. You're very talented. No wonder you were able to impress Father with your understanding of painting." She smiled a little. "I've been surrounded by artists my whole life, and you're the only one I ever met who wanted to hide his light under a basket."
Raw vulnerability in his voice, he said furiously, "I am not an artist!"
Startled by his vehemence, she set her hands on his shoulders and pressed him to a sitting position on the bed. Eyes almost level and hands resting lightly on his shoulders, she asked, "What's wrong, Kenneth? You're behaving very strangely."
The muscles under her palms tensed, and he dropped his gaze. After a long silence, he said, "My father hated my interest in art and tried to beat it out of me. He didn't consider drawing and painting a proper pursuit for his only son."
"Yet you didn't stop."
"I couldn't," he said simply. "It was like a fire inside me. In pictures, I could say things that I could never put into words. So I learned to conceal or destroy whatever I did. To pretend that it didn't matter."
"How ghastly for you." No wonder he had been so disturbed by her discovery. Resisting the desire to kiss the shadows from his eyes, she brushed his cheek with the back of her hand, then stepped away. "I would have gone mad if my parents had tried to stop me from drawing."
"Instead, you had the good fortune to live with one of the finest painters in England." He gave a twisted smile. "When I was young, my secret dream was to study at the Royal Academy Schools to become a professional artist. It's too late for that now. I became a soldier, which is the antithesis of art." He glanced at his portfolio. "Being surrounded by so many wonderful paintings makes me want to burn my own feeble efforts."
"You are an artist, Kenneth," she said emphatically. "You already draw better than half the professionals in London. With some concentrated effort, you could become outstanding."
"I have a knack for drawing, and I do decent watercolors," he agreed, "but those are standard accomplishments for all young ladies and a good few gentlemen. I'm thirty-three. The time when I might have learned to be a real artist has passed."
Curiously she said, "How do you define an artist?"
"Someone who goes beyond rendering a likeness to reveal something new or hidden about the subject," he said slowly. "This picture of the Gray Ghost is pretty and amusing and painted with great fondness. Yet at the same time, it reveals his feral side—the wildness that lurks within the heart of every plump hearthside tabby. Similarly, your painting of Diana the Huntress shows her strength and pride in her skills, but also the loneliness that comes from being set apart. The yearning to be like other women. She reminds me of you a little."
Damn him! It was all very well to be perceptive about paintings of cats, but not about her. Ignoring the comment about the Diana, she said, "I merely painted the Gho
st as I saw him."
"You saw him that way because you have an artist's vision." He went to study the painting more closely. "Your unique, individual view of the world infuses everything you do. I think I would recognize anything done by your hand."
The thought that he could so clearly recognize her in her work was as intimate as a kiss. Preferring to keep the discussion about him, not her, she removed several pictures from his portfolio. "You have the same ability." She indicated the pastel portrait of a dark Spanish beauty. "This woman is not only lovely but driven. Fiercely dedicated. Dangerous, even."
The tightening of Kenneth's face confirmed her description. She lifted the picture of the bullet-struck soldier. "If it's unique vision that makes an artist, you've got it. This is brilliant, and wholly original."
He shrugged. "That's a fluke. I did it last night because of what you said about drawing pictures of what upset you. Since for me drawing was always an escape, I decided to see if one of my milder demons could be safely released."
She glanced down at the drawing. If this was a mild demon, she'd love to see a major one. "Did it work?"
"Actually, it did. That image scorched my mind like a brand during my first battle. Drawing it made the memory seem..." he frowned, trying to define his thought, "not less clear, but farther away. Safer."
"It also gave me a chance to see and understand something I will never see in reality." She closed the portfolio again. "If that doesn't make you an artist, what would?"
He smiled faintly. "The ability to paint with oils. No other medium can match the intensity, the richness of color, of oil painting. The charcoal and watercolors I use are wielded by every schoolroom dauber."
"Then learn to use oils," she said tartly. "It's no great trick. In many ways, watercolor is far more difficult, and you've mastered that."
The scar on his face whitened. When he didn't speak, she said quietly, "You don't think you're capable of it."
His eyes fell. "I... I want it too much to believe it's possible."
The words said a great deal about how life had treated him. Knowing he would loathe pity, she said briskly, "I'll teach you. Once you get past the foolish conviction that oils are beyond your capabilities, you'll do very well."
Seeing that he was on the verge of protest, she said with steel in her voice, "You have a great many foolish ideas about what it takes to be an artist. Forget them. The truth is that an artist is no more, and no less, than someone who creates art. You have the gift. Honor it."
Then she turned and marched to the door, throwing over her shoulder, "Be in my studio at two o'clock."
Her steps slowed after she closed the door and turned toward the stairs. She felt drained, and not only because of her sympathy for what Kenneth had endured. His talk of what it meant to be an artist stirred thoughts of her own life. She had been lucky, so lucky.
Sir Anthony might have been a casual parent in many ways, but he had always respected and encouraged her talent. What would it be like to have the strength and lethal skills of a warrior and the soul of an artist?
Poor damned pirate.
Face set, she opened the door to her studio. By the time she was through with Kenneth Wilding, he would know he was an artist. Either that, or they would both die trying.
Chapter 11
After Rebecca left, Kenneth sank into a chair, shaking as if with fever. He felt like a walnut that had been smashed open with a hammer.
She had said that he had talent. That he was already an artist. And Rebecca Seaton was not a woman for idle flattery.
He drew a ragged breath, wondering if what she had said was true: that it was not too late. Unconsciously he had always put oil painting on a pedestal, a skill more of gods than mortals. Now that Rebecca had made him aware of that assumption, he saw the absurdity. Granted, most artists began working with oils at a much younger age. Rebecca had started in the nursery. But he did draw well. He had a feel for composition and color.
Perhaps... perhaps he could learn to be a real painter. Not one on the level of Sir Anthony and Rebecca, but good enough to sometimes find satisfaction in his own efforts.
The prospect filled him with an unholy mixture of fear and excitement. The sensation, he realized wryly, was not unlike a young man's response to unchaste thoughts.
It was only when he got to his feet that he remembered why he had come to Seaton House: to investigate a mysterious death. Now his suspect's daughter was offering him the deepest wish of his soul. To accept her gift when his mission might destroy the person she loved most would be despicable. Yet God help him, he was unable to refuse.
For the first time, he considered abandoning Lord Bowden's assignment. An angry Bowden would immediately foreclose on Sutterton, but Kenneth might be able to endure that if he had a chance for the life he had always longed for. He could continue as Sir Anthony's secretary and devote his private time to study and painting. Someday, perhaps, he would be able to support himself as an artist. Plenty of people wanted portraits, and most of them couldn't afford Sir Anthony Seaton. Anyone who had lived as a common soldier could manage with little money and no comforts; it would not take many commissions for him to survive.
But what of Beth? She was his responsibility. He had no right to buy his own happiness at the cost of her future. Though starving in a garret might suit him, his sister deserved better.
His mouth tightened as he thought of Beth's uncomplaining good nature. It was impossible to withdraw, and equally impossible to resist Rebecca's offer to teach him to paint. His only choice was to go forward and pray that his investigation produced nothing to incriminate Sir Anthony in his wife's death.
Unfortunately, he had little faith in prayer.
* * *
Before going to Rebecca's studio, Kenneth stopped by the office to take care of a few small matters of business. To his surprise, his employer was there, gazing at the magnificent portrait of his wife and drinking what appeared to be brandy.
As Kenneth hesitated, Sir Anthony glanced over and said musingly, "It was twenty-eight years ago today that I met Helen. Sometimes it's hard to believe she's gone." A faint slur in his speech showed that the drink he held was not the first.
Kenneth entered the office. "Lady Seaton was beautiful. Your daughter is very like her."
"In appearance, but Rebecca's temperament is more like mine." Sir Anthony smiled ironically. "In some ways, she's even more like my older brother. Marcus would hate knowing that."
Curious to hear his employer's side of the family feud, Kenneth said untruthfully, "I didn't know you had a brother."
"Marcus is a baron and very starchy. Doesn't approve of me. Never did." Sir Anthony took a deep swallow of brandy. "He and my father were both convinced that for me to become a painter would be the shortest way to Hades. On the rare occasions when our paths cross, he always gives me the cut direct."
So Kenneth was not the only hopeful artist to face family opposition. Sir Anthony, however, had done a better job of surmounting it. "Why does your brother disapprove of you?"
Sir Anthony snorted. "To Marcus, painting is no better than being in trade. He must have been appalled when I was knighted five years ago. It put the seal of respectability on my disreputable career."
"Most men would consider an artist of your stature a credit to the family name."
"There were... other reasons for our estrangement." Sir Anthony's gaze went to his wife's face. "Helen was Marcus's fiancée. When we met, it was like being swept up by wildfire. She tried to resist, to do the honorable thing. I didn't even try. I knew the result was foreordained. Within a fortnight, we ran off together. Gretna Green was only a day's ride to the north. We were married before anyone could stop us."
"I assume your brother was not pleased."
"Marcus never spoke to me again, except to send a note saying I wasn't welcome at the funeral when my father died." Sir Anthony smiled without humor. "I can't blame him. In his place, I'd have been murderous if someone had taken Helen
from me."
Wondering if the comment might be literally true, Kenneth asked, "He loved her?"
"Losing her might have hurt his pride, but not his heart. To him, Helen was a pretty, docile girl who would have made a conformable wife. He never really knew her. God knows, he replaced her quickly enough. He was married within the year and immediately fathered a couple of sons to ensure that the title would never come to me."
"Lady Seaton wasn't sweet and docile?"
"She was a hellcat when her temper was up, but that was all right—I have a temper, too." Sir Anthony shook his head. "She was all fire and shadow. She would have died a slow death with Marcus. He is all honor and tradition. Worthy, but dull."
"He sounds very unlike you," Kenneth remarked. "You must not have minded being cut out of his life."
The other man stared down at his brandy glass. "He wasn't so bad. I quite admired him when I was a boy. He was a gentleman to the bone. I was the one who was a freak. My father was devoutly grateful that I was the second son, not the heir."
Kenneth's empathy increased. He, too, had been a freak, and it had cost him his father. At least he and Beth were on good terms. "Lady Seaton obviously didn't mind the fact that you were different from most members of the nobility."
"She didn't mind at all." Sir Anthony's gaze went to the portrait again. "I don't know how I would have survived after Helen's death if it hadn't been for Rebecca. She was like a rock. Strong. Steady. Enduring."
Surely a man who cared so much for his wife could not have murdered her. If there was some way to prove that, Kenneth could honorably fulfill his obligation to Lord Bowden without losing Rebecca's regard.
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