The army had taught him to set aside what couldn't be helped, so he might as well enjoy his tea. Between his legitimate tasks and his visit to Lord Bowden, he'd not eaten since breakfast. He added an irregular chunk of sugar to his cup and settled in the other chair.
There was silence as they ate the excellent currant cakes. When Rebecca leaned over to pour more tea, he said, "I gather that you stretch your own canvases here?"
She offered a fragment of cake to the Gray Ghost, who daintily nipped it from her fingers. "Yes, and most of my father's as well. I also make our pastel crayons and mix some special pigments that the regular colorman doesn't make."
He looked at her quizzically. "Surely Sir Anthony could find someone else for such menial tasks."
"Ah, but would the tasks be done as well? Though painting is now called art, it was first of all a craft. The better one understands the materials, the more effectively they can be used." She caressed the smooth stone mortar. "There is something wonderfully satisfying about blending the pigments and medium together to the perfect consistency, in the perfect color. It's the first step in creating a picture that successfully captures one's inner vision."
The sensuality so clear in her mother's portrait was now visible in Rebecca's dreamy face. He wanted her to touch him the same way she touched the mortar. He wanted her...
He looked away, not completing the thought. "When did you start to draw?"
She made a wry face. "According to family legend, one day in the nursery I broke a soft-boiled egg and used the yolk to draw a recognizable cat on the wall."
He smiled at the image. "So you were always an artist. I assume Sir Anthony taught you?"
"Not really. Father was always so busy. Whenever I could escape my nanny, I would slip into his studio and watch him work. He didn't mind as long as I wasn't in the way. Soon I had my own pastel crayons and charcoal." She chuckled. "Mother made sure I had paper so I wouldn't ruin any more walls. When she had time, she sometimes gave me lessons."
"Did your mother have artistic ability beyond the standard accomplishments of a lady?"
Rebecca gestured to a small watercolor hanging in a corner. "She did that of me when I was four years old."
The picture showed Rebecca as a happy, laughing child, her baby curls a shining copper. She looked open and eager for life, not like the wary woman she had become. He wondered if her disastrous elopement had been the cause of her losing that openness. "It's lovely. With both parents artists, it's not surprising you have such talent."
Rebecca shook her head. "Mother had talent—her watercolors were exquisite—but she wasn't really an artist. Marriage got in the way, I think."
"What does it take to be a real artist?" he asked curiously.
"Selfishness." Rebecca gave a self-mocking smile. "One must believe one's work is the most important thing in the world. Putting other people and their needs first can be crippling."
He wondered if her statement was an oblique criticism of her father. A painter as successful as Sir Anthony might have had little time for his family. "Must an artist always be selfish?"
"Perhaps not quite always, but most of the time." She brushed an unruly lock back from her cheek.
He watched, thinking that artifice might counterfeit that rich auburn hair, but no cosmetic could ever duplicate her complexion, which had the translucent fairness of a true redhead.
With sudden anger, he wished they had met in some other time and place, where she was not the daughter of a murder suspect and he was a gentleman of means, not a penniless spy. A place where he could explore the complexities of her mind and spirit. A place where he could kiss her, and persuade her to kiss back.
He drew a deep, slow breath. Anger at the unjustness of fate subsided, but not his powerful desire to touch her. He leaned forward and took her hands in his, turning them palm up. They were capable hands, the fingers long and elegant, like those of a Renaissance saint. "Such strength and skill," he murmured. "What splendors will these create in the future?"
Her hands quivered within his. "The real skill lies in the mind, not the fingers," she said huskily. "The spirit must see the picture before the body can create it."
"Wherever it comes from, you have a great gift." He traced the lines in her palm with his fingertip. "I wonder if it's really possible to read the future in a hand. Will your talent bring you fame? Wealth? Happiness?"
She pulled away, her fingers curling shut. "A creative gift guarantees none of those things. If anything, it interferes with happiness. The work itself is the only sure reward. It is a shield against loneliness, a passion safer than human love."
He raised his head and their gazes met. The tension that had been slowly building rose to choking intensity. He sensed that they were both vulnerable, terribly so, and on the edge of doing something that could not be undone.
Fearing her hazel eyes would see into the depths of his deceitful soul, he got abruptly to his feet. "I really must return to my regular work. Do you want me to model tomorrow?"
She swallowed. "Not... not tomorrow. The day after."
He nodded and left, wondering how the devil he would survive more such intimate sessions. Rebecca might be the best source of information about her mother, but he might not be able to keep his hands off her long enough to learn what he sought.
* * *
Rebecca managed to remain impassive until she heard the door shut behind the captain. Then she closed her eyes and pressed her right palm to her cheek. Where he had touched her, the skin tingled as if she had stroked fur in winter.
Damn the man! What right did he have to come here and crack the shield that had protected her for so long? She had been in control of her life, grateful for the freedom to paint as she chose with few distractions. She'd needed nothing else.
Exhaling roughly, she got to her feet and stalked the length of the attic. She'd always loved the slanting ceilings because she could walk erect where most people would have to bend. The captain had been able to stand straight only in the center. His vitality and powerful frame had filled the room to overflowing. Everywhere she turned, she saw him.
She had been wise to admit few people into her sanctuary. Even wiser would have been not to allow Kenneth in.
Allow? She'd practically dragged him up the stairs.
She ran a hand through her hair, inadvertently loosening the pins so that the heavy mass fell loose to her waist. Impatiently she tied her hair into a knot and resumed her pacing.
Kenneth's military past intrigued her, as did the contrast between his rugged form and his keen, perceptive mind. He was a magnificent subject for painting. Yet what drew her most was the way she could talk to him. No one had ever been so interested in what she had to say. The time with him had affected her like spring rain on flowers. She had not realized how lonely she was.
No, perhaps not lonely, but certainly alone. She and her father shared a ruling passion and a house, and they understood each other well. Yet he was a famous man with a full life, and she was only a minor part of it.
Absorbed in her art, she had never had close friends, and more casual acquaintances had dropped her after the idiotic elopement with Frederick had exiled her from respectable society. The members of her father's inner circle treated her with careless good nature, but only Lavinia and her honorary Uncle George were truly fond of her. To the others, she was merely Sir Anthony's eccentric daughter.
It had been the same with her father's previous secretaries. All had been polite and respectful, but she guessed they saw her as some kind of freak, a disgraceful painting female who must be tolerated as part of the job. No wonder she was susceptible to Kenneth's wholehearted attention.
Heaven knew they were very different, yet there was an unexpected empathy between them. Perhaps it was simply their aloneness. Certainly Kenneth could not be attracted to her; she wasn't the sort to inspire a man to unruly passion. Frederick had been in love with the idea of love, not with her.
A thought struck h
er. Kenneth's tension probably stemmed from his awareness that any sort of relationship with his employer's daughter was fraught with potential hazards. She shouldn't have insisted that he sit for her. Though she hadn't intended coercion, he'd probably felt he had no choice. It might have been better for them both if he had felt free to refuse. Yet she could not regret having him for a model.
Her pacing had brought her to the studio end of the attic. She picked up her sketchbook to study her drawings. Several were quite good, though well short of what she wanted to accomplish.
Slowly she paged through the sketches, wondering what would be the best way to capture his essence, the mingled qualities of warrior fierceness and sensitive observer. Perhaps she should paint the captain in his army uniform. She had a vague recollection that Riflemen wore dark green. That would be more interesting than the usual scarlet uniform, and the color would not dominate the canvas. She could show him after a battle, weary to the soul, yet unbroken.
Dissatisfied, she shook her head. Though it would be effective, such a picture belonged in her father's Waterloo series. It would not have quite the mythic quality she wanted.
That led her to imagine Kenneth in a mythic white toga. She smiled at the fanciful thought. Women often looked splendid in classical garments; the gowns of the French Revolution had been fashioned after antique clothing. However, the style did not suit modern men nearly so well.
She considered other possible compositions without finding one that seemed suitable. Then she flipped a page too far and unexpectedly found one of her falling woman sketches. Jolted by pain, she ripped the drawing out and threw it into the fire with a muttered oath. Kenneth Wilding might be a problem, but at least with him there was pleasure mingled with the pain.
Chapter 8
Kenneth woke gasping from a restless sleep. Nightmares again.
He'd always had an excellent visual memory. He could recall the exact colors of a sunset or sketch the face of someone he had seen for only a few minutes. Having looked at Rebecca's hand earlier, he could have drawn the pattern of lines if he wished. He'd thought his ability a blessing until he entered the army. It was far more pleasant to remember sunsets than battles.
The last image of Maria flared in his mind again. Stomach churning, he sat up and lit his bedside candle, forcing himself to think of other things. He visualized how Rebecca's eyes narrowed when she was studying an object. The hint of a dimple in her left cheek. Her delightfully free-spirited hair.
She was only ten feet away, on the other side of the wall.
As his pulse quickened, he acknowledged that thinking of her was not without its own kind of hazards. Still, arousal was far more pleasant than images of death and desolation.
Knowing he would not sleep again, Kenneth rose and quietly donned his worn robe. He would do some sketching; he'd learned very young that for him, drawing was a better escape from grim reality than drink or mindless fornication. Creating peaceful, empty landscapes was very soothing. After the horrifically bloody siege of Badajoz, he'd done a series of Spanish flowers in watercolor. Waterloo had been the spark for some rather decent pastel sketches of children at play.
He went for his sketchbook and drawing supplies, which were concealed in the back of his wardrobe. As he felt behind the hanging garments, he touched a smooth, metallic object wedged down into a crack. A sharp tug freed a handsome silver card case. Inside, the top card read, "Thomas J. Morley."
Perfect; he'd wanted an excuse to call on Tom Morley so he could discreetly probe for information. Now he had it.
Taking the find as a good omen, he brought out his drawing materials and settled into a chair. A moment's thought gave him a good subject. A few days earlier, Beth had forwarded a letter from his friends Michael and Catherine. They had announced the birth of a son and invited him to a week-long christening party to be held on an island off Cornwall. A pity he could not afford the time or money to attend. He couldn't even afford a proper christening gift. A picture would have to do.
He set to work, using pencil to lightly block in a family group standing beside a baptismal font. In the center was Michael, delighted and a little nervous to be holding his infant son in his arms. To his left was Catherine, her head inclined toward her husband as she made a gentle maternal adjustment to the sweeping folds of the christening gown.
On the right Catherine's daughter Amy was beaming at her new brother. Amy must be all of thirteen now. Kenneth hadn't seen her since before Waterloo, so he would have to guess at how much she had grown. She was almost a young lady and must look even more like her beautiful mother.
The final drawing was laid in with pen and India ink. Sometimes his fingers seemed divinely guided, and this was one of those occasions. Ink was unforgiving of errors, but every stroke went in exactly right. He took particular care with the expressions, wanting to portray the love that had created a new life. Since he did not know the actual setting, he made several vague, curved strokes in the background to imply churchly arches.
The picture pleased him, and he thought it would please Michael and Catherine as well. Yet when he set it aside, he felt sadness. For years, he had dreamed of his return to Sutterton. Eventual marriage had been part of the dream. He had never imagined that he would be too poor to support a wife and family. Even if Lord Bowden cleared the mortgages, years of struggle lay ahead. Capital would have to be invested in Sutterton, and whatever money could be spared must go to provide for Beth.
Forcibly he reminded himself that his situation was far brighter than before Bowden had entered his life. It might take ten years before he would be in a position to marry, but with luck and hard work, the time would come.
He glanced at the drawing, and for an instant he saw the figures of himself and Rebecca instead of Michael and Catherine.
Rubbish! Rebecca might be intriguing, but she was the least wifely female he'd ever met. If and when he settled down, it would be with a warm, loving woman like Catherine, not a sharp-edged spinster who preferred painting to people.
Feeling depressed, he set his sketchbook aside. Outside, the sun was creeping above the horizon. Perhaps taking Sir Anthony's horse out for exercise would improve his mood.
* * *
Kenneth spent a moment studying the young man working diligently inside the small office. Thin, neatly dressed, an intelligent face, and a faint but unmistakable air of self-importance. Here was someone who looked like a private and personal secretary.
A rap on the door frame brought the young man's head up. "Come in, sir," he said politely. "I'm Thomas Morley, Sir Wilford's secretary. He is not available, but may I help you?"
Kenneth advanced into the room. "Actually, I came to see you. I'm Kenneth Wilding, Sir Anthony Seaton's new secretary."
A flicker of surprise implied that Morley was another who didn't think Kenneth looked right for the job. Concealing the reaction, he rose and offered his hand. "A pleasure to meet you. I'd heard Sir Anthony finally found someone. It's Captain Wilding, isn't it?"
Kenneth agreed to the title. After shaking hands, he produced the silver card case. "I'm in your old room, and yesterday I found this wedged in a corner of the wardrobe. Sir Anthony told me your current address, and since I was coming to Westminster anyhow, I thought I'd drop it by in person."
Morley's face lit up as he took the case. "Splendid! This was a present from my godmother when I finished at Oxford. With all the confusion of moving and starting a new position, I feared it was lost for good." He slipped it into a pocket. "I was about to dine at the tavern down the street. Will you join me, Captain? I should like to buy you a dinner to show my gratitude. You can tell me the news from Seaton House."
Since Kenneth had timed his visit with the idea of inviting Morley out, he accepted immediately. Soon they were eating excellent beefsteak at opposite sides of a table in the nearby tavern. The fact that both of them had worked for Sir Anthony created a bond that caused Morley to talk easily.
After half an hour of describing h
is political work, Morley broke off with a laugh. "Sorry for running on so, but I am enjoying my position greatly. What do you think of Seaton House?"
Kenneth swallowed a mouthful of ale. "Different."
Morley smiled. "A tactful description. One could meet the most prominent people in Britain at Sir Anthony's, but I'm not sorry to be gone. There's something a bit too chaotic about artists, don't you think? Trying to make that household efficient was an uphill battle, as I'm sure you've learned."
"Commanding a company under battle conditions was good preparation," Kenneth said with a faint smile. "Things got into a sad state after you left, but I'm beginning to sort them out. Sir Anthony hasn't thrown anything at anyone for days."
The other man gave an elaborate shudder. "I liked the old boy, but I don't miss his tantrums. I never could understand why he carried on so when he's the most fortunate man I know. Have you ever watched him work? He stands back from his easel with a long-handled brush and hardly seems to watch where he's slapping the paint. A few days of that and voila! A portrait someone will pay hundreds of guineas for." Morley sighed. "Hardly seems fair the way fame and fortune have fallen into his lap, while men like you and me must work for our livings."
"Sir Anthony may make painting look easy," Kenneth said dryly, "but it took years of discipline and hard work for him to know where and how to 'slap paint.'" Wondering what the other man thought of Rebecca, he continued mendaciously, "When Miss Seaton heard I might see you, she sent her greetings."
"That was good of her." Morley poured more ale from the pitcher. "I'm surprised she noticed I was gone. An odd sort of girl, don't you think? I never understood what she did with her time. Moped upstairs in her room, I suppose. She committed a..." he paused a moment to come up with an appropriate phrase, "grave indiscretion some years ago, which is why she isn't received in polite society. It soured her disposition, I think."
River of Fire: Book 6 in The Fallen Angels Series Page 8
