River of Fire

by Mary Jo Putney

  Michael considered. "My friend Rafe—the Duke of Candover, you know—is giving a ball next week. I'll ask him to send cards to you and Rebecca."

  Kenneth shook his head, impressed. "Knowing the right people makes it so easy. Once she's seen at Candover's, almost all doors will be open to her. I doubt she'll ever be a social butterfly, but at least she'll have choices." He made a face. "Unfortunately I'll have to go, too."

  "A ball will be good for you," Michael said callously. "But tell me more about your work. Somehow I don't think you became Sir Anthony Seaton's secretary merely to meet artists."

  Kenneth hesitated only a moment before abandoning discretion. "You're right. I was sent there to investigate a mysterious death, but it's the most bloody maddening job I've ever been given." Tersely he explained Lord Bowden's offer, and the complications he had met while trying to learn about how Helen Seaton had died. It was an immense relief to express some of his frustration to a trustworthy friend.

  After listening in silence, Michael said, "I understand Bowden's desire to learn the truth, but the situation must be damnably awkward. Obviously you like Rebecca, and it sounds as if you like Sir Anthony, too."

  Kenneth thought of all the murky undercurrents he had discovered in Seaton House. "Awkward is an understatement. I've considered backing out, but I really can't. I've given Bowden my word. There is also the question of justice."

  "It would be nice to think you could find some evidence to exonerate Sir Anthony, but more likely nothing conclusive will turn up. Maddening for you, and for Lord Bowden."

  "At least I'll benefit financially." And in other ways. But Kenneth could not escape the superstitious belief that he was going to pay a high price for what he was getting.

  "Speaking of justice, I'd like to hear more about your wicked stepmother. I gather that since there are no documents assigning ownership of the family treasures, her only real claim is that she is in possession."

  "True, but in this case, possession is conclusive." Kenneth smiled wryly. "God knows that if I had the jewels, I wouldn't give them up."

  "Interesting," Michael said, a speculative look in his eyes.

  "More depressing than interesting." Kenneth poured another dram of whiskey. "Your turn. Tell me about the joys of marriage and fatherhood."

  Michael needed no encouragement. The only drawback was that he made marriage seem altogether too appealing. Kenneth reminded himself that Rebecca, with her tart tongue and fierce creative drive, would be a very different kind of wife from serene, loving Catherine. Always assuming that Rebecca would even consider becoming any man's wife.

  A pity that he found that fierce creativity so alluring.

  * * *

  When Rebecca and Catherine returned to the drawing room, they found that the men had not yet emerged. Catherine said philosophically, "Kenneth and Michael will be over the port for some time tonight. They have a lot of catching up to do."

  Rebecca didn't mind. She couldn't remember when she had enjoyed a woman's company so much.

  They both took seats by the fire. A moment later, a hound so short that its legs seemed cut in half oozed from the shadows and flopped by Rebecca, resting his muzzle on her slippered foot.

  Catherine rolled her eyes. "Sorry. Our dog likes you. If you can't bear his way of showing it, I'll remove him."

  Rebecca leaned over and ruffled the long ears. "I wouldn't dream of disturbing him. I assume this is Louis the Lazy?"

  The other woman laughed. "I see that his reputation has preceded him. My daughter cherishes the sketch that Kenneth drew of Louis the winter we shared a billet in Toulouse."

  Rebecca leaned comfortably into her chair. "I was immensely impressed when Kenneth told me that you followed the drum through Portugal and Spain. I can't imagine what it must have been like to maintain a household and raise a child under such conditions."

  "It was often difficult, yet my daughter, Amy, thrived in circumstances that would have made a mule complain." Drolly, Catherine described incidents that sounded hilarious in retrospect but which must have been dreadful at the time.

  Rebecca noted that her hostess's first husband was seldom mentioned. The fellow never seemed to have been around when needed. Lord Michael, she suspected, would not have such a failing. Nor would Kenneth.

  Thinking of him made her ask, "How did you first meet Kenneth?"

  "We were traveling with the baggage train when a squad of French cavalry attacked. Amy and I became separated from the main group and several French troopers cornered us. I was frantically wondering whether it would do any good to dig the pistol out of my saddlebag when Kenneth and some of his men appeared and drove the troopers off. He brushed the incident off as part of a day's work, but as you might imagine, I've never forgotten." She gazed absently into the fire. "It wasn't the only time he came to the rescue."

  Once more a picture clicked into Rebecca's mind: the Indomitable Beauty rescued by the Noble Warrior. Very dramatic. Far more romantic than the Mousy Painter making acid remarks to the Retired Hero. Repressing a sigh, she said, "You've led an exciting life. I don't know whether to be envious or to fall on my knees and give thanks that I've been spared such delights."

  "By all means, be thankful." Catherine fingered the fringe of her shawl. "Have you ever seen any of Kenneth's drawings?"

  "Yes, though it was largely by accident. He didn't volunteer the fact that he drew."

  The other woman gave her a slanting glance. "His work seemed very, very good to me, but I know little about art." There was a question in her voice.

  "He's extremely talented, and very original," Rebecca replied. "I've started to give him painting lessons. Even though he is starting late, he has the potential to become a really fine artist."

  A smile lit Catherine's lovely face. "I'm so glad. He always acted as if his drawing was a trivial matter, but I suspected that was because art meant too much for him to talk about it casually."

  Catherine was as perceptive as she was beautiful. If Kenneth wasn't in love with the woman, he had less sense than Rebecca gave him credit for.

  Reminding herself that she was his teacher, not his sweetheart, she asked her hostess what Brussels had been like during the heady days before Waterloo.

  War was a much safer topic than love.

  Chapter 15

  Rebecca slept later than usual the next morning.

  After deciding to eat in the breakfast room, she was disappointed to learn that Kenneth had already gone out. Still, she would see him later. The certainty of that made her smile.

  She was stirring her tea when Lavinia drifted into the room, looking absurdly glamorous for such an early hour. Her presence meant she had spent the night with Sir Anthony. It was not the first time, though naturally the fact would not be mentioned.

  Rebecca poured another cup of tea. "Good morning, Lavinia. You take two spoons of sugar, don't you?"

  "Yes, thank you." Lavinia accepted the cup and took a deep swallow. "You're looking lovely this morning, my dear. Does that mean your work is going well?"

  "Yes, but that's not the reason I feel mellow. Kenneth decided I should go out more, so he took me to dine with some friends from his army days." She gave a self-deprecating smile. "Even though I practically had to be dragged, I must admit I had a very enjoyable evening."

  "I knew that young man had good sense the first time I met him." Lavinia served herself a soft-boiled egg and toast from the sideboard, then took a seat. "You're alone far too much."

  Rebecca gave her a quizzical glance. "I'm surprised that you noticed."

  "Of course—you're the daughter of two of my dearest friends. I've been rather concerned about you, especially since Helen's death. You've been the next thing to a hermit." Lavinia cracked the top off her egg. "However, it wasn't my place to speak. You'd have bitten my head off if I'd tried."

  "Very likely," Rebecca admitted. "I don't take direction very well."

  One of the footmen entered and laid an elaborately sealed letter b
y Rebecca's plate. Curious, she slit the seal with her knife and opened the missive. Then she gasped.

  Lavinia glanced up from her egg. "Is something wrong?"

  Rebecca swallowed. "Not exactly. This is a card for a ball that the Duke and Duchess of Candover are giving."

  Lavinia's brows arched. "Your social life is progressing by leaps and bounds."

  "The couple we dined with last night are close friends of the Candovers. They must have written the duke first thing this morning." She bit her lip as she reread the card. A quiet dinner was one thing, but a ball given at one of the grandest homes in London?

  Accurately interpreting her expression, Lavinia said, "Don't panic. You couldn't pick a better occasion to be introduced to the world. The Candovers entertain wonderfully. They never invite so many people that it becomes a hideous crush, so there is actually room to dance."

  "I haven't danced a step in nine years. I won't remember how." A welcome thought struck her. "I'm in mourning for my mother. I'll have to decline."

  "Nonsense," Lavinia said briskly. "It's been more than six months, which is adequate mourning time for a parent. Nor does the fact that it's a ball mean you have to dance. I plan to spend at least half my time talking."

  "You're going to this affair?"

  "I never decline any of Rafe's invitations." Lavinia smiled reminiscently. "I've known him for years. He was always fond of slightly wicked females, but I feared I would be purged from the Candover guest list after his marriage. I should have known he wouldn't marry a prude. You'll like his wife, Margot."

  For the first time, it occurred to Rebecca that there were similarities between her situation and Lavinia's. "It's horribly rude of me to ask, but how did you manage to become accepted everywhere when you were once considered very..." she sought for a tactful word, "very fast."

  Lavinia laughed. "You mean how did I go from being a vulgar theatrical slut to a semi-respectable lady?"

  Rebecca gave an embarrassed nod.

  "For the record, I should mention that I'm not received everywhere. If I tried to enter Almack's, they would pitch me down the stairs. But that's all right—Almack's is a flat bore." She neatly scooped out a spoonful of egg. "I was able to overcome my disreputable past because I was beautiful and amusing, and because I made a good marriage."

  "I am neither beautiful nor amusing, and I have no desire to marry anyone," Rebecca said gloomily. "Clearly I'm beyond hope of redemption."

  "Ah, but you are Sir Anthony Seaton's daughter, and you have rare talent. That will be enough, particularly if you submit your work to the academy. Good artists are forgiven their little lapses of propriety."

  Rebecca said suspiciously, "Have you and Kenneth been talking behind my back? You sound just like him."

  Lavinia laughed. "No, we haven't discussed you. A simple case of great minds reaching similar conclusions. If you exhibit, you'll become an overnight sensation. The Prince Regent will invite you to Carlton House. Say what you will about Prinny, the man cares about art."

  "You're not persuading me to exhibit. Quite the contrary." Another objection occurred to her. "I have nothing suitable to wear. I don't even know what the current styles are. I'll have to decline." She set the invitation down with relief.

  "You'll do no such thing. Three days is difficult, but not impossible. In fact..." Lavinia hesitated. "I have an idea. The odds are about even whether you'll love or hate it."

  When Rebecca gave her an encouraging glance, she continued, "You could alter one of your mother's gowns. Helen had wonderful taste, and since you have the same coloring, her gowns would suit you equally well...." Her voice trailed off. "Of course, you may not like to wear something that was hers."

  Rebecca's first reaction was to reject the idea violently. As she hesitated, Lavinia said quietly, "It wouldn't be a bad thing if the thought of Helen became a part of your life again instead of being an aching wound that can't be touched."

  Rebecca bit her lip, surprised that Lavinia understood so well. She made a wary attempt to consider Lavinia's suggestion, and realized there was something comforting about the idea of wearing a garment of her mother's. It would be like having Helen's silent support. "I... I think I would like that. Shall we go look? Her clothing is packed in trunks in the attic." She got to her feet. "I haven't the least notion of how to turn myself out fashionably. I'm going to need help."

  "Approach your appearance the same way you would a portrait," Lavinia said shrewdly as she finished her tea and stood. "Don't look in the mirror and think, 'shy, unfashionable Miss Seaton.' Think of what you would do if you were painting that person and wanted to make her look lovely and elegant."

  Rebecca looked at the other woman with new respect. "Lavinia, you're a godsend."

  "Helen had an amber silk gown that will suit you right down to the ground. Shall we see if we can find it?"

  As the two women went upstairs, Rebecca realized that her relationship with Lavinia had passed a watershed. They had gone from being friendly to being friends.

  * * *

  As usual, Kenneth stopped at his postal receiving station on his way back to Seaton House after finishing Sir Anthony's errands. The only letter waiting was from Lord Bowden. He frowned as he read it. Bowden was becoming impatient and wanted a report. Rather than arranging a meeting, Kenneth decided to write. He tucked the letter away and resumed walking, mentally composing a reply that would sound more substantial than it was.

  It was more pleasant to think of Rebecca. By the end of the previous evening, she had been laughing and exhibiting her tart humor. She would have more confidence at her next engagement.

  He could use some confidence himself, for the ball would be his own first venture into London society. He had joined the army before he'd had a chance to descend on the town as most young gentlemen did. If not for Hermione...

  He suppressed the thought. Though his stepmother had been the serpent in Eden, his own weakness had turned the situation from difficult to impossible. He had gotten what he deserved.

  It was almost noon by the time he got back to Seaton House. An invitation to the Candovers' ball awaited him on a side table in the hall. Michael and his friends were most efficient.

  He went up to the office and found Sir Anthony conferring with George Hampton. His employer said, "Ah, Kenneth, just in time to help George find a picture in the vault."

  "The vault, sir?"

  "It's a storeroom on the ground floor that has been fitted out for keeping paintings. George will show you. I'd go myself, but a client is here for a sitting." He gave Kenneth a key, then left.

  Hampton picked up a lit oil lamp, explaining, "I need to get the original of one of Anthony's paintings so I can make an engraving of it."

  Thinking it was fortunate to have this chance to talk with Hampton privately, Kenneth said as they descended the stairs, "Is the picture you're engraving one of the Waterloo series?"

  "Yes, the Chateau de Hougoumont painting. The first two are completed, and I'll engrave the Wellington picture as soon as Anthony finishes it. The series will cause a sensation when they're exhibited together, and we want to have the prints ready for sale when the show opens."

  "That sounds like good business."

  "As the son of a Kentish shopkeeper, I was born to trade," Hampton said with unmistakable dryness. "Which is just as well. If it was up to gentlemen to run the world, mankind would still be living in caves."

  "I meant no insult. Quite the contrary."

  "Sorry," Hampton said apologetically. "I've been oversensitive on the subject ever since I left the country to attend the Royal Academy Schools. It was frequently pointed out to me that I was not a gentleman and never would be."

  "Surely few of the students at the academy are gentlemen by birth. Wasn't Mr. Turner's father a barber?"

  "Yes," Hampton said, dry again, "but I don't think he made the mistake of becoming friends with his more aristocratic classmates."

  Did Hampton resent Sir Anthony for his superi
or birth? Kenneth doubted that his employer would deliberately insult a man of lower rank, but he did have a natural arrogance that could be irritating. Hoping to elicit more, Kenneth said, "You couldn't have been accepted at the academy without talent and drive."

  Hampton's broad face relaxed into nostalgia. "The day I was admitted was the happiest of my life. I'd always loved to draw. Even my father admitted that I was good. I went to London with great dreams. I was going to become the finest painter England had ever known, better than Reynolds and Gainsborough put together." He sighed. "Foolish, youthful fantasies."

  The words hit uncomfortably close to home, for Kenneth's boyhood dreams had been much the same. Even now, he could not stop himself from secretly hoping that he would prove to have a natural genius for oil painting. That he would be able to create works that would become immortal. Instead, he couldn't even paint a still life worthy of the name.

  They reached the ground floor and passed the kitchen and servants' hall to reach the back corner of the house. Kenneth had noticed the door before, but vaguely assumed it opened to an ordinary storeroom. As he turned the key in the lock, he said, "Perhaps you didn't achieve your earliest goals, but you have become the finest engraver in England. Surely there is satisfaction in that."

  "There is," Hampton agreed as he went into the vault. "And a very good living as well. But it was a bitter blow when I started at the academy school and for the first time was among others whose gifts exceeded my own. Even at sixteen, Anthony's talent was so great as to break the spirit of lesser mortals. When I saw his work, I knew that I could never be his equal."

  "Yet you became friends."

  "Our talents might not be equal, but our love of art is," Hampton said musingly. "It's the same with Malcolm Frazier. Under his aristocratic hauteur, he has a fierce passion for art. For over thirty years, that bond has kept the three of us friends, despite all our other differences."