Mr. Everly inclined his head. “The earl and countess are in London,” he explained. “However, the household is at your disposal. Do you wish for us to send for a doctor?”
“Please. Lady Kendall and I are uninjured, but my coachman has dislocated his shoulder. I would like him placed in a physician’s care,” Jon replied.
Mr. Everly motioned discreetly toward one of the footmen and relayed the instructions. “Mrs. St. Giles has had rooms prepared, and we can serve dinner anytime you prefer.”
“Emma?”
At the sound of her name, the fog surrounding Emma gradually lifted. London. They are in London. My secret is safe.
The air blew out of Emma’s lungs in relief and her knees buckled. Jon’s arm tightened, concern welling in his eyes as he kept her from falling.
“After the doctor has seen the coachman, please send him to my wife’s chambers,” Jon decided.
“I’m fine,” Emma muttered, pulling back and standing on her own.
“I’m sure that you are, my dear. But it will ease my mind to have the doctor confirm it.”
Having neither the strength nor the inclination to argue the point, Emma nodded. As she followed Mrs. St. Giles up the staircase, she heard Jon asking about arranging for repairs to their coach and Mr. Everly offering to bring him to the estate’s forge so he could speak with the blacksmith.
Once alone in her room, Emma lay on the soft bed, doing her best to relax and rest, but it was impossible. She tried reading, but even her suspenseful gothic novel failed to keep her interest. She thought a hot bath might instill some calm, but was loath to make any additional work for the servants, who would need to heat the water and haul it to the bedchamber.
Edgy and restless, Emma paced about the room like a caged animal. Stopping, she opened one of the casement windows wide enough to allow a light breeze to circulate through the room, and smelled the sweetness of an early spring flower drifting up from the gardens.
She contemplated going down and wandering along the neatly manicured paths, but darkness was almost complete. Better to stay here.
The manor grounds were much the same as she remembered. She had not visited that often, but anytime she had been here she had meticulously cataloged every detail. Then later, she would picture Sebastian walking these corridors as a young boy, playing in the gardens, riding through the fields and woods.
She imagined him as a young man home from university, all brash and full of himself, boasting the confident swagger of youth. Those thoughts had fueled her obsession with him and her intense desire to become an important, integral part of his life.
The doctor made an appearance. He was tall and thin, with kind eyes and a gentle touch. Emma answered his questions promptly, and after examining her arms and legs he agreed with her assessment that she had sustained only minor bruises in the accident.
Once the doctor left her, the minutes passed with unbearable slowness. At one point Emma thought she might have dozed, but when she opened her eyes, she felt no more rested than when she had first taken to her bed. Eventually Jon returned and made the announcement she feared and dreaded the most.
The carriage wheel could not be immediately replaced. At the very least, they would be staying for the night.
* * *
The news Jon received the following morning from the blacksmith was not encouraging. The wheel was unrepairable and it would take most of the day to have a new one properly made. The blacksmith also expressed concern over the strength of the other three wheels and recommended that they all be changed.
The village wheelwright was sent for and he agreed with the blacksmith’s assessment. Jon offered both men a generous bonus if they could complete the work by early afternoon, and though they expressed doubts about meeting that deadline, they promised to try their best.
Jon was worried about his wife. Emma had barely eaten any of the meal they were served and took to her bed directly after. As expected, adjoining chambers had been prepared for them. Emma had not invited him to her bed, and though he wanted very much to hold her in his arms while she slept, he had not intruded upon her privacy.
She needed her rest after the shock of the accident. Her physical well-being was paramount, and even though the doctor had proclaimed her injuries minor and predicated they would heal quickly, Jon knew she was clearly not herself.
She was still restless and agitated when she joined him for breakfast this morning. When questioned, she insisted her anxious mood was a result of the carriage accident and her eagerness to return home.
Seeing her so distraught and unlike herself was troubling, and Jon was determined to resume their journey as soon as possible. And damn it, if they had to spend a second night here, he was going to do so in the same bed with his wife.
His mind on Emma, Jon entered the house through a side door and wound his way toward the center entrance foyer. The house was typical of its era—a rabbit warren of numerous chambers that one could easily mistake for another. He realized that he had made a wrong turn the moment he rounded a corner and none of the rooms or furniture looked familiar.
He started to retrace his steps, yet paused when he noticed that he had stumbled upon the family portrait gallery. Curious to learn something about their absent host, Jon strolled down the long corridor, its walls covered from floor to ceiling with framed paintings.
The first portrait he came upon was a family grouping. A father, mother, and six children of various heights and ages. They were stiffly posed and wore solemn expressions. He identified the clothing and hairstyles from the Tudor period and surmised this must be the generation that designed some of the gardens he noticed this morning.
He continued down the long corridor, noticing a resemblance of features, hair and eye color, even body size in the generations of men and women that followed.
Jon paused before the portrait of a dour-looking fellow with long, dark, flowing hair that cascaded around his face in ringlets. He wore an open-throated gold silk doublet trimmed at the collar and sleeves with lace, and matching gold silk breeches in the shape of a bellows, which were tied at the knee with cream-colored ribbons.
The tall, high-heeled boots fitted up his leg were turned down to create a wide cuff that showed off the silk lining inside. Completing the outfit was a broad-brimmed hat sporting a fluffy white feather in the brim. He was posed in a flowering garden, standing beside a stunning black horse.
Jon leaned closer to read the date on the painting, confirming this was done after the war and before the Restoration of the monarchy and the crowning of Charles II. He briefly wondered how this Royalist supporter of King Charles I was able to keep his title, property, and head after the bloody Civil War and trial and execution of the king.
Apparently, this was a family of political survivors.
He strolled farther, stopping when he reached the prominent central location in the gallery. The portrait displayed here was smaller than many of the others, but it easily dominated the room, for it depicted a man of power, prestige, and passion.
Each detail, from the wave in the man’s hair to the pose of his body, was alive with an intoxicating vibrancy. The humor in the subject’s eyes glittered wickedly, the slight smile hinted at all sorts of naughty secrets. Instead of being haughty or arrogant, his confidence and sense of self-worth radiated from the canvas in an almost casual way.
And why not? He was a handsome vision of male perfection, a resplendent figure devoid of faults and weakness, yet surprisingly human.
He was not dressed as formally as his ancestors and instead wore a white shirt, simply tied cravat, single-breasted bottle-green jacket, buckskin breeches that left little to the imagination, and black Hessians.
“Lord Kendall! Oh, dear, by chance are you lost?” Mrs. St. Giles questioned.
Turning, Jon smiled charmingly at the housekeeper. “Perhaps I have made a wrong turn or two, though I refuse, on principle, to admit it. Men have a primal need to believe they possess an inherent
sense of direction, you know.”
“And they do like to joke about it,” Mrs. St. Giles replied with a smile. “Are you enjoying the paintings?”
“They are quite remarkable. I recognize several of the artists from my brief introduction to art history at university.” He spun back to the central portrait. “Though I am unfamiliar with this artist’s work. The modern clothing suggests that this is the current earl?”
“Ah, yes.” She nodded her head enthusiastically. “That is Lord Tinsdale. ’Tis a most extraordinary painting, is it not, filled with life and excitement. One half expects to hear him speak. I’ve caught many a housemaid mooning over it when they should be dusting or sweeping these floors.”
“Is it an accurate likeness?” Jon had to ask. “Or did the artist seek to improve his commission by flattering his subject?”
“The earl is an impressive-looking nobleman,” Mrs. St. Giles said with a slight blush. “I’ve always admired the painting for its beautiful realism and the intense feelings it evokes. Though truthfully, no one is such a perfect specimen, one who can make all others appear insignificant by comparison.”
“’Tis most exceptional,” Jon agreed.
Mrs. St. Giles nodded, then cocked her head thoughtfully. “My personal theory is that the portrait was painted by a woman, who was deeply enamored with her subject.”
“That was my first impression too.” Jon stepped back and squinted at the painting. “Each brush stroke is a sonnet of love.”
“I agree. Which further strengthens the theory that the artist is female.”
“His wife?” Jon wondered.
“Oh, no.” Mrs. St. Giles shook her head. “The countess is an accomplished lady with many talents, but I’ve never seen her with a brush in hand.”
“Are there any other paintings by the same artist hanging anywhere in the house?” Jon asked, curious to see if the style remained the same with other subjects.
“Not that I can find,” Mrs. St. Giles replied. “There is no signature on the earl’s portrait, but the style is so unique, so distinct, ’twould be easy to locate any others.”
“A female portrait artist is a rarity. ’Tis a shame so little is known about the painter,” he muttered.
“The only hint of the artist’s identity are the interlocking initials barely visible in the bottom right corner,” Mrs. St. Giles said as she pointed toward the portrait.
Moving closer, Jon leaned in until his nose was almost touching the work. There, in pale cream, he saw the entwining letters. E E.
The loops on the letters had a vague familiarity, as did the way they were conjoined. Jon stood, stretching his back. His mind wandered, struggling to remember. Frowning, he bent a second time, his eyes fixating on those letters.
E. E.
E. E.
E for Emma? Second E for Ellingham?
E. E. Emma Ellingham.
No. ’Tis impossible. It couldn’t be my Emma.
Yet even as he sought to convince himself that he was mistaken, Jon knew that he had stumbled upon the truth. He had never seen any of Emma’s oil paintings. His only exposure to her work had been the sketches of his machine that she shared with him.
She had signed one of those sketches with her initials. The distinct looping and intertwining of the two letters were the same as those in the portrait of the earl.
Though he wished to deny it, the evidence was indisputable. Emma had painted this portrait. Emma was the artist clearly in love with her subject. For a moment he felt stunned, as though someone had landed a solid punch to his gut.
Jon looked again at the painting. What had happened between Emma and this man? According to the servants, the earl was happily married, the father of several children.
Yet clearly that had not always been the case.
“By any chance, do you know when the picture was painted, Mrs. St. Giles?” Jon asked, attempting to shake himself out of his shock. “It isn’t dated.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know. The portrait was hanging in place when I arrived five years ago to take up my position as housekeeper.” She wrinkled her nose. “I could ask Mr. Everly. He might know.”
“No need,” Jon said hastily. “I was merely curious.”
The thread of jealousy started as a slow burn, gradually picking up speed until it burst into flames. It riled him. He took several deep breaths, trying to achieve a very elusive calm.
She had never spoken of it, never said a word, never even hinted that she had once deeply loved a man.
Obsessively loved a man.
Still loved him?
That notion stung with far more power than Jon could ever have imagined. Emma had been a virgin on their wedding night, but there were many ways to indulge in intimacy and carnal pleasures without sacrificing a woman’s virginity.
Or perhaps nothing had happened between the pair. Perhaps they barely knew each other. Perhaps they had only spent an hour or two together for a few days, while the earl posed for his portrait.
Jon knew Emma’s artistic process. She sketched first, then brought those sketches to life on canvas. This painting had hung here for at least five years. As a younger, more impressionable woman, Emma might have fallen in love with her subject.
That happened to artists sometimes, didn’t it?
Or this could be more serious. This love for another man could explain Emma’s initial resistance to their marriage. She had only agreed to the union under pressure from her sister. She had acquiesced only after he had practically blackmailed her with the dire consequences of a scandal.
Jon’s breathing grew shallow as he theorized that the earl could be the reason Emma had shown such reluctance to marry. It made sense. Awful sense. It also explained why she had gone so pale when learning the identity of their host.
The carriage accident had been a shock, but the idea of seeing the earl was the true cause of her anxiety. Why? Had they vowed to remain apart for the sake of his marriage?
For that matter, why had the earl married another woman when he had Emma’s love? Was the man a blind idiot? Any fool with just an ounce of wit and judgment was able to see that Emma was truly extraordinary.
Jon gave himself a mental shake. His emotions were jumbled and disjointed—his jealousy uncontrollable and unacceptable. Taking several deep breaths, he struggled to overcome the absurd desire to land a punch on the earl’s perfectly sculpted jaw.
Mrs. St. Giles would think him mad if he attacked a painting—and she wouldn’t be far off the mark. He fisted his hand, seeking to understand the unfamiliar yearning that suddenly filled his chest.
Seeing the depth and breadth of Emma’s capacity to love triggered something deep inside him. It was, he realized with a jolt, the piece of her that had been missing from their relationship.
They had made a bargain in their marriage to be civil, agreeable, and respectful of each other. At the time, Jon believed it would be enough to share a satisfactory life together.
Seeing this painting made him realize that he was wrong. He wanted more. Much more. He wanted what was on this canvas—for himself. He wanted Emma to love him with the fire, passion, and intensity of her whole heart, her whole being.
Just as he loved her.
* * *
Emma stood at the window in her bedchamber, admiring the symmetrical patterns of the knot garden below. She could understand why such gardens had been so popular during the Tudor age. The order and structure of having everything so neatly defined and in its place was soothing as well as beautiful.
’Twas a symbol of control and purity in an otherwise wild and disordered landscape. The plants had been carefully laid out to give a woven, almost embroidered effect, in diamonds, triangles, and rectangles. She smiled faintly, remembering Sebastian once complaining about the expense of maintaining such an intricate design.
Flowers were scarce this early in the season, but the manor gardeners had cleverly substituted herbs, sand, gravel, stones, and crushed bricks to keep the
gardens’ lines well defined and colorful.
Emma sighed. If only her life could be so easily compartmentalized and ordered.
The clock struck the hour. Oh, Lord, hardly half the morning gone. Jon had not yet returned from checking on the carriage. Though she desperately wished for good news, she was trying to prepare herself for spending the day—and possibly another night—in Sebastian’s home.
He’s in London, she told herself sternly.
He could return at any moment.
Could fate really be so cruel?
Annoyed with herself for being so melancholy, Emma left the chamber. She made her way down the stairs and across the foyer, heading for the library. ’Twas doubtful she would be able to concentrate enough to fully comprehend what she was reading, but holding a book usually brought on a sense of calm.
Memory served her well, as she found the room without having to ask for directions. The first thing she noted was that someone—most likely Sebastian’s wife—had done some redecorating.
Gone were the heavy wine-colored draperies, which had lent a decidedly masculine flare to the room. Without them, the chamber was flooded with sunlight, giving it a lighter, more inviting feel. Emma grudgingly admitted ’twas an improvement.
One thing that had remained unchanged was the sideboard stocked with decanters of spirits. Giving in to the temptation, she crossed the room.
Emma lifted a crystal stopper from the decanter with the smallest amount of liquid, deciding that it must contain the best-tasting one, since it was nearly empty. Selecting a snifter from the assortment of glasses on the silver tray, Emma poured herself a small portion. She downed it in one large gulp, somehow managing not to cough as the alcohol burned its way along her throat.
It hit her empty stomach and spread, flushing her with warmth. The sensation was extreme and distracting—exactly what she sought. Sadly, it was fleeting. She contemplated the decanter for a long moment, considering a second portion, then turned away.
Using alcohol to dull her senses was hardly the answer.
Broodingly, Emma studied the titles on the spines of the leather-bound books, moving to a different shelf when she realized those were all in Latin.
Every Bit a Rogue Page 21