“I did decrease the amount,” she admitted. “I didn’t want him to become too attached to it.”
“Funny thing.” The old man sounded suddenly too casual, which immediately alerted her that something was awry. The more nonchalant he sounded, the more shocking his disclosures. “Joseph heard the gardener complaining about some brown substance being splattered over the vines and shrubs beneath yon Gordon’s bedroom window.”
Oh no! She couldn’t believe how complicated life in this house was becoming! “I’ve been adding a little chocolate to the milk most nights,” she confessed. “He was grumbling about taking the hot milk and I hoped it would mask the bitter taste better.” She paused. “So you think he’s been throwing it out the window?”
He nodded.
“But–” her hand suddenly flew to her mouth. “For how long?”
Dio! Had he not really been asleep during those nights when she had bandaged his wound? Had he been faking it? She quaked at the idea.
Then she squirmed, utterly mortified, as she reflected on some of the things she had done, thinking him asleep. Things like running her hands over his smooth muscles and silky skin. Or pressing kisses to his chest or… Oh lord! … nuzzling his nipples that had always reacted to her moist caresses. She’d imagined that happened in his sleep, now she worried he’d been awake the whole time!
Foster was staring at her, wondering why she’d stopped so abruptly in the middle of the hallway.
“I’m starving,” was all she could think to say. Thank goodness Foster had taken over changing Reed’s dressing. What further liberties might she have taken with his body had she continued! She groaned inwardly. Face burning, she spun around and resumed walking to the kitchen. “I hope Mrs. P has something good in the pantry for me to eat.”
“Didn’t they feed you at the party?” he asked. “I thought they’d serve all manner of fancy food.”
“It was fancy, all right. Food like… ladies’ fingers and such.” She mimicked her sister. “Tonight was une soiree à la française!” A French style of party, she translated for him. “That meant no sit-down supper. She claimed that was how it was done at one of the best soirees she attended in Paris!” She adopted her sister’s expression as well as her voice.
Foster chuckled.
“Mind you, it made sense. She had such a short time to prepare and you know she wouldn’t do anything less than lavish. This way, she was able to serve canapés and champagne.” She again took on her sister’s voice. “`Now ladies, be sure to remove your gloves or they will become terribly soiled.`”
He shook his head. He could well imagine it, she knew, having dealt with her family for many years.
“She called it the latest French vogue, but her group didn’t care if it was or not. They all thought it great fun! She had servants walking around with trays filled with a wide variety of hors-d’oeuvres, while guests stood around talking as they ate.” She frowned. “Not my favorite method of eating, I can assure you. My feet are aching from all that standing. But it did have the advantage of not having to talk to the same two or three table companions for the whole meal.”
Foster grinned at her sly humor.
“I kept dropping my food. Can you imagine how filthy those floors must be now?” She grimaced. “The disadvantage is that it’s not polite to talk with food in your mouth, so you never get to eat more than a morsel or two in between responding to people’s queries. That’s why I’m hungry.”
She needed to eat something filling. Anyway, she was too keyed up to sleep.
“You can go to bed now that I’m safely home.” She patted his shoulder affectionately. “I’m going to take some bread and cheese up with me to eat in my room.”
He bade her goodnight and went on his way. She cut some bread and chunks of cheese, poured a glass of wine and took them with her upstairs. He had so surprised her with the news that Reed was most likely throwing his nightly dose out the window that she’d forgotten to tell him about their “guest” following her to the party and Mason being caught. She’d tell him tomorrow.
She stopped at her room to change into her night clothes. Then she donned a thick velour dressing gown over her nightgown and left her room to go up to the studio.
There was a beautiful moon tonight and, on the way home, she’d imagined coming up here and sitting on the window seat to gaze at the moon and draw.
It was the first full moon since they’d come to London and, for once, the sky was cloudless. She’d been sitting up there the past few nights, making the most of the brief snatches of bright moonlight in between the long stretches of overcast sky. She’d already imagined how ethereal… and exciting it was going to be like, bathed in the full glow tonight.
She didn’t try to muffle her steps because she had no idea anyone was… could be... up there. So she was taken aback to find Reed gazing out the window, sitting right where she usually sat.
“Oh…” She stopped dead, stunned into silence. “I didn’t know you were up here.” She crossed the room to put down her plate and drink on a small table beside the window seat. He must wonder what kind of a wife was surprised to encounter her husband in their own home. “Didn’t I tell you not to come into my studio again,” she said, but there was no real heat behind her words. Tonight was not a night for strife. Her mood was mellow, softened by the moonlight, by being in the studio surrounded by her art and, she might as well admit it, by finding the person she most wanted to be with already here, waiting for her.
He flashed an innocent smile. “How selfish of you, to forbid someone this view of the moon on a night like this.” He rubbed his hand over the smooth wooden seat. “I like it here. I like the feel of the wood, the smells.” He paused, at a loss to explain further.
She was surprised. Not many people, other than painters, cared for the pungent odors of paint and turpentine.
“You made it home safely? Did you meet up with Mr. Mason?”
“Yes, to both of your questions,” he replied. “How about you, did you have a good time at your party?”
He looked ready for a chat. He always seemed happy to see her and spend time talking with her on any topic, light or serious. Growing up with few people to talk to and even fewer who really listened to her, she enjoyed having his undivided attention.
“As much as I expected.” She didn’t try to hide her lack of interest.
“Don’t all young ladies enjoy balls?” he asked, amusement in his voice.
“I’d rather be here painting.” She stopped abruptly. The wine and the punch she’d taken at Venetia’s must have lowered her guard. She’d never been so open about her painting with anyone other than Foster or Monsieur and, more recently, Mr. Mason. Yes, Reed may have seen her up here painting that one morning, but he didn’t know how vital it was to her being.
“You take your art seriously then?” It was more a statement than a question. “Is that the work that keeps you busy and away from me?”
At her nod, he asked, “Have you been painting for a long time?”
“Yes, from childhood.”
He indicated her cloaked easel. “What are you painting now?”
Grazie al cielo! Thank heavens she’d concealed his portrait with another painting! She jumped up and stood protectively in front of the easel. Her heart thumped wildly at the thought of him discovering “the” painting. How would he react if he saw it?
“Now I understand why you were so keen to see the art exhibit,” Reed said. “Art is your avocation.” He noted a sudden, mutinous glint in her eye. Naturally, her art was more than a pleasant diversion. Just the quality of the paintings he’d perused in the studio tonight made that clear. This was no hobby. This was her passion, her life.
She responded with a mild, “One must have a hobby.”
Her self-control was impressive. He guessed she’d been doing that for years, not letting anyone see how much her painting meant to her. He watched as she tried not to look as if she were standing guard in front of her
easel. He swallowed a smile. She’d be mortified if she knew he’d already discovered her secret.
Sobering up, he reflected on what else he’d discovered up here. These past few days had been full of shocks, but the biggest one was tonight, when he’d discovered he was also a dab hand at drawing.
Had that been the attraction between them?
Earlier, when he heard her climbing the stairs, he’d torn off the pages he’d sketched and hid them among her finished works. He’d retrieve them tomorrow. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to keep this knowledge about himself quiet for now, in case all here was not as it seemed.
Or perhaps it was the vehemence with which she had declared, that day at the art exhibit, that she’d never marry an artist! Disparagement had dripped from her every word. He’d chuckled and said there was little chance of that because she was already married. Now he was recalling how she’d seemed almost shocked at the reminder.
Had he not told her he was an artist, as well as married her under an assumed name? He was beginning to dislike the man he appeared to have been before hitting his head!
“Do you want some?” Sitting down beside him, she held out her plate of bread and cheese.
“Thank you.” He took a piece of each. He bit off some cheese and chewed, delighted with it. “Hmmm... good. I didn’t realize I was hungry.”
“Much more filling than the food offered at my sister’s, I can tell you.”
He laughed quietly.
They spoke about art and the view of the sky while they ate and then, after Tally had to stifle yet another huge yawn, as tiredness took its toll, their conversation slowed, then tapered off. Almost immediately, she became aware of his large body lounging comfortably beside her on the window bench.
His warm sideways glances sent shivers skating down her spine.
Tension mounted.
She wiped damp palms on her thighs. Did he plan on kissing her again? She should refuse. She knew better...
“I think you know who shot me,” he suddenly said.
She’d been in the middle of another yawn, but her mouth snapped shut at his question. Disconcerted. Disappointed. Here, she’d been having romantic imaginings, while he’d been wondering who shot him. It felt like a huge pitcher of cold water had been poured over her head.
He continued, “You told me Foster would never…”
She interrupted him with her objections, but he stopped her by lifting his hand up palm out.
“…and I believe you.”
She relaxed, but only marginally. This was a subject fraught with… snares, ready to trip her up if she said the wrong thing.
“But, I need to know who did, because until I do, I have to worry about being shot each time I go out. I don’t know who is out there trying to kill me.”
Should she tell him?
“When I was out the other day, I was attacked by men who were determined to finish me off.”
She tried to look astonished. Mr. Mason had asked them not to tell Reed that they knew. The investigator hadn’t made his presence known to Reed that day and deemed it best that he not know he was being followed, even if it was for his own protection.
“It convinced me I must be the target of a murderer. But why? What have I done that’s so terrible someone wants me dead?” His frustration was obvious.
Maybe she shouldn’t tell him. After all, someone was out to kill him. If she didn’t tell him the truth, he’d continue to be cautious.
Coward! You just don’t want to face him when he finds out you’re the one who shot him. She hated herself! But she was too tired to deal with this tonight.
Another excuse, she admitted in disgust.
“You were already shot when I found you on the floor,” which, she told herself, wasn’t precisely a lie. He had already been shot by the time she went to see why he wasn’t getting up. “We didn’t know until we lifted you up off the floor to lay you on the bed. We saw the blood and found the wound and assumed that was why you’d fallen”
Oh my heavens, she was going to hell for all her lies!
He continued to gaze intently into her eyes. Trying to plumb the secrets of her mind, no doubt. She did her best to wipe all expression from her face, but was afraid her guilt must show.
“That’s disappointing.” He shrugged and stood to face outside, away from her.
She swallowed the big lump of tears that threatened to rise. She’d not told him for his own benefit. But would he believe that when... if... he found out? It was the only way for her to protect him. But her craven conscience was whispering to her that it was her own self-interest that had decided not to tell him tonight.
Disheartened and unsure of herself, she stood and picked up the dirty plate. “It’s late. I think I’ll go to bed now.” Another yawn escaped. “I hope you sleep well.”
She walked toward the door, sad that their usual warm feelings were being tainted by this uncomfortable tension that had arisen between them. It was as if he knew she wasn’t telling him the truth. She’d never been good at lying. She supposed she should be thankful she wasn’t getting better at it with practice, but it was darned inconvenient tonight!
She reached the doorway, then looked back to bid him goodnight.
Still facing the window, he vowed, “Tally, soon… soon I’ll be well again and we’ll sleep together and make love once more. We’ll rebuild what we had... I promise.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Drat, drat, drat! Tally knew she should have held out and said no to her sisters’ entreaties to attend their soiree. Now her painting time was being disrupted by visitors!
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lawton. I was sorry to miss your sister’s celebration last evening and especially sorry to miss welcoming you to London.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Beauclaire. I am pleased to meet you.” If she had to have a visitor, at least she was glad it was Monsieur’s good friend and agent. He might be able to shed some light on where Monsieur had gone.
“I am your first visitor, Mademoiselle?” The heavyset Frenchman offered her an apologetic smile. He sounded surprised.
She hoped that didn’t mean she should expect a glut of guests! She smiled inwardly at her turn of phrase. It sounded a bit like ‘a gaggle of geese’.
She gestured him to sit down, but he bowed politely and indicated she should do so first. Such gentlemanly behavior augured well for her chances of extracting information from him.
“Forgive me, if I am too early,” he said.
“No need for forgiveness, I imagine there will be others coming along soon,” she said, thinking of her grandmother.
This was the very reason she’d not let her family know she was in town and had sworn not to go out in Society. When she was painting, she had no time for the social obligations thrust upon one, like receiving visitors in one’s home. And, at the moment, it was even a frightening prospect, given that Reed was living here. Today, he’d agreed when she’d suggested he go to the market with Mrs. P and Joseph. He’d been eager to go with them. Said he was fed up of being shut inside the four walls of his bedroom all the time.
She was thankful for his need to get out, since she couldn’t imagine Grandma not making an appearance today and she had to keep him out of her relative’s way! Out of everyone’s way, really.
She sat on the sofa and indicated the armchair in front of her. “Won’t you sit down.”
She was glad to see that Foster had already brought in the tea and had set out other beverages for her to offer. She hoped this would be the first and last time she’d have to entertain visitors.
How had Monsieur Beauclaire discovered where she lived?
From her sisters, naturally. Who else?
Now that she knew Spencer hadn’t tattled, she worried about who the talebearer of her whereabouts was. How had that meddlesome person known where she lived? And if they knew that, what else might they know? She had much to hide.
At least Monsieur Beauclaire seemed inoffensive and
he was connected to the art world. He must have interesting tales to tell about it.
Once the niceties had been observed, she brought up Monsieur Moreau’s absence, but, on that topic, Gaston Beauclaire was remarkably close-lipped.
He seemed troubled by her question. “All I can tell you Mademoiselle, is that he …” and he proceeded to repeat the exact same message that was in the second note.
Had he written it?
She was disappointed that he didn’t appear to know any more than she did. Or was he trying to make her believe that? Could he be responsible for Monsieur’s disappearance and for her father’s forged signature on her works? He seemed too old and harmless to be capable of such treachery.
Less than twenty minutes later, he rose, preparing to take his leave.
Their farewells were interrupted by sounds coming from the front hall. Another visitor had arrived. Tally’s shoulders sagged. Was she going to have to spend the entire afternoon entertaining callers?
Foster entered and, in a formal tone announced, “Mr. Victor Dubuc.”
So soon? She was seeing him tomorrow. She hadn’t expected he’d visit today as well.
“Good afternoon, oh beauteous one...” he began, then he spotted the older man, stiffened and changed it to, “…Miss Lawton.” He held onto his charming smile but she noticed it cooled considerably. He was obviously not pleased to see her other guest.
“Mr. Dubuc. Good afternoon.” She gestured for him to join them. Monsieur Beauclaire changed his mind about leaving and sank back down into his chair.
She didn’t understand why he stayed because, from the start, she sensed tension, if not outright animosity, between the two. She’d have expected them to be friendlier because both were so close to her mentor. But it seemed not and the next half-hour was like an unrehearsed play where the actors either forgot their lines or delivered them in so stilted a fashion, the audience was made to feel uncomfortable. Awkward pauses punctuated by strained conversation, mostly initiated by Mr. Dubuc until — realizing his uncle’s friend was not going to depart until he did — the younger man grudgingly took his leave, followed closely by the agent.
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