by Candace Camp
“Is this Darkwater?” she ventured, and Rachel nodded. “Somehow I assumed it would be dark and brooding. The illustration in the book looked darker.”
“Oh, no, the name comes from the tarn near there. The tarn is black as coal. But the house is beautiful and light. At least from a distance. Up close, it’s rather falling to ruin. But gracefully. It’s limestone. When the sun hits it like this, it does look golden.”
That was the way Devin had painted it, with rich golden light cascading over the stones almost like water, the windows of diamond-shaped panes glittering.
“He painted that from memory,” Rachel went on. “He did it after he left home. This is one of the tarn.”
She pointed to another, smaller, picture, this one of an inky black pool set in the midst of outcropping gray rocks. It was a darker picture, shadowed and cloudy, with a single shaft of sunlight shooting down from the sky like a sword, its light swallowed up in the blackness of the pond. Miranda shivered involuntarily. It was as vivid in its own way as the lighter paintings, but its richness created an almost eerie scene, quiet and brooding, the piercing sunlight at war with the landscape. The other paintings were starker, too, one of a dark four-poster bed beside a window, the tangled white sheets a backdrop for a vivid red velvet dress tossed upon it, and another of a white washing bowl and pitcher upon a dark wood dresser, a bloodred rose lying wilting beside it in a splash of color. But in all of them there was the same richness of texture and color, the same expert hand in the details.
“May I see them sometime in the day?” Miranda asked, turning to Rachel, her eagerness showing. “I’d love to look at them in better light.”
“Of course. You like them?”
“I think they’re magnificent. I—” She came back to the painting of the bed with the bright red dress lying carelessly across the rumpled sheets. The painting was deeply sensual, almost erotic, and it stirred Miranda in a primitive, essential way. “I don’t know what to say. Are these recent?”
Rachel’s face clouded. “They are more recent than the ones in the gallery. But he doesn’t paint anymore. He hasn’t for several years.”
“He doesn’t!” Miranda gaped at her in almost comical shock. “You mean he stopped? He doesn’t paint at all? Or draw?”
Rachel shook her head. “Nothing.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. I asked him once or twice, but he always shrugs it off. He just says he got tired of it, or that it began to seem foolish. It’s all part of the way he lives.” Again bitterness crept into her voice. “His friends…the drinking and gambling and…” Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged expressively.
“I can’t believe it. That’s a sin!” Miranda’s eyes turned back to the paintings.
“I know.” Tears sparkled in Rachel’s eyes. “I only wish Dev realized what a gift he has, what talent. He doesn’t see the beauty he has inside him.”
Miranda frowned as she followed Rachel out of the room and down the stairs to the ballroom. She and her father left soon after, and she was subdued all the way home in the carriage. Was it possible, she wondered, to fall in love with a man over soul-stirring artwork and a few equally stirring—albeit in a different area—kisses? It seemed absurd. Yet Miranda could not deny that there was a new and wonderful feeling inside her.
However, she was smart enough to keep her thoughts to herself. She knew that if she told her father that she was considering even the faintest possibility of marrying the Earl of Ravenscar, he would plague her to death, and she did not want to have to deal with his arguments while she was still tussling over the subject in her own mind.
She allowed her father to show her the papers he had acquired since he had first got wind of the Earl of Ravenscar’s eligibility. These included an accounting of the sorry state of his finances, sent over by the trustee, Ravenscar’s uncle, Rupert, as well as a description supplied by the estate manager of all the myriad problems of the estate and a long list of repairs needed to bring the house itself into good condition. It was a depressing recitation of woes that would have daunted most people; Joseph knew his daughter well enough to know that such a financial mess would only set Miranda’s fingers itching to fix it. Miranda knew his purpose, and she allowed that it was a tempting situation. However, while it was reassuring to think that she would have plenty to keep herself busy if she did indeed marry Ravenscar, it was not enough to impel her to take that plunge.
Nor was the beauty of the art the man had produced enough, though it filled her with awe and a swelling joy all over again when she called on Rachel the following morning to view Devin’s paintings in the bright light of the day. His artwork was, if anything, even more beautiful in full light, for it allowed one to see the full power of his work. Rachel wisely left her alone and free to peruse the paintings as much as she wanted. Miranda sat on a velvet-cushioned bench in front of the paintings in the gallery and wondered with a certain sad amazement how the man who had painted these could have given it up. And though she felt almost as if she were looking into his otherwise well-hidden soul when she gazed at his art, Miranda knew that it, too, was not alone the source of that joyful, slightly scary new feeling in her chest.
That feeling had a great deal to do with those torrid kisses in the dimly lit garden and, perhaps even more so, with the strange, almost dizzy sensation she felt when she looked into his eyes, as though she were standing on the edge of a high precipice—and wanted to throw herself headlong into the void.
Miranda was a woman who was used to trusting her instincts. Quickwitted and intuitive, her first reaction was usually the right one, and she was confident in her decisions. However, this was an arena in which she was not familiar. Miranda had never been in love. She had not passed through that giggling, moon-eyed stage when it seemed that she was falling in love every few weeks, as many other women of her acquaintance had when they were young. She had been busy at the time buying up real estate on Manhattan Island.
It was not that she had had no experience with men. She had a full social life in New York. She flirted with men, danced with them, even allowed a few to pay court to her. But she had never found herself in love with any of them. Did this funny ache in her chest when she thought of Devin Aincourt signify that she was in love? Did the fact that she could not stop thinking about him mean that she should attach herself to him for life?
Whatever it meant, she knew that she was enjoying it. And she knew that she wanted to see Ravenscar again.
Her first opportunity came two nights later at the opera. Her father had rented a box for the season, since they had planned to stay in London several weeks, but this was the first opportunity they had had to attend. Elizabeth was flushed with excitement as they took their seats in the lavish box, and even Hiram, her father’s assistant, who usually wore only one stoic expression, looked happy to be there. Miranda, seated beside Hiram and armed with a set of opera glasses, scanned the audience. She found Devin’s mother, seated in a box with Rachel and two other women of Lady Ravenscar’s age, as well as a couple of faintly bored-looking men. However, there was no sign of Ravenscar himself. Miranda wondered if the opera was something Ravenscar shunned; he did not seem the sort to attend simply because his mother or sister pressed him to do so.
Rachel caught sight of Miranda watching them, and she smiled and bowed in the direction of their box. Miranda smiled back, lowering her glasses. She cast another look around the rows of boxes. Across from her, and closer to the stage, a new party entered one of the empty boxes. There was a woman dressed in emerald green, and three men in black-and-white evening dress came in with her. Miranda drew in her breath sharply. Even from the back, she recognized one of the men as Devin.
Almost as if he had heard her, the man turned and glanced around the opera hall. His eyes stopped at Miranda’s box, and he looked straight at her. He made no bow, merely raised his eyebrows a trifle, then turned away. Miranda smiled to herself. His haughty dismissal did not bother her. It only sh
owed how well she had gotten to him the other evening, and she liked the fact that he rebelled against marrying for money.
But who was the woman with him? For the first time in her life, Miranda felt the sting of jealousy. Scooting her chair to the side of the box and a little farther back, where she was hidden in the shadows, she raised her opera glasses again and studied the woman in the box with Devin.
She was beautiful. Miranda’s chest tightened, and she clenched the opera glasses tightly. The woman was golden—her hair a deep honey blond and her large, round eyes a startling golden brown. Even her pale skin was not so much white as the very faintest shade of gold. She was dressed in the first stare of fashion—perhaps beyond the first stare, Miranda decided, as she took in the full effect of the gown. It was the lowest cut neckline Miranda had ever seen, dipping perilously close to the woman’s nipples. She had full, lush breasts, certainly worthy of showing off, and they threatened to spill out of the top of her gown at any moment. Emeralds sparkled at her ears and wrist, and a matching pendant dangled from her neck, drawing the eye to where it brushed the tops of her breasts. Her hair was pulled back to the crown of her head by a wide green satin ribbon, and from there it cascaded down in a tangle of rich, thick curls. Her features came close to perfection, marred only by a rather short upper lip—but even that flaw seemed to add to her looks, for it gave her a decidedly sensual look.
As Miranda watched, the woman turned and looked up at Ravenscar and smiled. It was a secret, tempting smile, and with that one look, Miranda knew that this woman was more to Devin than just an acquaintance whom he had escorted to the opera. Was she his mistress? Did he love her? The questions burned in Miranda, and as the opera started, she found herself studying their box as much as she watched the show unfolding onstage.
They were visited at intermission by Lady Ravenscar and her brother, Sir Rupert Dalrymple. Miranda had met him briefly at Lady Ravenscar’s failed dinner party, and she found him a pleasant and entertaining enough conversationalist, but tonight she had difficulty keeping her attention on anything he said. There was only one person she was interested in seeing here, and she could not keep from glancing now and again at their open box door, hoping that she would see him there.
When she finally did look up to see Lady Westhampton coming through the door, followed by her brother, her stomach did a crazy flip, and she dropped her fan.
“Hallo, Mother. Uncle Rupert.” Ravenscar’s eyes slid to Miranda, then over to Hiram, without acknowledging either one of them. Miranda suppressed a smile, knowing that he had again, without speaking, given away the fact that seeing her disturbed him.
He went on to greet her father, who in turn introduced him to Mrs. Upshaw. Elizabeth colored slightly and whipped open her fan, bringing it up to cover the silly giggle that escaped her. Despite her protestations against him, Miranda thought, slightly irritated, her stepmother was no more immune to his good looks than any other female.
Ravenscar bowed to her, then turned toward Hiram, his brows raised faintly in question. Miranda’s father said quickly, “Oh, this is my assistant, Hiram Baldwin. You met him at my house the day that you, well, ah…” Joseph’s voice trailed off as he realized, belatedly, that Ravenscar’s memories of the day Miranda turned down his proposal might be less than pleasant.
“Oh, I am sure that Lord Ravenscar does not remember, Papa. He barely saw anyone that day,” Miranda stuck in.
Ravenscar turned toward her. “Miss Upshaw. Certainly I remember you.”
“I had wondered, since you did not greet me when you entered,” Miranda said pleasantly.
“Boy has no manners,” Ravenscar’s uncle interjected with a jovial laugh. “You must forgive him, Miss Upshaw.”
“Must I?” Miranda replied lightly, and though she spoke to his uncle, her gaze was on Ravenscar. His eyes remained equally fixed on her.
“I am sure Miss Upshaw is not surprised, Uncle,” Ravenscar drawled in his most irritatingly upper-crust voice. “She is well aware of what a barbarian I am.”
Miranda smiled at him with false sweetness, and he swung abruptly away. “I must take my leave now. Mr. Upshaw, Mrs. Upshaw, pleased to meet you. Baldwin. Miss Upshaw.” He pronounced her name with great precision, turning back toward her and adding a bow so courtly it was a sarcastic statement on its own.
“My lord. So pleasant to see you, as always.” Miranda returned his gesture with an equally grand curtsey.
Devin’s jaw clenched so hard that she could see the muscle in it jump. Then he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, ignoring the protesting look shot him by his sister.
Rachel turned and went to Miranda, saying in a low voice, “I am so sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with Devin tonight. He has been excessively sour from the moment he came into Mother’s box this evening. He was the one who suggested he escort me to your box. I didn’t even think about it, because he was looking so glum and glowery. Then he comes here and acts perfectly rudely.”
“Don’t worry, it doesn’t bother me,” Miranda responded with absolute candor.
The truth was, the exchange with Ravenscar had left her feeling rather invigorated, and Rachel’s revelation that it was he who had wanted to come visit their box was even more encouraging. There had been something in his eye when he turned to face Hiram that in anyone else Miranda would have identified as jealousy, and it made her smile inside to think that perhaps Ravenscar had wanted to come to their box to discover exactly who the man was who was sitting beside her.
“I was wanting to talk to you, Lady Westhampton,” she said, linking her arm through Rachel’s.
“Rachel.”
“All right, Rachel. Why don’t we take a stroll out in the gallery?”
“Of course.”
Rachel went with her readily, her curiosity obviously aroused. Once out in the grand hallway, Miranda glanced around and led Rachel toward the least populated area she could find, lowering her voice and bringing her head close to Rachel’s.
“Now,” Miranda said, “tell me about the woman who came to the opera with Ravenscar.”
7
The face Rachel turned to Miranda was almost comical in its dismay. “Who?”
“The woman with whom your brother came, the blond beauty.”
“Oh. Oh, well, she’s no one really. Lady Vesey is her name.”
“Is she Ravenscar’s mistress?”
Rachel drew in her breath in a gasp. “Miranda!”
“Well?” Miranda fixed the other woman with a pleasant but determined gaze. “You don’t know me well, so I will tell you that I will eventually worm out of you everything you know about her. So you might as well go ahead and tell me all about her now.”
Rachel looked at her uneasily. “I really—you shouldn’t—”
“If you think that telling me about her will ruin the possibility of my marrying your brother, let me assure you that it will make absolutely no difference. Well, no, that is not true. You see, I believe in knowing everything I possibly can about a venture before I enter into it, whether it is buying a piece of real estate or having a dress made—or getting married. I want to know everything—good, bad and all the variations in between. Without all the details, I cannot make an informed decision. So I think that it is highly unlikely that I could marry your brother until I have discovered precisely what his relationship to Lady Vesey is.”
Rachel let out a groan.
“I promise you, I am not naive,” Miranda went on. “I know that people here like to think of Americans as unsophisticated, and perhaps in some things we are. But when it comes to matters of scandal, I will wager that we are as up-to-date as Europeans. I know that men frequently have mistresses. I would not expect a man, especially one such as your brother, not to have had, well, shall we say, affairs of the heart? But I have to know what I’m dealing with. What is Lady Vesey to him? Does he love her? It is scarcely fair to me, you must admit, to expect me to go into something like marriage blindfolded.”
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Her companion cast her an agonized look. “No, you are right. It is terribly unfair of me to not want you to know. But I am afraid—oh, please, do not hold it against Dev. He was very young when he met her, and—and the woman is a witch! A harpy! She sank her claws into him, and she’s never let go.”
Rachel stopped and sighed, then began again, her voice calmer. “Her name is Leona, and she has been considered one of the greatest beauties of the Ton since she came to London—many, many years ago,” she added cattily. Rachel smiled self-deprecatingly. “Well, I don’t know how old she is, exactly, but I am sure she is several years older than Dev. She was already an established beauty and Lord Vesey’s wife before Dev came to London. When he came here, he associated with artists and other young men of whom my father disapproved, young men whose lifestyle was very free and easy. He did gamble and drink and womanize, I’m sure. He had done the same sort of things even at home, and every time it brought about a major battle with Father. I almost think that is why Dev did them—to antagonize our father. I think I told you that in London he became even wilder, but, still, I think he was not much worse than most young men.”
“They are apt to sow their wild oats,” Miranda said encouragingly.
“Yes, you know how it is,” Rachel said, grateful for her understanding. “He had actually met Leona at home at Darkwater. Her husband’s estate is not far from ours, and he saw her there. Of course, nothing would have come of it, because Leona rarely visits Vesey Park. But then Devin came to London. And he saw Leona again. Well, you know what she looks like. You can imagine how pretty she was then, in her youth. Dev fell in love with her—hopelessly, helplessly in love. A better woman would have discouraged him. A kinder one would have sent him on his way after a brief affair. But Leona is neither good nor kind. She is wicked, and she led Dev into all the same wicked pursuits she followed.”
“Was it over Leona that your father disowned him?”
