Sophia shook her head a little, dazzled despite herself. Then, having collected herself, she said, with what she hoped was credible sobriety, “Perhaps you should both bring a chair over and explain what it is that has you here in such haste. Especially when I thought we’d agreed to see each other tomorrow, Lord Benedick.”
Exchanging a look she could not read, the brothers retrieved chintz-covered wingback chairs from where they sat on either side of a trestle table, and moved them to sit facing Sophia’s settee.
“Well?” she prompted when they’d settled. “What is it?”
Ben’s mouth tightened. “Someone has taken it into his head to challenge your entries in the exhibition. He claims they’re obscene. And he asked me, as the vicar of the parish, to support him in it.”
Chapter 9
“I suppose it’s Mr. Morgan who finds my work so objectionable?” Sophia asked, her blue eyes narrowed with annoyance.
Ben had only been mildly surprised to learn that she’d abandoned her sitting room for the art studio. It was impossible to imagine her sitting quietly while she waited for her ankle to heal.
The room itself was impressive. Large enough to allow for paintings of all sizes, and with a view that could inspire even the most novice of artists to capture it. Lady Celeste Beauchamp had been an accomplished woman, with talents ranging from classics to mathematics. But this room made it clear that she had as much love for art and painting as she did for the others. This was a shrine to color and light and had been carefully crafted as the perfect space for creation.
Now, settled across from where Sophia reclined on the settee, he was relieved to see that she appeared better rested than she had that morning. Though the news of Morgan had put a crease between her tawny brows.
“It is, indeed, Morgan who has come forward asking that your paintings not be shown in the Exhibition,” he responded. “He hasn’t even seen them, but apparently the description of their content was enough to convince him that they are inappropriate for a public event that will include mixed company.”
“He must have seen the title and description that I turned in to the exhibition committee,’ Sophia said, her rosy lips pursed with anger. “Because no one has seen them but the members of this household and the servants. And after the difficulty we had with disloyal footmen in the past, Kerr and Maitland have made quite sure that our men now are corruption proof.”
“Who might have shown him your submission forms?” Freddie asked, serious now that they were discussing Morgan. “Is there someone on the committee who is particularly friendly with him? Or who might have alerted him to the content of your work?”
Ben watched as she thought about the question. Her rose colored gown showed her creamy complexion to advantage, and he couldn’t help but appreciate the way the bodice—which was all that was respectable—framed her bosom. When he looked up, Freddie caught his eye and gave him a wink. Caught out, he gave himself a mental shake and turned his attention back to Sophia’s face.
“There are any number of people on the committee who might have alerted him,” she said grimly. “He’s done a good job of ingratiating himself with many of the village leaders. Times have been difficult for the farming families since the bad harvests a couple of years ago. And that in turn has affected business in the village shops. Morgan has been quite good at using that discontent to his advantage, playing the benevolent industrialist, making contributions to local groups that were in need of funds. Offering jobs at his estate. People are grateful to him. And willing to overlook some of his more questionable pronouncements.”
“Such as crying foul over artwork that just happens to call into question the morality of his own wealth?” Ben asked.
“Precisely,” Sophia said with a nod. “I knew, of course, that the factory worker painting would draw his ire. His own textile mill in Yorkshire is responsible for any number of child workers being killed in the machinery, or dying more slowly from cotton lung. He feels guilty, and I want him to.”
“May we see them?” Ben asked, suddenly needing to see the works that Morgan found so obscene.
“Of course.” Sophie gestured to the area behind them.
Turning, Ben saw for the first time that what he’d thought was a partition, was actually a rolling wall of sorts. And it was hung with three paintings. He’d been so focused on Sophia when they entered the room he’d been blind to the details of what hung on the walls.
He and Freddie rose so that they could look fully at the works.
And he was nearly overwhelmed by them.
If you didn’t look closely, it would be possible to miss the crumpled prostitute in the first painting. The light and animation of the theatre entrance was so engrossing. And yet, it gave pathos to the fallen, forgotten woman whose death was of no concern to the rich and powerful who passed only a few feet away. It was dark, and engrossing, and perhaps one of the most provocative works of art he’d ever seen.
Beneath it was a different tableau—it had the same effusive use of light as the other had—that depicted a child lying lifeless on a bed, his mother weeping at the bedside. In a small vase on a bedside table was a cotton blossom. Impossible to get in England, of course, but it was symbolic here. A nod to the cotton mill that had taken the boy’s life. On the floor lay an advertisement for child workers at just such a mill. It was nameless, but Ben could well imagine Morgan seeing his own factory in the image.
“You have real talent, my dear,” said Freddie at last, turning to face Sophia. “I admit to having a certain degree of skepticism when I heard you were a painter. There are so many who fancy themselves artists simply because they’re able to pick up a brush and daub on a few spots of color. But these are…” he seemed, to Ben’s amusement, at a loss for words. Freddie Lisle was very rarely unable to find something to say.
“They’re powerful,” Ben said moving to take Sophia’s hand. He found himself needing to convey his appreciation with touch. Which was odd, but the artwork had engendered strong emotions in him. Despair for the people depicted, anger at those who had put them in such straits, and oddly, thanks to the skill and beauty of the art itself, hope. “I, too, I must admit, was not expecting such dramatic work from you.”
At Sophia’s frown, he raised a staying hand. “Not because I thought your paintings would be boring. It’s just that your personality is so…”
He searched for a word—well aware that he was in the same position his brother had been in. And to his disappointment, Sophia made no move to supply one.
“You’re so effervescent,” he finally settled on. “You’re funny and frank and you have such a practical demeanor. I suppose I didn’t imagine you would have such bold and challenging things to say in your art.”
Sophia gave his hand a squeeze. “I think that’s the most insightful thing anyone has ever said to me about my work.”
Reluctantly he let her go and moved back to sit in his chair facing her. If Freddie weren’t there, he’d have been sorely tempted to pull her into his lap and hold her. Which was utter madness. But it seemed that madness was becoming his default emotion in her company.
“I am rather prosaic about most things,” she continued, staring down at her hands. “It comes of having impractical parents, I think. Gemma and I had to fend for ourselves when it came to the practicalities. But that doesn’t mean I am without feeling.” She looked up and met Ben’s eyes. He could see that she was sincere and a bit defensive. “I feel things very strongly. But it’s not always convenient to dwell on emotions when you’re concerned about making sure cook will have dinner ready, or the laundry maid won’t ruin your best gown. Beauchamp House had allowed me the luxury, for the first time in my life, of letting my emotions flow onto the canvas. I can say without exaggeration that this is my best work. And it was done here, in this very room.”
Ben wanted to question her further about her life with her parents. Where had they been while she was seeing to the running of the household? As far as he
knew they were both still living. So, why had she been burdened with such chores? But he could see it wasn’t the time for that discussion. Instead, reluctantly, he turned the subject back to Morgan.
“How can we ensure that Morgan doesn’t get his way?” he asked. “These paintings deserve to be seen. They deserve to hang in the exhibition along with the other locals’ art. You are just as much a resident of this village as they are. And I would venture to guess that no one else’s work will be as powerful or carry as necessary a moral message.”
“We’ll need to speak to the committee,” Sophia said with a martial glint in her eye. “And I know just where we should begin.”
“Not to dampen the fight to get your paintings seen, Miss Hastings,” Freddie said, “but there is also the matter of the forgery ring, and its implications for the nation’s safety, operating out of Little Seaford. I believe my brother told you we think the conversation you overheard at the Morgan Ball could be related?”
Ben bit back a curse as he saw Sophia’s expression turn from excitement to annoyance. “We discussed the possibility of a forger, of course, but not a forgery ring. And certainly nothing about it affecting England’s security. I hope this isn’t another of your attempts to protect me, Vicar, for I will tell you here and now, that I will be quite put out with you if that is the case.”
For a man who’d been seconded by the Home Office, Ben thought darkly, his brother had an extraordinary skill for spilling secrets.
“I can assure you, Miss Hastings,” he said aloud, “I intended to tell you about the full extent of the plot and its interest to the Home Office just as soon as I was able. I only learned of it myself last evening when my brother showed up unannounced on my doorstep.”
All of which was the truth. However, he chose not to tell her that he’d planned to keep the news from her until she was recovered from her injury, and therefore less likely to risk her health through overexertion. If it was a sin, it was by omission. And surely keeping her from harm would be looked upon as a virtue by anyone other than the lady he was attempting to protect.
He had the distinct feeling that Sophia was not convinced, and yet, she didn’t argue. With a raised brow, she turned to his brother and said, “I suppose I’d best hear the whole tale, then.”
But Ben didn’t want her to know about something that might put her in danger. “Perhaps when you’re more recovered, Miss Hastings,” he said with a speaking look at his brother.
“Lord Benedick, you begin to annoy me,” she said with a tilt of her head, her blue eyes lit with a spark of pique. “My brain has not been injured. Only my ankle, which the last I checked, is incapable of reason. I should hate to think you are one of those tiresome males who believes us to be the weaker sex, who cannot endure more than two thoughts in our heads at a time.”
The accusation stung. Especially since he’d only just finished telling her in plain terms what Morgan thought of her paintings. “Miss Hastings,” he said, feeing an unaccustomed wash of anger, “I thought we understood one another better than that. Of course I don’t see you—or any woman—as unintelligent merely because of your sex. I merely wished to ensure that you do not come into danger by knowing more than you should about matters that are known to only a handful of people. My brother and myself included.”
Sophia opened her mouth to respond, but Freddie spoke up, holding up a staying hand to stop them both from speaking. “If I may interrupt, Miss Hastings, being married, myself, to a headstrong, intelligent lady, I do understand your annoyance with my brother. But having known him for many more years than you have, I can attest to the fact that he is the least likely man of my acquaintance to dismiss a lady’s mind as inferior. He is, however, quite concerned with the safety of everyone who falls within the scope of what he sees as his responsibility.”
He wasn’t wrong, Ben reflected, but it was damned uncomfortable to be summed up so easily.
“I can assure you that he knew nothing about the government’s interest in the forgery ring until I told him not long after my arrival last evening,” Freddie continued. “I cannot say whether he intended to tell you before my clumsy revelation, but my guess is that he would have told you eventually. Just hadn’t decided when to do so.”
Ben met Sophia’s eyes, which had softened at his brother’s words.
Looking a bit sheepish, she said, “I suppose I should apologize, Lord Benedick. Perhaps I am more snappish than usual thanks to a lack of sleep.”
“Think nothing of it, my dear,” he told her with a smile. Then, unable to let the moment pass without owning up to his own wrongdoing, he admitted, “I might have been waiting to tell you about the Home Office later, as Freddie said. But not because I think you to be inferior. Simply because I thought Morgan’s threats against your paintings were enough to bring to you while you were under the weather.”
Sophia sighed. “I suppose that’s not entirely a bad idea. As much as it pains me to admit it.”
Quickly, Freddie gave her a summary of what the Home Office knew about the criminal activity they suspected was centered in Little Seaford.
“I had no notion,” she said when he was finished. “And you really work for the Home Office?”
Ben gave a soft cough at his brother’s momentary pique at the skeptical tone in her voice. Then, his good nature overcoming his wounded pride, Freddie gave an elegant shrug. “They are, at the moment, short of investigators. And my friend who works with them recalled that Ben had been living here, so thought he might be drafted into service.”
“Which I am, of course happy to do,” Ben said with a shrug. “I am in a position to know most of the families in the area.”
He gave Sophia a mischievous look, “And perhaps a friendship with one of Little Seaford’s foremost artists can help me understand more about painting and the art world.”
She shook her head. “I might have known you’d find a way to charm your way back into my good graces.”
“My dear Miss Hastings,” Freddie said, raising his quizzing glass, “he is a Lisle. Of course he is charming.”
She didn’t comment, but said, “I do believe I know just the people we need to ask about both Mr. Morgan’s objections and who might be involved in any sort of art forgery in the area.”
“Don’t keep us in suspense.” Ben thought perhaps Sophia was enjoying the prospect of a fight. Not the need for it, certainly, but she wasn’t someone who backed down from a challenge. And she now had several.
“Of course you already know them, Lord Benedick.” Sophia said with a grin. “But I believe your brother will enjoy making the acquaintance of the Primbles.”
They were just the sort of people Freddie would find fascinating.
“Freddie, old son,” he said, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “I believe you’re in for a rare treat. And Miss Hastings is perfectly correct. The Primbles, whose home is an artist’s colony of sorts, will be able to ensure Morgan doesn’t get his way, as well as give us some idea of who among the local artists might be involved in the forgery ring.”
Freddie’s brows rose with interest. “Then lead the way to these fonts of artistic wisdom.”
Before Ben could remind him of Sophia’s infirmity, she spoke up.
“Tomorrow,” Sophia promised with a gesture to her ankle. “I’m afraid today I’m still not up to a carriage ride. And if the two of you try to go visit our resident eccentric artists without me I will never forgive you.”
Ben knew from her tone that she was serious. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Hastings. Though I’ve met the Primbles in my capacity as vicar, we will need your artistic credentials to lead the way. I don’t know a Rembrandt from a Rubens.”
“We would never be so ungentlemanly as to leave you behind, Miss Hastings,” Freddie said with a hand over his heart. “No matter how much my brother urges me to do otherwise, I will not allow him to abandon you.”
To Ben’s amusement, Sophia only pursed her lips a little at Freddie’s foolishn
ess before turning to speak to him. “I trust you, Lord Benedick,” she said. And it was hard not to read more than was likely intended by the words.
“I shall see you tomorrow, gentlemen,” she continued with a firm nod. “You may pick me up at ten in the morning. And I promise not to make you wait overlong for me to find just the right hat.”
“You didn’t tell me she was considerate as well as a lovely, brother,” Freddie said in a stage whisper.
Ben took his brother’s elbow to his ribs with good humor, though he didn’t miss that Sophia’s color rose at the bit of flattery.
He’d have liked to have a few moments alone with her to assure himself that she was indeed improving, but there were lines of fatigue around her eyes that told him she was in more pain that she professed.
“Get some rest,” he said aloud, though his tone was gentler than his words. “We’ll see you tomorrow and determine whether you are ready for a jostling drive then.”
Before she could argue, he and Freddie bowed and took their leave.
* * *
Later that evening, Sophia was reading in bed when, to her surprise, Lady Serena came to her.
“You seem to be feeling better,” she said with a gesture to Sophia’s injured ankle as she took a seat in the chair beside the bed. “I take it Dr. Holmes’ treatment has helped?”
Setting her book aside, the first volume of Pride and Prejudice, which she’d sought out after her discussion of it with Ben that morning, Sophia nodded. “And rest,” she admitted sheepishly. “I am ready to admit that my decision to attend the ball last evening was not my finest decision.”
Serena’s blue eyes, so very like her brother the duke’s, lit with mischief. “Oh how I could use that information to my advantage. An admission of wrongdoing from one of the Hastings sisters!” She clasped her hand to her chest in mock astonishment.
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