by Barton, Anne
Ben, on the other hand, was already an earl when he’d purchased his commission—a fact that had sparked endless speculation about his sanity among his friends and acquaintances. His decision had earned him censure among most of the ton. The only person who looked favorably upon his choice was the distant cousin who stood to inherit if Ben died fighting for his country. But Ben and Robert had always done everything together; Ben saw no good reason why his title should prevent him from standing by his friend.
Small statuettes of Egyptian gods stood guard over another shelf. And as Ben marveled over the complete lack of dust, he wondered, how well had he really known Robert?
During their time on the battlefield, Ben thought they’d covered every conceivable subject: philosophy, politics, religion, and death. They’d discussed strategies for avoiding marriage as long as possible. And they’d almost killed each other in an argument over who had the better left hook. Turned out Robert did, and Ben had a black, swollen eye for the better part of a week. All that history together, and yet, Robert had never mentioned the portrait now in Ben’s study or the beautiful woman in it.
On the shelf to the right of the statuettes was a neat row of leather-bound books, ledgers if he wasn’t mistaken. He set his glass on the desk behind him, took one of the ledgers, and opened it to a random page. November, 1814. A year and a half ago.
The timing seemed about right.
Unfortunately, there were few notations about the nature of the purchases. Each entry had a name—or, more often, initials—and the amount paid or owed.
After he’d scanned a mere three pages, the numbers seemed to move before his eyes like ants swarming a picnic. He rubbed his eyelids. There had to be a better way to track the source of the painting. The artist himself couldn’t be too difficult to find, even if he was touring the Continent. At least Ben had a name to work with.
He slammed the ledger shut and went to return it, but a paper that had been tucked between the pages floated to the floor. His stiff leg made reaching for it awkward, and he was grateful no one was there to witness his epic struggle to pick up a damned piece of parchment.
The scrawling handwriting read simply, “English Beauty Portrait.”
And was signed “Charlton.”
Charlton.
He knew that name. And he knew where to find him.
After heaving himself to his feet, Ben shoved the slip of paper into his pocket and left the study.
The glass of brandy remained on the desk, forgotten.
Chapter Nine
Undertone: (1) The hue of paint when it is spread quite thinly, especially when brushed onto a white canvas. (2) The underlying suggestion in one’s words or actions, as in The hastily scrawled note held an urgent undertone.
Ben wrote Daphne a note that morning, advising her that he would be at Hyde Park between four and five o’clock that afternoon. If she could arrange to be there, perhaps they could take a stroll together.
And so, he sat on a park bench in the shade of a fig tree, ignoring the pain in his leg and desperately searching the meandering pathways for a glimpse of sunlight.
He only had to wait a quarter of an hour. Flanked by the Sherbourne sisters, she strolled toward him, the picture of propriety in a white dress and a cloak of yellow and blue silk, topped with a fetching bonnet. The almost imperceptible sway of her hips and the graceful way she moved her hands as she conversed with her friends made his pulse speed up. It seemed impossible that someone like her should be oblivious to her own beauty, and yet, he’d swear she was.
For a split second, he considered tossing his cane behind a bush. Most of the men milling about the park carried them; the difference was they didn’t need them. Ben preferred not to use it in front of Daphne, but since walking for any distance without it was nigh impossible, he swallowed his pride and used the blasted cane to hoist himself off the stone bench.
“Good afternoon, ladies.”
“Lord Foxburn, what a pleasure,” declared Lady Olivia. The brunette was pretty and good-humored but lacked an element essential for survival in the ton—disingenuousness. She couldn’t hide an emotion if her Almack’s vouchers depended on it. At the moment she exuded breathless excitement. Her sister, the quiet redhead, was the insightful sort. He doubted much escaped her notice, a fact that made her slightly frightening.
“The pleasure is mine.” Surprisingly, he meant it.
“Thank you for suggesting a walk in the park,” Daphne said. Even her voice seemed tinged with sunshine. “It’s the perfect day to escape the confines of the drawing room.”
“Agreed,” Lady Olivia chimed in. “I spent so many hours embroidering napkins this morning that my fingertips are tender and my eyes are crossed. If I so much as see another skein of thread, I believe I shall cast myself into the Serpentine.”
“Shall we stroll in that direction?” he suggested with a wave of his cane toward the river. “I don’t recommend a swim, but perhaps we might gawk at the swans?”
“That sounds perfect!” exclaimed Lady Olivia, and immediately linked arms with her sister. She set off toward the river at a good clip, leaving him and Daphne to trail several yards behind.
Since he held his cane in his right hand, he offered Daphne his left arm. The slight pressure of her hand on his sleeve almost made him want to grin, which was not at all his custom.
Dappled light played upon her cheeks as she gazed up at him. “How is your leg feeling today?”
He stiffened. “I didn’t ask you here to discuss my blasted leg.”
“I was just making small talk,” she said gently. “That’s what polite people do.”
“By now you should know that etiquette lessons are wasted on me.”
“I am a hopeless optimist,” Daphne confessed with a shrug. “People can change, you know.”
“Some people don’t want to,” he said. But he was thinking that if anyone in the world could change him, she might be the one.
“We shall see. Have you learned something about the painting?”
“I have the name of the person from whom Robert obtained it.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Who?”
“Lord Charlton.”
“I don’t know the name. Are you acquainted with him?”
“He’s a baron with an estate in Gloucestershire, not far from Robert’s—er, Hugh’s—country house. We hunted with him once or twice.”
“Is he… in town?”
“I spoke with a few people at White’s last evening. Charlton’s at his estate—apparently, he rarely leaves it.”
“That fits with what Thomas said about his patron.” Her face turned pale, and Ben wondered if she realized that she had a death grip on his arm.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I suppose so. It’s just that until now, all I knew was that my portrait was out in the world somewhere. To learn that it could be in the possession of a specific person at a particular location is disconcerting.”
“Yes, but it’s also progress.”
A governess chasing her young charge darted across the path in front of them; Ben drew up short and pulled Daphne back. Her side bumped innocently into his, stirring all sorts of not-so-innocent feelings in him.
She quickly put a respectable distance between them and asked, “Do you suppose Lord Charlton still has the other portrait?”
“It’s possible. If not, I hope he’ll be able to tell me who does.”
“Did you find a receipt?”
“Not exactly, just a slip of paper with the name on it and a general description of the painting.”
“What shall we do next?” she asked.
He turned and gave her what he hoped was a stern look. “We will not do anything. I will attempt to discover the whereabouts of the second portrait.”
“How?”
“By paying the baron a visit.”
She blinked as though she had not heard him correctly. “You cannot just knock on his front door and in
quire whether he possesses a scandalous painting.”
He smirked at that. “It may surprise you to know I can employ subtlety when circumstances require it.”
“Can you at least tell me what you plan to do?”
“I suggested to Hugh that we visit his country house and address any matters that need to be resolved. He hasn’t been there since Robert—He hasn’t been there in several months. Once I’m there, I can invite Lord Charlton to dinner and probe for information.”
“Thank you. It could work.”
“Could work? Your confidence in me is awe-inspiring.”
She stared down at the pebbled path for several moments, apparently deep in thought. At last, she said, “I’ve done some research on remedies for limb pain.”
“I see. And do these remedies involve satanic rituals? Virginal sacrifice?”
Color rushed into her cheeks. “No, I thought perhaps you should try something new.”
“There is nothing new, trust me. Hugh and I leave for Biltmore Manor at the end of the week. I don’t intend to stay for more than four or five days. I’ll have news for you when I return.”
Daphne stopped walking and faced him. “I wish there was something I could do.”
He shook his head. “Leave it to me. You can trust me, Daphne.”
“I know. Thank you.” The smile she gave him heated his blood.
“Your friends are almost to the river. We’d better hurry if we want to join them in harassing the swans.”
“I should not like to miss that,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling.
Talking with her like this seemed so natural, so right. Under different circumstances—if Robert hadn’t died, if Ben’s leg hadn’t been injured—he and Daphne might have spent a lifetime of days just like this. As it was, he probably had only a few weeks at best.
He would find the painting, and she’d have no further use for him.
Then the darkness would return.
Chapter Ten
The next afternoon, Ben sat in his study reviewing the papers that Averill had sent over for him to sign. Although they were standard, straightforward documents, Ben might as well have been deciphering hieroglyphics. He was distracted, and one unearthly beauty—with all-too-earthly charms—was to blame.
So instead of behaving like a responsible earl, he amused himself by spinning his seal stamp. The seal, an F with a fleur-de-lis behind it, made a surprisingly decent top. However, when Flemings, his butler, appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat, Ben accidentally knocked the iron stamp off the edge of his desk, and it plummeted into the wastebasket where it landed with a thunk. “Damn.”
Flemings eyed the wastebasket without lowering his chin. “Would you like me to retrieve it, my lord?”
“Actually, I thought I’d leave it there.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Sarcasm was often lost on Flemings. Or maybe the old bastard was a lot cleverer than he let on.
The butler tugged at the bottom of his jacket, which strained to cover the belly beneath. “Lord Biltmore is here to see you. Shall I send him in?”
Ben considered this. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a visitor. True, it was only Hugh, but heaven forbid that the social calls become a routine occurrence. Hades had his underworld, a dragon had his lair, and Ben had his town house. Guests were to be endured, he supposed, but definitely not encouraged. “I suppose you can show him back here.”
“Very well.” Flemings turned to go, but not before his eyes flicked to the portrait behind Ben.
Good God. “Wait.”
The butler froze but did not turn around. Ben wondered why he tolerated such impertinence. Probably because Flemings tolerated his.
“Show him to the drawing room and offer him a drink. I’ll join him there shortly.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And, Flemings?”
He froze again. Still did not turn around. “Do not let anyone near my study. No one—no guest nor member of the staff—is to enter, except you. And that should only be under dire circumstances. Do you understand?”
Flemings reluctantly faced him. “I believe I grasp your meaning, my lord. I am to keep everyone away from the sanctum… er, the study. I myself may enter, should conditions warrant it.”
“Good.” Ben reached for the cane he’d hung from a shelf.
“Am I correct in assuming that choking would qualify?”
“What?”
“If you were choking on a quail bone—would that be a dire circumstance?”
“Why in God’s name would I eat a quail in my study?”
“Because you were hungry, I suppose.” The butler’s lips twitched as though he slayed himself with his cheeky humor.
In response, Ben smiled with the indulgent sweetness he usually reserved for children who’ve botched the punch line of a worn-out joke. “Our visitor, Flemings?”
“I shall escort him to the drawing room at once.” The butler walked down the hall at a stately pace.
Ben could not resist calling after him. “For the record, Flemings, you’d better hope I don’t choke on a damned quail bone, because the next earl will not take kindly to your insolence.”
The butler’s reply echoed down the hallway. “Very good, my lord.”
Ben took a quick look at Daphne’s portrait before closing the door behind him and heading for the drawing room. If Hugh had seen the painting, it would have been disastrous. Daphne would never have forgiven him. He had to be more careful.
He found Hugh gazing out a window that overlooked the street. Upon hearing the thump of Ben’s cane on the hardwood floor, he turned and smiled broadly. “Foxburn, you’re looking well.”
“Don’t tell me cripple is the rage this season?”
“What?”
Ben sighed. “Never mind. What brings you here?”
“I thought we might discuss our impending trip to Biltmore Manor. Shall we sit?”
“What’s there to talk about? We’ll travel there in a coach. We’ll check that everything is satisfactory. We’ll return here.”
Hugh walked in front of the sofa. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit down?”
“Would it make you feel better?”
“It would, actually.”
Ben sat and immediately wished he’d helped himself to a drink before doing so.
As if he’d read his mind, Hugh went to the sideboard, poured a brandy, and brought it to him.
Hugh was a good lad. The least Ben could do was listen to him. “What, exactly, did you want to discuss?”
“I saw the Sherbourne sisters and Miss Honeycote at a dinner party last night.”
Ben raised a brow. Now Hugh had his full attention.
“I mentioned that we were going to spend a few days in the country, and Lady Olivia had a capital idea.”
“Lady Olivia—the loud one?”
Hugh winced. “I suppose she is, yes.”
“Go on.”
“She suggested that I host a house party.”
“What for?”
Hugh smiled, obviously pleased to have an answer at the ready. “Why, for the purpose of entertaining guests and enjoying a respite from town life.”
“The purpose of our visit is to take care of estate business—not to play charades. If you want to host a house party, I can’t stop you, but I don’t intend to stay for it.”
Hugh’s face fell. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Why on earth would you think that?”
“Because you seem to like spending time with Miss Honeycote and the Sherbourne sisters. I like them, too.”
“They are not as annoying as the majority of the misses on the marriage mart,” Ben admitted. “But to say I like spending time with them is an exaggeration.” Except when it came to Daphne. Was he that transparent?
“Lady Olivia thought that since we all had such a nice time at Vauxhall Gardens, a house party would provide an opportunity for us to get to know one
another a bit better.”
“And just who else would you invite to this momentous event?”
Hugh shrugged. “Lady Olivia seemed keen on having Mr. Averill attend. Huntford and his duchess won’t make the trip, of course, but Mrs. Honeycote could accompany the young women. I thought I’d extend an invitation to the Seaton girls and—”
Ben arched a brow. “I don’t suppose they could leave their violins at home?”
Hugh frowned—a look that was half scolding, half disappointment. Ben was accustomed to such looks; it wasn’t unusual for him to receive a dozen before breakfast.
Only, he wasn’t used to receiving them from Hugh.
“Their playing isn’t so bad. You might like the Seaton sisters if you got to know them,” Hugh said.
Yes, and the Thames might freeze over in July, but since it was rare for Hugh to take a stand, Ben kept his doubts to himself. “You like them, then?”
“I don’t know Miss Jane very well, but Miss Louise has a sharp sense of humor—not unlike yours, if you want to know the truth.” The sudden ruddiness of Hugh’s cheeks suggested that perhaps he admired more than Lady Louise’s sense of humor.
Ben breathed a tad easier. “In that case, she sounds utterly charming.”
“I can round out our numbers with a few of my pals from Eton.” Hugh smiled as though pleased with himself.
“It sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.” Ben twirled his cane, balancing it in front of him. He glanced at Hugh, wishing his true motivation for wanting a house party was written on his face.
He seemed interested in the Seaton girl, but what if he still had designs on Daphne? Now that Ben knew her as a person—and not just a scandalous mystery woman in a portrait—he could no longer argue that she would be an unsuitable wife. If he had any reservations about her character, it was that she was almost too generous and kind. Too good to be true.
