River of Fire: Book 6 in The Fallen Angels Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  The fragile stick of charcoal snapped between Rebecca's fingers as her elation crashed into grief. She had forgotten the drawing was in this particular sketchbook. "It's... it's a study of Dido hurling herself from the towers of Carthage when Aeneas abandoned her," she improvised, her mouth dry.

  "In modern dress?" he said skeptically. "A change for you. Your other classical studies celebrate women who are heroic, not those who die of thwarted love. Besides, I thought Dido killed herself with a sword."

  She stared at him mutely, unable to come up with another lie. Quietly he said, "The woman looks rather like the portrait of your mother. Did Lady Seaton die in a fall?"

  Heart pumping as if she'd been caught stealing, Rebecca dropped into her chair again. "Yes, and ever since then, I've been obsessed by images of her falling," she said haltingly. "I suppose I've done at least fifty sketches like that one. I keep wondering how she felt, what she thought in the last moments. It must have been ghastly to die alone, in terror."

  There was a long silence. Then Kenneth said slowly, "I've been afraid often, particularly before battles. Fear can be a lifesaver by increasing one's strength and alertness. Yet oddly, on two occasions when I've known beyond any shadow of a doubt that I would die, I felt no fear. Instead, there was a strange kind of peacefulness.

  "Both times, I survived through a miracle. After the second incident, I became curious and talked to friends and found that others had had the same experience. Perhaps peace is nature's last gift when nothing can be done to stave off an inevitable fate." Expression compassionate, he set down the sketchbook. It's quite possible that your mother felt no terror before the end. Only a few fleeting moments of acceptance."

  Rebecca bent her head as she struggled to master her emotions. "You're not making that up to make me feel better?"

  "It's God's own truth." He sat opposite her on the sofa again and enfolded her hands in his, the warmth dispelling some of her chill. "If you tell me what happened, it might exorcise a few demons."

  Perhaps he was right. Though she had tried never to think of that day, she forced herself to cast her mind back. "We were at Ravensbeck, our home in the Lake District," she said, praying that her voice wouldn't break. "It was a lovely, sunny day—one could see for miles. I had been walking in the hills and was returning home when I saw several men on a cliff where Mother often went to enjoy the views. Even though I was far away, I knew something was very wrong. I began to run. By the time I reached the cliff, they were... were bringing up her body."

  "How dreadful for you." His hands tightened comfortingly. "Perhaps the worst thing about a lethal accident is the sheer suddenness. There is no time for friends and family to prepare."

  That wasn't quite true in this case, but she said only, "Even now, I sometimes forget she is gone." Her throat closed and she could say no more.

  His thumbs stroked gently over the back of her hands, sending pleasant tingles through her fingers and wrists. "I wonder how the accident happened," he said thoughtfully. "Had your mother been upset about anything? Unhappiness or worries could have distracted her to cause a fatal misstep."

  "No," Rebecca said sharply. "There was nothing like that." She pulled her hands away. "One of the men who went down the cliff said that flowers were scattered all around her. Mother loved wildflowers and picked them often. The cliff slants gradually before dropping sharply. I think she simply went too close to the edge while gathering a bouquet, then lost her balance and fell."

  "A tragic irony," he murmured, his keen gaze on her face.

  Rebecca looked at the picture of the falling woman. "When I'm upset, I draw pictures about what is bothering me," she said haltingly. "Like lancing an infected wound to release the poison. It worked for everything from a dead pet to a broken heart. But this time, drawing hasn't helped."

  "You draw what distresses you?" he asked curiously. "I dr... I would have thought it would make more sense to escape the pain by drawing other subjects."

  She smiled without humor. "I've done that, too." Drawing and painting had been her life. And a rich and rewarding life it had been, but art was not enough. Not this time.

  "If lancing doesn't work, perhaps cauterization will." Kenneth took the sketchbook from her and ripped out the picture of her mother. Then he held the corner in the candle flame. "From what I've heard about Lady Seaton, she would not have wanted you to be crippled by grief. Let her go, Rebecca."

  Heart aching, Rebecca watched the flames consume the drawing. Smoke spiraled upward before dissipating into the darkness. She appreciated his desire to help, but he didn't understand. Not really. Because he was strong, he didn't know what it was like to be so filled with grief that her spirit was paralyzed. He couldn't know that if she ever cried, she would never be able to stop. That she would cry until she died.

  He tossed the burning remnant of paper into the fireplace before it singed his fingers. They watched silently as the paper and image crumbled into ash and the yellow flame died away. Then he said, "Drawing so furiously must have required a great deal of energy. You should eat. Join me in my raid on the kitchen."

  He smiled, and her heart lifted. He might not fully understand, but he had known pain of his own. He was also kind and a good companion. She smiled back. "You're right. I'm ravenous and hadn't noticed."

  As she took a candle and moved toward the door, she thought of the swift, searing kiss they had exchanged. Though a mistake, it had made her feel more alive than she had since her mother's death. Perhaps there really was life beyond sorrow.

  Who would have thought that a pirate would show her the way?

  * * *

  Kenneth did his best to amuse Rebecca during their midnight feast. By the time they retired to their respective bedrooms, some of the shadows had left her eyes.

  Unfortunately, he could not share her lightened mood. Her version of her mother's death left him convinced that she was suppressing something significant. She had been too quick to reject the possibility that the death had been anything but a random accident. Perhaps her grief was mixed with a fear too ugly to face—one that involved her father.

  There were other reasons for his restlessness. The shock of that kiss, for one. Obviously his primitive male self had been waiting for a halfway decent excuse to act on the attraction he had felt from the first. One short embrace had confirmed everything he had suspected about Rebecca's latent sensuality. The fire that made her an artist could flare into fierce passion.

  Under ordinary circumstances, he would not have stopped kissing her. But these circumstances were not ordinary.

  Physical yearning was matched by mental turmoil. He had been fascinated by Rebecca's comment that she drew pictures about what upset her. It was so different from his own habit. He had drawn compulsively his whole life, even when he had had to do it in secret to prevent his father from knowing. Even when it had become clear that he would never be an artist. When he was unhappy, sketching had been an escape, an opportunity to create a wall of safety between himself and the unbearable.

  He took out his sketchbook and stared at it as if the sheets of paper were a ticking bomb. What would happen if he dared draw one of the images that lacerated his mind? Part of him feared that doing so would open Pandora's box, releasing anguish that he would never be able to control again.

  Yet her words haunted him. Like lancing an infected wound to release the poison. Perhaps escape was not the best remedy for suffering. If he had the courage to confront his private demons, perhaps they would lose some of their power to wound.

  But to draw them well, he would have to face the pain. Tear down the mental walls that had made it possible for him to continue living.

  Steeling himself, he reached for pen and India ink. He would start with an image that had been burned into his brain during his first battle. If drawing that reduced the remembered ache, he would try other, more difficult scenes.

  He opened his mind to the shock he had felt when he saw that first image. To the pain that surro
unded the scene in his nightmares.

  Then he dipped his pen into the ink bottle, and prayed that Rebecca's method would also work for him.

  Chapter 10

  The next afternoon, Kenneth was working in the office when Lavinia Claxton sauntered into the room, a golden-haired picture in blue silk and a dashing, feather-trimmed bonnet. "Good day, Captain," she said in a deep, purring voice. "I decided to seek you out in your mysterious lair."

  He looked up from his desk, his pulse quickening. Though Lavinia was a frequent visitor to Seaton House, this was the first time he'd had a chance to question her. Casually he said, "There's nothing mysterious about doing one's job, Lady Claxton."

  She smiled with the confidence of a woman who knew the power of her beauty. "Then the mystery must come from you. You don't belong here, Captain. You're like a tiger among the lambs. You should be leading armies or exploring wild corners of the earth. Not sitting at a desk writing letters."

  He smiled a little. "Even tigers need to earn a living. Some hunt game. Others take dictation."

  "How mundane." She crossed the room, her lush figure swaying provocatively. "I prefer to think of you as a heroic warrior who has turned from the violence of battle to the boudoirs of art."

  "Boudoirs?" He pushed back from his desk. "You have a fine imagination, my lady. Most would think this only an office."

  "Call me Lavinia. Everyone does." She perched on the edge of his desk, her skirts brushing his knee. Then she reached out and caressed his cheek. "And you can call me anytime."

  Even though she had been giving him alluring smiles ever since they first met, he was startled by the blatantness of her advance. Perhaps she and Sir Anthony were at odds. Against his will, his body tightened in response. But it really wouldn't do to bed someone connected to his murder investigation. "Such familiarity would be wrong, my lady." He caught her hand and pressed a light kiss on the back before returning it to her lap. "Sir Anthony would think me impertinent, and justly so."

  "He wouldn't mind. Everyone knows what a great whore Lavinia is," she said self-mockingly. She slid from the desk and strolled across the room, halting under the portrait of Lady Seaton. "Not like Helen. Anthony once did a picture of us entitled The Saint and the Sinner. Naturally I was the sinner."

  "Was Lady Seaton such a saint?"

  Lavinia glanced at the painting. "Like most of us, she could be generous or selfish, wise or foolish. Sometimes she was very difficult. But she was my closest friend and I miss her greatly. As much as Anthony and George do."

  "George?"

  "George Hampton. Helen was his mistress, you know."

  Masking his surprise, he said, "Really? Or are you just trying to shock me?"

  "I doubt you are so easily shocked, Captain," she said dryly. "Helen was discreet, but she had her share of lovers over the years. Only George was significant, though."

  Startled by the possibilities this opened up, he asked, "Did Sir Anthony know his wife was having an affair with one of his closest friends?"

  "Oh, yes. Their marriage was terribly immoral, but very civilized. Anthony approved of George, knowing he would never hurt Helen. And she didn't mind her husband's little flings. She knew she was the only one who really mattered."

  "I'd heard that he was involved in a more serious affair at the time Lady Seaton died."

  "Don't believe everything you hear, Captain." Lavinia untied the ribbons of her bonnet and took it from her head, giving a shake to her golden ringlets. "Anthony and I have been friends for a long time. I think I would have guessed if he'd really fallen in love with someone."

  There was a brittle note in her voice. Under Lavinia's sophistication was more vulnerability than she might want to admit. Kenneth wondered if she was in love with Sir Anthony. "Do you think Sir Anthony is likely to remarry?"

  She hesitated. "I really don't know. Helen's death still hangs over him like a dark cloud."

  "Was there something suspicious about how she died?"

  Lavinia curled a bonnet feather around her forefinger. "No doubt it was an accident. And yet..." Her voice trailed off.

  Quietly he said, "I've heard that there were signs of a struggle where Lady Seaton fell."

  She gave him a sharp glance. "Merely broken plants and scuff marks, probably a result of Helen slipping, then trying to catch something to prevent herself from going over the cliff."

  It was a logical explanation, yet Lavinia still seemed troubled. "Whenever the subject of Lady Seaton's death is raised, the people who knew her become very evasive," he said thoughtfully. "What is the great mystery? Did Sir Anthony or George Hampton push her over the cliff?"

  "Rubbish," Lavinia retorted. "There is no mystery. It is merely that death is so much less amusing than lust."

  Seeing that she would reveal no more, he said equably, "Then by all means let us discuss lust. What you've been saying supports the common view of artists as wild and dissolute."

  "No more dissolute than the fashionable world. Merely more honest." She gave a slow, provocative smile. "And to be honest, I find you very attractive, Captain."

  He had a sudden craving for the soft sweetness of female flesh, but despite Lavinia's assurances, he doubted that Sir Anthony would appreciate sharing his current mistress with his secretary. "The feeling is mutual, but I don't think it would be wise for me to act on it."

  "I shall hope that spending time with artists will soon undermine your wisdom." She crossed the room and slipped her gloved hand behind his neck as she bent to give him a leisurely kiss. Her eyes were a cool, pale green. She kissed very skillfully, yet he did not feel a fraction of the response he had experienced with Rebecca.

  He saw a movement from the corner of his eye. A moment later, an icy female voice said, "Much as I dislike interrupting this tender scene, I have some business to transact."

  Kenneth glanced up to see a smoldering Rebecca standing in the doorway. With her untidy auburn hair haloing around her head, she looked like a fierce ginger kitten.

  While he uttered a mental curse, Lavinia straightened unhurriedly. "Hello, my dear." Her interested gaze went from Rebecca back to Kenneth. "I hope your work is going well. I've received a number of compliments on that last picture you did of me. If you would allow me to reveal the name of the artist, you'd have as many commissions as you could handle." She smiled and glided from the room.

  Rebecca let Lavinia pass, then stepped into the office and slammed the door behind her. "My father expects his secretaries to be versatile, Captain, but you exceed what he had in mind."

  "If you overheard the last of the conversation," Kenneth said mildly, "you know that I politely rejected her hints."

  "But not her kiss."

  "I could hardly use physical violence against the lady."

  "A spanking would not have been out of place," Rebecca said tartly. "Lavinia is overdue for one."

  Watching her closely, he said, "Based on what Lady Claxton was saying, illicit kisses should not be so shocking in this house. In the course of our discussion, she mentioned your mother's relationship with George Hampton."

  Rebecca's face went rigid, but not with surprise. She had known about the affair. "I would have thought you were above such gossip, Captain," she snapped.

  "I don't gossip, merely listen." He hesitated. "Was it upsetting to know how... unconventional your parents were?"

  "How promiscuous, you mean." Her gaze touched the portrait of her mother before moving to the safety of the window. "How could I be upset? The apple didn't fall far from the tree. I ruined myself at eighteen. Wantonness is in the blood."

  "I don't believe that," he said gently. "Did you really elope because of the example of your parents? Or was it because you were looking for love?"

  After a long silence, she said, "Just before my come-out, I met a young viscount who came to Father for a portrait. I mistook his flirtation for serious interest and agreed to go riding in the park. He tried to maul me when we stopped to walk. When I resisted, he said that
since I'd grown up with artists, I had no right to play Miss Propriety."

  "I'm sure you didn't let that pass without comment."

  "I pushed him into a fountain and left, resenting both him and my father, whose way of life had laid me open to such insult. Not very reasonable, perhaps, but I was young and hurt."

  A hard pulse beat in her throat. "Then I was presented to society, and met Frederick. He sighed and wrote poems and told me he loved me, which was balm to my bruised heart. My parents didn't like him, and probably nothing would have come of it if I hadn't learned about Mother and Uncle George. Though I'd known about Father's affairs, it was a shock to find that my mother was no better. Three days later, I eloped." She gave a twisted smile. "I quickly realized that my parents were right and that marrying Frederick would be disastrous. Luckily, I found that out before tying myself to him for life."

  Privately thinking that the elder Seatons should have given their daughter less freedom and more guidance, Kenneth said, "I presume that an advantage of having liberal parents was their willingness to take you back in spite of the scandal."

  She nodded. "The only lectures I got were on my judgment, not my morality. My father said he was glad I had the sense not to marry such a loose fish, my mother said she was sure that I wouldn't make such a mistake again, and that was that."

  "And she was right—you didn't repeat the mistake."

  "Nor will I in the future," she said in a tone that said the subject was closed. "I came down to ask what happened to the roll of canvas I ordered. I'm almost out."

  "Yesterday I wrote the supplier and received a note from him in this morning's post. He apologized for the delay and said the canvas would be delivered day after tomorrow. Is there anything else you wished to inquire about?"

  "Oh. No. That was all." She turned to leave.

  "Is this afternoon's painting session still on, or are you too irritated with me for that?"

  She gave him an ironic glance. "Not at all. Being assailed by lusty females like Lavinia is in the best tradition of Byronic heroes. Exactly right for a corsair."