by Karen Ranney
“You would trust me, then, Your Lordship?”
The two men studied each other for a long moment. Robert finally understood the older man’s hesitation.
“I never faulted you, Tom. Not once. It was an accident. It could have happened at any time, to anyone. It was not because of your driving.”
“You never said, sir.” Tom looked down at his shoes.
“Something else to lay at my doorstep, then, Tom, that I never thought to do so.”
“You were injured, sir. I understood.”
“I should have told you later, at least. I should have eased your mind.”
Tom looked up at him, his features softening.
“You have now, sir, and I’ll have the coach and horses readied in the hour.”
Robert turned to leave, glancing at Janet standing in the hall, unabashedly weeping and making no effort to conceal it.
Words weren’t important or even necessary at that moment. Robert did something he’d never done in all the years Janet had faithfully and tirelessly worked for his family. He enfolded her in his arms, and let her cry against his chest.
Sometime later, she pulled free, blotting at her tears with her apron.
“There’s something you should see, Your Lordship,” she said, turning and glancing over her shoulder at him. He had no choice but to follow her again, even as an invisible clock began ticking in his mind.
At the head of the stairs, she turned to the left and opened a door. He had to bend over to enter the room, and when he did, he saw Margaret’s painting.
“I looked, sir. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”
“I’m prohibited, Janet, from removing that drape.”
She nodded and strode past him, pulling the cloth free and exposing the portrait. He hadn’t seen it after that first day, and now he could only stare at the unfinished work.
“I think it explains some, don’t you, Your Lordship?”
He didn’t have a response as he turned and left the room.
“Your Lordship?”
He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder.
“She wanted for me to tell you good-bye, sir. But I’ve never heard anyone sound as sad.”
He didn’t have any words for Janet as he descended the stairs, intent on London and saving Margaret.
Chapter 26
Her homeland was occasionally barbaric, but never so much as in matters of travel. Tom had taken her to North Linten Village, where Margaret took a small coach to Inverness. From there, she had a choice of traveling overland to Aberdeen and taking a ship to Edinburgh or simply traveling south to Glasgow by coach to connect with the Caledonian express train to London. Granted, by taking the train she’d cut twelve hours from her trip, but she’d spent twice that much time—not to mention the expenditure—in getting to Glasgow.
Margaret hadn’t the funds for a first-class ticket, so she and a hundred or so other poor souls shared the third-class compartment, each of them no doubt pretending not to notice the cacophony, the smoke, and the sheer awfulness of the accommodations.
The train reminded her too much of her childhood, the grimy faces, the noise, and the sheer effort to keep clean. Margaret never thought of her mother without a rag in her hand and a chiding look on her face, the caution, “Mind you, child,” on her lips.
Her mother had still been a young woman when Margaret was born, but by the time Margaret left for Italy, her mother had grown old.
A little girl with wide brown eyes peered over the seat in front of her, reminding Margaret of her oldest sister, Elizabeth. How old would Elizabeth be now? Ten years older. A matron, if she’d married. How many children did she have?
Ten years. In one way, it was so very long, and in another, such a short span of time. How innocent she’d been, and how utterly brave.
Courage was a commodity of the very young and the very naive.
She’d sent money home, half the proceeds of her first commission. She’d been so proud of that painting, the portrait of a wealthy child. The little girl wouldn’t sit still, and Margaret had finally allowed her to play on the floor with her puppy. It had only been a natural progression to paint the girl in that pose. The parents had been ecstatic, her mentor had been furious, and she’d learned a very valuable lesson.
She should listen to her own intuition above any other voice.
Her mother had never made mention of the money, and Margaret had continued to send money when she could. There was never a thank-you, never a word written between them. She wasn’t certain the money had ever actually reached her family. The only clue was a badly scrawled letter from her oldest brother saying he appreciated how she helped when she could.
Why was her family so much on her mind?
The little girl grinned at her, showing a gap-toothed smile. Margaret had no choice but to smile back. If she’d had a sweet, she would have given it to the child, but all she had was a pistol in her reticule.
Had Penelope been as charming? No doubt she had been, and McDermott felt her loss each and every day.
Was that why she was thinking of families? Was McDermott in her mind even now?
Next you’ll be telling me you’re only human. If that’s the case, why are you playing at being God?
Go away, McDermott, and thankfully, he did, leaving her to the somberness of her thoughts.
Did she really want to die for the sake of vengeance? If she wasn’t caught, if she somehow escaped the consequence of her actions, did she want to live knowing she was a murderess?
Did she want to destroy her future for the sake of the past?
The questions were intrusive, a conscience given voice. Where had it been resting all this time?
The truth was, at one point, she’d wanted to die.
In Edinburgh, when she had been destitute and alone, when her talent had left her, and she’d nothing and no one else, she’d known complete and utter hopelessness. Death seemed like a culmination in the book of her life, a final page simply needing to be written.
But then she’d come to Blackthorne Cottage and learned that life was not made up solely of pigments and brushes, and the play of light on silk or the lustrous nature of pearls. Her life had become long walks, the sound of foxes, and the wind through the trees. Her life had become Glengarrow, Janet’s smile, and still, cold winter nights.
And passion.
Her life had always been measured by her paintings. Point to a portrait, and she could recite the year, the place it was painted, and how much she’d charged for the commission. She could relate, in excruciating detail, each brush she’d used, the techniques she’d employed, and what pigments she’d mixed and when.
But she could not recall if she’d been sick or well, if she’d learned anything about her subject, if the days had been mild and fair or stormy. Life had simply stopped for her in those months, and she’d no memories to recall—only the finished portrait of a stranger.
Each successive painting reflected the essence of her life, the whole of it. In the last year, however, she’d no talent, no commissions. She’d had to rely on herself for meaning each day, and somehow she had found it. The initial grief at losing her way had been supplanted by a strong and determined instinct for survival.
Somehow, in the midst of simply surviving, Margaret Dalrousie had become more important than her painting. Happiness, simply living well and completely from day to day had become a goal more reasonable, realistic, and exciting than the completion of another portrait.
She’d returned to herself in an odd way, one she hadn’t expected. She’d learned, in these last months, that she didn’t like cabbage or lamb, that she enjoyed strong tea throughout the day. She disliked poetry but loved novels. The sunrise here in the Highlands touched her heart, as did the small, brave yellow flowers growing along the lane in the summer. Despite the fact she’d only initially barely endured her daily walks, she’d come to enjoy them.
She was no longer simply Margaret Dalrousie, painter. She was Margar
et Dalrousie, woman, friend, neighbor, and lover. Not everything was pressed down and moved aside to make room for her painting. Her art, her talent, her ability to capture the essence of a human being and place it on a flat linen surface was no longer the whole of her. Surprisingly, startlingly, shockingly, it was only a part of who she’d become.
Did she want to die now?
Unbidden, McDermott came to mind: his striking face, his arresting eyes, and a look of sadness deep enough to melt the coldest heart. His voice, low and resonant. His quick temper, and his scalding wit. His physique, a beauty so natural it pained her to look at him sometimes, knowing she didn’t have the skill to paint him the way she wanted.
Being with him had been an interlude, nothing more. Being with him had been like a sweet on a crowded train, an unexpected delight in the midst of misery.
Why, then, did she have the sudden feeling that what she was doing was morally corrupt and elementally wrong? Worse, this act of vengeance was capable of destroying hope, and hope was an emotion she’d not felt in a very long time.
In less than an hour, Robert was away from Glengarrow, heading toward London.
Let him be in time, and the entreaty was made to a God he’d not solicited for a great many years. Ever since Amelia died, he’d felt as if God himself had turned His back on him. Now, divine intervention seemed not only wise but necessary.
He knew Harridge by reputation. The man was an idiot. He’d come to his title barely a teenager, and ever since then had spent a great deal of time and effort attempting to squander his fortune. Robert wished he’d kept up with society in the three years he’d been gone. But it didn’t surprise him one whit that Harridge might have been among the group of men who’d attacked Margaret. The man’s reputation had been deplorable before Robert left for France. He doubted if the intervening years had improved it.
He wasn’t crossing Scotland for the sake of the dissolute Duke of Harridge, however, but for an impossibly stubborn woman with fire in her green eyes. A woman who’d forced him to stop looking over his shoulder at the past and directed his attention to her, instead.
He would not lose another woman he loved.
Margaret felt as if she’d been traveling for weeks instead of just days. Grime clung to her, and her clothing was streaked with soot from the train.
She loved London, wasn’t that odd? The city was like a giant beast into which she’d crawled. London never slept, but thrummed with activity, its heart beating with the call of its inhabitants.
The city smelled like sulfur sometimes, the fog almost yellow in the fall. But this was almost spring, and she could swear she smelled flowers.
Although her solicitor had not provided her with the Duke of Harridge’s address, Margaret found it wasn’t all that difficult to discover it. Evidently, men like the duke did not make a secret of where they lived.
She paid the carriage driver and turned and looked up at the town house occupying most of the fashionable square. The steps were wide and lined on either side with a metal railing. The door was painted black, with a gleaming brass knocker.
She knocked on the door, and it was opened immediately by an imposing man with white hair and a stocky frame. He frowned at her, but bowed, nonetheless.
“I should like to see the Duke of Harridge, please.”
“I do not believe His Grace is at home to callers, madam.”
She clutched her reticule tightly and forced a pleasant smile to her face.
“Are you entirely certain?”
“I am especially certain, madam.”
“I have come a very long way,” she said. “I’m a friend from Russia.”
He regarded her stonily for a moment, then relented, opening the door only barely enough that she could enter. Thank heavens she’d not thought to wear her full hoops. She would never have made it through the door.
“If you will wait here, madam.”
When had she become a madam and not a miss? Had the last year become visible on her face? Her age had never been a touchy subject with her, which was just as well now.
The footman stood beside her in the foyer, no doubt a guard in case she decided to make off with the phenomenally ugly, and therefore no doubt valuable, vase standing beside the bench. Two Japanese plates were arranged on the sideboard, as well as a bronze lamp in the shape of a horse. Was the rest of the Duke of Harridge’s home filled with such abysmally ugly objects?
Before she had a chance to mull on the fact that being a peer didn’t necessarily mean being born with any type of good taste, the majordomo returned. This time, his frown was slightly deeper, and the smirk on his face indicated the Duke of Harridge was indeed home but chose not to meet with her.
Her face heated, pinpricks of feeling that seemed to go through her skin to the bones beneath. Her heart began to pound loudly, and her breath grew tight. Her eyes filled with tears, making her even more enraged. Why was it every time she became angry she wanted to cry?
She forced her fists to unclench, all the while forcing herself to breathe deeply. She needed to have her emotions under control. Her composure restored, she pulled the pistol from her reticule.
“I am very sorry,” she said at the look of astonishment on the majordomo’s face, “but I truly must see the duke.”
The footman didn’t appear the least concerned she was leveling a pistol on them. He followed the majordomo down the hall, with Margaret in the rear.
The duke’s taste did not become appreciably better the farther they traveled. Brightly hued flowers edged the crimson carpet in the corridor, clashing with the beige-and-brown-checkered silk pattern of the wall coverings. The duke evidently had a passion for all things bronze. The sconces mounted on the wall were twisted stems resembling vines gone amok, ending in flowers made of blown glass tinted a pale pink.
Altogether, it was a rather hideous scheme.
The majordomo hesitated before a heavily carved door and looked back at her. Margaret remembered the gun in her hand and leveled it at him.
“Go ahead,” she said, nodding toward the door.
The majordomo knocked, and when a masculine voice answered, opened the door slightly.
“Your Grace, forgive my intrusion, but the young lady is most insistent.”
The majordomo had a gift of understatement. Margaret nearly rolled her eyes.
He pushed the door open wider, stepped aside for Margaret to precede him, and then glanced at the gun again. A lifetime of decorum was not easily pushed aside, it seemed. With a sigh, he entered the room, followed by the nonchalant footman.
Margaret followed, finding herself in what was no doubt the duke’s library. The room was masculine and comfortable, and one of the few places unmarked by the duke’s atrocious taste. Walls of gilt-decorated books darkened the room, but two large windows on either side of the fireplace let in the sunlight. Two hunter green chairs were arranged in front of the fire, while a massive mahogany desk sat in front of the far wall.
Turning, she waved the muzzle of the pistol at the majordomo.
“You may wait outside,” she said.
He looked as if he wanted to protest, but one last look at the pistol changed his mind. The two men left the room, and she slowly closed the door behind them before facing the Duke of Harridge.
At first she couldn’t see him. But then, she caught sight of a figure on the far side of the room, standing in front of the crimson draperies. A man in shadow.
Before she could address him, the painting over the fireplace caught her attention. Slowly, she walked toward it, each footstep soliciting a corresponding beat of her booming heart. The closer she got to the painting, the harder it was to breathe.
The top edge of the frame hung only three inches from the ceiling, but then the portrait was nearly life-sized and required a great deal of space.
She’d labored on this painting for three solid months. The Duke of Harridge, taking his grand tour and a little more.
She hadn’t remembered his
name, but she remembered the young man only too well. He was the product of an upbringing characterized by benevolent indifference, his arrival feted as befitted a male heir; his rearing left to nannies and an occasional brave tutor. His companions were not unlike himself, bored young men who all shared a dislike of their parents’ injunctions and society’s restrictions.
They did not, however, attempt to gain more worthwhile employment for their hours. They were, after all, nobility, young men whose sole purpose was to marry well, wager less heavily than their fathers, and maintain a slightly indifferent air toward their inferiors in order to impress upon those poor souls they were in the company of their betters.
Their preeminent occupation was waiting for their fathers or uncles or guardians to die so they could assume a position of power. The Duke of Harridge had already come into his title and because of that, he was one of their leaders.
The attack on Margaret had been a diversion, nothing more, a night’s occupation to relate with laughter at a later date.
Maidservants and footmen alike were loath to interrupt this particular group of young men once the sun had set. Even their peers avoided them. Margaret, however, imbued with her own arrogance, had thought herself protected. What an utter fool she’d been.
The duke had chosen to be painted in a French-style drawing room, the brilliant blue of the curtain echoed in his embroidered waistcoat and stockings. He’d been posed standing, his face and eyes intense and directed toward the artist. One hand had been at his side, the other arm with elbow bent, his palm flat against his waistcoat.
Memory flooded into her mind. He’d been the most obnoxious young man, refusing to obey her dictate of silence, always trying to charm her into allowing his friends into the sitting, attempting to shock her with non sequiturs and double entendres. She’d not been amused, only grateful when the sittings were finally done. He’d paid her more than her commission, an insult in itself. She’d returned the extra money in a note.
Was that why he’d singled her out to be attacked? Because she’d dared to refuse him? Because she hadn’t considered herself fortunate to have garnered his attention?
