by Deb Marlowe
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
Slowly was going to kill him.
Clearly, Francis Headley did not understand her own appeal. He looked forward to rectifying that situation—and to making sure she knew her worth, too.
But the slowly bit—that was going to require all of his control.
“Well,” she said brightly. “I’ll leave the first steps to you, then?”
She might have been discussing a hand of cards or a shopping expedition, but this felt altogether more serious to him.
Standing, he threw coins on the table. “Come, let’s leave before someone notices how I’m looking at you.”
She scrambled to her feet. “Perhaps you should just stop.”
“Stop looking at you?”
Her mouth quirked. “Stop looking at me that way.”
He raked her with another scorcher. “Impossible,” he rasped.
Wrapping up, they headed out. Fortunately, the rain had slackened, leaving only a drizzling mist in the air. As before, she fell in behind him, in keeping with her guise. “I should just hire you as my errand boy,” Rhys mused as they paused at a busy corner. “It will give us time together—and no one will blink an eye if I keep you in my studio for hours.”
“I will,” she objected. “I thought you understood I’m not ready for that.”
“When you are,” he said, low and intense, “it will look entirely natural.” His stirring manhood approved of the plan.
“I suppose so.” She sighed. “I would like to wear my own clothes occasionally, when we are about.”
His cock twitched in agreement.
“Perhaps we can put it about that you are painting my portrait?”
“Perhaps.” Interest flared in his gut. He would paint her, he knew. The desire was fierce, but unformed. He needed a focus, an idea—and he was content to spend time with her while he waited for it to strike.
“Where are we going?” she asked as they set out again.
He noticed she was keeping a little further back than she had this morning. So, she might throw brave words around, but she was nervous. Slowly really would be key here.
“High Street. Mr. North was so kind as to give me the name of the best color man in the Highlands. I’m to pick up an order of paint today.”
It wasn’t far. He bit back a grin when she ran ahead of him up the short stairs and held open the door. The mischief in her face captivated him—as did so much about her. She was utterly different from anyone else, and resolutely at ease with it.
Fascinating.
“Mr. Caradec! Come in, come in.”
“Mr. Dunbar. Good day to you.”
“Your order is nearly complete.” The color man set aside his mortar and moved behind the counter.
“Nearly?” The shop was small. Rhys left Francis examining jars of powdered pigment and crossed to speak with the shopkeeper. He kept one eye on her as they spoke, though, so he was angled to see when the door opened and another gentleman entered.
He relaxed when the man passed Francis without a second glance, but straightened in surprise as he stepped closer. “Andor!” he exclaimed as the man tucked his hat beneath his arm. “Is that you?”
He stepped forward and grasped his hand as a great smile broke out across his friend’s face.
“Rhys Caradec! I cannot believe it!” Andor’s Norwegian accent brought back a wave of memories. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, it’s the same story.” Rhys shrugged. “Inspiration pulled me into town. But I had no idea you were here as well.”
“But yes! I live here now. My wife and her family have business interests here and we have agreed to watch over them for a time.”
“Wife?” Rhys reared back in shock. “Wife?”
“Wife, yes! But you are shocked, are you not?” His friend grinned at the joke.
“Shocked? Yes. Surely it was not so long ago that we traveled together—and you were the most infamous seducer of . . ?” He paused and looked over where Francis watched them with interest. “Well, you were very NOT married,” he laughed, thinking back. “Was it a year ago that you left, headed for France to paint portraits for a wool merchant?”
“Yes, a little over a year. And yes, I did paint the portraits—then married the eldest daughter once her portrait was done. Oh, but you must meet my Lorette! She has a head for business to rival any man’s. Her father wanted offices and a warehouse here, close to the source of so much of his stock. Lorette will get it up and running, so we will be here for a brace of years, at the least.”
He sounded content and proud—and Rhys could not fathom it. “But, what of your painting? Surely you haven’t given it up?”
“Of course I have not! Not even the birth of our first child has slowed Lorette. I could do no less! I have a studio and I’ve done several pieces I’m proud of—and even found a way to derive a steady income from my work.”
That bit of speech sent several jolts down his spine, but he focused on the first and most important. “Your first child?” he repeated, stunned.
“It is true!” Andor laughed. “I am a papa. Is it not wonderful?” He glanced over at Mr. Dunbar. “Oh, but do not let me get started on all the amazing qualities of my son, or I will never stop—and I have clearly interrupted. My apologies.”
“No, we are finished.” Rhys stopped him before he could back away. “Mr. Dunbar has filled my order as much as he was able.”
“I do apologize,” the color man said. “The ash of ultramarine which gives that particular grey its blue undertones can be difficult to find. But a shipment will arrive shortly and then I will fill your order first, Mr. Caradec.”
“Oh, but you need the Natural Grey—yes, it is perfect for so many of the skies here, is it not?”
“It is. I have a painting nearly complete, but I’ll need it to finish.”
“Well, you must not wait, and there is no need. I have some of that color in my studio. You are welcome to it.”
Rhys frowned. “I would not want to impose upon your own—”
“No, no, I insist! And should love to show you what I have been up to, in any case.”
He hesitated.
“Here you are.” Mr. Dunbar pushed a small box of supplies across the counter. “The rest of your order.”
Out of nowhere, Francis stepped up to take it.
“Is this your boy?” asked Andor.
Rhys had to work not to glance her way. “Yes. I’ve just hired him. I was about to take him back to my own studio and get him started on his duties.”
Bless her heart, she did not make a sound.
“Bring him along to my place, first.” Andor smiled at Francis. “I daresay you’ll like the surprise I have for your master.” He clapped Rhys on the back. “I’ll send you both back in our carriage.”
They both stared at him, awaiting his decision. Francis’s face held carefully blank. He felt a strange reluctance to see the place where Andor lived such a changed life, but he couldn’t say that—if only because Francis would scoff at him. And she would be right. If she had only been his hired errand boy, he would have gone—and he had no wish to raise suspicion, either.
Sighing, he nodded his head.
Rhys was glad for the carriage, as Andor’s home was situated well away from the Old Town, near the docks. They stopped before a massive, square building, whitewashed and with a long stairway leading along the front of the place to a door on the first floor.
“Below are the offices and warehouse space,” Andor explained. “We’ll go up.” He opened the door at the small landing and they entered a small entry hall with two wooden doors.
“There we live,” his friend waved a hand toward the right. “I suspect my young Erland is sleeping, so we will stay in the studio, for today.” He turned toward the left and held the door for them to enter.
Francis let out a sigh as she moved in and Rhys, following, couldn’t blame her. The space was large and open.
“Gorgeous,” he told Andor, moving to contemplate it from one side, then the other. It was a lovingly detailed rendering of Edinburgh Castle, the vantage from below. On Prince’s Street, most likely. Unlike the cloudy, grey sky of his own current work, Andor was in the midst of portraying a vivid blue sweep behind the imposing edifice. “Was it commissioned?”
“Yes. I’ve done a few portraits since I arrived, but this one was ordered by my father-in-law. He wants something impressive in the offices back home—something he can point to when he discusses his Scottish warehouses.”
“Well, it is impressive, indeed. Well done, my friend.”
“Thank you. Now, let me show what else I have been doing . . . ah, I see your boy has discovered it.”
Rhys swung around to see Francis bent over a smaller work. A triptych piece, the three panels were only a couple of feet high and propped on a long counter, leaning against the wall. She appeared to admire the fanciful scene. It depicted a forest grove, with the moon peeking from behind leafy trees and small, fey creatures peeping from the undergrowth.
“It looks like a set piece—something you’d see in the theatre,” she marveled.
“Exactly right,” Andor said with delight. “This is for a Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“I would have guessed that one,” she said with a nod. “It looks as if Puck might be just behind a tree.”
“So small?” Rhys looked down the counter and saw several more, similar works, but each with a different scene painted. “What are they for? Theatre companies?”
“Yes,” Andor grinned. “But toy theatres.”
“Toy?” Francis asked before he could. “Theatres?”
“Have you never seen one, lad? Many a nursery or schoolroom boasts one. I met a man in France who manufactures them. Rather than restricting his buyers to a general background or just one play, he had the idea to make sets you could change out—and I got the charge to design them.”
“And is this the fair Verona?” she asked, moving on to the next one.
“’Tis indeed. I’m surprised you haven’t seen a toy theatre, then. They’ve been popular for quite some time.”
“Not in my circles,” she said wryly.
“Yet you know of Puck and recognized Verona?” Rhys pointed out.
She shot him a glance. “Yes, well, I know a fair number of actresses. And I was hired as a puffer once, when one of them, a friend of mine, won the role of Hippolyta. She shook her head. “It was a rare beauty of a thing, that play.”
“A puffer?” Rhys repeated.
“I thought it was a failure of my English,” laughed Andor. “What is this, please?”
“Damned if I know,” Rhys answered. They both eyed her, waiting.
“Neither of you?” Francis rolled her eyes. “Well, let me tell you, when Molly won that role, the other actress under consideration was right hot over it. The rumors flew that she and her friends meant to show up on opening night and hiss Molly off the stage. So the manager hired me and some others to do the opposite—to cheer her to drown out the spite.” She lifted a shoulder. “See? Puffers.” Her head shook in reminiscence. “That was a good night. Got to spend it in out of the cold, got to see the spectacle of the crowd and the play—and was paid tuppence, besides.”
Rhys lost all interest in the set pieces, transported by all the things Francis had revealed in that little story—and all of the questions it raised. What had she been through, his disheveled little urchin? How had she come through it with her confidence and quirky humor intact—not to mention her virginity? And why was he so drawn to her, and determined to discover the answers?
“It sounds a good night indeed,” Andor said kindly. “So . . .” He moved off to one end of the room and pulled out a drawer in a cabinet. “Here is your paint, Rhys.”
“Thank you,” he answered, moving to take it. “I’ll be sure to replace it once my order is filled.”
“Yes, and you must come to dinner and meet Lorette and my son.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the kind invitation.” He clasped his friend’s arm once more, than turned to Francis. “Let’s go, lad, and allow Andor to get back to work.”
Chapter Eight
How had my secret got out? Who would have told Lord M— that I had managed not to lose my child? I kept my hand curled protectively over my belly for days. I couldn’t know who it was. And neither could I wait to leave. My plans had to change.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
They had to walk to the livery where the carriage had gone to await them. Francis didn’t mind. Caradec had taken the box of supplies from her and stomped off, a formidable scowl upon his face, and dutifully, she’d fallen in step behind him, wondering what was bothering him.
She had no idea what it was, but she was enjoying the sight of him, strolling along with his long steps, the escaped ends of his hair blowing in the sea breeze and his dark expression clearing the pavement ahead.
She was having a grand time, in fact, imagining him as a warrior, striding along these same streets in the last century, wrapped in a colorful plaid with a broadsword strapped to his back. He had the shoulders for it, the long, lean back, the strong brow and set jaw. She was very busy conjuring up how heavily his arms would be muscled and staring daggers at the very correct, modern clothing that prevented her from comparing, when he abruptly turned into the livery yard.
He bundled her and the supplies into the coach and they set out. He spent a few more minutes staring broodingly out of the window and she’d just settled in for a quiet ride when he turned to her.
“So, you enjoy the theater, do you?” His tone sounded gruff.
She was slow to answer. “Well, I don’t really know, to be truthful. The night I told you about, I missed a lot of the meat of the story, worrying for Molly and thwarting her hecklers. The only other night I set foot in a theatre, I was mostly . . . behind the scenes.”
And she wasn’t ready to discuss that night with him or anyone else. The infamous night that the Duke of Aldmere foiled Marstoke’s plan to incite an international incident. The night that Hatch died—and Francis’s new life emerged out of the ashes of the old.
She considered him. The skies outside were patchy with clouds. There must be one sunbeam in the entirety of Edinburgh, and it had found him, slanting through the window to set his hair to gleaming with hints of gold. “Are you?” she asked. “A fan of the theater?”
“I hardly know. I’ve hardly much experience myself, of the formal variety. Now, the traveling troupes, those I know a bit about. My first commission was for a mural on the side of a prop wagon.”
He unfocused a little, clearly reminiscing—and the memory obviously brought him some pleasure.
The sight of it made Francis thankful, not for the first time, that she hadn’t been born a lady. There were no rules governing her behavior or feelings, none to stop her from enjoying the light that slowly chased his morose expression away. Nothing telling her to look away from the attractive crinkling in the corner of his eyes.
This big, handsome, charming man had proposed a seduction—of her. Even if she didn’t mean to let things go that far, still the wonder of it made her slightly dizzy.
“Was that how you first started wandering? With a player’s troupe?” she asked, to distract herself.
“No, but it is where I got the idea. They were . . . irresistible. So carefree and full of fun and mischief. It was a window onto another world.”
Had there been no fun or mischief in his early life? She filed the question away for later. “So you followed in their footsteps and have wandered—but alone instead of with a group?”
“Not always alone. I’ve shared paths with others from time to time
. Andor was a fine companion. We traveled through three cities together.”
Understanding dawned. “Ah, is that why you’ve gone scowly? You don’t like the idea of your friend settling down?”
He straightened. “I don’t like it. No.”
“He seems happy enough.”
“Happy enough? He’s a talented artist! He did a series of landscapes of the frozen fjords of his home—and they hang in one of the royal households!”
“He still possesses the same talent,” she said reasonably.
But Caradec’s attention had shifted. He leaned forward and stared out the window for a second before signaling the driver to stop. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a moment.”
He was out of the carriage before she could object. Gripping the handle, she watched him open a door and enter a building under a sign that read Jacobs and Sons, Wine Merchants.
It took considerably more than a moment and more than once she considered going in after him, but he finally emerged carrying a box that he placed on the bench next to him. “No questions.” He held up a hand. “You asked me how we were going to begin? Well, I’ll show you once we get back to the Hound and Hare.”
He would brook no opposition and they rode the rest of the way quietly. When they reached the inn, she took up the smaller box of art supplies while he took the other.
“Mrs. Beattie!” he called as he entered, moving ahead of her with his long stride.
“Yes, Mr. Caradec?” The landlady came down the stairs carrying a load of linen. “I see ye did not melt in the rain.”
He laughed. “No, thanks to your plaids. And I do thank you for the loan of them.”
