Dear God.
Colin swallowed, his eyes riveted on the open frame of the back of the canvas. His heart beat so hard, the pounding seemed to ricochet through his head. Rioting hope propelled him forward, like sails catching wind for the first time in days. Please, please. He kicked the door shut behind him before rushing forward, the anticipation stealing the air from his anxious lungs. This could be it—everything he had hoped for. Everything that he had come here seeking.
Coming upon it, he paused, pressing his eyes closed. Sucking in a strangled breath, he sent up a quick prayer and stepped around the easel.
Blinking, he stared in astonishment at the sight before him, unable to fully absorb what he was seeing. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be. He rubbed his gloved hands over his eyes, pressing hard. Dragging in a deep breath, he opened his eyes, only to confirm what he already knew he would see.
The canvas was blank.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Colin dropped to the stool beside the easel, his body seeming to lose all rigidity in the face of the discovery. He shook his head, staring at the canvas. Nothing. Emptiness. The words described the canvas, the day, and the suddenly absent emotions within him.
Logically, he knew the anger would come later. He knew he’d fight fury as he stood in front of Beatrice and told her that all he had to offer was his word. There was no doubt he’d be consumed with resentment when he was forced to move his family to God only knew where and went begging to his aunt to sponsor his last year at the Inns of Court.
But not now.
He reached out, running his hand over the blank canvas, primed as if only moments from being used. The painter’s box stood open, with brushes lined up and pig bladders full of premixed paint, everything ready to start fresh. It was as if his father had just stepped away, fully intent on returning to begin his next work.
Only . . . he hadn’t. And he never would again. And despite it all, Colin missed him. He was unreliable, infuriating, and at times neglectful, but he was still Colin’s father, and damn if he didn’t miss him.
He bowed his head, rubbing his hands up and down the tops of his legs. He was gone, and Colin would never see his face again. Never shake his hand, or argue with him, or see him across the table at supper.
With a long, deep sigh, he came to his feet. It was too cold to linger in a place that couldn’t help him, especially with the day dipping toward evening. He had taken two steps toward the door when he looked up and saw a figure. He jumped back in surprise, his body tensing as his mind ran a second behind his instincts.
His father was staring him right in the face.
Colin’s heart, his lungs, his brain—all of them stopped in an instant, and then everything came roaring back to life all at once. Not his father—a portrait of his father. Perched on a low shelf beside the door, a large canvas leaned against the wall. He rushed toward it, soaking in the sight of his father, perfectly rendered by the man’s own hand.
It was beyond incredible—it was astonishing. He stared back at Colin with the light of devilment in his eyes, so well painted as to look three-dimensional. God, it looked exactly like him. He hadn’t realized just how faded his memory of his father’s face was until that moment, when his angled jaw and broad brow came into sharp focus.
Despite the freezing temperatures, his blood warmed, pumped with renewed vigor through his veins. God, how he’d missed him. To see him again was like laying eyes on scotch after a month of water. The emotions assailing him were so sharp as to almost burn, searing their way through his chest and gut. All the anger, the resentment, all of the bitterness of the last eight months fell away like a broken shell.
It was several minutes before he could pull his gaze away from his father’s likeness and take in the rest of the picture. Behind him, the rugged Scottish landscape rose toward the heavens, with brilliant green grasses and leaves that seemed to move in an invisible wind. Wildflowers dotted the sloping meadow, and the rocky outcrops of the base of the mountain glistened with falling water.
It was masterful.
All those years he had set aside the landscapes that had been his first love had done nothing to diminish the talent. In fact, it seemed to have grown—Father’s first works didn’t have nearly this level of detail. Colin knew his father had grown disenchanted with portraits lately, but he rather thought it was painting altogether. But the joy in this picture was undeniable.
The landscape was that of the view from the cottage—the land Father had been so damned pleased to own. The estate! Colin had been so caught up in the revelation of his father’s only self-portrait, of seeing his face and experiencing the landscape, he had completely forgotten what the painting meant.
Freedom.
He finally had something to give to Beatrice—something of worth that could put them on equal footing. He could already imagine her delight, her joy at such a perfect gift. Mind made up, he pulled the canvas down from its shelf and started for the door. At the last moment, he doubled back and grabbed the primed canvas from the easel. Barely pausing to shut the door, he hit the trail running.
* * *
“Lady Beatrice, what a surprise.”
Oh, drat and blast, where had he come from? Beatrice turned slowly, nodding with a brief bob of her head. “Mr. Godfrey. I didn’t realize you were still in the city.”
She pulled her cloak more tightly around her, a not so subtle hint that it was cold and she didn’t wish to stand in the street and talk to him. She exchanged a glance with her maid, but the girl misinterpreted her silent plea and dropped back to give them privacy.
“Indeed. Is it because of the vitriol published about me in a certain magazine that you assumed I might escape to the country, or because you thought I might have given up and accepted the position my father so keenly wishes for me to take?”
Beatrice could actually feel the blood draining from her face. A very, very bold statement on his part. Good Lord, had Colin been right after all? If Godfrey knew she was the author of the letters, what, exactly, did he want with her? Despite the fact they were in the open for anyone to see, she suddenly felt extremely vulnerable.
“Neither, of course. Just that so many have already left the city for the winter.”
He shook his head, looking at her as though she were a profound disappointment. “I knew it was you the moment I saw the second cartoon, you know.”
At least now she knew where she stood. She stiffened her spine and lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated by the man. “Why? Because you so thoroughly recognized yourself? If you didn’t wish for the world to know of your underhanded tactics, you should have refrained from using them on me.”
He chuckled, the sound colder than the December air. “And here I went to all this trouble to come up with irrefutable proof that you wrote the bloody thing, and apparently all I needed to do was ask.”
“That’s right. Some of us have integrity and answer truthfully when asked.” It might not have been the wisest thing to say, but she wasn’t about to let him think he had her cornered.
“Oh, feisty today, are we?” He smiled, a cruel stretching of his lips that was more sneer than grin. “Well, I won’t keep you. I merely wished to congratulate you on your coming nuptials.”
Warning bells clanged in her head, making it impossible for her to turn and walk away. He had something more to say, something that she felt in her very marrow she did not want to hear. “Somehow I doubt that.”
“Truly, I wish you both the very best.” Tilting his head, he tapped the crystal handle of his rapier-thin walking stick against his chin. “I honestly thought that I would win the wager, but I underestimated the influence his father had over you. Of course, I didn’t foresee his ruse after the musicale, pretending to rescue you, either.” He gave a casual shrug of his shoulders. “Such is life. I did, however, find great amusement in the fact that the author of those pathetic letters fell victim to exactly what she thought to warn others about.”
He looked supremely satisfied with himself, his eyes alight with mischief. She clenched her teeth, willing herself not to respond. Wager? She wouldn’t believe a word he said. He was nothing if not a liar and a cheat. Still . . . how else did he know that Colin’s family was up the River Tick? Disgust welled up within her, almost choking her.
Had they had a wager? Even if they hadn’t, what did it matter? It was clear she would always doubt Colin’s motives—always be susceptible to thinking the worst of him.
Nothing felt certain except that she had to get away from Godfrey. She started to turn, to escape from his sneering face when his parting words brought her up short.
“Enjoy your fortune hunter, my dear. You two deserve each other.”
* * *
Traveling to Edinburgh had been a leisurely ride in the park compared to the trip back. Not only was Colin beyond anxious to get back to Beatrice; it was nerve-racking as hell to be transporting the painting. He doubted he would be this edgy if he were in charge of the crown jewels.
And, based on the way his family had reacted to the painting, it might as well have been the crown jewels. He smiled, thinking of their reaction when he arrived home with their salvation tucked beneath his arm.
“I knew yer father had ta be up to something,” Gran had said, nodding as though it hadn’t been months of hell wondering what would become of them. “All that walking, and nary an inch off his middle.” The celebration had gone on into the wee hours of the night, all four of them gathered around the painting, holding close the precious gem that was the image of the man they loved.
The brown grass and barren trees of the countryside gave way to the sooty sky and dirty buildings of the city, his impatience nearly burning a hole through his chest with each passing landmark. He was almost there—so close to seeing Beatrice again he could almost smell the lilac and linseed oil.
Thank God it was a fairly early arrival—he actually had hope of seeing her today. He could hardly wait to see the look on her face when he presented the painting to her. It was the perfect solution. She could have something of genuine worth from him, and the painting would stay in the family, something that meant more to him now than he ever imagined it would.
To have not only a likeness of his father, but one done in his own hand, gave Colin the connection he had been missing all this time. His father hadn’t just sat back and let ruin come to them. He truly had been trying to recapture his love of painting, to provide a way out of the unmitigated mess that fell upon them when the engraving business failed.
By the time the coach pulled to a halt in front of the London post office, he felt like a coiled spring, ready to explode. He made it to his aunt’s street in record time, heedless of the damp chill pervading the city or the disgruntled glances from the people he rushed by.
As he vaulted up the stairs to his aunt’s town house, the door opened and his cousin appeared, as impeccably groomed as ever. “Colin,” he said, taking a step back in surprise. “Wasn’t expecting to see you for a few more days yet.” His eyes fell to the items in Colin’s hands. “I say, is that what I think it is?”
There was no stopping the triumphant grin that came to his face. “Perhaps you’d best come inside with me.”
John agreed readily, trailing behind as Colin rushed to the drawing room. “Simmons,” he called as he passed the man, “I’ve a missive I will need sent momentarily.”
Carefully depositing his precious cargo, he went to the writing desk tucked in the back of the room and rifled through it, unearthing paper, pen, and ink. “I must say, it has been quite an eventful fortnight,” he said over his shoulder. “I can hardly wait to show you.” More important, he could hardly wait to show Beatrice. He didn’t care that he was chilled to the bone, hungry, and in need of a bath. He dashed off a quick note, tossed a handful of sand across it, and folded it into a neat square. By the time the thing was sealed, a footman stood waiting just inside the door. “Please, have this sent to Lady Beatrice at Granville House in St. James’s Square at once.”
The moment the man was gone, he turned to John. “Anything disparaging that I ever said about my father?”
“Yes?” John said, his lips already turned up in a grin.
“I take it all back.”
* * *
“I’m afraid you have not caught me in the best of moods, Sophie.” Beatrice smiled wanly to her friend, patting the sofa beside her. “Though it is nice to see a friendly face.”
“Oh dear—have you recently been in the presence of an unfriendly face? Shall I seek them out and knock them over the head with my oboe? It’s quite stout, and I’m rather handy with it.”
Rotten mood or not, Sophie was impossible not to smile at. With her cheery daffodil gown and slightly mischievous smile—not to mention her sweet disposition—she was like walking sunshine. “Perhaps not. I should hate to get you in trouble.”
“Are you quite sure? It fits rather handily inside my cloak. No one would be the wiser.”
Beatrice couldn’t help but chuckle at her earnest expression. “You, my friend, are a treasure.” The moment the words left her mouth, her mood crashed to the floor once more. A stór. It was a sentiment she would probably never hear again, and if she did, there was no way to know if she could trust it.
Sophie hadn’t missed her reaction. Her constant smile slipped a bit as her brow puckered in concern. “You truly are unhappy. My dear, you are to be married soon. And you were able to choose your husband. I think there is a law somewhere that says you must be giddy with excitement. If nothing else, think of the trousseau!”
Grabbing a biscuit from the plate left over from tea earlier, Beatrice took a bite and shook her head. “Ugh, I’d rather not. At this point, I’ve done little else. I’ve been poked, and pinned, and prodded, and fitted within an inch of my life.” And she had felt like a fraud the entire time. Godfrey’s damning words repeated in her head, tightening her mouth and flaring her nostrils. Of course Colin would deny the allegations, but it was yet another thing that he would be unable to prove. She bit off another huge bite of the biscuit, taking comfort in its buttery deliciousness.
“Blasphemy, I declare,” Sophie said, shaking her head with great dramatic flair. “Well, fiddlesticks. In my mind, assembling a trousseau would be the most fun of all of it. I think I’ll pretend we never had this conversation, thank you very much.”
“I warned you I was dreadful company.”
The butler’s measured footsteps caught Bea’s ear, and she turned to the doorway. He appeared a few seconds later, holding a silver salver. That got her attention. Generally, any correspondence would be held until after a guest had left. “What is it, Finnington?”
“A letter, my lady, sent from Sir Colin Tate. He asked that it be delivered at once and his family’s footman is awaiting your response.”
Colin was back? She didn’t even wait for the butler to reach her before jumping up and meeting the man halfway. “Thank you, Finnington. I’ll ring when I’m ready.”
She waited while he nodded and headed back to his post. Sophie popped up and hurried to join her, her dark eyes sparkling like sunlit bronze. “He sent you an urgent missive? How romantic—he must miss you! Don’t you think it’s romantic? Oh, I wonder what he wants.”
Nodding vaguely, Beatrice turned the note over in her hand, her heart racing so fast, it robbed her of her breath. If he was in town, this could mean only one of two things. Either he was willing to concede defeat, or he had found a way to prove his intentions.
A flutter of nerves started deep in her belly as she slipped a finger beneath the wax seal, almost ripping the paper in her haste. The handwriting was crisp and clean, exactly as she would have expected. As angry at the situation as she was, she hadn’t expected the sudden welling of emotion as she held his words in her hands.
My dearest Beatrice,
I have returned this very day, and I must see you as soon as possible. Can you meet me at my father’s studio? Ever your ser
vant, I await your response.
Yours,
Colin
“Well? Yes, I know, it is dreadfully rude to ask, but is it a romantic letter?” Sophie put her hands to her heart, clearly already expecting it to be so.
Beatrice looked back down at the letter, reading his brief missive once more. What had happened on his journey? He seemed anxious to see her. After what the blackguard Godfrey had said, Beatrice was determined to shield her heart, but it seemed to defy her wishes. Her wildly fluttering pulse was proof enough of that.
“Not romantic, really—just matter-of-fact.”
Sophie’s face fell. “Oh. Well, I suppose he doesn’t wish to put such sentiments in writing—I imagine many men wouldn’t. But now that he’s back, he wishes to see you, doesn’t he? I’ll bet he’s thought of little else since he’s been gone.”
It was likely true—but what were his real intentions? For a person who prided herself on being able to read others, there could be no more frustrating or infuriating question. She refolded the paper and turned her attention to Sophie. “In fact, he does wish to see me. Today, actually.”
That was all the encouragement Sophie’s romantic mind needed. “See? I knew it. Of course you probably already knew it as well, knowing you. Are you going to see him?”
“That depends. Would you mind terribly if we cut short our visit?”
Grinning broadly, she gave a little wink. “Would you look at the time? I simply must be on my way. Enjoy your evening, Beatrice.”
Easily said, impossible to do. Two hours later, she and her maid stood on the landing outside the studio, Bea’s heart pounding so loudly, she could scarcely hear the traffic on the street below. “Rose,” she said, her voice a bit unsteady, “you do realize that Sir Colin and I are betrothed?”
Her maid flushed at once, from her neck all the way to her hairline. “Yes, my lady.”
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