The Notorious Countess

by Liz Tyner

  ‘We’ll get there in due time.’

  ‘I suppose. It’s just... Mother.’

  ‘You shouldn’t paint anything you wouldn’t want the whole world to see.’

  The fanning stopped. ‘I...agree.’ She looked out the window. ‘It’s the reactions that concern me. I personally think it is quite beautiful and something the whole world should see. I just do not think others will share that opinion.’

  ‘Rainbows,’ he instructed. ‘Paint rainbows, flowers, bunnies or cherubs with their arrows only you know about. There is a whole world of things which do not cause grief which you can paint.’

  She put the gloves together in her lap, straightening them. ‘Artists have suffered for their creations for quite some time. Just to show teeth in a painting can cause such an uproar. It is seen much the same as showing a corset.’

  ‘So you did as Vigée Le Brun and showed the smile.’

  ‘No, I did not. But she is my inspiration. We even have the same curly hair and the same love of fashion and art. I hope to meet her some day. She is much underrated.’

  ‘She’s painted nobility.’

  ‘Still underrated, but if she saw this portrait I completed, I think she would understand.’

  ‘The important thing to do is find the portrait and destroy it if it can cause you that much grief.’

  ‘That is not an option.’ She put her gloves back on. ‘I cannot destroy what I have created. This one must be protected.’ She stared at him. ‘Riverton sliced some of my best paintings. I could never forgive him, nor could I forgive anyone who did that to this one.’

  An impassive face stared back at her, but she did not care.

  The carriage turned to the drive of her home. ‘I suspect,’ she said, ‘even without checking for her carriage, that Mother is here.’

  His coach stopped at the front of the house and Andrew helped Beatrice alight from the steps.

  Beatrice whisked into her house, hoping the portrait would miraculously have been returned, but she doubted it. Not if a carriage had arrived to remove it in the first place.

  How foolish she’d been to think her mother would respect a locked door. But her mother avoided the studio house. Complained of the lingering smell of paint thinner in the air.

  They moved up the stairs. After Beatrice instructed a servant to ask her mother to join them, the maid returned to tell Beatrice her mother was unwell and not receiving visitors.

  ‘I will speak with her,’ Beatrice said, standing to go to her mother’s chamber.

  Walking into her mother’s room, she saw her mother on the sofa, reading the Times, scowling. A lingering hint of tobacco rested in the air.

  Her mother sat straight and threw the paper to the side. Her nightdress flattered the silver streaks of her hair and she twirled a pair of spectacles in her hand, though Beatrice knew her mother would rarely put on the eyewear, only hold them in front of her face when she wished to read.

  ‘Where is the painting?’ Beatrice asked.

  ‘Painting?’ She squinted. ‘Which painting?’

  ‘I know you took it, but I don’t know how you discovered it.’

  ‘I can tell when you’re up to something. I’ve known you since before you were born and I do like to keep aware of my children. I was walking along, peacefully on the path to the cottage, minding my affairs, and I knew how you must paint in the light, and so the window was there and I was there and you’ll never guess the shock I received.’

  ‘I know exactly what you found and removed.’

  ‘I have the portrait, Beatrice.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You do?’ Her mother smiled, one a dedicated executioner might use. ‘Oh, and I so wanted to keep it private. I’ve known about it for some time. I just had to let you finish it and let it dry, and wait for you to leave. Details.’

  She tensed. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I could not have something like that lying about. Your brother would try to kill that man if he saw the picture.’ Her mother stood, and walked behind the sofa.

  ‘Think of Andrew.’

  ‘I did, Beatrice. Very much so when I saw the painting.’ She gave a discreet cough, covering her mouth with her fist, and eyeing her daughter. ‘Which is the reason the portrait isn’t in front of your brother right now.’ She tossed the spectacles to the table beside her and clucked her tongue. ‘He’d burst into a rage. Might have an apoplexy.’ She looked at Beatrice. ‘He will explode and shatter bits of himself across the ton.

  ‘He need never know.’

  ‘I only plan telling him about it if I have to. And if he doesn’t grasp the import, then I’ll show it to him.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t think this is something a man should view, however.’ She gave her daughter a wink. ‘It almost caused me to stop breathing.’ Her voice softened so much to make the words almost invisible. ‘Is the painting to scale, dear?’

  ‘Mother—I don’t trust Wilson not to hurt Andrew. He had Riverton beaten.’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’ The older woman frowned. She wrinkled her nose. ‘I sent the toughs after Riverton.’

  Beatrice’s jaw dropped.

  ‘For Riverton’s own good,’ her mother insisted. ‘Wilson was going to kill him, but he couldn’t very well kill a man who was recovering from a beating. It gave Wilson time to cool off. I didn’t want my son having a murder on his conscience.’ She shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘A murder isn’t an easy thing to live with.’

  ‘Mother, perhaps you should let us have our own lives.’ Even as she said the words, Beatrice knew they dissolved in the air before her mother heard them.

  Her mother’s face pinched. ‘And neglect you?’

  ‘I don’t want Wilson going after Andrew because of this,’ Beatrice said. ‘My brother knows Andrew and I have been close. This painting should not be made public. It’s my private work. Which I secured in a locked room, with half-a-score of other paintings.’

  The older woman reached for the spectacles again and stood. She straightened her back, using the eyepiece as a pointer. ‘It’s not yours now, Beatrice. It’s mine. I do like Andrew. And he obviously has some feelings for you and you him. You need to marry him. He got the best of his bloodlines. His father’s looks and his mother’s respectability. And he’s not an arrogant peacock like his brother.’

  ‘I don’t want to marry him. He would make me miserable.’

  ‘He is perfect for you. Your residences are a good distance apart. You could hardly know the other existed. It is not like the past when Riverton kept causing notice. This one practically buries himself. Would save us the trouble.’

  ‘He would make me miserable. He thinks women should be demure. He does not wish to marry Beatrice the Beast. I am shunned by men.’

  ‘You’re also Beatrice with her head in the clouds. If it weren’t for Wilson having such a temper and everyone knowing it, and Riverton ending up beaten—Beatrice, child, the men of this town drool when they think of bedding the Beast. Your brother and I frighten them, though. Except Lord Andrew.’ She waved her hand. ‘It was much the same in my day. A good set of curves, glorious hair and a hint of brazenness and they line up. Your father never let me out of his sight.’

  ‘Mother,’ Beatrice snapped.

  ‘Beatrice. You need to be married.’

  ‘No. I don’t. A widow can have liaisons.’

  ‘You aren’t listening.’ She lowered her chin. ‘It’s not good for the family name, or for Wilson’s future, for you to remain unwed. I’ll be your mother until the day I die, Beatrice, and I don’t see myself stepping aside. You’ve had a difficult first marriage, to be sure. And you’re reluctant to marry again. You should have a second husband. Perhaps a third one later. You can’t just stop at one. Your grandmother had four and she lived to be ninety-two years old. The trick is to bury them quickly.’

  ‘Mother! How would you feel if Wilson and I took it into our heads to see you married?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’ She
stood. Then she paused, her brows softened and her voice lowered. ‘Who do you have in mind?’

  ‘Mother,’ Beatrice growled.

  ‘Beatrice. I have seen the painting.’ She shut her eyes. ‘And frankly, dear, you could do worse.’ She opened them. ‘You two just need a careful nudge in the right direction. You’ve obviously bedded him, now get the paperwork taken care of. Need I remind you, Beatrice, I have the painting? If you do not marry Andrew, I will turn the painting over to your brother. And you know he will not be happy. Nor will Andrew’s family. He has a mother. A brother. A very ducal brother. But it won’t matter, will it?’ She put a pitiful pout on her lips. ‘Because you don’t care for the man. To see his life in upheaval because of your painting would not mean anything to you at all. And frankly, he shouldn’t have allowed you to do such a thing. I can’t feel badly for him—a man who poses nude knows what to expect.’

  ‘Mother, he doesn’t know.’

  ‘About the—?’

  ‘Portrait.’

  Her mother’s eyes widened. She put a hand at her chest. ‘Oh. Would you like me to tell him?’

  * * *

  Outside the sitting room door, Beatrice slowed her steps. She’d been rushing, hurrying to get back to Andrew, but she wasn’t sure what to tell him.

  She could waltz through this incident if it weren’t Andrew involved. All of him was involved, except the toes of one foot. She’d let them be draped by silk to give her more time for the other details. If he discovered the truth, he would find anger he didn’t know existed within him and the sight wouldn’t be pleasant.

  When she walked through the door, he stood. Face expectant.

  She decided to take her chances. Anything but the truth.

  ‘Mother will be with us in a moment. She had already prepared for bed, but insists she must speak with you.’

  ‘Does she have it?’

  ‘Mother is not above blackmailing me, Andrew.’ She whispered out the words.

  ‘How could she wish for something that might cause problems for her child?’

  ‘What I see as a problem, she sees as an opportunity.’

  The image of the painting flashed through Beatrice’s mind. Pulses of satisfaction curled in her. Yes, she’d captured exactly what she wished. She shouldn’t have. But she did.

  ‘What is the price she’s asking?’

  ‘She wishes for me to marry.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘Yes. A very particular someone.’ She told him with her gaze that he was the object of her mother’s selection. Her mother did not see how mistaken she was.

  ‘We will just reason with her.’

  Tilting her chin down, she looked up at him. ‘Reason? This is not a simple woman. It wasn’t Wilson that had Riverton beaten. It was Mother. She said she did it for his own good. She sees things—differently. To reason with someone they have to understand what the word means. Mother is not of that temper. She doesn’t take no easily. She doesn’t even understand compromise. She believes her motherhood entitles her to whatever means necessary to sway her children. ‘

  He took her fingers. ‘Beatrice. We do not live in a time where mothers can force their widowed daughters to marry.’

  ‘I know. But blackmail never goes out of style.’

  Still holding her hand, he moved his upwards, using her own fingers to shush her. ‘Beatrice. If you have decided not to concern yourself with the scandal sheets, call your mother’s bluff. Surely she would not embarrass you.’ He frowned.

  ‘No, but she would see me wed.’

  ‘Is it very much more revealing than the other one?’ Then he paused. ‘It would have to be, wouldn’t it? To concern you.’

  She pulled her hand from his, the darkness magnifying the sadness in her eyes. ‘It is rather.’ She put on her calming face. ‘I told her I will convince you to marry me. I need time to find the portrait.’

  ‘I’ll talk to your mother,’ he reassured her. ‘I’ll explain I’ve no wish to marry you. That you have no choice in the matter.’

  ‘For me, and only for a moment, please let her believe what she wishes so I will have time to find the painting,’ Beatrice suggested.

  ‘I’ll see if I can persuade her.’

  ‘Andrew. It’s just that—’ She looked at the ceiling. ‘As I said, I may have made some mistakes in my past.’

  He gave a huff. ‘Other than my brother, who hasn’t? Although I would say this is an error on your mother’s part.’

  ‘She sees it simply as a manoeuvre.’

  He kept hold of her fingers, waiting.

  ‘Some of my mistakes may have been recent.’

  She moved, placing a small chair very close to an easy chair. She sat in the stiff-backed chair and tugged him to sit across from her, the skirts of her dress only a hint from his knees. ‘Andrew.’ The word had a persuasive lilt. She would have added violins and harp music if she could have. ‘Please go along. Only long enough to give me a chance to retrieve the painting. It cannot be hid that well. It’s rather large. Mother would need to secure it with someone.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘You did rather reject me,’ she said. The barest of smiles, the most hopeful of eyes and a squeeze on his fingers.

  ‘I did not.’ His voice struck the air.

  A lift of her eyebrows in disagreement. ‘Felt like it to me.’

  ‘It should not have.’ He lifted her fingers for a kiss.

  She couldn’t speak for a moment. The rendition of him had been frozen before her eyes for days. Now, to be so close again to the real image was taunting her. ‘If that painting is damaged in any way...’ she muttered. To destroy her work was to destroy her. And he would. She knew it.

  He caught the look in her eyes and his smile told her he would go along with the ruse. ‘You’ll have to find the painting fast,’ he said, ‘and convince her not to have the banns read yet.’

  She nodded.

  ‘And one other thing,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see it.’

  Her lips thinned and then she answered, ‘Remind me after it’s safely returned.’

  * * *

  Beatrice bent forward and tapped his knees, and the natural readjustment behind her bodice as she moved all but erased the next words from his hearing. ‘Think of a reason to convince her the date must be put off a while.’

  He examined her eyes. All of her face. Feminine. Delicate. Her body seemed almost in argument with her personality. This Beatrice could never wield a club or protect a maid, but yet, she had.

  She kept talking, but he couldn’t follow the words. This woman was nothing like the caricatures. Nothing. She wore silk and lace, smelled of flowers, wisps of hair floated around her eyes, brushing against the skin. This woman surely could not...bite anyone.

  ‘Marriage.’

  The word jerked his attention back to the conversation, dousing his thoughts with a thunk against his ears.

  ‘—marriage and keep from attracting much notice. As soon as I find—’ She moved back in the chair, her bodice following her, and becoming discreet again. ‘When I get it returned and lock it securely away, then I will tell Mother we are not to be wed.’

  She reached and gently tugged at his arms. ‘You must believe me that I am sorry you are embroiled in this. You must remember that—should things not work out well.’

  ‘This will solve itself. Your mother will come to her senses or you will simply weather the storm. You’ve been written about before and I believe it is likely to happen again.’

  ‘I suppose I could—’ she stared into his eyes ‘—except this time there might be more censure than I want. Perhaps a lot of censure—from...’

  ‘You can survive it.’

  ‘I know.’ Her eyes wavered. ‘I think I could use some respite from it.’

  ‘Perhaps once you get through this you will decide to truly embrace improving your reputation.’

  Her eyes only minimally changed.

  He knew she’d not
had an easy time of things and he really couldn’t blame her for what had happened. ‘I have to admit I admire your courage in the way you’ve handled the reports in the newsprint. I have not been so comfortable with thrusting their words aside.’

  He reached out, running a finger along the soft skin of her upper arm, and let his voice soothe. ‘Never think I am not carrying around admiration for you even though we are so different. You amaze me with your spirit.’

  ‘Oh, Andrew.’ Distress showed in her eyes. She stood, her skirts swirling so fast he moved back to keep the flounces away. ‘You have no idea how determined my mother is to see us wed now that she believes she has the means to procure a wedding.’

  She moved behind the chair, her fingers clenching on the upholstered back. ‘I wish I’d told you to take a few swallows of brandy before you met Mother, breathe garlic on her, have dirty hair and cast up your accounts on her shoes.’ She raised a hand above the chair back. ‘She hardly likes anyone. Half the time, I think she doesn’t care for Wilson or me.’ Her voice fell so low he could hardly hear it. ‘And yet—she is taken with you.’

  He didn’t appreciate the amazement he heard.

  ‘Your mother is straightforward. Bold.’ He paused. ‘So unlike the others in her family.’

  She reached up, pressing at the back of her neck. Then she fixed him with a dead-on gaze. ‘Or perhaps she shares my fascination for eyes that once you look into them, it is as if you can see every shade of the earth ever imagined.’

  ‘Beatrice—’ He tried to put as much persuasion as he could into the word and saw it totally miss the mark.

  ‘Mother has chosen you now.’ Beatrice raised a hand to silence him. ‘She said nothing on my marriage to Riverton when he courted me. But now, she has her heart set on you as my husband. I don’t know how to discourage her.’

  He leaned so he could lock eyes with her and stare intently. ‘I could still cast up my accounts on her shoes.’

  ‘This is not for jesting, and besides, I don’t think it would work. We must outwit her.’

  ‘Do not let her control your life.’

  ‘I suppose it’s not my life I’m worried about. There may be more to it than that.’