by Erica Ridley
Once again, Heath was impressed by Miss Winfield’s uncanny insight into how each artist played with perspective and color. She rhapsodized about how different types of brushstrokes invoked movement and emotion. Nothing escaped her notice.
As they walked, Heath found himself soliciting her opinion more than espousing his own. Her eye was incredible. His sisters could tease him that he had come to respect the opinions of a client’s companion as if Miss Winfield were a Grenville herself… And his sisters would be right.
“Are you sure you’re not meant to be an artist?” he asked.
She turned the question back around on him. “This outing was your idea, and I daresay a jolly good one. Are you certain you are not meant to be an artist?”
He gave a self-deprecating snort. If only she knew how many hours he had dedicated in pursuit of a talent he would never possess.
“I’m hopeless at art,” he admitted with a smile. “I cannot trace my hand and have it still look like a hand when I’m done.”
She frowned, rather than laugh at the image. “How is that possible? You are so well educated. Your ability with languages, all the details about geography and local history as relates to these paintings…”
“There is a vast difference between ‘passable’ and ‘gifted.’” He gave his shoulder a light shrug. “I’m not talented at artistic pursuits. I’m gifted in exactly one arena: memorizing data.”
She shook her head. “I am certain that’s a shocking understatement. Your multilingual literacy alone—”
“It’s true.” He knew his strengths. “I am analytical. French, Latin, German? All of that is just learning the rules and then following them. Recognizing patterns in grammar, conjugation… I’m no savant. I am a monkey who has memorized a routine.”
The confession tumbled from his lips before he could recall it. Unease prickled his skin. He had never expected to find himself sharing such personal details with anyone, especially Miss Winfield. Yet with her, he felt like he could be himself without judgment. He held his breath in anticipation of her response.
“It sounds like an impossibly complex routine to me.” She narrowed her eyes at him, unconvinced. “You must be a very gifted monkey.”
“I am a well-connected monkey,” he corrected with a grin. “A gifted monkey could use his skill with languages to write a poem for a pretty woman.”
She smiled back at him shyly. “A poem about roses and strawberries?”
“Tart and sweet.” It was all he could do to withstand a sudden urge to kiss her.
“What about music?” she asked suddenly. “I saw your performance. The three of you are brilliant.”
“Bryony and Camellia are indeed brilliant,” he said with feeling. “I am just up to my same tricks. Memorizing scales, following notes on the page, predictable patterns of chord progression.”
“It’s still music,” she said staunchly.
He inclined his head. “I can play it, but I cannot create it. Not like my sisters. That’s what makes them true artists and me a background accompanist.”
“No.” Miss Winfield lay a gentle hand on his arm. “Your analytical nature is what makes you London’s premier problem-solver.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “I’m not the best because I’m the only one?”
“You’re the only one because nobody else can do it.” Her eyes shone. “You are gifted. The details you memorize, the patterns you see that no one else can… That is your talent. You use it every day to help other people.”
His throat grew tight, and he glanced away.
Talented. Gifted. No one had ever said those words to him before. Not his prodigy siblings, not his doting mother. Certainly not the father who had never spared the time to notice his son transforming himself into a high-performance automaton in illfated attempts to gain approbation.
Perhaps Heath had been searching in the wrong place.
When Miss Winfield looked at him, she didn’t see a future title. He wasn’t his pocketbook or his pianoforte or his Society connections. She saw him as a worthy gentleman with God-given talents that he used to help people.
Who could ask for a better reputation than that?
Heath wanted to swing her into his arms, press a kiss to her lips, shout to the world that she made him the happiest of men.
He did nothing of the sort. He would not dare.
Throughout his entire life, Heath had witnessed how shunned his sister’s bosom friend Faith Digby had been simply for being born to a lower class. How opening a charity school had decimated his previously respectable sister Dahlia’s social standing.
In order to keep helping people as he had been doing, Heath could not accept the same fate. Gifted or not, it was his very position within Society that allowed him to help make it better.
He could not let anything jeopardize his carefully maintained social standing.
Not even love.
Chapter 15
Heath stared up at the brick façade before him.
This printing house was one of dozens of similar wretched embarrassments who mistook scandal columns for journalism. This particular publisher had been losing money for years, in part due to an inability to stand out from its competitors. Until now.
In absence of a knocker, Heath rapped directly on the peeling door. He had easily traced the origin of the anonymous caricatures to this address. Soon, he would have the name he sought.
A rat slid out from the shadowed interior when a young boy cracked open the door.
The lad glared up at Heath. “Wot?”
“May I speak to the owner of this establishment?” Heath asked, careful to keep both his voice and his countenance free of distaste.
“No.” The lad moved to shut the door.
Heath stopped it with the toe of his boot before the latch could fall into place. “I am willing to pay.”
The lad’s eyes narrowed. “How much?”
Heath lifted a shilling from his waistcoat pocket.
The lad grabbed it with dirty fingers. “Master ain’t here.”
Heath reached into his pocket anew and this time pulled out a sovereign.
The lad snatched the gold coin even faster than the shilling. The suspicion in his eyes gave way to confusion. “He really ain’t here. I’m the apprentice, so I run the machine.”
Heath retrieved another coin from his pocket, but held this one just out of grasp. “I know this house publishes the caricatures.”
The lad looked longingly at the coin. “Everyone publishes caricatures. But I ain’t never seen Cruickshank or Gillray, if them’s who you’re looking for.”
“They are not,” Heath said with equanimity. “I speak of the most recent phenomenon, drawn by an anonymous hand.”
“Oh, those.” The lad’s chin jutted out with pride. “We may have published those.”
Heath held the coin closer. “What is the artist’s name?”
The lad stared at the coin with hunger. “I would tell you if I knowed it. The pictures come in anonymous, and that’s how we print them.”
Heath’s ears pricked with interest, and he handed the lad his coin. “How exactly do the caricatures arrive?”
“You’d have to ask my master. I ain’t allowed to touch the post.” The boy made a careful fist about his new reserve of coins. “He might be interested in speaking to a rich toff. What did you say your name was?”
Heath reached into his pocket for a calling card. “Mr. Heath Grenville, at your—”
With an audible gasp, the boy slammed the door in Heath’s face and engaged the lock.
Heath jumped backward in surprise, then pounded again upon the door.
His knocks went unanswered.
He slid his unneeded calling card back into his pocket and returned to his landau. It would be a simple enough matter to determine the owner of the establishment and his place of residence.
From there, a man so disreputable as to profit from such rubbish must also have a price at which he
’d be willing to betray a confidence with an anonymous caricaturist. The mystery would be solved in a trice.
Heath checked his pocket watch, then directed his horses toward his parents’ town house. He would have to continue on the morrow. There was no time. He had sent a note to his father earlier in the week, requesting an audience this afternoon at promptly two o’clock.
As he drove, Heath pushed the case from his mind and focused instead on far more pleasant matters. His visit to the Dulwich Picture Gallery had quickly become one of his favorite recent memories.
His daydreams about someday opening his own small gallery had taken on a new and unexpected dimension.
Now when he imagined the tour he would give during his own grand opening, he pictured Miss Winfield at his side, giving her unique perspective on each piece and associated artist.
Poppycock, of course. He would not be opening a gallery, nor would Miss Winfield be anywhere near his side.
But reality’s hard truths were what made one’s innermost daydreams so bittersweet.
When he pulled up to his parents’ town house, a groom awaited his arrival. Excitement raced along his skin.
For once, Father truly was expecting him! Heath handed off the reins and loped up the steps to the front door.
No sooner had his boots reached the final step than the door swung open and the family butler welcomed him inside. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
“Heath!” his mother exclaimed in surprise when he strode into the front parlor. “What brings you here?”
He kissed her cheek. “I’ve a meeting with father at two. Has he asked for me yet?”
His mother’s smile wobbled, and they both darted a glance at the clock upon the mantel.
“It’s early,” Mother assured him with a nervous pat on his arm. “You know how Lord Grenville plans each task down to the minute. If your meeting is at two, why, he must be finishing up whatever has been scheduled before.”
Heath nodded tightly.
A quarter till two was not shockingly early, but his mother was right: Father had likely penciled his chat with Heath into today’s journal as an appointment from two o’clock sharp until five past two.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to send a footman up to Father’s study to remind the great man of their scheduled conference.
Heath crossed over to the quill and parchment on the mantel and penned a short note with as pristine a hand as he was capable.
Father,
I am downstairs, eagerly awaiting our conversation.
Your son,
Heath
With a murmured word to a footman, the note quickly made its way up the stairs toward the baron’s study.
“While you’re here…” Mother began twisting her hands together. “You must speak to Bryony.”
Heath blinked in surprise. “Bryony? Don’t you mean Camellia?”
His mother let out a frustrated sigh. “You cannot understand how difficult this has been for me.”
“She’s a countess now,” he reminded her wryly. “Your eldest daughter brought the Lord of Pleasure up to scratch.”
Mother grimaced. “All three of my girls have turned their backs on their good upbringing and on Society itself.”
Heath sighed. “Surely the situation is not as pitiful as that.”
“It’s worse,” Mother insisted. “Camellia is an opera singer, Dahlia voluntarily presides in a rookery, and Bryony needs…” Mother pursed her lips. “There is no hope for Bryony. She will find some way to humiliate her family even worse than her older sisters.”
“I am far from humiliated,” Heath said firmly. “Camellia has found true love, and her true calling. Dahlia is saving the lives of underprivileged children who would starve in the streets were it not for her bighearted intervention. And Bryony…”
Skeptical, Mother arched a thin brow. “And Bryony?”
Heath conceded the point. “All right, I’ll talk to her.”
Mother gestured toward the spiral staircase. “They’re upstairs, of course.”
He took the stairs in twos.
As much as he believed his mother’s preemptive lack of faith in her youngest offspring both flawed and unfair, life had recently ceased to follow its prescribed, unchanging pattern. Starting with his sisters.
Dahlia’s lifelong best friend had not been born to the peerage, so it had been of little surprise when she expressed her interest in employing her money and advantages toward helping the less fortunate.
Camellia, however, had struck Heath with a left hook he’d never seen coming.
She had always been his ally, the one he could rely upon to mind the family’s reputation as well as her own with the same steadfast dedication as he.
Ever since the musicale, his staid, predictable sister had proven herself as unpredictable as anyone else. In the past few weeks, she had signed both a wedding contract and a performance contract at one of the most prestigious opera houses in Town.
Society was reeling just as much as their mother was.
But Heath’s love and respect for his sister had never flagged. Unfortunately, neither had the wagging tongues of the gossips.
He would be much further along on his various cases for paying clients if he had not suddenly needed to devote a great deal of time and resources to ensuring neither Camellia nor his family became laughingstocks.
Anyone who dared hurt his sister would bear the full brunt of his wrath.
“Heath!” Bryony glanced up from the worn deck of playing cards she had been dealing to herself and her sisters. “Marvelous timing. We can still deal you in.”
He shook his head. “I’ll spectate. I’ve a meeting with Father in ten minutes.”
Three very impressed faces swiveled to stare at him.
“How did you do that?” Dahlia asked in wonder. “I’ve been trying for months.”
“Have you tried being the firstborn male?” Bryony asked pointedly as she riffled the remaining cards.
Dahlia tilted her head back and made an exasperated sound toward the ceiling. “Why do I keep forgetting to be born first and male?”
“Unfair,” Heath protested. “I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth.”
Bryony put a hand up to her ear. “What’s that? I can’t understand you over that silver spoon in your mouth.”
Even Camellia cut him a flat look. “Did Father also attempt to betroth you to an elderly stranger?”
Heath sank into a wingback chair without responding. So much for talking sense into his sisters. Their points were valid.
“You don’t require an audience with Father.” Bryony placed a comforting hand on Dahlia’s knee. “I’ve consolidated my investments. As soon as I can withdraw money, I’ll be in more of a position to help.”
“How much do you need?” Heath asked. He had never confessed that most of his client income was automatically directed toward the school’s dwindling accounts.
Dahlia gave him a tired smile. “Keep your coin. You need a dowry far more than any of us do if you’re to attract the perfect bride someday.”
Heath affected an aggrieved expression. “What of my charm? My chiseled countenance? The shiny wheels of my new barouche?”
“Latest news just in from London,” Bryony stage-whispered. “No Society lady has ever cared a fig about the wheels of a gentleman’s barouche.”
“Every lady appreciates a good ride,” Heath replied blandly, expecting to be showered with pillows.
Dahlia stifled a yawn. “You cannot shock us with rakish double entendres. Camellia is married now, and if you ever wondered whether her ‘Lord of Pleasure’ is truly world-class at perform—”
Heath leapt to his feet. “Is it two o’clock? It’s nearly two o’clock. I had better stand outside Father’s door so that I am within earshot when he calls for me.”
The girls erupted in giggles as Heath beat a hasty retreat.
He positioned himself outside his father’s study, careful not to slouch. Father wa
s keen on positive first impressions. One’s heir must never disappoint.
And, oh, how he would disappoint his father if the baron realized Heath so much as daydreamed about an attachment with Miss Winfield!
Yet he was bewitched. The sparkle in her eye, her infectious smile… Heath could not go a single moment without her pretty face once again dominating his thoughts.
At first, he had wondered if they might suit. Then, he had feared they would. But ever since that first moment at the Dulwich Picture Gallery, there had been no hope of hiding the truth.
Number one: he and Miss Winfield suited very, very well.
Number two: it changed nothing. He still could not have her.
His chest tightened. Was he happy now? Was it better to know that their compatibility ran far deeper than a sensual longing to taste her lips?
He could not wait to see her again. That he could not court her did not signify. She would only be in London a short time longer, and Heath did not wish to miss a single opportunity to share her company. Now when he thought of Miss Winfield, all he could picture was—
A passing maid frowned to see Heath standing in the corridor.
“Pardon my impertinence, my lord.” She glanced at the closed study door, then back to Heath. “Are you waiting for the baron?”
An uneasy feeling turned in his gut. “I am.”
“I don’t mean to overstep, but Lord Grenville left not five minutes ago.”
Heath’s stomach soured. “You must be mistaken.”
“I was cleaning the windows when I saw the baron leave. The groom was waiting for him.” She hesitated before adding, “I’m sorry.”
Heath sucked in a fortifying breath. He did not need the family maids to feel sorry for him. He needed a father.
Once again, it seemed one could not always have what he needed.
He nodded to dismiss the maid and turned back toward his sister’s sitting room in humiliation.
The groom who had taken Heath’s reins at the front step had not been waiting on the heir to arrive for an appointment, but for his master to depart.
