‘She’s mine. Just like all the paintings in the gallery at Warley Hall. I’ll do whatever I want with her. Once we’re married no one can stop me. It’s the law.’
‘It’s because our father and I shared a passion for art, isn’t it?’ Benedict demanded. ‘Something you didn’t share. Is that it?’
‘But I got everything in the end,’ Robert sneered.
‘And now you’re after Cameo’s money to pay your gaming debts.’
His half-brother licked his lips. ‘It’s an additional pleasure, of course, that she’s also an object of your desire. That will make it even more enjoyable when she’s under my control.’
‘That will never happen.’
Robert rubbed his hand up and down his cane. ‘She belongs to me.’
‘You’ve always been jealous of me, no matter how much our father gave you.’ Benedict kept his voice low. ‘You always wanted everything of mine.’
‘There’s not much to take.’ Robert cast another disdainful glance around the studio. ‘Just look at this attic.’
‘He wouldn’t be so badly off if you hadn’t cheated him out of his inheritance!’ Cameo exclaimed.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Lady Catherine Mary.’ Robert spoke her name in a way that boiled Benedict’s blood further.
‘Oh, yes, I do. Benedict has told me all about it. Your father wanted Benedict to have the Old Masters in the gallery at Warley Park, the ones he collected on his European tour. He left them to Benedict in his will—the will you destroyed.’
‘Cameo—’
‘I’m sure of it, Benedict!’
‘You can’t prove it,’ Robert said swiftly.
A gruff voice came from the door. ‘Perhaps I can.’
‘Papa!’ Cameo exclaimed.
To her amazement her father, puffing and out of breath, entered the studio with a face like thunder.
He scowled as he lifted off his top hat. ‘Damned stupid place to live. All those stairs.’
‘Your father’s come to bring you to the church.’ Robert’s tongue darted out. ‘I told him where we’d find you.’
The earl made straight for Benedict. ‘You’re Cole, I take it?’ he demanded. ‘I’m Buxton. So, you’re the painter, eh? The one who did the portrait of my daughter?’
Cameo rushed in. ‘That’s right, Papa.’
‘I can speak for myself, Cameo,’ Benedict said.
Pride filled her as he stood his ground and answered her father steadily, ‘Yes, I did the portrait, my lord. And I’m not planning to apologise for it.’
Cameo gulped as the vein in her father’s forehead popped out. ‘And you’re my friend Warley’s natural son, are you? Come on, out with it!’
‘I am. I wouldn’t want to deny it,’ Benedict replied coolly.
‘Disgraceful,’ Robert broke in.
The earl glared at him. ‘That’s what you think, is it, Warley?’
‘Well, he is a by-blow and—’
‘That’s enough!’ The earl’s voice became louder. ‘Your father would be ashamed of you, Warley. He told me years ago about his natural son and his pride in him, even if he was born on the wrong side of the blanket. Happens in the best families. He asked me to look out for the lad. I’m afraid I’ve let my old friend down.’
As he turned to Benedict his voice turned gruff. ‘I’ve been trying to find you for years. I thought you would use the family name Ackland, not Cole. This matter’s been troubling me for some time. Only put two and two together this morning at the church when Robert let your connection slip.’
Rummaging in his coat pocket, he found an envelope. ‘Ought to have got this to you years ago. It’s been in my safekeeping in Mayfair. I went and collected it. Here. Take it. It’s yours.’
Benedict received the envelope. Cameo saw his lips tighten as he stared at the handwriting on the front. She held her breath as he opened it, then scanned the pages inside. ‘Benedict, what is it?’
With a stunned expression he looked up at her. In his eyes was a light, a flame of joy. ‘It’s my father’s will.’
‘What?’ Robert lunged forward and tried to grab the paper from Benedict’s hand.
‘You won’t be getting your hands on it this time,’ Benedict warned him through gritted teeth.
Robert backed away.
‘Indeed not.’
‘What does the will say?’ Cameo refused to hold back. ‘Please tell me, Benedict. Did your father keep his promise to you? Are the paintings in the gallery at Warley Hall yours?’
‘More than that.’ Appearing dazed, Benedict rubbed his hand across his eyes. ‘He left me Warley Park.’
* * *
As Benedict stood clutching the will, a vision seemed to rise in front of his eyes.
Warley Park. That huge, glorious estate, spread over hundreds of acres, with its woods, its lakes and fountains, and its smooth green lawns rising on a slope up to the grand house. And the house itself, with its Tudor core, and the elegant wings, Georgian, palatial; its perfect proportions had pleased his artist’s eye even before he’d understood the splendour of what he saw. He’d only understood he liked to look at it—had understood instinctively it was something fine.
His father hadn’t cut him out of his will. He’d never rejected his firstborn son. He’d left Benedict the home he loved.
‘Benedict!’ Cameo flung her arms around him. ‘I can’t believe it. My father had the will, all this time. Warley Park is yours.’
His half-brother’s face paled. ‘That will is null and void. It won’t stand up in a court of law.’
‘Won’t it?’ the earl bellowed. ‘I think you’ll find it might. I’ll see to that.’
‘Surely you’re not going to support this...this...artist’s claim over mine...’
‘You don’t think so? That will is legal and valid. There was enough for both of you, but you cut your brother out of what your father intended for him. You’re a disgrace, Warley.’ The vein on the earl’s forehead appeared as if it would burst. ‘I’ve always had my suspicions about you, and so did your papa, unfortunately. I tell you, he would be disgusted. As am I.’
‘You don’t understand the whole story, my lord... Cole’s mother, she was little more than a peasant—to think that someone with that background should have Warley Park—’
‘Enough,’ Benedict broke in quietly. Beside him he felt Cameo quake at his tone. She knew how his mother had suffered at Robert’s hands. ‘It’s time you left.’
For a moment he thought his half-brother was going to argue.
Benedict spoke again. One word, gritted between his teeth. ‘Out.’
With a single glance at Benedict’s face, Robert made for the door.
‘Don’t think you’ve heard the last of this,’ he threatened, with a lift of his cane.
‘I think we’ve heard the last of it, unless you want your gaming habits barring you from every club in London,’ the earl inserted furiously.
The studio door slammed.
The earl glared as he turned to his daughter. ‘Don’t think that you’re not in trouble, young lady! I’ve never known such behaviour! Not turning up at the church! Empty carriage! We didn’t know what had become of you, Cameo!’
‘I’m sorry, Papa.’ She held out her hands imploringly. ‘Can you forgive me? I couldn’t go through with it. I knew I had to get to Benedict.’
Benedict stepped forward, with an internal chuckle. He’d pictured Cameo living in that grand house in Mayfair, with a wealthy protector. Here he was. Her father, who, beneath the bluster, obviously adored his daughter.
‘I’m sure you’ve been worried about Cameo, my lord,’ he said calmly. ‘I was just about to return her to your care in Mayfair.’
The earl’s brow furrowe
d, perplexed. ‘About to bring her home, eh?’
‘That’s right, my lord.’
‘Humph!’ the earl exclaimed after a moment. ‘Very gentlemanly of you. I suppose I wouldn’t expect anything less from the eldest son of my friend.’
Benedict inclined his head.
Lord Buxton addressed Cameo. ‘Ought to not have forced you into a wedding, I suppose. Your mother’s been having hysterics, something about your grandmama. Says she wants your portrait hung in the drawing room. The Gardener’s Daughter, is that the name of it, eh?’
‘Yes, that’s right, Papa.’
‘Still for sale, is it?’
‘It’s not for sale,’ Benedict interjected. ‘But I would be happy to make a gift of it to Cameo’s mother.’
The earl’s eyes boggled. ‘Is that so?’
‘That’s so.’
Buxton stared at Benedict again. Benedict witnessed the respect dawning in his eyes.
‘First, we’ll arrange for the portrait to be displayed in the Royal Academy once more. Oughtn’t to have had it taken down. Work of art like that. Acted too hastily.’ He gave a cough. ‘You’ll have your hands full with my daughter, Cole. But my friend thought a great deal of you and it seems young Cameo does, too. I’ll expect you to take good care of her, as your father would have wanted you to.’
Benedict met his gaze. ‘I will.’
‘Oh, Papa!’ Cameo threw her arms around her father.
‘There, there!’ He gave her an awkward pat. ‘I wanted to trust my daughter to my best friend’s son. It seems I can, after all.’
The sound of footsteps and a muffled voice came from outside the studio.
‘Cameo! Cameo! Are you in there?’
Cameo’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. ‘Why, that sounds like Maud!’
Pink bonnet askew on her blonde curls, a pretty young woman rushed past Benedict as soon as he opened the door. She was followed closely by a dark-haired young man.
‘Maud!’ Cameo exclaimed, as the young woman hugged her as if she wouldn’t let her go.
‘Oh, Cameo! I’ve been so worried! I couldn’t wait downstairs a moment longer! I thought something dreadful had happened to you!’
The young man who could only be Cameo’s brother—such was their resemblance—stepped forward and held out his hand to Benedict. ‘I’m George St Clair. How do you do? You must be...’
‘Benedict Cole.’
‘The artist?’
‘He’s my friend Henry’s eldest son,’ Lord Buxton put in irascibly. ‘Warley Park belongs to him.’
‘I say.’ George whistled. ‘That’s a turn-up.’
Cameo spoke up. ‘Perhaps I should make some introductions. This is my friend Miss Maud Cartwright, Benedict.’ The pretty blonde who had embraced Cameo dimpled at Benedict.
‘I knew Cameo must have come to you. I waited outside the church in Mayfair, with the veil and flowers,’ Maud described breathlessly, her eyes round, as she clutched Cameo’s hand. ‘And the carriage arrived and Bert opened the door, and, oh, Cameo, you weren’t there, you’d just vanished! We looked and looked for you. I was so frightened. Then I thought, oh, no, she’s come up with one of her dangerous ideas...’
‘Oh, Maud!’ Cameo exclaimed. ‘I’m sorry I gave you such a fright. I wouldn’t have upset you for the entire world. And, George—’ she turned to her brother ‘—I’m so sorry.’
He gave her arm a reassuring pat. ‘I’ve always said you were a strange sister. Now I know for sure. You gave us all an awful shock, not turning up at St Mary’s like that. But it seems it has all turned out for the best.’
‘It’s so romantic.’ Maud sighed.
‘Romantic, eh?’ The earl cleared his throat. ‘I’ve had enough of all this nonsense for one day. It’s time to go home.’
‘Yes, Papa,’ George said and sent Cameo a wink.
‘Goodbye, Maud,’ Cameo said, hugging her friend. ‘Goodbye, George. Goodbye, Papa.’
At the doorway her father turned back.
‘We’ll expect you in Mayfair, Cameo.’ He nodded to Benedict. ‘Both of you.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘Such a Lord is love.’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
‘Goodness, it’s like Piccadilly Circus here this morning.’
Just as Benedict went to pull Cameo into his arms, Nicholas Trelawney breezed into the studio, brandishing a newspaper in his hand. ‘Sorry to arrive unannounced, but I thought you’d want to see this—why, Lady Cameo!’
‘Hello,’ Cameo said shyly.
‘What on earth is happening here this morning? Were those friends of yours I passed on the stairs?’
‘That was my father, my brother George and my friend Maud,’ Cameo explained.
‘Is that so?’ Trelawney beamed. ‘How charming they all looked. I’ll have to invite them to one of my soirées. And how delightful to see you here again in the studio, my dear. So you’re together at last!’
‘Thank you for your help in it, Mr Trelawney.’
‘My pleasure, my dear, my pleasure. Who can resist playing Cupid?’ Trelawney stared at Benedict. ‘Why is our artist looking so stunned? What have I missed?’
‘Benedict has just found out he inherited Warley Park. It’s where he grew up,’ she explained rapidly.
Trelawney whistled. ‘So that’s the estate which belonged to his father? My, my. How strange. You don’t need to tell me more, my dear. I know all about it. I just didn’t know the names.’
He rustled the newspaper he held in his hand. ‘Well, I bring more good tidings. It seems both fortune and fame are tapping on the door!’
‘What on earth do you mean, Trelawney?’ Benedict asked with a dry smile.
‘Page ten.’ Trelawney passed Cameo the newspaper.
Hastily she leafed through the pages. ‘Why, Benedict. It’s a review of your work!’
Trelawney fanned himself with his hand. ‘Read it aloud for us, my dear. I’m not sure I can take the strain.’
With mounting excitement, Cameo read.
‘A new exhibition by Benedict Cole at the Belleview Gallery, Soho, is certain to be the talk of the artistic season.
Mr Cole’s first painting of Lady Catherine Mary St Clair appeared, albeit briefly, in the selection at the Royal Academy of Art before it was unfortunately withdrawn. That this was in error is made clear by this new exhibition, made up entirely of portraits of his muse, Lady Catherine Mary.
By painting one woman in different guises and occupations, Mr Cole has shown that he is an artist of the first order and a premier painter at this time. Not every painter can capture, as he has, the diverse and ever-changing moods of a single woman, making each more enchanting than the last.
He is to be celebrated in this achievement and long may his muse inspire him. Mr Cole fully comprehends the artist’s greatest calling: in the words of the great poet Tennyson, “’Tis not your work, but Love’s.”’
Cameo dropped the paper on to the table and clapped her hands together.
Trelawney piped up. ‘Every artist in London would give their teeth for such a review,’ he added, a trifle wistfully. He clapped Benedict on the back. ‘Congratulations, my dear boy.’
Benedict sounded gruff. ‘A good response, I suppose.’
‘Good? It’s wonderful!’ Cameo exclaimed.
‘It’s only the start,’ Trelawney crowed. With a flourish he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small folded piece of paper, passing it to Benedict. ‘I took the liberty of popping into the Belleview this morning on your behalf. They’ve sold three works already and the others are sure to be snapped up. And then there’s the commissions, my dear boy, the commissions.’ He rubbed his palms toge
ther. ‘London’s finest folk are all going to want a painting by Benedict Cole on their wall.’
Benedict stared at the cheque. ‘It’s unbelievable.’
‘Believe it,’ Trelawney told him, clearly delighted. ‘I asked the Belleview Gallery to raise your prices, too, as soon as I realised people would be starting to flock in.’
Benedict’s mouth tightened. ‘Hmmm.’
Cameo experienced a sudden chill. ‘What’s wrong, Benedict?’
He moved away from her, stretched his hands across the wood of the chimney piece. His broad back expanded as he took a deep breath. ‘There’s nothing’s wrong.’
He pivoted on his heel, dropped the newspaper on to the table and faced her. ‘I don’t consider canvas and paint more valuable than flesh and blood, that’s all. My paintings doing well, my inheritance, I’d even let Robert keep Warley Park if that was the price I had to pay.’ He burned her with a look. ‘He doesn’t have what I have. I have you.’
Cameo’s heart pounded as in a smooth movement Benedict knelt down on one knee in front of her and lifted her shaking hand to his warm lips.
‘Marry me, Cameo.’
She couldn’t speak, not a single word. Not with his eyes holding hers, the love in his them deep and infinite.
‘Ahem.’ Trelawney coughed. ‘My dears, I think it’s time for me to slip away. I do feel de trop.’ He pulled his spotted handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his cheeks. ‘But how affecting.’
Benedict ignored the sculptor’s pantomime beside him.
‘Well?’ he asked her, his eyes coal black, still locked to hers. ‘Will you marry me, Lady Catherine Mary St Clair?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. Joy bubbled up inside her like champagne. ‘Yes. I will marry you, Benedict Cole.’
He stood and pulled her into his fierce embrace. The feel of him, the strength of his powerful arms, would be home to her now. Deep within her, she knew he would hold her like this for the rest of her life; his kiss, sure and loving, was a portrait of passion, never to fade.
The studio door slammed.
‘Trelawney’s gone,’ she said, startled.
‘He’ll be back, you don’t need to worry about that,’ Benedict assured her with a grin. He ran his finger around her mouth and down to rest on her neck. He frowned. ‘I’d forgotten.’
Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 Page 59
