Phelps spat onto the cobbles. "Too close. Sir Anthony should've taken a horsewhip to Hampton, but no, they were the best of friends. Still are. Shameless, the lot of 'em."
"Such goings-on aren't what I'm used to," Kenneth agreed. "What about Lord Frazier? He seems like a man who might have an eye for the ladies."
"Aye. Gets particular pleasure in taking women away from Sir Anthony." The groom smiled a little. "Not that Sir Anthony cares. He's got more important things on his mind."
So there might be undercurrents of rivalry between the two men. The same could be true with Hampton; Sir Anthony's fame greatly exceeded that of his two old friends. Kenneth considered asking more questions, but restrained himself. One thing he had learned in his intelligence work was to stop before his subjects became suspicious.
He let the conversation drift into horse talk before excusing himself and going into the house. It was the most Phelps had ever said about the family tragedy. Interesting, his comment that Lady Seaton's death had not been entirely a surprise. Perhaps Helen had been the sort of woman who didn't look as if she would make old bones. Kenneth had met such people; in some invisible fashion, they carried the mark of doom on them. In the army, they often became heroes and martyrs. Perhaps they lived life too quickly, consuming their share of mortality in fewer years than the common run of humankind.
Maria had been like that. On some level, he had always known that her time was limited. Perhaps that had added to the sorrowful intensity of their affair.
Kenneth washed and changed, then went down for breakfast. Uncharacteristically, Rebecca was in the breakfast parlor, yawning over toast and coffee. She had slumberous bedroom eyes, and her wonderful hair was tied back loosely with a green ribbon. She looked adorable. His somber mood began to lift. "Good morning. You're up earlier than usual."
"Not by choice." She gave him a pained glance. "I loathe people who are cheerful at the crack of dawn."
He grinned. "Dawn cracked some time ago. It was quite lovely in the park with the sun glowing through the mist."
"Paint it." She spread a spoonful of marmalade over her toast. "That will be close enough to dawn for me."
He picked up a plate and helped himself to eggs, ham, and fried oysters. "A cruel comment. My painting would not do justice to the subject."
She came alert. "It will. Give it time."
He set his plate opposite her, poured coffee, then took his seat. "Patience has never been my strong point."
"I never would have guessed," she said dryly.
He chuckled. "When you're irritated, you look like a furious ginger kitten."
She smothered a smile. "My hair is not gingery. It's a decorous shade of auburn."
"Almost decorous. Incidentally, your father has asked me to meet with his solicitor this afternoon, so I won't be able to sit for you until after three o'clock." He tackled his food with gusto. After clearing his plate, he said, "It really was lovely in the park. You don't get out enough. Shall I escort you to see the Elgin marbles?"
"No!" she said sharply. "I have no desire to be marched around London like a schoolgirl."
"You'll wither away if you don't get some fresh air and sunshine."
"Both of which are almost nonexistent during March in London," she pointed out.
He abandoned his teasing manner. "I know you're devoted to your work, but you really should get out more. In the heart of one of Europe's most exciting cities, you live like a hermit."
Her gaze dropped. "During the summer, I'm often out of doors. London is too dirty and noisy."
Following his intuition, he asked, "Is that the real reason, or is it because you feel like a social outcast?"
She began shredding her toast into damp pieces. After a long silence, she said, "It isn't so bad going to places where no one would know me. Fashionable destinations, like the park during the promenade hour, or visiting the Elgin marbles, are different. I suppose it's very feeble of me, but I would not be comfortable."
He frowned. "It's been almost ten years since your elopement. Surely the scandal has been forgotten by now."
She smiled humorlessly. "You underestimate the memories of the socially righteous. Not six months ago, I was given the cut direct by an old schoolmate when our paths crossed in the British Museum. It was not an experience I enjoyed."
"I would have thought your father's position would provide some protection if you wished to go out in society."
"He is a famous artist, knighted by the king. I'm a disgraced spinster, which is quite a different matter. I have no place in normal society, except at the fringe of the art world." She slanted him a glance. "Surely when you were commissioned from the ranks, you learned something about social ostracism. Or were you accepted because your birth was obviously respectable?"
He gave a wry half-smile. "From sheer stubbornness, I didn't even try to convince other officers that I was their social equal. It was quite educational. A few despised me for my presumed vulgarity. Most accepted me once I proved my competence." He thought of Michael Kenyon. "And a few took me exactly as I was. They became friends."
She sighed. "You're braver than I. I prefer to avoid society rather than challenge it."
It was probably easier to ignore social barriers in the army, where war was the ultimate test, than in the artificial world of London, where status was all. Even so, he'd experienced enough snubs to know how uncomfortable they could be.
If he took the social position to which his birth and rank entitled him, he should be able to help Rebecca as well as Beth. Once Rebecca began going out and making friends, she would no longer be self-conscious about the past. She could build a fuller, more satisfying life.
In fact, if Michael and Catherine came to London for the Season, they would surely be willing to receive Rebecca. The two women would like each other very well. The thought vanished as soon as it appeared. Nothing could be done while Kenneth was acting as Sir Anthony's secretary. Damn his present deceptions.
But there might be another, better way for Rebecca to become established. "You could create your own place in society if you exhibited your work. As a respected artist, Angelica Kauffmann was received everywhere, even though she generated a few scandalous rumors of her own."
Rebecca's expression tightened. "I have no desire to exhibit my paintings."
"At least consider submitting something to this year's exhibition," he said coaxingly. "You have dozens of pieces that are suitable."
She crushed her napkin into a ball and stood, her eyes snapping. "You don't listen very well, Captain. I said that I am not interested." She turned and exited the breakfast room.
He frowned after her. A pity she was afraid to go outside the bounds of her safe, narrow world. He must do something about that. As he rose and headed to the office for his morning business session with Sir Anthony, he wondered why he felt so compelled to help Rebecca. His desire went beyond the need to return some of what she was giving him.
He had the uncomfortable suspicion that he was trying to make amends for the hurt he would surely inflict on her.
* * *
Rebecca stalked into her studio, slamming the door behind her. She should have breakfasted from a tray in her room, as she usually did. Having to face an insufferable, arrogant male first thing in the morning was a terrible way to start the day.
Especially when he was right.
Damn the man! She grabbed a pillow from the sofa and hurled it across the room. Before his arrival, she had been content with her life. She had her work, she had... she had...
Very little else.
Her experience had never been broad. What worldly knowledge she possessed came from observing the people who sought out her father. Always shy, after her disgrace she had withdrawn completely, concentrating on her painting and relying on her parents for companionship.
Then Helen Seaton had died, and something vital had been broken deep inside her daughter.
Rebecca went to her desk and brought out the gimmal
ring that had been her mother's. After a long, brooding study, she scowled and put it away again. She was as flawed and incomplete as the ring, and the proof was in her work. She hadn't done a first-class painting since her mother's death. All of the pieces Kenneth had singled out for special comment had been done earlier.
Oh, she'd kept busy and painted a number of pictures in the last months, all of them technically sound. Most people would think them very fine. But her fatal weakness was reflected in her paintings, and was a compelling reason for not submitting to the Royal Academy. To have older pictures accepted would be a farce when she could no longer match that quality.
With a sigh, she dropped onto the sofa. The Persian carpet was silky behind her back. She could almost imagine that she felt her corsair's warmth lingering there.
The portrait of Kenneth was the first project she had really been excited about since her mother had died. Perhaps painting him would infuse her with some of his valor.
A painful thought crossed her mind. She became very still. There was another picture that she should paint, one that would require all her courage.
Before her nerve could fail, she lifted a sketchbook and began to draw a falling woman.
* * *
Kenneth's meeting with Sir Anthony's solicitor involved only routine financial matters. He took advantage of the occasion to make oblique inquiries about Helen's death, but learned nothing of interest. He was unsurprised; there really didn't seem to be much to learn.
Even though a chilly rain was falling when he left the solicitor's office, he decided to walk back to Seaton House. On the way, he stopped at his postal receiving station. A letter from Jack Davidson was waiting. Jack described his plans for the spring planting and gave an estimate of the cost. Kenneth paused to calculate. With the money left from the sale of his commission, plus what he had saved of his salary, there should be enough, barely. God help them if an unexpected emergency arose.
He looked back at the letter. In the last paragraph, Jack switched from business to personal.
Kenneth, I can't thank you enough for bringing me to Sutterton. During the years in the Peninsula, then in hospital after Waterloo, I had forgotten the pleasures of living close to the land. I had also forgotten the gentle charm of a true English lady. Your sister has been everything kind and amiable.
A sentence was scratched out. Then:
It is too soon to speak of paying my addresses to Miss Wilding—but I mention the subject now so that you might consider what your answer would be when the day comes that I can honorably ask.
Respectfully yours,
John Davidson.
Kenneth smiled as he tucked the letter inside his coat. He'd already guessed from Beth's letters that she was equally taken with Jack. The two were very good for each other.
But his expression was somber when he resumed his walk. He'd asked his friend to Sutterton with the knowledge that Jack and Beth might suit very well. However, matchmaking was a chancy business and he'd had no real expectation of success.
Now he had mixed feelings about the results. Not about the relationship itself. Though a match wouldn't be brilliant in worldly terms, he could not ask for a more worthy husband for his sister. But there could be no marriage without enough money for a couple to live on, and Beth and Jack were dependent on him. If Sutterton was lost, Jack would have to seek employment elsewhere. It might be years before he could support a wife.
That meant Kenneth could not walk away from Lord Bowden's investigation. His personal desires could be indulged only to the extent that they did not interfere with his mission.
* * *
Given the gloom of the weather and his thoughts, Kenneth was glad to reach Seaton House. He hung up his wet cloak and hat, then went to the studio to let Sir Anthony know he'd returned.
He walked into an oasis of warmth and laughter. Kenneth halted in the doorway, fascinated. He'd known from the appointment book that Sir Anthony was scheduled to begin a complicated group portrait involving two earls and their countesses. What he hadn't known was that the ladies were lovely identical twins. Sir Anthony had posed the women sitting slightly turned away from each other, like mirror images. The two husbands, one blond and one dark, framed them on each side.
Kenneth was intrigued by the way the grouping subtly delineated the relationships. The twins, the same only different, close to each other and closer still to their respective husbands. The men, friends as well as brothers-in-law.
While Kenneth tried to analyze why the arrangement worked so well, Sir Anthony glanced up and said whimsically, "When you make the daybook entries, be sure to note that the Countesses of Strathmore and Markland are extremely identical."
"An interesting painting challenge, sir."
"Particularly since I'm going to be doing two portraits, one for each household." Sir Anthony studied his clients. "The arrangement will be different for the second, though."
One of the countesses said with a chuckle, "Identicalness can be overdone."
"Anything worth doing is worth overdoing," the dark husband said with a private smile for his wife. "That is definitely true when it comes to beautiful women."
There was a ripple of laughter from several friends who had come to keep the principals company. The group of them had turned a gray day into a party.
After checking to see that the servants had provided refreshments, Kenneth withdrew and headed toward his room to change into corsair clothing for his session with Rebecca. Just before ascending the stairs, he paused, his attention caught by a painting he had never particularly noticed before.
It was a rendition of the death of Socrates, a popular classical subject. The large canvas depicted the noble philosopher holding aloft the cup of hemlock while his heartbroken disciples wept around him. It was not really a bad painting, but neither was it especially good. While the underlying drawing was technically sound, the poses were stiff and conventional, the composition and color undistinguished. Worst of all, it had no soul.
Dryly he reminded himself that the execution was better than anything he could do. He was about to go upstairs when a male voice drawled, "Do you like the Socrates, Captain?"
Kenneth turned to see the debonair figure of Sir Anthony's friend Lord Frazier, who had just arrived. Noticing the intentness of Frazier's gaze, Kenneth said tactfully, "Yes, my lord. A very powerful subject. Is it your work?"
Looking gratified, Frazier removed his hat and shook the rain off. "I painted it five years ago. After it was exhibited at the academy, I received several very flattering offers, but of course I turned them down. I'm a gentleman, not a tradesman. Since Anthony admired the picture, I gave it to him."
If Sir Anthony had expressed admiration, it had been out of politeness for a friend; the picture was unremarkable. Keeping the thought to himself, Kenneth said, "Naturally I knew of your reputation before I came here, but this is the first example of your work I've had the privilege to view. Do you do many historical pictures?"
"Of course. They're the only worthwhile subjects for a serious painter. Are you familiar with Sir Joshua Reynolds's writings on painting in the Grand Manner? He discourses beautifully on how art must be on an elevated plane, purged of the gross human element." Frazier pursed his lips. "A pity that Anthony must do portraits to earn a living. He's really quite good at historical painting, when he has the time for it."
The veiled cattiness of the remark confirmed what the groom, Phelps, had implied. Though Lord Frazier and Sir Anthony were friends of long standing, Frazier also nourished some resentment for the other man's greater success.
"His portraits may not have the sweep of historical works, but they are very good in their own right," Kenneth said. "The one of Lady Seaton in the office is truly splendid."
"I remember the day he started that picture," Frazier said, a faraway look in his eyes. "A dozen of us were picnicking on the lawn at Ravensbeck. After consuming a bottle of champagne, Anthony said Helen looked so lovely that he must immortalize
her. He immediately went for paint and canvas, claiming he had to work outside to capture the light properly. We all laughed at him, of course—only a fool would choose to paint outdoors rather than in the controlled conditions of a studio. Still, the portrait came out well." He shook his head regretfully. "Only a few weeks later, Helen was dead. I can't think of Anthony's comment about immortalizing her without feeling a pang."
"You were in the Lake District when Lady Seaton's accident took place?"
"Yes. In fact, she and Anthony were engaged to dine with me that evening." Frazier's expression became troubled. "Anthony's work has suffered since Helen's death. I worry that he may never fully recover from the loss."
"Really?" Kenneth said innocently. "I think his Waterloo pictures are the equal of anything he's ever done."
"Certainly they are competent," Frazier said with a touch of hauteur, "but if you were an artist, you would see the subtle deficiencies, the loss of power."
Trying to look properly impressed at the other man's superior knowledge, Kenneth said, "If grief has affected Sir Anthony's work that way, the tragedy is twice as great."
"His reaction seems like more than grief," Frazier said, half to himself. "It's almost like... like guilt."
Kenneth's gaze intensified. "What do you mean?"
The other man's face blanked. "I meant nothing. I should not have spoken." He bent his head and brushed an imaginary wrinkle from his sleeve. "Is Anthony free? I stopped by to see if he wished to go to Turner's gallery with me."
"He's in the middle of a portrait session, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you looked into his studio to say hello."
"No need." Frazier donned his damp hat again. "Just tell him that I called, and I'll see him this evening at the club."
Kenneth frowned after the departing Frazier, wondering what the devil the man had meant. Though he might envy his friend's success, he'd been quick to retreat from the suggestion that Sir Anthony might have something to be guilty about.
The painter's friends were admirably loyal to him. But in the process, perhaps they were being disloyal to Helen Seaton.
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