“No—it’s quite alright. I simply wished to relay that should you enjoy your tutorial and wish to continue it, Franz is inclined to do so. However, the lesson for this afternoon has been canceled. That’s all.”
“Oh. I see. Mr. Winterhalter is not ill, is he?”
“No. But in his own constitution, he may be soon. Our Franz is about readying his trunks—meaning, he is quite troubled by the state of his wardrobe at present. He set about to ensure the staff is educated on the merits of how to, as he put it, ‘adequately starch a shirt and steam-iron cravats for a successful journey by coach.’ Something to that effect.”
And with that, he turned human again before her.
Keaton smiled, a calm, fluid, and very real action of the lips that showed he actually enjoyed teasing her, and perhaps being found in her company again. He stood, hands gathered behind his back, waiting for her to respond.
“Oh dear. That sounds . . . quite serious.”
Keaton broke character, allowing the casual reaction of a laugh under his breath. “It is to him. He leaves the day after tomorrow, and I daresay he will find that wrinkles cannot be held at bay for that long. I fear for the safety of all involved in this venture.”
“Is he off to Belgium then?”
“Yes, but on a diversion first. He’s been called to London over the summer. Buckingham Palace, as a matter of fact, to take audience by the queen. I was sent back to relay the request and bring a missive outlining a new commission for him there. He is much sought after by Her Majesty and the prince consort.”
It shouldn’t have surprised her—Franz received commissions from royalty regularly. But still the news sent a little ripple of excitement to wave through her midsection.
Her Royal Highness. Queen Victoria. She’d summoned him just like that, and the request was so commonplace that he’d gone off to see about packing for the coach ride?
Elizabeth had to shake herself out of her stupor. “Of course he must go. I will keep up until he returns, that is, if he wishes to continue. He may return from the palace and find a distaste for the simple artistry of the countryside.”
“I do not think Franz capable of engaging in your lessons if it were simply a passing breeze. I would be on your guard before he attempts to employ you as an apprentice in one of his studios.” He tipped his head to the side, studying her more intently. “It seems as though Parham Hill may have competition for your affections. I’m aware that puts our impending marriage at a disadvantage.”
Elizabeth felt her midsection wither—talk of affections was dangerous business.
“My affections?”
“Yes. Franz has asked if you might accompany him to the palace.”
“Me?” Affections melted, and the shock of the unexpected settled in. “But why?”
“He believes you have a gift and wants you to have the opportunity to share it.”
The air was sucked out of the room.
She swallowed hard, unsure of how to process what he’d just said.
Never had Elizabeth imagined meeting a gentleman who would offer space for a woman to decide her own fate in accepting or rejecting a proposal. But his offer now was fairly a unicorn—that she should not have to be forced into a ladies’ drawing room at all but instead could step into an artist’s studio if it was what impassioned her innermost.
There were few working females in the upper class of British society—even fewer artists in employ. It was nearly as scandalous as a lady singing opera or touring about as—gasp!—an actress. He would be prepared to support her in such an outlying venture as pursuing a profession, even as she was to step in and become mistress of all Parham Hill?
“You’ve time to think it over. Should you wish to go, Franz would accompany all of us to London and then make his departure to Belgium for his commission there. And after, he will return and take up his commission with the queen—with you as his apprentice. If it’s what you want, of course.”
The prolonged silence after Keaton gave the offer spoke volumes.
He stepped forward again, this time to stop in front of where her feet were iced to the floor. Steel gray and gold looked down on her in a show of tenderness Elizabeth had not thought possible before.
Not from him, ever.
“I apologize, sir. I’m not certain what I want. Not now.”
“Yet I wonder whether I was wrong to have encouraged this.”
“Why?”
“I may yet lose the opportunity to hear you give me your answer one day.”
Keaton made no move to reach for her, but she imagined it. That a hand intended to grasp hers . . . Or that his eyes looked on her not with malice but with openness. That he was willing to consider affection. And heaven help her, Elizabeth wanted it. Some measure of closeness. A reckoning that said he wasn’t the monster she’d once believed but a different man entirely.
The realization caused a sickness within and sent her flinching back before the ghostly fingertips of her imaginings could reach her.
Forgive me, she mouthed, and nearly tripped over her skirt in her haste to move back from him. An oddity, as he’d not even moved from his place.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”
Elizabeth balanced a hand on the sideboard, digging her fingernails into the wood so she could stand, this time the familiarity so different from when they’d met in the meadow. Confusion and guilt stripped her insides bare, emotion winning because it was clear there had been a shift in her affections. Above all things, this could not happen.
Not with him.
“Oh, my dear! I passed our Mr. Winterhalter on the way to oversee the laundry of all wretched things, and he has just shared the prodigious news!” Ma-ma hurried into the library, oblivious to anything in the room as she flitted about, taking up and patting Elizabeth’s hands in elation. “Have you told her, Viscount?”
Keaton nodded, his composed veneer back in place. But he did continue watching Elizabeth as if she were a doll, porcelain and feeble, perhaps ready to break. “I have, Lady Davies.”
“And is this not magic, Elizabeth? You are to go to Buckingham Palace. To the palace to take audience with the queen herself! Ah, if your father were here.” Ma-ma dabbed the corners of her eyes with a kerchief, puttering on about the bliss of an impending marriage and an audience with the queen too wonderful to absorb so close in succession. “He would be but proud, my darling. So, so proud. Almost as much as he would be on your wedding day, of course. And now the wedding must be in London. High summer. We will have much time to plan in the city. Oh, is it not a kindness that the viscount has given permission for you to do this?”
“I do not give Elizabeth permission, Lady Davies. She is free to make her own choices as long as she is here.”
Keaton looked at her—a quick glance that said he meant it.
Every word.
“I’ll just go see to our trunks.” Elizabeth stumbled over the words as she stared across the space at Keaton, she knowing but he not having a clue as to what had passed between them. “There is much to be done before we leave. If you’ll excuse me then.”
Leave indeed.
Elizabeth excused herself on a weak bow and slipped from the library in a flurry, steeling every muscle in her body not to run all the way to the safety of her chamber.
One thing was certain—she would not waste another moment peeking through desk drawers like a shadow or haunting drawing rooms like a ghost. Keaton James knew as well as she what he’d done. And distraction couldn’t change that.
He’d never fool her enough to make her truly care for him.
Nineteen
Present day
Parham Hill Estate
Framlingham, England
Italian string lights threaded around the wooden rafters of the roof of the beekeeper’s cottage, creating a bower against the twilight sky.
The golden yellow of the willows was losing its battle as November wore on, and a cold wind blew leaves to stir in a wh
irlwind against the garden gate. Keira pulled the collar of her canvas jacket tighter around her neck and grasped rusted iron in her palm, pushing until the hinge gave. Machinery buzzed loudly for long seconds—a power saw?—its cry reverberating across the meadow until it stopped again, and only the autumn wind remained.
The front door was cracked open so Keira climbed the steps and nudged it, rapping her knuckles against oak as she walked through.
There was no answer, save for another buzz of the saw.
A humble entry greeted her with weathered stairs that wound up tightly to a second floor. She passed under a rustic beam that hung low and stepped into an adjoining sitting room where a wood fire burned in a hearth against the wall. Instead of furniture the room boasted buckets and metal toolboxes, a pile of cast-off wood scraps collecting dust in a corner where the roof crumbled at the eaves, and a man bent over an old craftsman’s table with his thermal shirtsleeves pushed up to the elbows. Sawdust collected on his arms as he measured a plank of wood for the next cut.
“So this is where you go to hide.” She folded her arms across her chest in mock accusation.
Emory stood tall and faced her with a wary smile, like he’d been caught in some sort of crime. He pulled safety goggles back from his face. “Keira.” He tossed the goggles on the table and wiped sawdust on his jeans. He walked toward her a few hesitant steps. “I, uh, didn’t expect anyone out here.”
“I followed the lights.” She looked to the stringed magic above their heads. “What are you doing?”
“The crew’s gone into town for dinner and Carter texted that he was staying on in London. Seemed like a good time to sneak in some work with everyone gone.”
Keira walked in a few steps farther, unable to stand on the fringes of something so beautiful instead of being in the thick of it. She glanced up at the sinking sun through the open ceiling, the string lights growing bolder and brighter against the sky. “What is this room?”
“A parlor once upon a time. Or some sort of workshop in the latter years. There are paint droplets on the floor.”
Keira nosed into a dark hall beyond the staircase, peering into the dark shadows. “And through here?”
“A small library at the end with rotting shelves. A converted kitchen, butler’s pantry, and dining nook, though the ceiling has some serious water damage. I wouldn’t hang out in there during an English spring, if you know what I mean. It’ll have to be stripped down to the studs and rewalled. Then bedrooms and a bath on the upper floor. And a loft on the floor above that.”
“Not bad,” she whispered, wrapping her palm around one of the wooden spindles that led upstairs. “You know, I had the strangest bit of guilt at keeping Victoria away from here.”
“You two have become good friends in all this, hmm?”
“I’m not sure why it seemed right to bring her back, but it did. I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s a story—something we’re missing. We won’t have the chemical analysis for a bit, but I’d say Victoria is very likely as old as we’d hoped. And that means we should be close to dating her. I haven’t any firm ideas about an artist yet, but I’m hopeful.”
“That’s good. Then you’re closer to finishing up your job and you’ll get to go home. Maybe by Christmas? No doubt your brothers will be happy.”
“And what about you for Christmas? No home to go to?”
He shrugged, hands drifting down to slip into his jeans pockets. “Maybe I imagined I’d stay here in some dream scenario—at least until Carter sells the estate.”
“Does he know you’re restoring the cottage?”
“He couldn’t care less about this place. If anything, it’ll improve something of the value in the end. That’ll keep me safe for the moment.” He stepped around a bucket, pulled a wooden stool from under the worktable, and patted its top in offering to her. “Here. Sit. Do you want some coffee?”
“You made coffee out here?”
“Hardly. Stretching extension cords for the lights and power tools is all I can manage across the meadow. But the thermos keeps the coffee hot most of the night. That way I can work through.” He poured her a cup into the thermos cap, steam curling as Keira took it in hand.
“Thank you.”
He sat on a stool opposite her and poured a mug of his own. “So what brings you out here, Keira?”
You. You bring me out here . . .
“Told you. I saw the lights and I was curious.”
Emory tipped his brow, that little way of showing he didn’t believe her one bit. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a terrible liar? Something’s on your mind. Go ahead. Spill.”
It wasn’t sunrise, but for the moment the ease of their coffee meetings battled for domination. Keira hated that the conversation was about to take a turn for the worse, especially when the cottage was so peaceful and the coffee hot, and a man she didn’t want to hurt was waiting so patiently right in front of her.
“Okay . . .” Deep breath. Go. “You weren’t even in Vienna the night Empress was stolen, but you seemed to take the fall for it. I wondered why.”
Emory’s face fell, the mood shifting from light to heavy in a blink. “Carter decided it was a good idea to drag you into this?”
“No. I met someone else in London who did . . . Marion Montgomery.”
“Really.” He laughed, though it was humorless—a rake that said he wasn’t surprised and certainly wasn’t upended by the mention of her name. “And how is it you’re graced with knowing the great matriarch of the Montgomery clan?”
Keira paused, debating over how far to go . . . How much candor had their friendship earned her? And would she be sorry if she let him in?
“Because . . . I was jilted by her son and fired from the family gallery when I had the nerve to think I could marry above my station. You?”
Emory sighed, looking down as he swirled coffee in his mug. “So that’s it. The spineless Alton Montgomery is the reason a dissertation got you fired? I should have known.”
“In a manner of speaking. A dissertation took me to study in New York where I met Alton. But it’s more than that. Marion spent quite a bit of time trying to convince me to sway you out of your job here at Parham Hill. That’d be a polite way to put it.”
“Or direct.”
“Either way, why would she do that unless there’s something you’re not telling me?”
He set the mug down—hard, so coffee spilled over the lip and made a ring on the workbench wood. Then crossed his arms over his chest.
“And what did you say? I hope it ended with something close to ‘he’s tougher than he looks.’”
“Emory, when I read about what happened in Vienna, I just assumed your family had pushed you out because the painting went missing. To be honest, it made me angry that anyone would treat you that way. It made no sense then but even less now that it seems to be the other way around—you’ve walked out on them. At least according to Marion. And Carter confirmed the same when I asked him after. If you could spend Christmas with people who love you, why would you stay away? For years? Do you know what a gift it is to have family, when so few of us have that?”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t mention her mother’s death or the uneven relationships she’d had with the men in her family for the last years. Keira was ready to defend those things with her life. Instead, he stared back into the depths of her eyes and whispered, “They want the old me. There’s a difference.”
“How?”
“Those people you met in London see who I was before, Keira. I don’t even know that man anymore. I don’t want to know him. Fast cars and faster women and swirls of paint hanging on museum walls . . . Nothing was sacred in that world. Not to me.”
“Even you have to admit it’s not a crime to have means.”
“No. Wealth is not a crime. But it is a lure for some. Carter sticks around because he honestly believes one day I’ll wake up from this bad dream and he’ll get his friend back. But it’s not that easy. Not any
more. And when I say you can’t win with these people—you can’t. Believe me, if I could get my hands on Alton Montgomery now, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be the definition of posh these people seem to remember. I’d wring his neck and that would put a nice bow on the end of our association.”
A tiny clench of Emory’s jaw just showed in the firelight, and he looked down at the scarred wood of the worktable top. “Marion told you about Elise?”
Keira felt something twinge in her chest and she whispered, “Yes.”
“And there you have it. That should tell you all you need to know about the character of the man before you.”
“But it wasn’t your fault.” Keira stood on instinct, feet drawing her a step closer to his side. She set the thermos mug on the worktable and turned to him. “She died of cancer, Emory. How in the world could you have controlled that?”
He clamped his eyes shut for a split second and braced his arms on the table, head sagging. “Elise died, but it was my choice to leave her,” Emory challenged her, his eyes pained. “I flew home to London as I pleased because I was too arrogant to think she could die without my being at her side. I honestly believed if I pretended it wouldn’t happen, then it wouldn’t. No matter what the doctors said. The great name of Scott was so built up in my mind that I couldn’t see anything else. And Carter was there with her instead—my friend had to stay with my fiancée while she took her last breath. What does it matter that a painting was stolen from a museum when I’d lost all I had that mattered in the world?”
“I know you can’t get that time back, but what good is it now to push away the people who are still here?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Keira, only what you’ve been told. There’s more to it than that.”
“What more?”
“When a hundred-million-dollar painting vanishes into thin air and everyone walks out on you as you stand at a graveside, I’d say that’s a pretty good indication of what your life is worth. Even my family didn’t believe me. They pitied me but didn’t believe a word I said.”
The Painted Castle Page 20
