Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2

by Lynna Banning

  ‘So you were the firstborn. Did you always realise the late Lord Warley was your father?’

  ‘I only knew him as the lord of the manor, when I was a boy.’ Benedict pushed his hair from his brow. ‘I went up to the house at Christmastime with all the other children on the estate. It was then I saw the paintings.’ Those paintings. Their gleaming colours in golden frames against the scarlet walls of the gallery came to him, flooding his senses. ‘There’s a fine art collection there.’

  ‘Benedict, I’ve seen the paintings in the gallery,’ she broke in. ‘The Old Masters, they’re magnificent.’

  ‘Many of those paintings were bought by my real father.’

  ‘I saw the late Lord Warley’s portrait in the gallery, too.’ She studied his face. ‘You both look like him. Dark-haired, dark eyed. You have the same jaw line, but your half-brother, Robert, doesn’t. I can see it now.’

  Benedict rubbed his jaw. ‘Do I? I’d like to resemble my real father. He was an art connoisseur. He bought up a number of Venice’s artworks at one time and took them to Warley Park.’ His mind rolled back. ‘At one of the Christmas parties, I ran away and hid in the house. I was a shy boy. I found myself in the long gallery, looking at Rembrandt, Titian, da Vinci, Raphael, not recognising what an exceptional collection hung in front of me. I only knew I was spellbound. That was the first day I met my real father properly. He found me in the gallery.’

  Cameo stayed silent as if urging him to continue.

  ‘That day, everything changed,’ he went on. ‘I think when Lord Warley first came across me looking at the paintings he wondered what I was doing there. But he was kind to me, asked me what I liked about them, and for some reason I wasn’t shy with him. He soon realised I’d inherited his love of art, along with an instinct for colour that came from my mother. I spent hours with him in the gallery. He showed me different works he’d collected, too, explained their histories and the different painting techniques. He told me what the symbols in the paintings meant and the stories behind them, talked to me about the other paintings he’d seen abroad, in Venice in particular. He loved Venice.’

  She nodded, still silent, her eyes fixed on him.

  ‘He took more and more interest in me.’ In his mind, Benedict slipped backwards in time. ‘He was a painter, an amateur, but a good one. He taught me, encouraged me, believed in me. We went on painting expeditions on the estate. We’d paint in the woods, down by the stream, capture the trees, plants, birds, animals—all we saw. Truth from Nature was his motto, too, long before the Pre-Raphaelites claimed it. He saw my talent, arranged for me to have some lessons, and eventually had me sent to be educated here in London. When I was old enough, he sent me on a Grand Tour. He promised to join me in Venice.’

  He halted. It was difficult to go on.

  ‘What happened?’ Cameo stroked his arm. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘My father died,’ Benedict said bleakly. ‘When I returned to Sussex, my mother was alone. Arthur Cole, the gamekeeper, had died a few years before, you see. When I returned from Venice I found my mother weak and ill. She’d been sick for some time, but Robert had insisted she remove herself from the gamekeeper’s cottage. He knew how much our father loved her and yet he wouldn’t let her stay on the estate. I found her living in squalor in a nearby town, sickened with a cough seeming to rack her whole body. She hadn’t written to tell me of her illness. She intended me to have my tour in Europe. She wanted me to have the gift of art my father gave me.’

  Rage rose up, like a knife in his stomach. ‘Robert may as well have killed my mother. Her health failed. She didn’t live too much longer. It was revenge, I think, for the way our father favoured me. I remember Robert used to complain about me being near the paintings in the gallery. He thought I’d harm them. Harm them! I appreciated those paintings at a young age more than he ever did.’

  ‘He despises art,’ Cameo said fiercely. ‘All he cares about is how much the paintings are worth as an investment.’

  ‘That lack of appreciation is something I can’t understand, to have such riches and to not even value them. He’s a philistine. That art collection, those glories in his house, they’re no more than wallpaper to him.’ Benedict clenched his jaw. ‘But he still desired them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That was another thing I discovered when I got back from Venice. Lord Warley’s will had been altered or replaced. He’d told me by then, of course, that I was his son. He said he loved my mother from the first moment he saw her, with her colourful, natural beauty, her wild gypsy heart. He told me he was going to leave me the paintings he’d collected himself. They would appreciate in value—it became a way of giving me a legacy. He knew Robert didn’t like them, or understand them, and I did. But there was no mention of that legacy in the new will. For many years, I wondered if my father, who I’d believed to be an honourable man, had lied to me. Then I came to believe that perhaps Robert had engineered it when I travelled to Venice and my father was dying, unable to understand what was happening around him. Or that he’d even destroyed my father’s will. But I can never know for sure.’

  ‘Robert cheated you. That is sure. And you’re his brother!’

  ‘Half-brother.’ He frowned. ‘I didn’t recognise him that day in Hyde Park—I barely caught a glimpse. I was too busy running after you and it’s a quite a few years since I’ve seen him. He was never popular on the estate. He was cruel, even as a child. My mother used to tell me there’s always good in people and she was kind to him. Robert’s mother was a cold woman, you see. I received more warmth and affection in our cottage from my mother than he did from his, up in the grand main house.’

  ‘I find it hard to be sorry for Robert,’ Cameo interjected.

  ‘But my mother did care about him, as the son of the man she loved, after all. It wasn’t an easy situation. That’s what made it worse, when he treated her so badly. She didn’t suspect of what he was capable. I did. I came across him once, tormenting a rabbit caught in a trap in the woods.’

  Benedict’s mouth creased into a wicked smile as the recollection returned. ‘I punched him on the nose. The coward ran away. Of course, I didn’t realise we were brothers then and we were both away at school for most of the year.’

  He swigged a draught of wine from the glass he’d just poured. ‘When I got back from Venice and found he’d cast my mother out, I demanded an interview with him. I wanted to confront him about what he’d done to her and also about the paintings my father had wanted to leave to me. I won’t forget how he called me into our father’s study at Warley Park. There he sat, very much the lord of the manor. He ruled Warley Park, and all the people’s lives in it, including my mother’s. I hated how he’d treated her the minute my back was turned.’

  He felt barely in the studio now, as the memory raged back. ‘I couldn’t see my mother cast out of our home, no matter how humble it was. I wanted to take on the post of gamekeeper so she could keep the cottage. I offered to give up my career in art, if I had to. But Robert wasn’t having that. He wanted to turn us out without a penny and I refused to beg. I had to let it go. I didn’t want to create a scandal for my mother. When she died not much later, I left Warley Park and put any connection with it behind me. That’s why I avoided any aristocratic circles—it seemed to be the only way. I determined to make my own way in the world. I haven’t seen Robert since and I never wanted to see the estate again.’

  ‘So you’ve never been home to Warley Park.’

  ‘Never.’ The word came out harshly as he slammed down his wine glass on the table. ‘I still dream of those woods, though, and sometimes I dream of the paintings in the gallery.’

  ‘They should be yours,’ Cameo said with passion. ‘Surely there’s a case for them being your birthright?’

  ‘I want nothing of Robert’s—not his lands, not his house, not his paintings. Though perh
aps there is something else I do want,’ he added, with a quirk of an eyebrow, as he drew her to him. ‘You.’

  He pulled back. ‘You do understand, don’t you? You brought it all back, the way I’d felt so cheated, so deceived. I was full of rage and distrust towards what you represented, as a member of the aristocracy, who I thought you were, not who you really are. You were a direct reminder of a past I wanted to forget.’

  ‘I understand that now, but, Benedict, I’ve just realised something.’ Cameo flashed him a teasing look from under her lashes. ‘You’re the son of a lord. You’re so damning about aristocrats, but you’re one yourself.’

  ‘The wrong side of the blanket.’

  ‘I prefer your side to Robert’s.’

  Benedict gave a wry smile.

  ‘I owe you an apology for some of the things I said when we first met.’ His chuckle sounded rueful. ‘You understand now, I hope. I’d become bitter, but I just longed to put it all behind me. The memories were too much for me, so I cut off that part of my past, tried not to think about my real father. It seemed easier to stay out of that world, to not have anything to do with it.’

  ‘We’re not all spoilt and arrogant.’ Cameo sent him a small, sorry smile. ‘Well, some of us have recently learnt not to be.’

  ‘Being spoilt and arrogant was something I hated in my half-brother—’ Benedict twisted the name with disdain ‘—Robert.’ He wrapped his finger in a curl escaping at Cameo’s neck, making her skin tingle. ‘Can you forgive me? And as for my unconventional birth, can you accept that, too?’

  ‘Whether you are high-born or low-born makes no difference to what I see in you.’

  ‘And what do you see?’

  ‘You’re an artist. You taught me.’ She reached up to trace a daring finger around the brackets of his mouth. ‘I see natural nobility. I see passion and pride and there’s arrogance, too, Benedict. But I wouldn’t have you any other way.’

  A strange note came into her voice as she said, ‘About Robert...’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I think Robert knew who you were.’ Her eyes sparked. ‘You didn’t recognise him that day in Hyde Park, but...do you think he recognised you?’

  The scene flashed in Benedict’s mind. The distance between them. ‘It’s possible, I suppose.’

  ‘But he knew your name, didn’t he? It was Robert who recognised my portrait at the Royal Academy. He must have been at the private viewing. He went straight to my father, to have the painting removed from the exhibition. I’m absolutely certain. He intended to damage your career and my reputation. He meant to ruin us both.’

  Faltering at the cold rage written all over his face, Cameo told Benedict about Robert’s threats when he’d cornered her into marriage.

  ‘Cameo.’ Benedict drew her safe against his strong chest. ‘You should never have consented to marry him, not for my sake.’

  ‘I didn’t want anything to happen to you.’

  ‘I can defend myself against Robert. You need have no fear of that. He’d better pray our paths never cross. The thought of you, married to him. He’s a bully. Thank goodness you’re safe from him.’

  ‘Your paintings saved me,’ she whispered.

  But what had she done, leaping out of the carriage? The realisation struck her. Her parents would have been aghast when she didn’t appear at the church. Her mother doubtless would have had hysterics in the front pew while her father barked orders to have his daughter found. She winced. It hurt her to think of causing such panic in her parents.

  And Maud, waiting by the big wooden doors of the church in her blue bridesmaid’s dress, holding the lacy veil, ready to drape it over Cameo’s head and face, and crown it with the diamond tiara, before presenting her with the bouquet of cream roses that matched those of the bridesmaids. Would her friend understand what she had done, why she had done it? Would George, in his tailed morning coat, forgive her for the disgrace his sister had brought on their family by not turning up at the church?

  And Lord Warley, standing at the altar. Her lips firmed. She could see him, too, his yellow teeth in a snarl. She felt no pity for him. He’d been so certain he’d had her caged. She could well imagine his rage at her having escaped from his clutches, but she wasn’t going to St Mary’s church, whatever happened. She refused to be delivered up to him.

  But Benedict had picked up her cloak.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You can’t stay here, Cameo.’ He tied the bow under her neck. ‘Not like this. I’m taking you to Mayfair.’

  ‘What? But, Benedict...’

  ‘They’ll be frantic about you. I can’t keep you here while they suffer.’

  The honour in him. While she’d barely considered the havoc she would cause when she had leapt so impulsively from the carriage, the panic she might evoke. She hadn’t fully considered what doing so would mean: leaving a crowd of guests, family and friends waiting at the church for the marriage ceremony, craning their necks to see the bride walk down the aisle, a bride who wouldn’t appear. Her only concern had been running to Benedict. All she’d known had been the message of her heart, her desperate need to see his work again, to see something of him one more time. The scandal! She flushed with shame, not for what she’d done, but for the way her parents, her mama, in particular, would feel, as their family’s name was whispered in drawing rooms, at balls and parties, with the horrified delight that only a shocking scandal brought. Her only hope was that her family and friends could forgive her for what she’d done. She’d try to make amends, try to make them understand, if they would let her.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got to let them know what happened.’ She twisted her hands with remorse. ‘I’ve got to explain, ask them to forgive me. They’re going to be so angry.’

  ‘Their main concern will be to have their daughter alive and well.’

  ‘I didn’t stop to consider. Everything you said about me was true. I’m spoilt and selfish. Thoughtless.’

  ‘Stop it, Cameo.’ He put a finger to her lips. ‘You’re you. Lady Catherine Mary St Clair. Cameo Ashe. They’re both part of you. And I love all of you.’

  Benedict’s mouth was almost on hers when the studio door creaked open.

  Robert twirled his silver-topped cane. ‘Ah. My missing bride.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘“And would they praise the heavens for what they have?”

  And I made answer, “Were there nothing else

  For which to praise the heavens but only love,

  That only love were cause enough for praise.”’

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

  ‘The Gardener’s Daughter’

  Benedict stared at his half-brother, his fists like rocks. Robert. He hadn’t seen him for years, but he hadn’t changed much, though he looked heavier and his hair was receding. The prim mouth that hid his avaricious nature and the hint of cruelty in his prominent eyes were still the same.

  Blood swirled in front of Benedict’s gaze. Every memory he possessed of his half-brother at Warley Park—killing the rabbit in the woods, being heartless to his mother when she fell ill, telling him he’d lost his inheritance—all seemed to clamour in his brain at once. Every nerve and sinew in his body shouted to rip the man apart for all he’d done, most of all, for what he threatened to do to Cameo.

  ‘Allow me to warn you, Warley. Leave now, or you’ll be sorry.’

  ‘Leave?’ his half-brother sneered. ‘Without my dear fiancée?’

  ‘I know all about you,’ Cameo choked out. ‘I know you and Benedict are brothers.’

  ‘Half-brothers,’ Robert corrected. ‘We don’t want to overstate the relationship.’

  Benedict’s nails bit into his palms. ‘I have no desire to claim any greater relationship with you, Warley, than that we unfortunately possess.
’

  ‘Benedict is Lord Warley’s son, just as you are,’ Cameo threw at Robert. ‘Don’t you dare deny it!’

  ‘Yes. This—artist—’ Robert threw a disparaging look around the studio ‘—is my father’s—what’s the best way to put it, since we are all being so polite?—my father’s by-blow.’

  Benedict’s throat clenched.

  ‘Don’t disparage our father.’ No matter if his father had kept his promise about his will or not, he wouldn’t hear his father’s name slighted. That pain had healed, while he’d painted out all his emotions, poured them into his portraits of Cameo. He no longer felt any anger towards his father. Whatever he had done, he had done it because he’d had to. His father had loved his mother and him, too. That was enough. ‘He was an honourable man.’

  Cameo faced Robert. ‘Unlike some.’

  Benedict couldn’t help taking in how beautiful she looked at that moment, coming to his defence, her dark hair tumbled over her shoulder, her pansy eyes sparking violet fire.

  Robert sent her a slow, lecherous glance as she stood there. ‘How fetching you look, Lady Catherine Mary, in your wedding gown. Tonight I shall enjoy stripping it off you. I do hope my half-brother hasn’t already spoilt the fruit.’

  Benedict leapt. He grabbed Warley by the waistcoat and pulled back his fist. ‘Don’t you dare speak to her that way.’

  Robert bared his yellow teeth in a snarl. ‘I’ll speak to my fiancée however I like, you bastard...’ He lifted his cane.

  ‘Stop!’ Cameo cried, rushing between them. ‘Please don’t fight!’

  Benedict dropped his fists. Only Cameo’s distress halted him from giving Robert exactly what he deserved.

  Robert brushed off his waistcoat. ‘Did you think I’d let you have her? She’s not for the likes of you.’

  ‘She’s not a possession, like a painting to be hung on a wall,’ Benedict said, between gritted teeth.