by Deb Marlowe
“Oh, dear. How fast of her,” Francis murmured.
“Yes—just think what they would make of you.” He half turned and waggled his eyebrows at her. “The lady scandalized them further when she began to ask after the artist who had painted the gypsy wagon. She’d seen it at the next village and inquired about it.”
“She must have seen something promising in it, to make her go to so much trouble.”
“So she said.”
“A lady artist,” Francis mused.
“Yes, and she was truly talented. A genuine artist, not the dabbling lady of society to which the world wished to relegate her. She should be showing in London at that Academy event, but they would never allow it. Women are supposed to play at watercolors and take a pat on the head for their accomplishments,” he said with disgust.
“So she came seeking you because . . ?”
“She thought she had something to teach me.” Both on the canvas and in bed, although he wouldn’t share that much. “And she did. Her landscapes were a revelation. She showed me new techniques, discussed new ways of thinking about art, ways that my grandfather, who had been strictly trained in the old school, would have scorned. Without a doubt, I grew more skilled under her tutelage.”
“How long did she work with you?”
“Most of a summer. She rented a small cottage and set out to paint all the beauties of the region.” It had been a season of revelation. He’d spent the weeks rising early, moving fast to get his work done on the farm, and then he’d rush to Julietta’s cottage and they’d spend hours together while she taught him about vision and oils and sex and life.
He glanced over his shoulder again. Francis was no fool. From the look on her face, she’d guessed at least part of that private reflection.
“Did you leave with her? Is that how your wandering started?” She sounded thoughtful.
“No. She would not take me.” He said it without emotion. Without the rage and heartache that had torn through him. She’d carried on with her life and abandoned him to plough and harvest. Damn, but he’d been so young and had felt it so keenly. Because it had hurt. Left again, with no thought to what promise might be neglected or his miseries might be. He’d decided then and there that he would go, come what may. And he had. He’d taken extra work at the winery and wherever else he could find it. He’d saved his money and he’d left, eventually, to follow his own path.
He’d not met her gaze or allowed any of what he felt to color his tone, but Francis suspected much of it, all the same. He could see it on her face—and she was right, it was uncomfortable, to be seen so clearly. She was kind enough not to let pity show, at least.
Instead, she smiled at him. “But you did leave. On your own terms.” She nodded. “Well done.”
Pleasure washed through him. She knew just what to say—and to say it without sentiment, but with simple acknowledgement. And the thought suddenly sprang up, unbidden. Perhaps it was not so terrible to be known. Understood.
He lifted a shoulder. “So, there you have it. Was it ripe enough to meet your standards?”
She didn’t smile. “Did you ever see the lady artist again?”
“No.” He hadn’t even considered the possibility. “I shouldn’t wish to.”
Silence stretched out for a moment, then suddenly she smiled at him. “Well, then, I would say that was just ripe enough, so I shall answer your question—if you promise that you shall take a turn again, next time.”
It was no light question. Next time implied further intimacy, beyond the bed. Would there be a next time? Did he wish for one?
He gave a half nod, half shrug, thoroughly half-committal response, but it seemed to satisfy her. She settled back on her stool and began to tell him about her friends.
About Brynne Wilmott, betrayed by the men in her life, who escaped her abusive fiancé, helped prevent an international incident, married a duke and opened an orphanage for young girls left with no one to look out for them.
And she spoke of Callie Grant, who traveled with the aforementioned duke’s brother to save her sister, married the brother and now ran a country inn, and also gave assistance to women who found themselves with child and nowhere to turn.
And he, with his artist’s eye, saw the change in Francis as she talked. Her color rose, her eyes grew alight with admiration and excitement.
Rhys was no fool. He knew Brynne Wilmott had been his father’s betrothed, but he’d never before heard how he’d treated her. He knew Callie Grant’s name too. He’d heard Marstoke cursing it during their own short, tempestuous acquaintance.
Now, watching Francis light up, listening to her tales, he began to wonder if he’d got it all wrong.
He could almost see the hope and purpose these women inspired in her. And from what she said, they didn’t poke an oar in and then move on. If she spoke true, then these women showed grit and determination and dedication to their causes. Not a case of interference from on high, instead they dug in and got truly involved.
And these were the women inspired by Hestia Wright? The faintest doubt crept in to erode his righteous and certain anger.
With a start, he pulled back his brush. She had distracted him, and it had been an even greater success than he’d hoped. He’d got her hair right at last, in all of its red-gold glory. And somehow he’d captured the sparkle of her excitement on the canvas. His heart leapt as he stared down at her air of hope and promise and positive conviction.
He sighed. “Well, that did the trick.”
She sat up straight. “Is it finished, then?”
“Nearly.”
They both started at a sharp knock at the door.
Rhys pierced her with a glare and held a finger to his lips. “I’m working!” he bellowed.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you are.” Malvi’s tone came through on the sarcastic side of respectful. “But you’ve a message.”
“Do not move,” he mouthed to Francis and went to the door. He cracked it open the smallest bit. Malvi leaned and tried to peer in as she handed over the folded note, but Rhys snatched it up and shut the door. “Thank you,” he said belatedly.
He heard her snort right through the door.
“It’s from Andor,” he said, reading it over quickly. “He insists I come to dinner.” He looked over at her disheveled glory and could not resist going over to give her a smacking kiss. “Turn yourself back into a street rat, then and I’ll see you’re fed properly. I might as well go to him tonight, seeing as I’ve already promised to see you safely home.”
Reaching over, she grabbed his chin and pulled him in to kiss him back, then with a pouty lip and a sigh, she hopped down.
Chapter Eighteen
My mentor-to-be, the courtesan, arranged a showing at one of her salons. A progressive path, each picture showing a little more skin than the last.
--from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright
The next morning, Francis was demonstrating one of Mrs. Spencer’s embroidered sashes to a young matron.
“I’ve never seen work to exceed Mrs. Spencer’s skill and taste,” she said truthfully. “See, wear it just so, at the waist of a plainer gown,” she demonstrated on her own green-sprigged muslin. “And it’s instantly elevated. When you add the matching hair ribbon, you achieve yet another level of fashion and versatility.”
Duly convinced, the customer departed happily, passing a familiar face on the way.
Francis moved to intercept him as he came in. “Mr. Larson! Have you brought your wife in to visit us, at last?” She looked over his shoulder.
“Alas, no. But we were hoping to tempt you to our home for an evening’s entertainment, tonight, Miss Headley. Just a small dinner and a bit of reading aloud—poetry and the like.”
“Ah, that sounds lovely,” she said with regret. “I do wish I could accept—”
Color crept up the gentleman’s face. “Come now, don’t disappoint us once again,” he chided.
She paused and looked him
over. “I do hate to do so, sir, but unfortunately I’ve promised to help out at the store this evening, and then after hours with a project Mrs. Spencer and I have been working on.”
“My . . . wife will be sorely upset.”
“Well, we cannot have that,” she said decisively. “But I know just the thing to sweeten her temper.” She crossed to the rack of ribbon and took down a pretty specimen. “This will go beautifully with that collar you chose for her.” She wrapped it up in a tiny, charming box. “Please, take it to her with our compliments, and ask her to come in tomorrow morning. We’ll have a grand time going over all of the fripperies and I’ll arrange a lovely nuncheon. It will give us the chance to get to know each other.”
Mr. Larson’s lips were compressed as he stared at her a moment. “You are too kind. I shall ask if her schedule will allow it.” He bowed and turned to take his leave.
“Oh, but don’t forget the ribbon, sir,” Francis called.
He waved a hand in the air. “I am off to chambers and cannot take it now. I’ll stop back in later, perhaps.”
“Very well.” Thoughtfully, she followed and watched him leave. He marched up the pavement, his annoyance clear in each pounding step, and climbed into a carriage parked a little way up the street.
Francis turned back, her mind softly awhirl, but she started as she met Rhys on his way in.
Her heart jumped at the sight of him. He’d cracked her open a little more, sharing that story about the lady artist who had tutored him. She was sure enough that there had been more than art lessons going on, but what did that matter? His experiences added together to make his pleasing whole. His pain did, too, and he was harboring anger against two women who had left him. Suddenly his suspicions made sense, because she knew he believed her to be gathering his personal information to share with Hestia.
But that was not the kind of confidence she would ever betray. She already had the news she would tell Hestia. Everything else she could squeeze from this affaire now was for her. She was gathering memories like a dragon hoarding jewels—because soon enough, memories would be all that she had of him.
“Good morning, Mr. Caradec!” Mrs. Spenser called out the greeting as she emerged from the back rooms. Jasper gave a nod from behind the ribbon counter.
“Good morning to you, ma’am. Jasper. Miss Headley.”
They had all been introduced last evening. Mrs. Spencer had clearly taken it into her mind to protect Francis. The kindly woman’s concern touched her, even as she knew it was too late.
“Have you come to fetch Miss Headley to sit for her portrait?”
“I’ve come to fetch her to view her portrait, ma’am.” He turned to meet Francis’s gaze. “I worked through most of the night. It’s finished.”
Her breath caught. “Finished?” Was he happy with it? She couldn’t tell. His expression was . . . intense.
“How lovely,” Mrs. Spencer trilled. “Jasper was telling me how excited he was to see how it turned out. I hope you won’t mind if he accompanies you?”
Francis hid a smile at the surprised look on the boy’s face.
“Not at all. I’ve a hack outside if you can spare them both now.”
“To be sure!” Mrs. Spencer waved a hand. “I’ll see you both back early this afternoon, yes?”
“You will,” Francis answered fondly as she took up her shawl. “I haven’t forgotten that we’ve plans for the evening.”
“Yes, and there are preparations to be made,” she said, raising a brow.
Francis nodded. They all went out to bundle into the hack and set off, Francis and Jasper sitting together and facing Rhys.
“It’s truly done?” she asked.
“It is.”
“I’m surprised it went so quickly.”
“As am I,” he admitted. “But some works just grab on and won’t let go.”
“It’s just as well that Miz Spencer sent me along to play dogberry,” Jasper broke in. “I heard from Angus this morning and now I can tell you both. He’s been followin’ that gentleman—the one that your maid meets. Angus didn’t like the look of him, nor how he manhandles the girl.”
Rhys sighed, but Francis nodded for the boy to continue. “Let’s hear it, then,” she told him. “Have they discovered his name?”
“Aye. He’s Mr. Arthur Welfield.”
“The Viscount Cantwick’s son,” breathed Francis. “He’s known to be one of Marstoke’s disciples.”
“I thought we’d already decided that Malvi was connected with the marquess,” Caradec reminded them sourly. “What difference does knowing his name make?”
“Mebbe none,” Jasper answered. “Or mebbe you should keep an eye on the maid. Angus and his boys followed the nob to the carriage builder’s, where he asked that his rig be fitted out, custom.”
“Nothing wrong with that, if a man can afford it.” Rhys shrugged.
“Aye—but he asked for fixed windows, a reinforced door and a new latch—one that bolts from the outside.”
Francis stilled.
Even Rhys grew sober. “I’ll watch out for her,” he agreed. “I’d hate for her to be forced into something against her will.”
She kept quiet for the few minutes it took to reach the Hound and Hare, her mind spinning with suspicions. She let them fall away, however, when Rhys handed her down from the hack. “You haven’t mentioned your dinner last evening. Did you enjoy yourself?”
“I did.”
“And your friend’s new wife? How did you find her?”
“Very lovely. Intelligent. Sweet.”
“A fit mate for your friend, then?”
“Yes.” He rolled his eyes. “Do you wish for me to admit I was wrong? Perhaps I was, at that. She was lovely and they seem happy—although she was a bit frazzled. It seems they’ve had difficulty keeping a nurse maid since they came to Edinburgh.”
“Oh?” Francis’s mind immediately jumped to Janet Grant and her wish to add on the care of an infant along with her sister’s. “But I could help with that, I believe. Do you recall the little flower girl? Wee Janet is looking—”
Rhys stopped in mid-stride, just past the door of the entry into the inn. A gentleman huffed and moved around them, but he didn’t appear to notice. “Francis—no. Haven’t I asked you not to meddle?”
“But—”
“No. I hope you haven’t interfered with that little flower girl, but I definitely do not want you to meddle with this. Andor is perfectly capable of handling his own domestic problems—without any help from you.”
His words stung. And it was made worse when Malvi chose that moment to pop from behind the baize door. Her smirk made it clear that she’d heard at least part of that rebuke.
Francis returned her taunting look with a glare, not sure at the moment if she was more irritated with the maid or Rhys.
“Mail has come for you, Mr. Caradec, sir.” Malvi dropped into a curtsy. “From London,” she said pertly. She handed over a small but thick parcel. “Smells like a windfall to me!”
“Impertinence,” Rhys growled.
“That’s me.” She swirled her skirts. “Just don’t go forgetting me if you change your mind about going that way.”
Francis stared after her as she departed, then turned to follow Rhys up the stairs, determined to continue chipping at his edges. She would get through to him somehow. When they reached the studio door, Rhys paused and Jasper hung behind, on her heels.
Rhys stood a moment, his hand on the latch, and then he slowly swung the door open.
The portrait sat, covered, on an easel in the center of the room. It looked larger, away from the table and the collection of paints and equipment.
Wordless, Rhys gestured for her to continue in.
She stepped forward and contemplated the covering. Ease it off? Or toss it blithely to the floor? In the end, she just gave a tug—and stood, transfixed.
It was unlike any portrait she’d ever seen. She couldn’t stop staring at it, wasn’t sure ho
w to make sense of it in her mind.
It was a close perspective of a square column, in a garden setting. Ivy draped parts of the stone column. A woman had been carved in high relief into it. Her flowing skirts were visible, caught in stone in the lower part of the scene.
In the upper part—the woman was breaking free. Pushing herself out of the column, emerging from the still, frozen, grey stone into vibrant color and life.
Except . . .
“It’s not me,” she whispered. Puzzled, disappointed, she turned to find Rhys watching her intently and Jasper staring, unblinking at the image.
“It’s you,” Jasper corrected her.
Frowning, she turned back. It couldn’t be her. Could it? The girl in the painting had fresh, pearly skin, showcased in a beautiful, intricately folded gown of ancient design. Her eyes shone bright and happy, brimming with promise and fire. Her lips were pink, her cheekbones wide and her hair curled in wild, glorious abandon down past her shoulders. She looked full of life and merriment and mischief.
Turning back to Rhys again, she shook her head.
“It’s you,” he said hoarsely. “How can you doubt it?”
Her gazed drifted back and he came to stand by her as she stared. “The stone . . .” He pointed to the column. “It’s the world. Life. Your losses. Your first home, your mother’s death, Hatch’s plans for you, life in a brothel and in the streets. It is all of the things that have happened to you, all of the events that could have left you hard, frozen, and dead inside. But they didn’t. Because . . . this is you. Buoyant. Defiant. Vibrant. Full of beauty and color and hope and care and consideration—”
She swallowed. Gulped. And burst into noisy tears.
“Whoops!” Jasper ran for the door. “I’ll be downstairs! Find me when you are ready to go!”
“Coward,” Rhys called as he closed the door behind him.
Francis sobbed harder and sank down onto the floor.
“What is it?” Rhys knelt beside her. “Francis? Do you hate it? Shall I cover it again?”
“No!”
“Then what is it? What’s wrong, sweet girl?”
