"Perhaps, but you did it with remarkable efficiency." Bowden's gaze became speculative. "After three years as an intelligence officer, you were captured by the French and held for several days. After you escaped, you returned to regular duty with your regiment. No one seemed to know why."
Kenneth thought of Maria, and knew he would see Bowden in hell before he would explain why he had given up intelligence work. "If you need a personal spy, why not hire a Bow Street Runner? They are far more qualified to investigate a crime."
"I did hire one, but he was unable to discover anything important. I need someone who can enter the villain's household and investigate from within. That is where you come in." Bowden studied Kenneth's craggy face and broad, muscular figure. "I admit you don't look the part, but I have it on good authority that you're a talented artist."
"I'm no artist," Kenneth said stiffly. "I merely have a knack for drawing."
Bowden's brows rose again. "As you wish. In any event, I'm told that you took advantage of your years on the Continent to study art and architecture whenever your military duties permitted. You have seen the treasures of Spain, France, and the Low Countries, viewed masterpieces that few Englishmen of the last generation have seen. That fact will help you get into the villain's household."
The conversation was getting stranger by the second. "You need a brave, ruthless spy who knows art, and you're willing to spend a fortune to get one," Kenneth said without inflection. "Why?"
"The man I wish to unmask is a painter. Anyone ignorant of art is unlikely to be able to get close enough to investigate him." Bowden gave a chilling smile. "You see why I consider you uniquely suited to the task."
A painter? Kenneth said warily, "Who is your quarry?"
Bowden hesitated. "Before I reveal that, you must give your word to speak of this to no one even if you decide to refuse my proposal. I want justice, Kimball, and I will not be denied."
"You have my word."
Bowden's eyes became slits. "The man is Anthony Seaton."
"Sir Anthony Seaton!" Kenneth stared at his visitor. "Bloody hell, surely you're joking!"
"I would not joke about such a thing," Bowden snapped. "Your reaction demonstrates why he is such a difficult man to bring down. No one wants to believe him a criminal."
Kenneth shook his head in disbelief. Though known particularly for his portraits, Sir Anthony had produced vast, magnificent historical paintings as well. Kenneth had seen engravings of his work. The power of them had struck him to the heart. "He is one of Britain's foremost painters."
"So he is." Bowden flattened a wrinkle in his immaculate buckskin breeches. "He is also my younger brother."
Chapter 2
After another stunned moment, Kenneth said, "I will not get involved in a family feud."
"Not even to trap a murderer, and save your heritage in the process?" Bowden said softly. "This is no simple family feud. It is a matter of justice."
Feeling a sudden, overpowering need for a drink, Kenneth rose and went to his father's lovingly stocked liquor cabinet. He poured two measures of brandy, gave a glass to his visitor, and took his seat again. After a deep swallow, he said, "You're going to have to tell me the whole story before I can decide on this insane proposition of yours."
"I suppose I must," Bowden said reluctantly. He studied his brandy without drinking. "Twenty-eight years ago I was betrothed to a young lady named Helen Cosgrove. She had flaming hair and was... very lovely. The banns had been cried and we were within a week of the wedding when she eloped with my brother Anthony."
Kenneth caught his breath. No wonder there was bad blood between the men. "Twenty-eight years is a long time to wait for revenge."
Bowden's eyes flashed. "Do you think I am so petty? I was furious at the betrayal and never spoke to either of them again. Yet even though I could not forgive, I could understand how it happened. Helen was enough to tempt any man, and Anthony was a dashing, romantic young artist. Society eventually accepted their misconduct and called it a great love match."
He stopped speaking. When the silence had gone on too long, Kenneth prompted, "You spoke of murder."
Bowden resumed in a clipped voice. "Helen died last summer at their house in the Lake District. It was called an accident, but I know better. For years, there had been talk of Anthony's affairs. The knowledge must have been shattering to a woman of Helen's refinement. At the time of her death, it was rumored that Anthony had tired of Helen and wanted to marry his current mistress. He always was a selfish devil." Bowden leaned forward, his gaze fierce. "I believe that he either murdered Helen himself or made her so wretched that she took her own life. That would make him as responsible for her death as if she died by his hand."
Driving a woman to suicide might be the moral equivalent of murder, but the law would take a different view. Kenneth said bluntly, "You want to believe the worst of your brother, but apparently everyone else thought Lady Seaton's death was an accident. Perhaps it was."
Bowden snorted. "Healthy women don't walk over cliffs when the weather is fair and they know the country intimately. One thing the Bow Street Runner did learn was that after her fall there were signs of struggle at the top of the cliff. But because my brother is 'above suspicion,' it did not occur to anyone to accuse him."
This was a bad business. Yet if Bowden was mad, it was an ice-cold, controlled mania. "Perhaps you're right and Seaton did murder his wife," Kenneth said slowly. "Yet given how she died, the best investigation in the world may be unable to prove conclusively what happened."
"I understand," Bowden said, his eyes flat as slate. "But I will not rest until her death has been thoroughly investigated. I sought you out because I think you have the best chance of accomplishing the task. If you will give your word as an officer and a gentleman to use your best efforts to determine the circumstances of Helen's death, I will cancel the mortgages when you are finished. If you provide conclusive evidence of Anthony's guilt, I will give you a bonus of five thousand pounds to help you put your estate on its feet again."
It was an incredible offer. Miraculous, in fact. Kenneth set down his empty brandy glass and got to his feet, moving tensely around the library. Bowden's proposal was mad and bordered on the illegal. If Kenneth had any sense, he would show Bowden the door. Yet he had never lived life sensibly.
If he accepted, Sutterton would be saved. Beth could have the life she deserved, with a Season in London and a dowry if she wished to marry. The estate would become profitable and the servants and laborers provided for after years of neglect.
As for himself...
He stopped by the fireplace and ran his palm over the exquisitely carved mantelpiece. As a child, he had imagined stories about the oaken figures.
Sutterton would give meaning to his life. In muddy billets and baking Spanish heat, before battles and during shivering winter nights, he had dreamed of what he would do when the house came to him. He had made elaborate plans for modernizing the drafty old building without destroying its Tudor character. If he agreed to Bowden's proposition, someday he would be able to realize those dreams.
And who would be injured? If Sir Anthony was guilty, he deserved to be punished even if he was the finest painter in England. If he was clearly innocent, perhaps the truth would relieve Lord Bowden's anguished obsession. And if nothing could be proved either way—Kenneth would still save Sutterton.
He felt a superstitious prickle at his nape when he remembered that an hour before, he'd told himself he would give up his chance of heaven to save his heritage. But Bowden was no demon, merely a troubled English gentleman.
Kenneth turned to his visitor. "We must draw up a contract detailing our agreement."
Triumph glowed in Bowden's eyes. "Of course. Bring out ink and paper and we shall do it now."
After half an hour of discussion and writing, each of the men possessed a copy of their compact. It was not a matter that either of them would want made public, but its existence should keep both sides hones
t.
Kenneth rose and replenished the brandy after they had each signed. "Let us drink to a mutually successful mission."
Bowden raised his glass. "To success." Instead of sipping, he drained his goblet, then hurled it into the fireplace. It smashed, droplets of brandy flaming blue among the coals. Fury throbbing in his voice, he said, "And may my brother burn in hell for what he has done."
The words hung fever-heavy in the air until Kenneth said, "You spoke of my entering Sir Anthony's household. Since you've worked out everything else, I assume you have a plan for that."
Bowden nodded. "My brother's secretary is about to leave for a better position. Morley was a kind of general factotum who ran the whole establishment. The household leans toward the chaotic at the best of times and without Morley, it will deteriorate swiftly. Go to my brother and ask for the position."
Startled, Kenneth said, "Why would he want me for his secretary? There are bound to be better-qualified candidates."
"Anthony will not advertise the position if someone suitable appears first. Your army service will help, since my brother has a romantic reverence for the military, but your knowledge of art will be the deciding factor." Bowden considered. "Present yourself at Anthony's house and say that a friend of his who wishes to remain anonymous sent you because he knows your organizational skills are desperately needed. My brother will find that amusing."
Kenneth hoped it would be that easy. "What of the rest of the household? Has Sir Anthony married his mistress?"
Bowden hesitated. "Not yet. He may have thought it would look too suspicious if he remarried right away."
Kenneth took another sip of brandy. "Does Sir Anthony have children?"
"A daughter named Rebecca. She's twenty-seven, I believe. A ruined spinster."
"Can a woman be a spinster if she has been ruined?"
Bowden shrugged. "You can call her a slut if you prefer. At the age of eighteen, she ran off with a self-proclaimed poet, then didn't have the decency to marry him."
Elopement seemed to be a family trait, Kenneth thought dryly. "Does she live with her father?"
"Yes. It's a mark of his own low morals that he took her back into his household."
Kenneth did not agree; for a man to turn his only daughter away because of a youthful mistake would have been even more immoral. Keeping the thought private, he said, "She would be the logical person to run the household instead of her father's secretary. I wonder why she doesn't."
"She's probably either lazy or incompetent. I assume that you'll find out which." Bowden got to his feet and gave a cold smile. "After all, I am paying you a fortune to learn every single thing about my brother's life."
As Kenneth escorted his visitor out, he wondered wryly whether the faint scent in the hall was mildew or brimstone.
* * *
Before changing for dinner, Kenneth went to tell his sister the good news. She was sitting by her bedroom window, taking advantage of the last of the light to do mending.
He frowned and crossed the room to the fireplace. "It's freezing in here, Beth. You must take better care of yourself."
She glanced up from the pillowcase she was darning. "No need to waste coal. I'm used to the cold."
He knelt and laid a generous scoop of coal on the feeble fire. A few pumps with the bellows created a warm blaze. He rose and was about to speak when he saw a small painting. "Good God, the Rembrandt! I thought it was gone."
"I'm sorry, I should have told you yesterday, but I forgot in the excitement of your arrival." Beth began stitching again. "Whenever Hermione came to Sutterton, she looked for valuables to take to London. I knew that picture was your favorite, so I switched frames with that awful little landscape in the hall and brought the Rembrandt in here. Hermione did come in once, but didn't give the picture a second glance."
"Thank heaven for that. The painting isn't a major work, but it's worth a hundred pounds or so. Enough for Hermione to covet." Pulse quickening, Kenneth went to the small still life of fruits and flowers. It was easy to overlook in its new plain frame, yet to a discerning eye, it was unmistakably the product of a master. He had always loved the sensual colors and forms. How was it possible to get such depth, such richness?
Touched by the knowledge that his sister had cared enough to save the painting for his sake, he glanced up and was struck by how much she resembled their mother. "Bless you, Beth," he said quietly. "I thought I'd never see this again."
She smiled. "I'm glad you're pleased." Her smile vanished. "We won't lose the picture to bankruptcy, will we?"
Remembering why he had come, he said, "Our luck may have turned. A gentleman called this afternoon and asked me to do some work that might save Sutterton."
Beth gasped and her darning dropped forgotten into her lap. "Good heavens, what kind of position could do that?"
"It's an odd business, and I'm not at liberty to discuss it yet. But if all goes well, next year you can be presented at court as Miss Wilding of Sutterton." Forestalling the questions he saw in his sister's face, he added, "What I'm doing isn't dangerous or illegal, merely odd. However, I'll have to go to London for a time—anywhere from several weeks to several months. I'll leave some of the money I got from the sale of my commission to cover the household expenses."
"You're going away so soon?" Though she tried, Beth couldn't keep the disappointment from her voice.
Kenneth shifted uncomfortably. His sister had already been alone too much. A thought occurred to him. "When I came through London last week, I saw my friend Jack Davidson. I've mentioned him in letters. He lost the use of his left arm at Waterloo and has been rather at loose ends ever since. However, he's the younger son of a squire and quite knowledgeable about agriculture. If you don't object, I'll ask him to come to Sutterton. I think he'd be willing to act as a temporary steward. He can survey what will be needed if we're able to keep the estate."
Beth glanced wryly at her cane. "Mr. Davidson should fit in very well here. I'll have to find a chaperone, though." She thought a moment. "I'll write Cousin Olivia. She'll come if I let her stay in the Royal Suite."
Kenneth smiled. "Done. Let's hope everything else falls into place as easily." But as he left to dress for dinner, his good spirits faded. He wondered how long it had taken Faust to develop doubts about his bargain with Mephistopheles.
Chapter 3
Sir Anthony Seaton cast a disapproving eye on the dishes laid out in the breakfast room. "The cook calls this a meal? That idiot Frenchman deserves to be discharged."
"He was discharged, Father," Rebecca Seaton said without raising her gaze from the sketchbook beside her plate. "You got rid of him yesterday."
Her father frowned. "So I did. The insolent devil deserved it. Why hasn't he been replaced?"
"Finding a new cook takes time, particularly when all of the registry agencies shudder at my approach." She paused for a bite of toast. "We've become notorious for the frequency with which servants leave. Luckily, the kitchen maid can cook a little."
"How would you know? Half the time, you don't notice what you're eating." Sir Anthony scowled at her. "Why aren't you doing a better job of running this place?"
Knowing her father's temper would not improve until he had his morning tea, Rebecca laid down her pencil and went to pour a cup. She stirred in milk and sugar and handed him the steaming beverage. "If I spent my time on such things, I would be unable to help in your studio."
"There is that." Her father swallowed a scalding mouthful. "Damn Tom Morley for leaving. He wasn't particularly skilled at domestic management, but he was better than nothing."
Without much hope, she asked, "Did you interview that young man Mr. Morley suggested as a replacement?"
Her father made a disgusted gesture. "He was an ignorant puppy. Quite unsuitable."
Rebecca sighed. Advertisements for a new secretary would have to be run in the newspapers. Because her father had no patience for interviewing, she would be the one to weed through the hordes of appli
cants. She hoped someone acceptable appeared quickly. "Two of the registry offices promised to send over cooks today. With luck, one of them will do."
He put two slices of ham on his plate. "Make sure you don't hire another temperamental artist."
"I'll do my best," she said dryly. "No household can survive more than one temperamental artist."
Her father gave the sudden smile that made even his enemies forgive his high-handedness. "Quite right—and I'm it." He paused to look over her shoulder. "What are you working on?"
She tilted the sketchbook toward him. "I'm considering the Lady of the Lake. What do you think of this composition?"
Her father studied it. "Interesting how you've made her half nymph and half warrior. I like the way her hair is drifting in the water as she raises Excalibur."
High praise from Sir Anthony Seaton, who didn't believe in tact when it came to art. Rebecca got to her feet. She hoped her father found a secretary soon so she would be able to begin the new painting.
* * *
Rebecca had intended to spend only a few minutes sketching studies for the Lady of the Lake, but the next time she glanced up, it was early afternoon and she still hadn't written the advertisement for a new secretary. By now, it was too late to make the following day's newspapers. Drat. Worse, she was not satisfied with the Lady of the Lake.
She stood and stretched her cramped muscles, then wandered across the slant-ceilinged room with her sketchbook. Her studio took up half of the attic, and was her sanctuary. No one came in without her permission, not even her father.
She perched on the window seat and glanced outside. The house stood on a corner, which gave her a good view of traffic on both streets. Below her on Hill Street, she recognized two neighborhood servants pausing in their errands to flirt. The pert maid made a slight, preening gesture as her gaze slanted up at the handsome young footman.
Rebecca flipped to a fresh page of her sketchbook and quickly recorded the arch of the girl's neck and the teasing angle of her eyes. Someday she wanted to do a series on lovers. Maybe she would learn something about love in the process.
River of Fire: Book 6 in The Fallen Angels Series Page 2
