by Amanda Scott
Instead of the shock he expected to see, her face registered relief. “That letter! But Aunt never received it. How—”
“The mail coach carrying it was attacked by robbers.”
“Robbers?”
“Yes, and lest you leap to the unwarranted conclusion that I was one of them”—he saw by her expression that that was just what she had been thinking—“let me inform you, my girl, that I was not. Vyne, Dawlish, and I intervened, and I saved your letter from being ground to dust beneath a horse’s shoe. They had emptied the mailbags into the road, you see.”
“I suppose the direction must have been made illegible, and that is why she never received it.”
“A good part of the letter was illegible,” he retorted, “but there was a comment about being at your wits’ end and seeking relief in a watery grave. I do not recall the exact words—”
“I do,” she said, chuckling, “but they do not bear repeating. I meant that merely for a jest, sir.”
“Not a pretty one,” he said grimly.
“No, I suppose it was not.”
“You must see now how I was led to my conclusion. I confess, my first impression was that the original comment was meant to be humorous, but then I saw what heavy responsibilities you bear here. Still, when I chanced to see that second note, your composure convinced me I was mistaken. But last night I decided the serenity is but a mask you wear, and this morning, to hear the pistol shot and find you ...” He spread his hands.
She nodded. “I do see how it was, and I suppose your shock is in a great way responsible for the harsh way you treated poor Freddy, too, but I still say—”
“Don’t say it! I have not the least desire for you to believe I smacked that lad out of shock or fright. I smacked him because he deserved smacking. You know he did.”
He was learning to read her expressions well, and he could see now that her emotions were mixed. She said, “My Aunt Augusta would agree with you—indeed, she has said precisely the same thing on more than one occasion—but I cannot bear to see a child hurt, sir, and Freddy is only nine.”
“What do you intend to do with him?” he demanded.
“Why, he must go to school, of course. We are waiting for the next term to begin at Eton.”
“Eton!” He grinned. “Do you know anything about the headmaster at Eton, Miss Adlam?”
“Only his name,” she said. “He is Dr. Keate, I believe.”
“Yes, a great man! He has quite a reputation, and no doubt will be the making of young Freddy.” When her frown disappeared, he checked his next words, seeing no good reason to inform her that Keate was also known as a famous flogger. He was beginning to see that Miss Adlam was very tenderhearted, an admirable quality unless carried to excess. He would not distress her. In any event, Freddy would soon learn his own way, as most boys did, and the place would do him good. “I went to Eton myself,” he said conversationally.
“Did you, sir? I never went to school. I had governesses, of course, but I think I should have liked a school. When Sara Ann is old enough, I mean to find one for her if she wants to go. If not, of course, I will be delighted to keep her at home.”
“You will no doubt be married long before then,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows. “Perhaps I shall, but I do not see why or how that could affect what becomes of Sara Ann.”
“She is the responsibility of your papa and mama, surely.”
She laughed. “Oh, no, sir. Even my brother, Jack, never thought such a thing, though he might have been forgiven for doing so, since he has not seen them for nearly fifteen years and cannot know how frail Mama has become or how fixed in his own world is Papa. The children are as much mine at the moment as if I had borne them myself, sir, and any man I marry would have to accept that fact. Unless, of course, Jack and Nancy should return to England and take the children to live with them.”
“You sound as if you welcome the responsibility. But surely, you are too young and inexperienced—”
“I love it,” she said, interrupting him. She went on with more enthusiasm than he had yet seen in her, describing Tom and Sara Ann in glowing terms, and telling him some of the more amusing things Freddy had done, and how greatly the children had enriched her otherwise mundane life. She had clearly forgotten Miss Theo and Vyne, for a time at least.
He made no attempt to remind her, but listened with amused tolerance, thinking that when she was animated, she was almost as pretty as her sister, and wondering why it was that she was so nearly on the shelf. She was so earnest, so vibrant, and her eyes had softened. They were lovely. Lazily, he let his gaze drift over her, taking in the soft womanly curves and wondering how long it would take him to bring her around his thumb, to—
“Lord Crawley.”
He looked up and saw at once that something was wrong. Her tone of voice had changed, and the expression in her eyes was no longer gentle. He was reminded again of his old nurse, even of his strictest schoolmaster. That thought startled him. She was not in the least like that master. He must be losing his mind.
“You were not listening, sir.”
“Certainly I was,” he said, dragging his thoughts back to what he could recall of her conversation. To prove that he had not been inattentive, he said, “The children sound delightful, but I fear you are going the wrong way about raising them, for they would all do better not to be coddled. Tom ought to be in school right now, not encouraged to wander about London on his own without proper guidance, as it sounds like he has been doing, and as for young Freddy—”
“I am sure you believe your advice to be excellent, my lord,” she replied politely, rising to her feet, “but my sister must have gone downstairs by now, and as you said yourself last evening, it will not do to leave her alone with Sir Richard.”
Before he could get to his feet, she swept past him to the door, opened it, and went across the landing to the stairs. Feeling as if he had been soundly slapped, and well aware that he had taken a large misstep, he followed swiftly in her wake but made no attempt to stop her.
Felicia could feel her cheeks burning and knew it had been a great mistake to open herself so much to his lordship. He was clearly not interested in her thoughts or her opinions. He had made that perfectly clear when he began telling her just what was wrong with them. Since it was extraordinary for her to reveal herself in such a way, she could not imagine how she had come to do so with him, a mere fortune hunter—moreover, a fortune hunter interested primarily in her sister. But he had only to smile at her, and she found herself telling him her innermost thoughts. She had even told him how indignant she was that Jack and Nancy had so casually sent their children to England, insisting she could never have done such a thing. Since their having done so was not thought unusual by the rest of her family or her friends, Felicia had looked right at him then, waiting for him to disagree with her. Instead, she had seen at once from his expression that he was not listening to her. But when she challenged him, not only had he denied his abstraction, but he had promptly begun telling her she was doing all the wrong things.
She could not think why it annoyed her so much that he should behave so, since he was nothing to her and she rarely expected people to be interested in such things. Focusing her attention upon the northeast-parlor door, she turned her thoughts to Theo and Vyne, so when she entered the room to find that the curtains had been ruthlessly swept back from the windows and the furniture shoved higgledy-piggledy all to one side, she smiled serenely at the sole occupant of the room and said, “Has Theo not yet come down, Sir Richard? How naughty of her! But she rarely gets up so early, you see, and so you must not be angry with her.”
Vyne scarcely acknowledged her entrance, for he was carefully setting a chair in place in the center of the room, glancing behind him as he did so to take note of the way the light fell upon it from the windows. Looking up, he said, “It is of no concern at the moment, Miss Adlam. I can do nothing else until I decide upon the light. Oh, Crawler,” he adde
d, seeing Crawley enter behind her, “grab two of those side chairs for yourself and Miss Adlam, will you?” Then, when Crawley had moved to obey, he glanced back at Felicia and said, “I sent one of your footmen to fetch her, so she will not be long.”
Felicia was not so certain of that, but before he got the chair in the exact position he desired, Theo swept into the room, looking magnificent in a Parisian robe of pink silk, trimmed with coquelicot and black velvet. Her sleeves and bodice were adorned with black lace, and she wore a matching pink silk turban with one long end trailing carelessly but most becomingly over her shoulder. The costume was the height of fashion, but since Theo’s blond curls were half hidden by the headdress, Felicia was not as displeased as she might otherwise have been to hear Sir Richard say curtly, “Take that damned thing off your head.”
“I will not,” Theo retorted. “Papa said I may wear whatever I like, and the turban goes with this dress. And since certain people”—she glanced pertly at Felicia—“will not let me wear it to parties, saying I must wear insipid white muslin instead, I shall wear it for my portrait. And you, sir, are being paid to paint, not to order persons about. So pray, tend to your painting, and don’t try to tell me what to do.”
Felicia turned anxiously to Sir Richard, fearful that he might reply in kind, and wondering how she might stop him, but to her surprise, he was just watching Theo, frowning as he did so. He said nothing for a time, walking all the way around her and looking her over from head to toe. Finally, he said, “Sit in that chair. I want to see how the light strikes you.”
With a toss of her head and a smugly triumphant smile, Theo walked over and sat down, smoothing her skirt and twitching the end of her turban into a position that better pleased her.
“Sit still,” Vyne muttered.
“I have not got my skirt quite right,” Theo told him.
“It doesn’t matter. I haven’t got that far, nor will I today. I want to set a few poses and draw some sketches, but that is all. Tomorrow you can change that ridiculous dress.”
“I will not,” Theo snapped. Turning to Crawley, she batted her lashes and said, “You like this gown, do you not, sir?”
“Certainly,” Crawley said, smiling at her. “A delicious confection, and very fashionable.”
She said to Vyne, “You see!”
“He can’t see the dress,” Vyne said scornfully. “He’s too damned busy trying to imagine you without it.”
Theo gasped, and Felicia bit back an unladylike gurgle of laughter, thinking that the artist was no doubt right, though he ought never to have said such a thing. She turned to see if Crawley would deny the accusation.
He said blandly, “A man would have to be blind and without a drop of red blood in his body to fail to attempt that feat once he had seen Miss Theo; however, I can assure you that all I see now is that magnificent gown. Truly, Miss Theo, that dress is so marvelously elaborate—with all that poppy red and black velvet trimming, you know, that one does see only the gown, so you need not fear my imagination. It would take one more active than mine to get past all that decoration to the lovely girl beneath it.”
Felicia opened her mouth to say that that was no doubt precisely Vyne’s point, but she saw at once that Theo had fallen silent and was giving thought to Crawley’s words. Casting a glance at him, she wondered if for once she had misjudged him. But when he smiled at her, she looked quickly away again. Wrong or not, she told herself, she was still not ready to face that smile without losing her equilibrium. Did the man always have such confidence? He must know that he had infuriated her earlier, not to mention the night before. Yet there he sat, smiling as if he had never done a thing out of turn, and the great wonder was that it was as if he had kissed her again.
Vyne ordered Theo to turn her head, and Felicia forced her attention back to her sister, fearing for a moment that there would be more rebellion. Theo’s mouth did tighten dangerously, but Crawley said, “I cannot think how one can follow your instructions, Dickon, for it must be impossible to sit like another person tells one to sit. I don’t know how she does it.”
Theo threw him a smile. “It is not so hard,” she said, relaxing and tilting her chin up a few degrees. “This is what you mean, is it not, Sir Richard?”
“Turn toward me now from the waist,” was his only response, but she obeyed without comment, and continued adjusting her position as he directed until he was satisfied.
Felicia glanced again at Crawley, but he did not return her look this time, apparently having eyes only for Theo. Felicia turned away, wondering why she should feel disappointed. Surely, he had done just what she had asked him to do, which was to keep Vyne from distressing Theo. That he had done it by charming Theo into obeying Vyne ought not to surprise her, let alone unsettle her, for she knew perfectly well that such tactics were the best ones to use. Why then should it annoy her that Crawley had used them?
The respite was a brief one, for Theo’s ability to sit perfectly still was not nearly great enough to suit Vyne’s wishes. “You’re moving,” he said.
“I want to move. I have been sitting like this for hours.”
“You have been sitting five minutes by the clock.”
“That cannot be so!”
Felicia said pacifically, “It has been a little longer than five minutes, Sir Richard.”
“Don’t talk. You distract me.”
“I ought to have got Papa to commission Mr. Lawrence to paint my portrait,” Theo declared. “No doubt he is a gentleman.”
“No such thing,” the artist retorted. “Tom’s the son of a Bristol innkeeper and damned proud of the fact. Now button your lip. I am trying to sketch your head at the angle I want.”
“Mr. Lawrence must be kinder than you are,” Theo said waspishly, though Felicia noted with surprise that she did not alter her pose. “I do wish he were painting me.”
“Serve you right if he were. Not only would you find yourself sitting for his numerous pupils as well as for Tom, but his manner is too facile to suit anyone of taste. It lacks dignity, and his choice of colors is downright blatant.”
Chuckling, Crawley said in an aside to Felicia, “Dickon and Tom Lawrence are much the same age, you see, but Lawrence became a student at the Royal Academy at eighteen. They didn’t take Dickon until he was nearly twenty, and he was two years behind Lawrence both when it came to being admitted as an Academy associate and then as a full member.”
Vyne, overhearing him, snapped, “Tom gave up his crayons for oils only a year before they let him into the school.”
“But he had his own studio in Bath when he was twelve, Dickon. At the same time you were playing cricket at Eton and getting yourself sent to the headmaster’s study for drawing naughty caricatures on the walls of our dormitory.”
Vyne laughed, and Felicia was amazed to see how much his countenance changed. His eyes lighted up, and he seemed almost handsome for once. She saw that her sister was also looking at him in astonishment. He said, “I had forgotten those drawings. How I smarted for them! No, Miss Theo, you have moved again. Look toward the window but turn your shoulders toward me. Yes, that’s it. It will not be much longer now.”
Theo muttered, “I am sure this must be a most unnatural position for anyone to take. It cannot look well.”
Crawley chuckled. “You have a mirror, Miss Theo. Surely, you must know what a beauty you bring to any pose.”
Theo laughed, and Felicia saw Vyne begin sketching even more quickly. She had been watching him carefully, and it seemed to her as if his pencils had wings. She was no novice herself when it came to sketching, for she had been well taught and possessed most of the accomplishments expected of young ladies of fashion. She enjoyed sketching, too, albeit not nearly so much as riding. But she knew she could never draw as fast as Sir Richard. He ripped off the page and dropped it to the floor, but his pencil never stopped moving. Curiosity overcame her at last, and she stood up, moving to see what he had done.
“Stay back,” he growled, h
is gaze flicking back and forth from Theo to his pad. He did not spare a glance for Felicia.
“I would like to see what you have drawn,” she said.
“I don’t show my sketches,” he said, still drawing.
“But surely ...”
The pencil stopped moving, and he glared at her. Then his gaze swept over Theo and Crawley as he said, “Understand me, all of you. I do not show work in progress. You will see what I have done when I have done it, and not before. Indeed, Miss Adlam, I will trouble you now to give me the key to this room, and your word that no one will attempt to enter it when I am not here. I will take my sketches away with me today, but once my easel is set up, I shall not want to move it between sittings. I must be assured that it will be safe from prying eyes.”
Theo said indignantly, “You cannot keep me from seeing what you are doing, Sir Richard. It is my portrait, after all.”
Vyne snapped, “Since Adlam is paying me, it is his portrait, but only the finished work is his. I cannot imagine why anyone would wish to see anything less than that.”
Theo looked mutinous, and even Felicia felt that Sir Richard was taking the matter a trifle too far, but Crawley said, “You will not make him change his mind, ladies, so do not try. Have you the key by you, Miss Adlam?”
“No,” Felicia said with a sigh, yielding, “but I will fetch it directly.” She went to do so, and when she returned, she found the gentlemen ready to leave. Theo bade Sir Richard an extremely civil farewell and Crawley a much warmer one, but the moment they were gone, she said irritably, “I cannot think why you allowed that dreadful man to bully you so, Felicia.”
“He does have the right to expect his work to be kept safe,” Felicia said.
“But the parlor will become dreadfully dusty,” Theo pointed out. “Surely, you must mean for the maids to tend to it.”
“That is a point,” Felicia said, smiling at her, “but you needn’t think you fool me, miss. You do not care a rap for a tidy parlor. You only want to see what that man is painting.”
