by Bliss Bennet
None as harsh as she deserved for such foolish, unthinking behavior. Of that she was painfully certain.
“Truly, Ben, why aren’t you in London?” Theo asked as his brother took up a position on his other side and the party began to walk down the lane. “Have you not said a hundred times that is not a face in all of Lincolnshire worth painting?”
“Oh, are you an artist, Mr. Pennington?” That might be some other, less worrisome reason for the man’s unexpected presence here.
Benedict Pennington snorted. “Some days, I doubt I’ll ever paint anything decent again.”
“Ben studied on the continent for several years and produced not a few canvases worth more than the paint he put upon them.” Theo gave his brother a playful nudge.
“But since coming back to this blasted country, I can’t seem to create anything worth a damn.”
“Have all those studies of the luscious Miss Sally you did come to naught?” Theo asked. “And after you’d paid her for all those weeks to model for you, too.”
Benedict shook his head. “Useless. Entirely useless. Even more so than the ones I drew of Kit’s Fianna. No, I’m beginning to realize that the nude is not to be my metier.”
She tried to stifle her gasp, but Theo was close enough to catch it. His lips tightened before he turned to his brother with a scowl. “You asked Kit’s wife to pose for you? Without any clothing?”
“For a man with the reputation of a rake, you are quite the prude, aren’t you, Theo?” his brother replied in an even tone, not the least bit cowed by the incredulity in his brother’s voice. “But not, alas, as much of one as is our dear sister-in-law. She allowed me to sketch her for days on end, clothed, but said she’d blacken my eye if I asked her to pose without them again.” Benedict shook his head. “Hard to believe she was ever another man’s courtesan before she wed Kit.”
“For sweet Jesus’s sake, Benedict!” Theo exclaimed, glancing at Harry before turning back to his brother. “Scandal about this family spreads fast enough without you broadcasting it all over Christendom. Give over, will you?”
“Tell the truth and shame the devil,” Benedict said, unrepentant. “Besides, sooner aired, sooner forgotten when it comes to scandal, I say.”
No wonder Theo had no attention for his finances. With one brother wedding a fallen woman, and the other casting word of it about with as little shame as if he were sowing seed in a field! She gave his arm a compassionate squeeze.
But he must have mistaken her sympathy for disquiet, for he took a step closer and placed a hand atop hers. “You’d best not have come here bent on creating further scandals, Ben. I won’t have you insisting the ladies of Oldfield remove their garments simply to advance your art.”
“No, no more nudes, I told you.” Benedict gave an impatient sweep of his arm at the surrounding fields. “Landscapes this time. I had a little success with landscapes during my time in Italy. Although I’d forgotten how little anything of the sublime, or even the merely picturesque, is to be found on Saybrook lands.”
She frowned. Did Benedict Pennington have no family loyalty? Over her lifetime, she had likely spent fewer days in Lincolnshire than had he. Yet his easy disparagement of Theo’s property stung.
“If the landscape does not inspire, might you try your hand at ovine portraiture?” she said in as prim a voice as she could muster. “Many of the farmers in these parts take great pride in their sheep.”
Theo’s shock of laughter warmed her down to her toes. Yes, she was glad she’d defended him, even if it set his brother against her. It might be the path of foolishness to encourage amorous attentions from Theo Pennington. But she could still stand him as friend, could she not?
Theo sank down into the deep leather library chair, propping up his boots up on a conveniently placed hassock. A good meal in his belly, a light summer breeze cooling his brow, a glass of brandy warming in his palm—and, at long last, another human being in his own home to share it all with him. Theo waited for the familiar sense of gratification that an evening spent satisfying life’s simpler needs usually engendered. But tonight, somehow, contentment eluded him. Something felt missing, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Still, he raised his glass as Benedict dropped into the seat beside him. If he’d had to spend yet another evening by himself, he didn’t know what folly he might have fallen into—reciting Byron to poor Parsons? Inviting the sheep in for an evening’s tipple?
If only Harry hadn’t felt the need to take dinner upstairs with her father, he and she and Ben might have even made a party of it.
Harry. Theo drew restless fingers over his cravat pin. Was that what he was missing, the company of a woman?
Or the company of Harry?
Theo scowled at the glass in his hand. No, not Harry, nor any other female in particular. Just a case of unsatisfied lust, plain and simple.
But fixed on a most inappropriate object, alas. Not even a fortnight from last bedding Mlle. Crébillion, and he’d been reduced to fixing his carnal desires on a respectable country lady. Theo would have mocked without mercy any of his London cronies if he’d discovered one had come to such a pitiable pass. Yet Harry in his arms, her lips pliant against his own, her body warmed by the midday sun—no, there was nothing laughable about that memory, nothing at all.
Benedict shoved Theo’s feet over to make room for his own on the battered hassock. “Still smarting from being thrown over by La Crébillion, are you?”
“What?” Theo shook off his distraction. “No, of course not. Ours was a mutual decision to part ways.”
“Then why so pensive? Not your style, brooding like a martyr about to be tossed to the lions.”
Brooding? Theo snorted. “I believe I’m more likely to talk the poor beasts to death than to moodily contemplate my own demise.”
Benedict tapped the sole of Theo’s boot with the toe of his own. “The word of Theo, not just the word of God, as quick and powerful and sharper than any two-edged sword, is it now?”
“Blaspheming, Benedict? Fie upon you for an impious knave,” Theo answered, kicking his brother back.
Theo smiled as he watched the corners of his brother’s mouth turn up. He couldn’t remember when he and Ben had last spent any time together, especially here in the country. Benedict had always been the quiet, intense Pennington sibling, and from the few times Theo had seen him since his return from abroad, his months on the Continent had only exacerbated his brother’s tendency toward taciturnity. Yet when they were younger, Ben had always been willing to listen to him blather on, and all without judging him for his many obvious shortcomings. Should he confide in him? Not about Harry, of course, but about the missing money?
But then again, misplacing their sister’s entire dowry might be even too much for Benedict to accept with equanimity.
“Did you call on Sayre and Sibilla before you left town?” Theo asked instead.
“Yes, and I am to warn you they will not be far behind me. Sayre wishes to make his presence known in the borough as soon as possible, in case the by-election is contested.”
Theo sat up in his seat. “Contested? By whom?”
“The son of the gentleman who currently holds the seat, I believe he said.”
“But I just persuaded Norton to resign!” And at no little expense, either.
“Never promised not to set up his son in his place, though, did he? Shifty fellow, Sibilla says. Always swayed by whomever catches his ear. Rumor has it the Tories are loath to give him up in favor of a candidate with more liberal inclinations, particularly one burdened with a radical Irishwoman for sister-in-law. Perhaps they believe they can sway the son as easily as they did the father.”
Theo swore under his breath. A contested election could cost thousands, rather than hundreds, of pounds. “I’ll catch the fellow’s ear for him. Do you know if he’s still in town, or back here in Lincoln?”
“Am I my brother’s MP’s keeper?” Benedict asked, his raised eyebrows l
ending him a sardonic air. “Ask Sibilla, or Sayre.”
Theo groaned. “Developed quite the wit during your time on the Continent, haven’t you, Ben? Perhaps you should consider turning your hand to satirical prints if the painting muse continues to elude you.”
“Thank you for that heartening vote of confidence.” Benedict tipped his glass in Theo’s direction, then drained it with a long gulp.
Damn his rash temper. He hadn’t meant to insult Ben.
He set his own glass down on the table beside him, then placed his hand atop his brother’s knee. “It doesn’t matter if you paint as brilliantly as Michelangelo, or as poorly as Mr. Amcott’s favorite pig, Ben. Not to me. Not to anyone who truly cares for you.”
It does to me. Theo saw the words in his younger brother’s eyes, even if the actual rebuttal remained unspoken. “Ah, old Sadie has taken up the brush, has she?” was all Ben said.
“I believe her best work is done not with a paintbrush, but her tail,” Theo answered, matching Ben’s light tone. He wished he could say something more heartening, but Ben had never appreciated unfounded words of encouragement. And what did Theo know of art? “And she prefers mud, rather than paint. One must make do with what has to hand, mustn’t one? Especially when one is a pig?”
Benedict only grunted.
“You do know you’ll always be welcome here, Ben?” Theo said. “You, as well as any guests you ever care to invite.”
“Guests? When I’ve come here to get away from the superficial inanities of the city’s denizens?” Benedict shuddered. “Perish the thought.”
“Superficial inanities being a detriment to the true artist, of course.”
“Indubitably,” Ben answered, tipping his glass in acknowledgement.
“The superficial inanities of any denizen in particular?” Theo asked, careful to keep his eyes on the swirling liquor in his hand. “Lord Dulcie, perhaps?”
“Dulcie? That fop?” Benedict set his glass down so hard on the table, Theo was surprised it didn’t shatter. “A man who sees nothing, cares nothing, except for the shiny surface of things? As if I’d allow his ridiculous opinions to drive me from town.”
“What opinions?” Theo asked, his heart sinking.
“He was kind enough to suggest I should return to rudimentary still life studies if the more elevated genres were beyond the grasp of my minimal talents.”
Damnation. Straightforward man that he was, Ben could never feign a convincing indifference to Viscount Dulcie. And if he wasn’t careful, others besides Theo would start to wonder why Ben’s agitation whenever the man’s name was mentioned had increased so markedly since he’d come back to to England.
But even Theo, who could be counted on to discourse at length upon almost any topic, could not bring himself to ask outright if his brother harbored inappropriately tender feelings for another man.
“I thank the Lord every day that Sibilla had the good sense to marry Sayre instead of that ridiculous fribble,” Benedict said, falling back into his seat with a grunt. And Theo had thought to request his brother’s help? No, the poor sot had enough troubles of his own.
“You’re just replete with happy tidings today, aren’t you, Ben? Next thing you’ll be telling me that Uncle Christopher and Great Aunt Allyne have run off to Gretna Green to tie the knot. Or that Kit and his radical Irishwoman have been thrown in gaol for sedition.”
When Benedict did not answer, Theo sat up straight and grabbed his brother’s arm. “Ben? You would have told me at once if something had happened to Kit, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, Theo. It’s nothing that bad, at least not to my way of thinking. But I’m not sure how you will take the news.”
“Just tell me. Please.”
“Yes. Well, then, our own Irish radical, Kit’s Fianna, is with child.”
Theo dropped his head back against the chair and groaned. “Of course she is.”
“Then I’m correct that you’re not pleased?”
“Pleased that the chit might be foisting another man’s babe on our kindhearted brother? No, pleased is not the word I’d use to describe the situation.”
Ben shook his head. “Knew I’d best tell you of it first. If you’d said anything the like to Kit, he’d have planted you a facer. And I’m not too sure I wouldn’t join him.”
“The woman was a courtesan, after all,” Theo said. “And if the babe is a boy, he’ll be in line to inherit the title, since neither you nor I have sired any legitimate children. Do you really want another man’s bastard feathering the Saybrook nest?”
Now it was Benedict’s turn to lay a comforting hand on Theo’s knee. “It’s his child, Theo. Kit assures me of it.”
“Yes, well, you and Kit had better not die before me. Better yet, why not follow Kit’s example and go forth and be fruitful yourself?”
“Look to your own nursery,” Benedict retorted, shoving his brother’s feet off the hassock. “You’re the eldest, and the one with the title. It’s your duty, not mine, to provide a suitable heir, if you’re not happy with the current prospects.”
“Marry? Me?” Theo’s laughter died in the face of his brother’s frowning countenance. He knew he’d have to marry sometime. But after proving such a disappointment to his first family, he’d not been in any rush to start a second.
“Yes, you, Theo. You are Saybrook now.”
Theo rubbed the back of his neck. Could he risk it, marrying? Raise a lady’s hopes, only to dash them when she discovered what a dolt she’d wed?
But perhaps she needn’t find out. If she preferred the country, and he restricted himself to town, why, they might never have to spend more than a few days in one another’s company each year.
Theo sipped, letting the unexpected notion swirl about his brain. If he married, his wife would undoubtedly bring a dowry with her. And if he married well, that dowry should be considerable. And then it wouldn’t matter if he, or Atherton, or even Haviland never found out how those the funds had gone missing. He could simply set this whole distasteful business aside.
Just his luck that the London season had just ended, wasn’t it? In the spring, he might have chosen and courted a likely lady with little trouble. But now that the summer was upon them, the ton had scattered to all four corners of the country. Which young ladies were summering in Bath, and which in Brighton? And which were spending their days at their family seats?
He’d spent so much of the past year cup-shot, trying to forget his father was gone, to get it fixed in his brainbox that his own unworthy self was now the head of the family. No wonder he could barely remember the names, never mind the faces, of the myriad young women to whom he’d been introduced while squiring his sister about town.
Theo sat up in his chair. “Benedict, what’s the name of that color? You know, the one that’s brown, but not quite?”
“Umber? Van Dyke Brown?”
“No, no, no. Brown, but with some green mixed in.”
“Green Earth? Olive?”
“No, not those, either. That strange color you find in some peoples’ eyes.”
“Hazel?”
“Yes!” Theo cried, banging his glass down on the table beside him. “Hazel. Lord, I’ve been trying to remember that word all week.”
Benedict lounged back in his chair with a lazy grin. “The color of Mr. Atherton’s eyes? And his daughter’s, too?”
“Is it?” Theo asked, being careful not to catch the eyes of his far too insightful brother.
Because when Theo tried to imagine a wife, the only vision filling his ridiculous brain was that of the eminently unsuitable Harry Atherton, her lips lush with his kiss, those green-brown—no, hazel—eyes staring up at him with unaccountable wonder and pride.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Saybrook, please stop hovering. You’re worse than a fly at a picnic.”
Theo grunted his indignation at the comparison, but Haviland Mather ignored his rudeness, and remained diligently focused on the ledgers in front of him. Fres
h as a daisy, too, he looked, damn the fellow. As for Theo, he’d not slept at all well last night, what with money and marriage and the myriad problems of his siblings hanging over his head like a veritable armory of swords. But a man who inherited an English title couldn’t simply give its powers or its responsibilities back to its previous owner, as that panderer Damocles had, could he? With a muffled curse, he threw himself into a chair and ran a restless hand through his hair.
“Does not that make you the spider, Haviland, if I am the fly? And those damned ledgers the web in which you’re trying to ensnare me?”
Haviland snorted. “I believe it was you who invited me to walk into your parlour, Saybrook, not the other way round. And you enticed me with coin, not with false flattery.”
“Well, I might have to resort to flattery if you don’t hurry up and find out what’s happened to all my coins. Didn’t you say you’d be finished by this morning?”
“Yes, but things are proving a touch more complicated than I anticipated. Here, if you’ll just look—”
A knock on the library door cut Haviland off before he could plague Theo with another damned ledger. “Come.”
Parsons entered, looking almost as harried as Theo imagined he himself did. “Excuse me, my lord, but Mr. Atherton is being attended by the physician, and we can’t find Mr. Dawber or any of his sons, and the gang captain isn’t taking too kindly to Mr. Benedict’s request to sit for his portrait . . .”
Theo stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, sending up a silent prayer for patience, before returning his gaze to the footman. “I’m sorry, Parsons, but I’ve not the least idea of what you’re speaking. Have we a press gang on our doorstep?”
Haviland choked back a laugh.
“No, my lord, not a press gang. The shearing gang,” Parsons said. At his continuing look of incomprehension, Parsons added, “To shear the sheep?”
