“The Honorable Elizabeth Martin, Aged 17,” the placard read.
“Honorable”—Amy knew that meant the child of a baron at least. A young girl of good birth, painted with obvious affection—perhaps a cousin, or some other connection? Trevenan had mentioned that Mr. Sheridan was related by blood or marriage to several aristocratic families.
Voices reached her from the passage—the housekeeper’s, and a deeper, masculine one. Unconsciously, Amy straightened her spine, readying herself for a confrontation from which she was determined to emerge victorious.
The studio door opened, and the man she was coming to think of as her nemesis stepped over the threshold. “Miss Aurelia,” he began. “May I just say I’m delighted that you’ve—”
He broke off as Amy turned around, affording him a full view of her unveiled face. The momentary change on his own was startling to behold, eyes widening, lips parting in unfeigned astonishment. Then, just as swiftly, it was replaced by an expression of mild inquiry.
“Miss Newbold. This is most unexpected.” Sheridan’s tone was level, almost uninflected.
“I know.” Amy tried to match his nonchalance. “You were expecting my sister.”
“Indeed, I was, but how may I assist you?” he asked, coming further into the room.
Amy eyed him warily as he approached. For all her distrust of him, she had to admit he was an attractive man: every inch the aristocrat, in fact, with his lean build and fine-boned elegance. His brown hair was slightly overlong, in her opinion, but it suited his narrow, angular face and set off those vivid green eyes. Uncanny eyes that saw things they’d no business seeing, she thought, wishing she could find a flaw in his person as well as in his paintings.
Remembering her errand, she made herself smile brightly at him. “If I recall correctly, Mr. Sheridan, you mentioned yesterday that you paint portraits on commission. I wish to employ your services in that capacity.”
To her annoyance, the smile famous for captivating ballrooms of susceptible men appeared to have no discernible effect on Sheridan, who merely raised his brows. “I am flattered, Miss Newbold, but are you certain I would be the right person for whatever you have in mind?”
Amy flushed; his tone seemed to imply that he expected her to commission a likeness of her dog or something just as foolish. “Indeed, I am,” she retorted with another smile, one that felt more like a grimace—or a snarl. “I wish to give Lord Trevenan a portrait of myself as a wedding present. Whom should I ask but his closest friend, whose work he already admires?”
His eyes widened fractionally; she’d surprised him again, Amy saw with satisfaction, but he made another quick recovery. “I see. So this portrait is actually intended for James.”
“After seeing further examples of your work, I believe you to be eminently suited to the task. I found this one, for example, to be utterly charming,” she added, gesturing toward the portrait of Elizabeth Martin.
To her astonishment, Sheridan tensed at her words, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Thank you,” he said at last, his face and voice equally colorless.
“Such a sweet expression,” Amy went on, eyeing him curiously. “And such speaking eyes. Is she a relation of yours, by any chance?”
He shook his head. “Just a friend—a family friend.” Glancing away from the wall, he asked abruptly, “What had you in mind for this wedding portrait?”
“You’re willing to accept my commission?” Amy tried not to sound too triumphant.
“I am willing to consider it,” he returned.
She chose her next words with care. “If you think the amount insufficient, I am prepared to—negotiate terms. As this is to be a gift for my future husband, I wish to spare no expense. Moreover,” she added, struck by a sudden inspiration, “if you were to agree to paint me, my sister might be more amenable to letting you paint her.”
That caught his attention. “Indeed? Has Miss Aurelia said as much to you?”
“Relia has no idea that I’m even here today. But I know my sister, Mr. Sheridan. She’s more likely to agree to a venture that includes both of us. As am I, for that matter.”
Something that might have been humor warmed those cool green eyes. “I suppose that’s only to be expected, given the nature of your bond. Two of my own sisters—while not twins—are quite close in age and similarly inseparable.”
“Relia and I have no difficulty separating from each other,” Amy corrected him sharply. “I came here on my own, after all. We simply—prefer to do certain things together.”
He inclined his head, his expression closed and formal again. “I stand corrected, Miss Newbold. And I should be glad of whatever influence you might bring to bear upon your sister.”
Seeing her opening, Amy pressed, “So, you are taking the commission, Mr. Sheridan?”
He stared at her for a moment, then said dryly, “It appears I have agreed to, at that. But then, as you say, it’s a gift for James. And my friendship with him happens to mean a great deal to me, Miss Newbold—perhaps even as much as your bond with your sister means to you.”
Amy just managed not to register her surprise. Perhaps her dislike had blinded her, but she’d always thought Trevenan cared more about Sheridan than the latter cared about him.
“Have you any particular ideas of how you wish to be painted?” Sheridan continued. “A gown you wish to wear, or a place you would like to use as a setting?”
“I—hadn’t quite decided yet.” Indeed, she’d thought no further than achieving her immediate objective. “Not my wedding dress,” she said hastily. “That won’t be ready for months. I’ll look through my wardrobe for something suitable.” She hesitated a moment, then ventured on. “Do all your patrons know beforehand how they wish to appear in their portraits?”
“No, not all. Some have very clear ideas about what they want from the start, while others are perhaps more willing to give me free rein. More often than not, we compromise. They present their idea to me and I…refine it.” A ghost of a smile softened the severe line of his mouth. “One lady envisioned herself as Cleopatra reclining on a hideous Egyptian-style divan.”
Amy felt her lips quiver treacherously at the image, but she had come to charm Mr. Sheridan, not the other way around. “Well, I assure you, I have nothing so grandiose in mind.”
“Perhaps not, but I understand your family is both affluent and influential. Do you not wish your portrait to reflect such things about you?”
“My family’s wealth notwithstanding, I have no wish to make a vulgar spectacle of myself, Mr. Sheridan,” she said, with all the dignity she could muster. “My aim is to present my intended with a portrait he will enjoy looking at. Did you perhaps have a theme in mind?”
“Let me think.” He regarded her with thoughtful green eyes; Amy forced herself to remain composed beneath their scrutiny. “Vitality,” he mused aloud. “Candor. Classic beauty…classic.” He lapsed into silence for several moments. “Come to think of it, that might be just the way to go, “ he said at last. “With the Classics. Atalanta, perhaps, or Artemis.”
Amy flushed, stung. Hunting references: Mr. Sheridan probably envisioned her roaming through the forests of England, seeking to fell aristocrats with her bow and arrows. “Classics?” she inquired with dangerous sweetness. “As in nymphs and shepherdesses? But how conventional, Mr. Sheridan! Why not something more—daring?”
His brows arched. “Daring, Miss Newbold?”
“Why, yes. Daring, adventurous…even swashbuckling.” She gave him another of her brilliant smiles. “Do you know, I quite fancy myself as a buccaneer. Pistol at my hip, cutlass in my hand, my hapless victim bound and squirming at my feet…surely there could be no more appropriate depiction of an American heiress in London. Would you not agree, Mr. Sheridan?”
He stilled, his face growing shuttered and wary. “That seems—rather a harsh assessment of yourself, Miss Newbold.”
Amy raised her brows. “Does it, indeed? But I understand that yo
u hold just such a view of my kind. Indeed, I have it on no less an authority than your own words.”
His own brows lanced together. “When have you ever heard me say such a thing?”
“Barely a month ago, at your mother’s garden party.” She noted with wintry satisfaction the realization dawning on his face.
He was staring at her, clearly appalled. “You were there. In the Wilderness Garden.”
Amy nodded. “As you have no doubt guessed, I came there hoping to meet Lord Glyndon. I heard—or more accurately, overheard—the two of you discussing me. He quoted you as saying that all American girls were pirates.” She mustered a brittle laugh. “I suppose it’s true that eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves.”
Sheridan was silent for a moment. “That was discourteous of me,” he said at last. “I ask your pardon, Miss Newbold.”
“For saying such a thing, or simply being careless enough to be overheard?”
He met her gaze without a flinch. “Neither is the act of a gentleman. I hope you will accept my apologies, and perhaps we might continue our acquaintance on more—amicable terms now.” He paused, then said almost abruptly, “For what it’s worth, Glyndon has been pursued as a matrimonial prospect ever since he reached his majority. You would not be the first heiress—or even the first American—to hope for an offer from him. Although,” he added, “you might be the first to have tempted him to make one.”
Amy regarded him narrowly. “Is that meant as a sop to my pride, Mr. Sheridan?”
“I wasn’t aware your pride required one.” His tone was dryer than ever.
“Touché,” she acknowledged, feeling a reluctant stirring of amusement. Tempting though it was to refuse this irritating man’s olive branch, she could not let her animosity blind her to her larger goal. “Well, then. For Trevenan’s sake, I am willing to try to set our past differences aside. It would be awkward for him to have his future wife and his friend continually at odds.”
“It would. And James deserves better from us both.” Sheridan paused again, then continued more formally, “I have two commissions that I must complete first. But I could let you know when I can accommodate you with regard to sittings. Is that acceptable, Miss Newbold?”
“Perfectly acceptable, Mr. Sheridan,” Amy assured him. “And in the meantime, I can devote some further thought as to how I wish to appear in my portrait.”
“An excellent idea. Although, if you’ll forgive the liberty…” again that faint smile warmed his eyes, “I think pirate dress would scarcely do you justice.”
Feeling unaccountably flustered, Amy bade him a dignified farewell and took her leave, drawing her veil over her face as she left the house.
Eleven
Unbidden guests
Are often welcomest when they are gone.
—William Shakespeare,
King Henry VI, Part One
“Mr. Augustus will see you, Lord Trevenan.” The butler sounded almost astonished to be making such an announcement.
James felt rather surprised himself. He’d called twice before, only to be told that the man he sought—the second son of Baron Shenstone and one of Gerald’s former cronies—was not at home. Today, however, the butler showed him into a spacious breakfast parlor, where the Honorable Augustus Burton was filling his plate from a laden sideboard.
Nearly noon, and Burton was just sitting down to breakfast; James had never understood how Londoners could sleep the whole morning away. Glancing at his host’s pallid complexion and bleary eyes, however, he suspected Burton had likely spent the previous night carousing with his friends and not got in until quite late. Gerald had been the same, when he was alive.
Somewhat curtly, Burton invited his guest to partake of the various dishes on the sideboard. Although James had already breakfasted, he took a slice of toast, poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver urn on the table, and sat down opposite his host.
“So, what brings you to my door, Trevenan?” Burton inquired, looking up from his plate.
“I wished to speak with you on a business matter,” James replied. “I understand from my solicitor that my late cousin acquired some shares from you—in Mercer Shipping?”
Burton’s face darkened. “What of them?” he asked brusquely, forking up his kedgeree.
Undeterred by his host’s lack of graciousness, James continued mildly, “I was hoping you could tell me more about the company itself.”
Burton shrugged. “Don’t know what you expect to hear from me, Trevenan. I had those shares for just a few months—legacy from a distant cousin on my mother’s side. Never got the chance to find out more before I lost ’em.”
Or simply couldn’t be bothered. James suspected that Burton, like Gerald, was generally disinclined to concern himself with the nature of his assets, beyond the fact of whether they made money or not. But he kept that opinion firmly to himself.
Burton stared gloomily down into his cup. “Hadn’t intended to, but I’d already bet everything else that night—didn’t want to throw in my hand. I was sure my luck would turn if I stayed in. So I put ’em on the table, and Alston won the whole pot on his next trick!” He lapsed into brooding silence.
James waited for him to continue. Fortunately, Burton’s sense of grievance was still strong nearly a year after that fateful card game.
“Didn’t know those damn shares would return such a profit, or I’d never have parted with them to begin with. Alston wouldn’t sell either when I approached him about buying them back,” Burton added resentfully. “Even after I was back in funds. He decided to purchase more of the bloody things instead. Didn’t even have the decency to let me know who the other shareholders were so I could have a chance at them myself.”
“How did Gerald find out who the other shareholders were?”
“Paid my solicitor a large retainer to look into it, if you can believe the bloody cheek,” Burton said, scowling. “He’s the one who handled the transfer of shares from me to Alston. Ought to sack him for his disloyalty, but he’s been in charge of my family’s finances for years.”
“Might I trouble you for his name?”
“Dunning. Alfred Dunning. He’s got his offices in Lincoln’s Inn.” Burton paused, peering at James suspiciously. “Might I ask what your particular interest is in this affair, Trevenan?”
James hesitated, but he saw no reason to bring up Mercer and his offer to buy back the shares, not when he had his doubts about the man. “As Gerald’s heir, I wish to learn as much as possible about his investments and holdings,” he replied. “My solicitor informed me that Mercer Shipping was quite a recent acquisition and his own knowledge of the company is incomplete.”
Burton’s pouchy eyes brightened. “I don’t suppose you’d consider parting with your shares, if I offered you a good price?”
“I’m afraid I’m in no position to entertain an offer at this point, Mr. Burton,” James said as pleasantly as he could. He pushed his chair back from the table. “I must be going now. Thank you for your time—and good day.”
As he took his leave, it occurred to him that he hadn’t heard a word of regret or sorrow from Burton regarding Gerald’s death. His cousin’s cronies did not appear to greatly mourn his loss. A sobering reflection, given how much time he’d spent with them. But then, James did not know how deeply Gerald himself would have grieved, had one of his companions perished last New Year’s Eve. All the same, it seemed a sad thing to leave the world at barely thirty years of age and have no one care one way or the other.
Taking a hansom to Lincoln’s Inn, he discovered from Mr. Dunning’s secretary that the solicitor had left London to attend to a client in Manchester. Undaunted, James secured an appointment for the day Dunning was expected back; his new title accomplished that at least.
One more stop after that, to the office of an inquiry agent Thomas had recommended for his competence and discretion. Once that business was concluded, James headed home, just in time to dine and dress for the ball to which
he was escorting Amy, her mother, and sister.
Stepping into his carriage, he reflected bemusedly that he was coming to lead a double life, investigating shady business dealings by day, attending the most exclusive Society functions by night. What a relief it would be when this business was settled and he could return to Cornwall with his future bride and her family. Comforted by the prospect, he leaned back in his seat and resigned himself to yet another glittering evening.
***
“More rouge, mademoiselle—or a soupçon more powder?”
“No, thank you, Suzanne. That will be all, I think.” Aurelia studied herself in the glass. The curled fringe at her brow and the ringlets at her temples worked their usual magic in drawing the eye away from her scar, the line of which had been softened, though not concealed, by powder. “Never let anyone think you have something to hide, something of which you are ashamed,” Claudine had told her when first teaching her how to apply cosmetics. “That will make everyone believe you are something to be unmasked, stripped bare.”
Sound advice, Aurelia thought now. She mightn’t be proud of her scars, but she’d learned to live with them. It was up to her to convince through her own demeanor that they were the very least part of her appearance. All the same, she was glad that the rest of her toilette passed muster. She wore green tonight, a bright, clear shade, along with earrings and a necklace in the shape of enameled leaves, green and gold. The color became her, gave her added confidence that she knew she needed tonight. Her first ball, her first major public appearance since her return, held by Lady Warrender—a fashionable young matron who’d become friendly with Amy.
Waltz With a Stranger Page 10
