The Lady's Legacy (Half Moon House Series Book 3)

by Deb Marlowe

  “Talk to their cooks, I would imagine. They would arrange the contracts. Or the butlers in some cases.”

  Martha nodded. “All right, then.” She smiled at Francis. “Thank you.”

  “I wish you the best of luck in your interview and your new enterprise, but I need to examine the art here today. Would you like to help?”

  The girl shrugged. “Might as well. What are you looking for?”

  Francis thought about it. She remembered the reaction of those who had viewed the sculpture at Lady Pilgren’s ball. The yearning between the figures had been nearly palpable. And the lady and the boy in the duke’s painting had been unusual, but also pensive, somehow. “I expect I’ll find what I’m looking for in a painting that grabs your attention, holds your focus. It might feel more immediate and alive. And it might hold something . . . different in the background. Figures that seem separate from the subject, but also . . . eternal. They might be of a blonde lady and a small boy.”

  Martha just shrugged. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

  “Thank you. I’m going to start with the paintings ‘on the line,’” she told the girl. “We’ll move through the room and after that I’ll take it wall by wall.”

  Putting old skills to use, she moved easily through the throng and started along the first wall. It didn’t take long to lose herself in the art. There was so much of it—portraits to study, landscapes to be swept up in, and allegories to explore.

  She was shying away from a particularly gruesome battle scene when Martha heaved a sigh. “I don’t know why anyone would spend their money on a painting of someone they don’t know.” She sounded aggrieved. “If I had their sort of money, I’m sure I would spend it on a good wine cellar. Or invest in a promising business,” she grumbled.

  “Not all of the paintings are available for purchase,” Francis told her. Some are here only to be shown.” She surveyed the room with appreciation. “It’s a lovely thing, don’t you think, to show the public how much talent we have in Britain?”

  “I suppose so.” Martha brightened a little as they moved on to a sweeping landscape of greens and blues. “Now this I’d like. Mayhap I’d buy one o’ the Downs, to remind me of home.” She shook her head. “But look here—these are striking enough—but who would hang pictures of a bunch of rocks in their home?”

  Francis paused. Striking was the right word for this set of related paintings. But something . . . A tingle went up her spine. There was something familiar about the bold brush strokes . . .

  “Are you supposed to buy the set of three?” Martha asked. “They are pretty, in their own way. You could hang them in an office, I suppose.”

  Francis pushed past her, moving directly in front of the three landscapes. They were related, all of similarly odd shaped rock formations. She racked her brain. Weren’t there supposed to be such rocks in the Yorkshire Dales?

  “Well, no, then!” Martha suddenly declared. “That would do it for me.” She was shaking her head and peering at the last painting. It featured a towering pillar that looked as if it were balanced precariously on a smaller rock. “Why put a picnic in the shadow of this one? I’d never get a lick of work done, always worrying that the thing would fall right over on the pair of them!”

  Francis gripped the girl’s arm, holding her breath. Yes, there, behind the curve of the rock base, a tartan blanket that blended in with the ground cover—and on it . . . a lady. Her face was hidden by a sweep of blonde hair—and she was feeding a tidbit to a small boy.

  She gasped out loud. “Brynne!” she called.

  “Oh, yes!” Martha leaned in, peering. “That’s what you was looking for, ain’t it?”

  Francis could barely force her friend’s name out. “Brynne!” She turned and gave Martha a huge hug. “That’s it!” she crowed. “We’ve done it! We’ve found him!”

  “Rhys Caradec? Yes. You’ve seen his depiction of the Brimham Rocks?” Mr. George North’s eyes brightened. “Riveting, are they not?”

  “Indeed. We are quite enamored of them.” Francis strove for calm, but her heart was still pounding in anticipation and excitement. “We would very much like to meet the artist, sir. And when we asked, we were directed to you.”

  “Oh, well. Yes.” The young man, suddenly discomfited, glanced around the small reception room they’d been shown to. “I suppose I am acting as his agent, for this showing.”

  “Excellent. Can you arrange a meeting for us?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Why not, pray, sir?” Brynne brought out her most haughty demeanor.

  “Well, he’s not here.” Mr. North flushed a little. “It’s all very irregular, I admit, Your Grace. But I did obtain permission from the Academy members, I assure you.” He looked a little sheepish. “Caradec has certain family connections, I understand, and at least one of the directors was eager to . . . ah, repay an old debt.”

  Francis spoke gently. The young gentleman had begun to twitch. “You are a student of the Academy, are you not, sir?”

  “I am.” He gave a little, nervous bow.

  “And is Mr. Caradec also a student?” asked Brynne.

  “Indeed, no, ma’am. But his work is stunning, is it not? I felt it just had to be shown. And I was very kindly allowed to submit it on his behalf.” He rolled his eyes. “Certainly the gentleman himself refused to be bothered with the process—although he did say that the money would not go amiss, should they sell.” He raised his brows. “And you did say you were interested in buying his work?”

  “I am most definitely interested. But I’m afraid I must insist on meeting the man himself. If you are handling his business for him, one presumes you will know how to find him?”

  The poor man flushed deeper. “Well, he did say that he would find me, when next he was in London. Highly irregular, as I said. But you must understand—he is . . . eccentric! Like no one else you’ve ever met.”

  Francis reached again for calm and kept her tone soothing. “Where did you meet Mr. Caradec, sir?”

  “In Leeds. I was returning here from a visit with family in Durham. He had apparently recently finished some work in Yorkshire.”

  “Where was he traveling to?” asked Brynne.

  “I’m not sure. I only know that he was . . . diverted.”

  “By a person?” Brynne spoke sharply. “A meeting, perhaps?”

  “By his muse, evidently,” the young artist answered with a shrug. “I first heard of him from the landlord at the Three Crowns in Leeds. When the man heard that I was a student of the Academy, he joked that his establishment had recently acquired an artist in residence. He kindly introduced me to Mr. Caradec.” He shook his head. “I’ve seen my fair share of artistic temperaments in the grip of a mania—but this . . .”

  “Was it the paintings of the Yorkshire rocks that gripped him?” Francis asked, curious.

  “No! He was using them to drape rags over and to prop up his sketches! Can you fathom it?” Mr. North asked in disbelief and disapproval. “I had to rescue them! They are quite out of the ordinary. The grey in the rocks and the echo of color and depth in the sky—”

  “Yes. We admire them tremendously as well,” Brynne interrupted. “Do you know anything about the figures in the last painting?”

  “The picnic?”

  She nodded.

  “I had to ask, of course. They are quite out of place! But he could only say that they lived in some of his work—and not in others. As I said—”

  “Eccentric. Yes. So we understand,” Brynne said dryly.

  Francis had to know. “What was it he was working on, that had him so—”

  “Excited? It was a sculpture. Apparently when he arrived at the Three Crowns he came upon something in the stables. One of the grooms had a small child, who had fallen asleep amidst a pile of puppies. The landlord said that Mr. Caradec began raving about innate trust and the abandonment of innocence. Apparently he caused quite a stir, banning everyone from the stable while they slept and he sketched lik
e mad. Then he locked himself away in his room and barely came out while he did studies in clay and eventually plaster and marble. The innkeeper’s wife complained about the layers of dust in there, but he won her over with a bag of coins and a devotion to her plum duff.”

  “We’ll find him at the Three Crowns, then, if we travel north to Leeds?” Francis could not contain her excitement.

  “Oh. Well, no.”

  “No?” She raised a brow.

  Mr. North flushed again. “Well, I’m afraid I set him off. It rained buckets the first night I was there and the roads were impassable. I was forced to wait, and used the time to work on my own sketchbook. The next day, Caradec finished his piece and emerged from his room. We dined together and had a wonderful discussion—and he asked to see my book. He became intrigued with some of my sketches.” The flush this time was one of pleasure and pride.

  “Sketches of what?” Francis asked tightly.

  “Of my father’s hunting box in the Highlands—and especially my scenes of Edinburgh. He seemed quite taken with the notion of exploring the palace and the city.”

  “Edinburgh,” Francis breathed.

  “Francis,” said Brynne, her tone a clear warning.

  “Emily is right out there in the crowd,” Francis countered, referring to the Countess of Hartford. “Her mother just opened her shop in Edinburgh. You know they would make arrangements for me to stay with her, should we ask.”

  “We will not ask! Francis dear, I know you love Hestia. We all do.”

  She was right. A great many people loved Hestia. A great many people owed her too—but none so much as Francis did.

  “You know we must wait to talk to her about this before we do anything,” Brynne continued.

  “She won’t be back for at least a couple of weeks. It will take days to get there as it is. If we wait, he could be long gone—and who knows to where?”

  “We don’t even know that he’s there. Or how to find him.”

  Francis didn’t respond, she was already plotting and planning . . .

  “Francis! No!”

  Blinking, she turned to Brynne and smiled, then reached out to pat her friend’s hand. “I’m sorry, Brynne, but I’m going.”

  Chapter Two

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  I stood there in that ballroom and even as the terrible truth stabbed deep—Lord M—, he knew about my beautiful son—my mind drifted back. Back to those days when my parents had abandoned me, and Society labeled me a whore. Back to the day when I decided if they were going to discard and accuse me, then I would throw it back in their faces. I would become the Best Damned Whore Ever.

  --from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  Francis charged down the narrow staircase. Saints, but it felt good to be in trousers again, although her scalp did itch under the wig cap she’d tucked her hair into. Worth it, though. The dirty mop of brunette locks sold her disguise far better than anything she could do to her own hair—save chop it off. And she was vain enough to want to keep her soft, reddish-gold curls.

  Mrs. Spencer looked up as she entered the shop. Francis grinned at her. She heartily approved of her hostess’s new enterprise. It was bright and welcoming and undeniably feminine. The place held ribbons, laces and sundries at all prices—and she’d seen Mrs. Spencer welcome a lowly fishwife with the same courtesy and grace that she showed the local noblewomen.

  “Here now,” the lady said as she approached. “Isn’t it time you don your skirts again? Bad enough you should arrive here dressed like a lad.”

  “I probably should,” Francis agreed. “It’s far too easy to fall back into old habits. But really, you’ve no idea how much easier travel is for a young man,” Francis told her.

  “I can believe it, even though it is a scandal.” The shopkeeper shook her head. “But my Emily says that you know what you are doing.” She grinned. “And I suppose she knows a thing or two about disguises.”

  “A high compliment, coming from the countess,” Francis answered with a smile. “And I thank you—and her—again for your hospitality.”

  “Och, no need. I’d move heaven and earth to help Hestia Wright, after all the good she’s done—especially for my daughter.”

  “As would I,” Francis agreed. And when word had come to Half Moon House that Hestia would be delayed in the Lake Country, her business taking longer than expected, Francis had known it was a sign that now was her chance. “Would you mind if I talked to your boy before I head out this morning?”

  “Jasper? He’s in the back, sorting out new inventory.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Will you be back for dinner?” Mrs. Spencer called as she headed for the back rooms.

  “I hope so!”

  She found Jasper in the first room beyond the main showroom, counting colored laces.

  “Why’re you still wearing boy’s clothes?” he asked, clearly disapproving.

  “Because I want you to introduce me to some of your friends.”

  “Ain’t been here long enough to make friends.” He moved a box with a grunt.

  She merely leaned against the doorframe and waited.

  He continued counting. After a few seconds he glanced up at her. And then again. “What?” he asked in exasperation.

  “You know why I’m here. And you know who can help me find him.”

  “Who?” he asked, with a stab at innocence.

  She laughed. “Once a street rat, always a street rat, Jasper. Now, are you going to make the introductions or not?”

  He sighed. “And you are supposed to be a boy?”

  She nodded.

  “They won’t go easy on you,” he warned.

  She straightened. “I wouldn’t expect it.”

  It didn’t take long to find Jasper’s acquaintances, but it took half a day, rough words exchanged, proof that she could both take a punch and give as good as she got, and a promise not to knuckle any prizes in their territory before Francis found herself on good terms with a gang of local street urchins.

  “The bloke I’m looking fer—he’s an artist,” she told them. “He shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

  The leader of the group, Angus, rolled his eyes. “T’ain’t London, but this is the capital city,” he said with pride. “We’ve our fair share of artists.”

  “This one is newly arrived, and reported to be eccentric.” She tilted her head back and scraped a measuring look over the lot of them. “A crew like this? I’ll lay odds you know all the doings in this town.”

  “Wot’s eccentric?” the smallest one asked.

  “She means he’s dicked in the nob.” Angus pointed his finger at his temple and waggled it. “So, he’s big and blonde, then?”

  “So’s I hear tell.” She buried her excitement beneath a veneer of street ennui. “Where is he, then?”

  “What’ll ye give us for tellin’?”

  “A shilling each,” she said promptly. “That is, should you agree to help me run him down.” She waited a beat. “And I mean that literally, lads.”

  “Two shillings fer me, as I’m captain,” Angus countered.

  “Done.” Francis spit in her hand and extended it. Angus did the same and the bargain was sealed.

  “He’s up north o’ the city proper these last days, I heard,” Angus told her. “Painting the old St. Bernard’s Well.”

  She grinned. “Good. Now, here’s what I had in mind . . .”

  He was losing the light.

  Rhys sighed. It was all part and parcel of choosing a vantage point down in a narrow valley—but the view was worth it. The pastoral river, the old, many-columned temple of the well, and the lush greenery growing thick on the banks contrasted divinely with the hint of urban brick and glass just barely visible at the tops of the trees. The juxtaposition had captured his imagination.

  But the depth of the location meant a limited amount of direct sun. He had to start late and finish early out here. Today he stayed until the last bit of useful
light disappeared, then he began packing up his brushes and bladders, his mind on how he could thin the glazes back in his makeshift studio and perhaps capture at last the soft quality of the air that hung over the Water of Leith.

  Taking up his case and his canvas, he started up the faint trail through the brush to the walking path at the top of the bank. His head was busy, full of plans for layering colors and for finishing his day with a grand slice of Mrs. Beattie’s sticky pudding. He’d just reached the crest when—

  Oof!

  Something—someone—slammed into him, sending him staggering back. He threw his arms out for balance and managed to keep from tumbling back down the embankment, but his canvas went flying and his case flew open, scattering brushes, vials and bladders of paint everywhere.

  “Clabber me!” His assailant, an adolescent boy, had been knocked backward onto his arse. “Sorry, guv!” He looked up at him with a set of bright, hazel eyes, then glanced nervously over his shoulder. Two other youngsters rounded a curve in the path at a run. The lad gave a squeak of alarm and dived into the foliage. “Don’t give me away!”

  Rhys didn’t answer, but turned his back and bent to retrieve his sketch. He eyed the rapidly approaching boys. Both were taller, broader and thicker than the lad who had just bounced off of him. Ire flared in his gut. He knew what it was to be the odd one, the one always on the outside, the one who often had to fight to worm his way in.

  “Oy!” the biggest bloke called as they drew near. “Seen a young shaver run through here?”

  Rhys shot him a measuring look, read the determination and aggression in their demeanors, and made a decision. “Aye,” he answered grumpily. “Do you think I made this mess myself?” He examined the still-wet canvas carefully.

  “Where’d he go?” the other asked, his hands knotting into fists.

  Rhys pointed with his chin. “Down the stairs by the well. And give him a dunk for me, when you catch him.”

  The boys laughed and hurried on.

  Rhys propped up the canvas and began to gather his scattered supplies.