by Anna Bradley
Eleanor peered down at the girl, who appeared to be speaking to Camden West.
Denny?
Mr. West held out his hand to her. “It’s odd, Julian, but I don’t recall you saying you intended to visit the Royal Academy’s exhibition today. Whatever could have tempted you here, I wonder?”
Julian shrugged. “Nothing less than a love of art, cousin, and a concern for Amelia’s classical education.”
The girl, Amelia, took Mr. West’s hand. In her other hand she held an artist’s box. She looked up at Eleanor with a shy smile, then turned her attention back to Camden West. “I’ve brought my box with me. Mightn’t I stay, and copy some pictures?”
Amelia looked from one adult to the next, her dark eyes pleading, and Eleanor had the strangest urge to sink to her knees, take the child in her arms and reassure her that yes, of course she might stay. She hadn’t the vaguest notion who this child might be, but she pled so prettily, and she was so positively cherubic, with her cloud of blonde hair and her dark, intelligent eyes.
Eleanor couldn’t imagine how anyone could refuse her anything.
Except perhaps Camden West, who, like Lucifer, must hate cherubs, and would no doubt send this one back from where she’d come—
“Well, I suppose we can’t send you away without a sketch or two.” He ruffled her hair. “Can we, minx?”
Eleanor gaped at him, dumbfounded. He’d sounded almost . . . human. No, more than that. Worse than that. His soft, teasing voice made her skin prickle with awareness, as if someone had slipped a finger inside her gown to stroke her neck.
He looked as if he couldn’t bear to disappoint the child, either. He chucked her under the chin, then placed a gentle hand on her head and turned her toward Eleanor. “Since you will stay, Amelia, you must make your curtsy to Lady Eleanor Sutherland. My lady, this is my sister, Miss Amelia West.”
His sister? How odd. Lucifer didn’t have a sister, did he?
She hadn’t any time to sort it out, however, for Amelia West sank into a dainty curtsy before her. “How do you do, Lady Eleanor?”
For the first time since Mr. West arrived in Mayfair to collect her this morning, the steel stiffening Eleanor’s spine began to melt. She held out her hand to the little girl. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss West.”
Amelia wrapped her small fingers around Eleanor’s. “Are you a real lady?”
“Amelia,” Julian West began, but Eleanor shook her head at him. She leaned down so she could look into the child’s face. “Yes. My father was an earl.”
Amelia hesitated for a moment, then said in a rush, “What does it feel like, to be a real lady?”
“Hmmm.” Eleanor closed her eyes and kept her face grave as she pretended to give this question the utmost consideration. After a moment she opened them. “I think,” she said, smiling at Amelia, “it feels quite the same as not being one.”
Amelia’s eyes opened wide in surprise, then she laughed. “How silly. It doesn’t really!”
Eleanor, charmed by the girl’s reaction, couldn’t help but return the laugh. “Oh, yes. Really.”
Her smile faded, however, as soon as she straightened and caught the look of pleased surprise on Camden West’s face. Eleanor’s heart lurched in her chest. She’d forgotten herself for a moment, and she couldn’t afford to do so again. She’d managed to annoy him with her chatter today, and she didn’t intend to lose the ground she’d gained.
Mr. West offered his arm. “Shall we go view Mr. Lawrence’s work? His portrait of the Duke of York is said to be a good likeness.”
Eleanor took the proffered arm with an inward sigh. Thomas Lawrence was one of her favorite painters, and she’d particularly wanted to see his portraits, but now instead of rational artistic observations, she’d be compelled to feign ignorance. Whatever would she find say about the Duke of York’s portrait? Perhaps she could pretend to mistake him for Prinny . . .
A small hand cupped her elbow. Startled, Eleanor looked down to find Amelia grinning up at her. “Is Mr. Lawrence a fine artist, Lady Eleanor?”
Eleanor gave Camden West a sidelong glance. “He’s said to be by those who know such things, yes.”
“Oh.” Amelia nodded, but before Eleanor could congratulate herself on her vague answer, the child spoke again. “Do you think he’s a fine artist?”
Eleanor looked down into Amelia’s trusting face. For pity’s sake. Was she to be made to lie to this sweet child now? Or, worse, fill her head with ridiculous untruths about Mr. Lawrence’s paintings? She hated to mislead a young artist, yet at the same time she was aware of Mr. West to her left, listening to her every word.
She pressed her lips together. Very well. She’d find a way to get rid of Camden West for long enough to give Amelia an abbreviated lesson on Thomas Lawrence. “Shall we see what we think when we view his paintings?”
Amelia, satisfied with this answer, nodded and walked along at Eleanor’s side. When they arrived at the part of the exhibit featuring Mr. Lawrence’s work, Eleanor kept hold of Amelia, but released Mr. West’s arm. “There’s the Duke.” She nodded at the Duke of York’s portrait. “I believe you wished to see it?”
Mr. West raised an eyebrow. “You don’t wish to see it?”
“I did see it. It’s just there.”
Before he could reply, she turned back to Amelia. “Shall we go to the other end of the hall to see the portrait of Lady Leicester? Look, Mr. Lawrence has painted her as Hope, and her gown is a lovely shade of russet.”
She led the child down to the other end of the hall, careful to natter on about the gown until she was out of earshot of both Mr. Wests, who stayed where they were to admire the Duke.
“You know, Miss West,” she said, as soon as they were alone, “now we’ve had a chance to see his work, I believe I do think Mr. Lawrence a very fine artist. Do you like this picture of Lady Leicester?”
Amelia gazed at the painting for a moment. “Yes. Her face is peaceful, and she looks as if she’s floating, rather like an angel.”
“She does, indeed. Now, won’t you open your box and see if you can sketch Lady Leicester’s likeness from her portrait? Mr. Lawrence learned to paint by copying other artist’s portraits when he was young, too.”
“He did?” Amelia looked impressed with this information. She opened her box and pulled out a sketching pencil and some blank sheets of paper.
Eleanor nodded. “Oh, yes. He practiced and practiced, and when he was a young man he painted a portrait of Queen Charlotte, and it was such a true likeness he became quite famous for it, and now he’s considered one of England’s finest Romantic painters. Do you know what it means to be a Romantic painter?”
Amelia turned back to Lady Leicester. “Well, the word romantic has to do with love, but with painting it doesn’t mean the same thing, does it?”
“Not quite, no. It means an artist like Mr. Lawrence is skilled at expressing emotion through his paintings. What kind of feeling do you get when you look at the portrait of Lady Leicester?”
Amelia cocked her head to the side and considered the painting. “Not a happy one, exactly, but something like it. Perhaps it’s more like the feeling I get right before I fall asleep.”
“Yes, I know just what you mean. My, you’re clever. It feels peaceful, doesn’t it? The way the light shines on the white part of her dress makes me feel as if I would have sweet dreams once I did fall asleep. Do you think you can copy it?”
“I’m not sure, but I’d like to try.” Amelia made some tentative lines on her sketchpad while Eleanor watched over her shoulder, flushed with success. Oh, she didn’t expect a child to be able to sketch Lady Leicester with much accuracy, but an aspiring artist had to start somewhere. An interest in art was a good place to begin, and she could see by the intent look on Amelia’s face she was interested.
She leaned over Amelia’s shoulder and traced a line on the sketchpad with her finger. “Is this her hand, holding the branch?”
“Yes. Does
it look right, do you think? Perhaps it needs to be a bit longer.” Amelia looked over her shoulder at Eleanor, then they both looked up at Lady Leicester.
Eleanor smiled. “It looks perfect.”
* * *
“Well, how do you and Lady Frost get on?” Julian abandoned his study of Lawrence’s Duke of York to sweep a critical eye over Cam. “I don’t see any gaping wounds, so she hasn’t resorted to the letter opener yet.”
Cam glanced toward Amelia and Lady Eleanor, drew in a long, deep breath, held it for a moment, and then let it out in a pained sigh. “No, but at this point I’d prefer a stabbing. At least it would be quick.”
Julian chuckled. “Means to kill you slowly, does she?”
“Slowly and tortuously, with ceaseless, inane chatter.”
“Oh, come now, it can’t be that bad.”
“Is that so? Why don’t you go find out for yourself? At one point I think my ears began to bleed.”
Julian didn’t look in the least sympathetic. “You know I’d love nothing more than to assist you, cousin, but the lady won’t speak to me. You saw the welcome she gave me when Amelia and I arrived. I almost mistook her for a piece of sculpture, she was so cold and stiff.”
“She has the wit of a piece of sculpture,” Cam muttered. “I thought she had a least a passable intelligence, but I was wrong.”
He hadn’t expected a great deal of wit from a spoiled ton belle, but he’d begun to wonder how Lady Eleanor managed to get her slippers on the correct feet.
“I can’t understand why she’s accounted so clever.” Julian glanced toward the other end of the hallway, where Lady Eleanor was bent over Amelia’s shoulder, watching her sketch. “She looks animated enough now.”
Cam gave an indifferent shrug. “She must be blathering on about Lady Leicester’s gown. She’s done nothing but babble incoherently about the paintings, but she did manage to go on at tedious length about the trim on some lady’s bonnet.”
He followed Julian’s gaze without interest and saw Lady Eleanor standing in front of Lady Leicester’s portrait with Amelia. He swept a disparaging eye over her, and as quickly dismissed her to return to his study of the Duke.
“Quite animated, in fact,” Julian said in a surprised tone.
“She’s only going on about—” Cam began, turning to glance at her again, but he fell silent, watching her. Something about her expression, the liveliness in her face, caught his attention.
Julian was right. She did look animated. Her cheeks were flushed, and even from this distance he could see her eyes were bright and alert. She leaned over Amelia’s shoulder to point to something on the page, then they both looked up at the painting of Lady Leicester. Cam couldn’t hear what she said, but he could see by the movement of her lips her words were rapid and earnest. Amelia nodded, as if in understanding.
Cam’s eyes narrowed to slits. It didn’t look as if they were talking about Lady Leicester’s gown. He abandoned his study of the Duke of York and started toward them. “They look as thick as two pickpockets. What the devil do you suppose they’re discussing?”
Julian didn’t move. “Lady Charlotte.”
Cam turned back to him impatiently. “Lady Charlotte? Why would Lady Eleanor discuss her sister with Amelia?”
Julian seemed to be rooted to the floor, but he jerked his chin toward the other end of the hall. “No. Lady Charlotte is here.”
Cam looked over his shoulder. By God, she was, and Lady Carlisle with her. “Come on, then.” He tugged on Julian in an attempt to break the hold the floor seemed to have on his cousin’s feet.
“Lady Charlotte,” Cam said with a polite bow as he joined them.
She ignored him entirely. At first he thought she intended to give him the cut direct, but then he realized she was so focused on Julian, who stood beside him, she hadn’t even noticed he was there.
“Lady Charlotte,” Julian murmured, a trifle hoarsely.
His tone and his bow were as polite as Cam’s, but Lady Charlotte must have heard the husky note in his voice, for she turned scarlet, her expression both defiant and mortified at once.
Lady Eleanor rushed forward and hastened to smooth over the moment. “Ah, this is my sister-in-law, Lady Carlisle. This,” she added, with a touch to Amelia’s shoulder, “is Miss Amelia West. I believe you know Mr. Julian West, Lady Carlisle. This gentleman is his cousin, Mr. Camden West.”
Lady Carlisle couldn’t help but notice Lady Eleanor’s cool tone when she introduced him, but she was far too well bred to reveal any surprise. “How do you do?” She curtsied to the gentlemen, then held out her hand to Amelia. “It’s a particular pleasure to meet such an enthusiastic young artist, Miss West.”
Amelia curtsied. “Thank you, Lady Carlisle. Lady Eleanor has been telling me all about Mr. L—”
“You must promise to show me your sketch next time we meet, Amelia,” Lady Eleanor interrupted, with an anxious glance at Cam. “Especially her gown.”
“Next time we meet?” Cam asked. “Are you leaving?”
She nodded. “I thought to save you the trouble of escorting me home. I’m already fatigued, and you’ve hardly had a look at the paintings yet. I’ll only slow you down, and my sisters are just leaving.”
Cam frowned. For a half-wit, she was quick to take advantage of an escape route. He couldn’t protest without appearing rude, however. “Very well. I’ll see you this afternoon at five, for our drive.”
Her mouth tightened, as if she’d tasted something sour. “Our drive. Of course. Lovely.” She gave Amelia one last smile, and then, before he could say another word, she walked away.
High-handed chit.
Cam turned to say as much to Julian, but closed his mouth without bothering when he saw his cousin gawking after Lady Charlotte, like a famished dog denied a juicy bit of meat.
Cam turned to Amelia with a sigh instead. “Well, minx, what did you think of Lady Eleanor?”
Amelia dimpled. “Oh, I like her very much. She’s clever, especially about art. She knows a lot about Mr. Lawrence’s paintings.”
Cam stared at his sister. Clever? Knows about paintings? Perhaps Amelia had misunderstood. “I—what? What does she know?”
“Oh, all kinds of things, but she mostly told me about Mr. Lawrence, and why he’s considered a Romantic.”
Julian, who’d snapped out of his trance, asked, “You mean she said he was a Romantic painter?”
Amelia nodded. “Yes, that’s it. She said it means he’s talented at expressing emotions in his paintings. He painted Queen Charlotte, you know. Lady Eleanor said if I want to learn I should copy the great paintings, like Mr. Lawrence did when he was a child, and—what’s so funny, Uncle Julian?”
Julian made a series of choking noises, but he couldn’t quite smother his glee. “Well, well, not so dim-witted after all, is she?”
Cam glared at the archway through which Lady Eleanor had disappeared moments before, and his hands curled into fists.
No. Not so dim-witted, after all.
Chapter Seven
“Have you made up your mind yet, my lady?”
Cam arrived on Lady Eleanor’s doorstep promptly at five o’clock, bowed, and escorted her with polite attention to the carriage. To all outward appearances, their drive began much as every other afternoon drive they’d taken over the past three days.
But it wasn’t. Not this time. This time, he was ready for her.
“The Ring?” he asked, as they entered Hyde Park. “Or a stroll around the Serpentine?”
Lady Eleanor tapped her gloved fingertips anxiously against her lips. “Oh, dear. I’m just not sure.”
Cam smothered a snort. “Take your time, my lady.”
She turned wide, troubled eyes on him, as if he’d asked her to explain a complicated mathematical theory instead of whether they should turn left or right. Her performance was spot on. If the carriage hadn’t been in motion, he might have risen to his feet to give her a standing ovation.
The
empty smile was inspired. She was good enough to tread the boards alongside Mrs. Siddons. Sooner or later, though, she’d discover her theatrical talents were wasted on him, and she’d move on to her next scheme. That there would be a next scheme went without saying. A gambling addiction, perhaps? Madness in the family?
He should be furious at her antics, outraged by her charade. He should launch oranges at the stage, hiss, whistle and brawl drunkenly like the rest of the spectators in the pit. Instead, he was looking forward to her next act with painful anticipation. When she realized she played to an empty theater and gave up her game, some small part of him would be disappointed.
After their illuminating visit to the Royal Academy, he’d spent the entire afternoon closeted in his study, determined to strip away Lady Eleanor’s disguises until he’d bared her to the skin. He peeled each layer, one by one—her gestures, her expressions, her conversation. He studied them, played them over and over in his mind until at last he arrived at one inescapable conclusion.
She’d whittled, carved and honed her natural intelligence to an extraordinarily fine, sharp point, and she wielded it like a rapier. She was clever, yes—intriguingly so, and not only because he’d been fooled by her charade. No, what stunned him was how well she’d read him, as if he were a character in a play she knew by heart. She’d cast him as the villain, and memorized all his lines before he even realized he was on the stage at all. She saw at once he thought her a vain, silly, feeble-witted belle, and she presented him with exactly that.
It shouldn’t have worked. Now he looked back on it, he couldn’t understand how he’d ever believed her a half-wit. From the start, he’d seen evidence to the contrary, but he’d dismissed it with a snap of his fingers the minute she offered another version of herself.
An easier version. A more believable one. The version of her he expected to see.
Well, now he wanted to see past it, straight to the raw, tender skin underneath, and he would. This very afternoon. “Have you made a decision yet, my lady? The Ring, or the Serpentine?”
She darted a look around them as if trying to decide, but Cam suspected she was looking for the least crowded part of the park. The ton was gossiping about them, and she wouldn’t want to feed their speculation by being seen in public with him again.
