‘Do you think Mr Castell has come for you?’ Liv whispered with a romantic sigh.
‘If so, he is doing a very bad job of sneaking up on us,’ Peg said. ‘I do not see anyone there, in any case. Let us go to the kitchen door to get a better look.’ When they did, there was still nothing out of the ordinary to see. But as the door opened, the dog shot between their feet and into the house, showing more life than he had in years.
‘Come back here, you miserable beast,’ Liv called, chasing him down the hall as frightened maids dodged clear of his crooked teeth like falling nine pins. ‘Catch him,’ she called to the footman by the front door.
Unfortunately for Liv, the boy had already met Caesar and stepped clear, opening the front door to allow him to escape. The pug disappeared through the opening and down the street as fast as his bandy legs would carry him.
‘Get him!’ shrieked Liv in a volume that roused the whole house and guards, front and back. ‘Get him before he is run over by a carriage.’ She raced out of the house after the dog, who had just taken a bite out of a passing under-butler before speeding across the street and into some bushes.
There was another, higher-pitched bark as a second pug crossed back in front of the house and Caesar reappeared, in pursuit and gaining, servants and guards following in an ever-increasing line.
‘Dog fight,’ Peg whispered in horror. ‘Woe to that poor creature if Caesar gets hold of him.’
‘Her,’ said a quiet voice behind her. ‘Her name is Cleopatra. If Caesar catches her, they will be occupied for some time and any gentlemen chasing will have to stop and shield the eyes of the maids.’
‘And of my sister,’ Peg said with a horrified grin, as she was jerked away from the front door and towards the back of the house. ‘She had questions earlier about...’
‘Let us talk as we walk,’ David said, picking up the pace. ‘We do not know how long the lovebirds will be busy.’
‘Can there be such a thing as canine lovebirds?’ she said as they hurried out the kitchen door.
‘In a month, maybe two, you may write home and ask,’ he said, pointing to a carriage waiting beyond the garden gate. ‘I suspect your sister will have two dogs by the end of the day and several more in a few months.’ He hurried her the last few feet and into it, pausing only for a moment to say, ‘I apologise for the brevity of this proposal, but, Lady Margaret, will you marry me?’
‘Of course,’ she said, hopping past him up into the carriage. He joined her and shut the door, signalling the driver so they could be on their way before they were missed.
‘Where are we going?’ she said, breathless.
‘Gretna is north. So we are going south,’ he said, smiling. ‘And then, east. Or perhaps west. I have not decided.’
‘You do not know?’ she said, surprised.
‘We will get to Gretna eventually,’ he said with a serene smile. ‘And we will be married, just as I promised, though you will be well and properly ruined before then. For quite some time we will navigate by flipping a coin if we do not want to see you dragged home again, as we did the last time.’
She stared at the coin in his hand. ‘We might see all of England, before we get to Scotland.’
‘Wales and Cornwall, as well,’ he said. ‘Let us see your brother’s men follow that.’
She smiled. ‘I have always wanted to travel.’
He smiled back and pulled the ring out of his pocket that he had been trying to give her on their last trip. ‘Now, where were we when we were so rudely interrupted?’
She leaned into him, nestling herself under his arm as he took her hand, slipping the ring on her finger and holding it out so they could both admire it.
‘You were telling me you wanted to hold my hand ’til your last breath,’ she said, with a happy sigh.
‘Which I hope is still quite distant,’ he said, glancing out of the carriage window to be sure they were not being followed. When he was satisfied, he turned back to her, smiling. ‘Although I am reasonably sure your brother is not a murderer, I do not want to give him incentive to change for the worse. When he realises you are gone, he will be angry.’
‘But after several months without a sight of me, he will calm down again,’ she replied, surprised to find that she did not really care.
‘Coming away with me might mean permanent estrangement from your family,’ he said, suddenly serious. ‘But I will do everything in my power to make it right, once we are properly married.’
‘It is not the sort of loss I feared when I thought you were going to write about them,’ she said. ‘That would have destroyed them. But this way, they will still be happy and healthy and out of the grip of the gallows. And, if I am honest, they do not need my help to be any of those things.’ She smiled at the man next to her. ‘I can live my life as I wish and I wish to live it with you.’
The arm that rested on her shoulder tightened to draw her even closer to his side. ‘That is just what I hoped to hear.’ He reached into his pocket for a coin. ‘Let us see where chance takes us, my love.’
Epilogue
The house was too quiet now that Peg was gone from it. Liv had not noticed how much life her little sister brought to her days, until she had disappeared with David Castell. Despite Hugh’s earlier threats, they had remained in the city, probably in hopes that Peg might return, with or without a husband.
Liv had heard nothing about either of them for six months, but she suspected it was not for want of trying on Peg’s part. There had been letters, she was sure. But since Hugh had got into the habit of intercepting the post, she had seen nothing that he did not want her to see. She had contented herself with reading his cast-off copies of the Daily Standard, looking for articles by Mr Castell.
Surprisingly, the expected front-page article on her brother’s crimes never appeared. Instead, Mr Castell wrote local news and travelogues from seemingly random locations. There were articles about Cornwall, Yorkshire, and most surprisingly, Italy. Was Peg still with him? If so, the trip abroad might have been a honeymoon.
If there had been mail, Hugh would know the truth. It was reason enough for her to change her habits and rise early to breakfast with her brother. She had taken to avoiding him, after their father died, leaving the niceties to Peg who was unaffected by the scandal that surrounded them. But now that they were alone, if Liv did not learn to speak to him, she would have no one to talk to at all.
After years of polite silence, it was strange enough trying to make conversation with him, without doing it from the seat that her disowned little sister had traditionally occupied. She felt like an inferior replacement in what had been Hugh’s rigid morning routine.
Today, she looked over at him and the carefully guarded stack of letters beside his plate. She smiled, helping herself to a cup of chocolate, and asked in the most casual way possible, ‘Is there anything interesting in the mail?’
The sound of a human voice seemed to startle her brother almost more than the question did. He looked up at her as if he had forgotten she was there. Then he replied, ‘No. Nothing of interest.’
‘Nothing from Peg?’ she added, hoping to catch him off guard.
‘We do not speak of your sister,’ he said, hurriedly picking up another letter.
‘There are many things in this house we do not speak of,’ Liv said. ‘I guess I will have to add her to the list.’ In her final weeks at home, Peg had done little more than force them to talk about things that were better off kept secret. Liv wondered what she had found. Perhaps she had written of it in some of the letters that Hugh would not allow her to have. ‘And why do we not speak of her?’ Liv added, not really expecting an answer.
Hugh busied himself with his coffee, pretending he had not heard.
‘Has she murdered someone, as well?’ Liv added, to provoke him.
This got a response. Hugh twitched with su
ch violence that his coffee slopped into the saucer. Very deliberately, he put the cup down and replied, ‘That is a question you would have to ask her.’
‘But I doubt you will allow me to,’ Liv countered. ‘I assume she has been banned from the house.’
‘She is welcome here, if she returns alone, and can prove to me that she will behave like a virtuous lady, so I do not have to fear pollution of your character by her presence,’ Hugh said with a sigh.
‘Pollution?’ Liv scoffed. ‘Until recently, I was far more trouble than she ever was.’
‘I am aware of that,’ Hugh said without looking up. ‘But the situation has changed. Since it appears she has married that wastrel Castell, I do not hold out much hope of her return.’
‘Married?’ Liv said with a triumphant sigh. It meant that her escape from the house had been successful. It made the increased surveillance of her comings and goings almost worthwhile.
‘An elopement to Scotland,’ her brother allowed. ‘If you can call that a wedding. My agents chased the pair of them around half of Britain before they actually tied the knot.’
‘If you hadn’t tried to stop them, they’d have been married earlier,’ she could not help reminding him.
He grunted in response. ‘So Castell told me when last we spoke. And now, apparently, she is with child. Attempting to gain an annulment will be even more scandalous than their marriage.’
‘Is she requesting an annulment?’ Liv said, staring at her brother.
‘No.’ He made another sound of disgust. ‘In her correspondence, she proclaims herself blissfully happy.’ His expression changed to one of confusion. ‘And Castell has not asked me for a settlement, as I expected he would.’
Liv adopted an expression of mock surprise. ‘Why, that means that you have absolutely no control over what Peg does.’ She smiled and sipped her chocolate.
‘But you are still here,’ he said, with an equally mocking smile.
‘For the time being,’ she agreed, reaching for a muffin. Hugh might think he had her sewn up properly, unable to get away. But it was only a matter of time before Alister came up with a plan. Then they would run away to Scotland, just as her sister had. Hugh would be left alone in the house to repent for his sins and remember the days when he had loyal sisters to keep him company.
The day was coming when she would be free. And it could not come soon enough.
* * *
If you enjoyed this book, why not check out these other great reads by Christine Merrill
The Brooding Duke of Danforth
“Their Mistletoe Reunion” in
Snowbound Surrender
Vows to Save Her Reputation
And look out for the next book in the
Secrets of the Duke’s Family miniseries,
coming soon!
Keep reading for an excerpt from Portrait of a Forbidden Love by Bronwyn Scott.
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Portrait of a Forbidden Love
by Bronwyn Scott
Chapter One
Somerset House, London—December 1819
There was no more dangerous creature than a man when cornered by a woman, unless it was a group of them, all held at bay by a single female armed only with what was her due and unafraid to ask for it. Artemisia Stansfield stood before the assembly at the Royal Academy of the Arts, believing without reservation that she’d earned recognition as an academician. Unfortunately, she was the only one in the room who shared that opinion, a conclusion that was becoming more evident by the minute.
Benjamin West spoke from the presidential throne, his mouth a grim line set beneath the long straight line of his nose. ‘Miss Stansfield, you are probably wondering why the assembly has summoned you?’
‘If the summons is not to grant me status as a Royal Academician, then, yes, I do wonder.’ Artemisia held the man’s gaze, her own steady and firm. She would not allow them to mince words with her, as disappointing as those words might be. A knot of worry tied itself in her stomach—worry that she had misjudged the purpose for the invitation to the assembly’s December meeting. She had not thought it would turn out this way.
Was it only this morning she’d awakened jubilant, convinced that today would be the day she achieved her dream: earning the honour of signing RA after her name on her works, being allowed to instruct young artists as a visiting professor and to direct the development of art in England? She fought the urge to smooth the skirts of her forest-green ensemble, chosen carefully for confidence. She would not let them see her fidget as if West’s question made her doubt her right to stand here. She did not doubt. She would never doubt.
‘I am afraid we will disappoint you then, my dear Miss Stansfield.’ Was that pity in President West’s gaze? Benevolent patronising in his tone? How dare he condescend to her! Artemisia’s temper began to smoulder as the words came. ‘The Academy has rejected your nomination.’
She let that sink in. Really sink in. It meant her name had been put forward and it meant that not one person had offered a signature in support. Not a single man sitting here had moved to endorse her, men who had pretended to be her colleagues, men whom she’d thought had been her friends for years. Men whom she’d thought respected her. Her gaze swept the room, a defiant stare that spared no one in its scolding wake. A few of them had the decency to shift in their seats, others were not brave enough to meet her eyes. Damn them.
Only Darius Rutherford, the Viscount St Helier, art critic to the ton, met her gaze with an obsidian stare of his own. Her temper ratcheted another degree to a slow burn. St Helier was not a member of the Academy, but where he led others followed. One word from him and an artist could be launched from anonymity into fame, or quite the opposite. She’d rather he not be here to witness her defeat. He might do her more damage than any of the others put together.
It was no longer a case of ‘damn them’ but of ‘damn him’, with his dark eyes and darker hair that fell perfectly imperfect over one arching brow and that long, strong nose that ended just above a firm mouth. His was a visage that was confident in its sense of superiority. How many times had she wanted to wipe that confidence off his face as he passed judgement at an exhibition, making and breaking careers with his words? She’d often wondered if those long, elegant hands of his had ever even held a paintbrush? Now the scrutiny of all that superiority was turned in her direction, assessing and waiting.
Waiting for what? A response? An outburst? For her to beg or to wither under the weight of the Academy’s judgement? Would he like that? Would he like to see her brought to her knees? He’d made no secret of his dislike for her in years past. She was not the sort of woman he approved of. In evidence of that, he’d never spent more than a handful of minutes in her presence, making it patently clear he preferred to rub elbows with a more traditional crowd. Whatever his dislike of her, though, he had yet to take that dislike out on her art. He didn’t effuse praise over her work—How could he? He didn’t understand it because he didn’t understand her—but neither did he condemn it. He ignored it. Perhaps today would be a turning point there and not for the better.
She let the enormity of the Academy’s refusal swamp her. Was their rejection just the beginning of the end? Would this signal the conclusion of her artistic career? What would people say about her? It suddenly seemed paramount that she make a response to Benjamin West’s verdict, that she not walk away. If she did, she’d be walking away from far more than just an appointment. It was also of great import that her response be even-toned, that it not be the rebuttal of a disappointed shrew.
It took an enormous amount of self-control to get the words out in cool, objective, professional fashion.
‘President West, I would like to remind the assembly of my credentials. I am already a Royal Associate of the Academy. I’ve been showing work at the Summer Exhibition since I was sixteen. I have even managed to take several prizes.’ Even over some of these other artists in the room. Just last year her portrait of Lady Basingstoke and her famed thoroughbred, Warbourne, had taken the top prize in the category, although she refrained from mentioning that at the moment. She didn’t want to risk wounding the manly pride in the room. ‘I am also an active, working painter under the age of seventy-five, one of the definitive requirements for consideration, I believe.’
The last cast a broad, seemingly inclusive net, a net she’d not thought to question until this moment. She’d been raised by an artistic father who’d not baulked at teaching both his daughters to paint. She’d grown up in an Academy that had two females as founding members at the time. She’d studied with one of them, Royal Academician Mary Moser, always believing there would be a place for her when the time came. Now, the time had come. Artemisia was twenty-eight and proven in her field. Where was that place? Was it not in this room with her colleagues?
‘A successful candidate for membership at this level must do more than merely satisfy requirements, as I am sure you understand.’ West’s gaze slid to the left to elicit support from the Academy’s long-time secretary, Henry Howard. In the silence, Artemisia felt what was to have been her triumph, her moment, slip away. How had it come to this?
She’d been so sure of her reception, so sure of the logic of the Academy accepting her nomination. She was still sure of it, why weren’t they? Didn’t they see that the timing was right, that she was the ideal candidate to fill Mary Moser’s vacancy in so many ways? ‘I do more than meet the requirements, sir,’ Artemisia contested boldly. If they’d expected her to accept their decision meekly, they were wrong. She would not let this go without a fight. ‘I studied with Mary Moser, I am the daughter of Sir Lesley Stansfield, a respected artist in his own right. Who better to carry the torch of Mary’s legacy than a former pupil and a woman who understands what it is to be a female artist in a male-dominated field?’
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