River of Fire

by Mary Jo Putney

  "Stupid of me to draw the duke as he appeared in the studio," Sir Anthony muttered to himself. "I should have tried to imagine him as he was then." He gave the captain a quick glance. "Is there anything else I should consider."

  Wilding gestured toward the background of the painting. "The soldiers are as clearly visible as on a fine day in May. That's wrong—the battlefield was a stinging hell of black powder smoke. Sometimes it was impossible to see a hundred yards away."

  Sir Anthony's eyes narrowed in thought as he studied his painting. "I can use transparent gray glazes to get that effect. But Wellington is the key. The steel. I must show the steel."

  The captain asked Rebecca, "What pictures are in the series besides this and the cavalry charge in the dining room?"

  She went to a portfolio and removed two drawings. "The finished paintings aren't here, but these sketches are fairly accurate. This first one shows the allied regiments lined up along the ridge as far as the eye can see."

  Wilding came to look over her shoulder. She was intensely aware of the warmth of his body, mere inches behind her. This man had been through the hells of the Peninsula and Waterloo, and survived. Like Wellington, he must be pure steel within. She asked, "Where were you positioned?"

  He pointed. "About there, a little left of center. I spent most of the day skirmishing around a sand pit."

  "For me, what makes the painting is these men in the foreground." Rebecca indicated the figures of a young ensign and a grizzled sergeant who were guarding their regimental colors. Above them, the Union Jack curled and snapped in the wind, defying the French army that stood in silent ranks on the opposite side of the valley.

  "It's always the particular that moves us, not the general," the captain said reflectively. "A youth on the verge of his first battle who wonders if his courage will be equal to the challenges of the day. A battle-scarred veteran who has faced death again and again and wonders if this time his luck will run out. Any viewer who looks at this must wonder if these two men will survive what lies ahead."

  From his voice, Rebecca knew he had been both of those men at different times in his career. As a youth he had found the courage, as an experienced officer his luck had held, and the forge of battle had tempered him into what he was now. He was utterly different from anyone she had ever known, and that difference fascinated her. She wanted to lean back against him, to absorb his warrior power and determination.

  Mouth dry, she pulled out the second drawing. "The second picture is the defense of the Chateau de Hougoumont." The fight for the chateau had become a vicious battle-within-a-battle, with a small number of allied troops withstanding two and a half French divisions. Her father had chosen the moment when the French had broken into the courtyard and the defenders were fighting savagely to push them out before it was too late. "He wanted a scene of furious hand-to-hand combat."

  "Soldiers at their most primal. It's a fitting companion to the grandeur of the cavalry picture."

  She nodded, impressed. Not only was he a warrior, but he was very perceptive about paintings.

  Her father looked over from the Wellington picture. "Do you think this series will tell the story of Waterloo?"

  To Rebecca's relief, the captain moved away from her. "It says as much as four pictures can," he replied.

  "I hear a reservation in your voice," Sir Anthony said shrewdly. "I've done the beginning, the end, the infantry, and the cavalry. What other scenes do you think should be included?"

  "If I were you," Wilding said hesitantly, "I would do two more. The next would be Wellington shaking hands with Prince Blücher when the British met up with the Prussians near La Belle-Alliance. The Waterloo campaign is the story of many nations standing against a common enemy. If the Prussians hadn't arrived late in the day, the victory would not have been decisive."

  "Mmm, an interesting possibility," Sir Anthony mused. "And what would be as the final painting?"

  "Show the price of victory," the captain said flatly. "Show exhausted, wounded soldiers sleeping like the dead around a campfire. In the darkness beyond them, show the tangled corpses and broken weapons. Show how all the victims of battle lie together in the democracy of death."

  There was a long silence before Rebecca said softly, "You have a vivid way with words, Captain."

  "And a good mind for pictures," her father added. "I shall consider what you have suggested. Indeed I shall."

  In the pause that followed, a surge of desire swept through Rebecca, the most powerful emotion she had felt in months. She must possess Captain Wilding, capture his essence so that something of him would always belong to her.

  Beyond caring for propriety, she crossed the room and touched his cheek, her fingertips skimming along the scar. It was smooth and hard to her touch. "I surrender, Captain," she said huskily. "I'm afraid that I simply must paint you."

  Chapter 7

  Rebecca's words and light, sensual touch startled Kenneth so much that all he could manage was a feeble, "I beg your pardon?"

  "I've been yearning to have you for a model since you came here." She moved back a step. "You're quite irresistible."

  The words would have sounded suggestive coming from most women. Rebecca Seaton, however, looked more like a frugal housewife eyeing a chicken and deciding it would do nicely for Sunday dinner. Dryly he said, "Should I be honored or alarmed?"

  "Oh, certainly alarmed." She glanced at her father. "Do you mind if I borrow Captain Wilding for an hour or two a day?"

  Sir Anthony smiled. "I understand perfectly—in fact, I'm tempted to repaint the sergeant in my prebattle scene to look like Kenneth." His keen gaze went to his secretary. "They say a soldier's eyes show how much combat he has seen. Everything I wanted to say about that sergeant is in Kenneth's face. But you can have him first, if he's willing."

  Rebecca asked, "Are you willing, Captain?"

  Kenneth shifted uncomfortably under the twin scrutiny of father and daughter. These damned artists saw too much. However, he'd wanted more time with Rebecca and this opportunity was too good to pass up. "Your wish is my command, Miss Seaton."

  "Then come along to my workroom."

  "Give me a few minutes." He indicated the disordered studio. "First I must detail a maid to clean up before the spilled paint ruins the carpet and furniture."

  "Make sure whoever you send works quietly," Sir Anthony ordered. He got a tablet and pencil, then sat and began to sketch with swift, sure strokes.

  Kenneth opened the door for Rebecca. As she passed, he noticed that her knot of hair was starting to come unmoored from its pins. The silky auburn strands didn't take kindly to discipline. The tousled result made her look as if she had just emerged from a bed.

  For the hundredth time since entering Seaton House, he reminded himself to concentrate on business. He checked on the servants to see what had transpired while he was out and sent Betsy, the most careful maid, to Sir Anthony's studio. Then he went up to Rebecca's sanctum sanctorum.

  He knocked and entered when she called permission, looking around with interest. Where Sir Anthony's studio had the elegance of a drawing room, Rebecca's lair had whitewashed walls, slanted ceilings, and the casual comfort of a farmhouse kitchen. The windows that faced the street were the usual size, but large, open windows across the back wall of the house admitted a soft, even north light. An artist's light.

  And everywhere, there were paintings. Some were hung, others were unframed canvases tilted against the walls. The lavishness of image and color stunned his senses.

  Rebecca was curled up in a large chair, a sketchbook in her lap and a pencil in her hand. She waved at the sofa opposite. "Make yourself comfortable, Captain. Today I'll just do a few studies. I need to decide how best to portray you."

  "If we're going to be in each other's pockets every day, you really should call me Kenneth," he said as he took his seat.

  She gave him a swift smile. "Then you must call me Rebecca." The hazel of her eyes was flecked with green, giving her penetr
ating gaze a feline quality.

  "I've never modeled before. What should I do?"

  "For now, just relax and try not to move your head."

  As her deft fingers sketched, his gaze went to the paintings within his field of vision. Her style had some of her father's classical precision, but with a softer, more emotional quality. Many pictures portrayed women as famous figures from history and legend. Without moving his head, he could see half a dozen paintings that equaled the splendid Boadicea hanging downstairs. "Have you ever exhibited at the Royal Academy?"

  "Never," she said without looking up.

  "You really should submit your work." His gaze went to a powerful Judith and Holofernes. "Show them what a woman can do."

  "I feel no need to prove that," she said coolly.

  Silence reigned for a time, broken only by the faint scratch of her pencil. After admiring the paintings within view, Kenneth's attention went to Rebecca. Her wrists were delicate, almost fragile, yet there was strength in her long, supple fingers. She was twisted sideways in her chair, which hitched her muslin gown several inches above her ankles. They were as slender and shapely as her wrists.

  Though Rebecca lacked Maria's voluptuousness, she was every bit as sensually alluring. Whenever she bent her head over her sketchbook, he got a tantalizing glimpse of her nape. The pale skin seemed almost translucent next to her richly colored tresses. He wondered what she would do if he kissed her there. Probably tell him to sit down so she could finish her sketches.

  The room seemed warmer than could be accounted for by the small coal fire. Shifting his gaze away from her didn't help; he was as conscious of her body as if she were nestled in his lap. Under the scents of linseed oil and coal smoke, he detected a light floral fragrance. Rosewater, he thought. Elusive, feminine. Not unlike the lady herself.

  What would she look like wearing nothing but rosewater and a shimmering veil of auburn hair? His heartbeat quickened and perspiration began to film his forehead.

  Damnation! He was unused to idleness; no wonder his imagination was spinning erotic fantasies. It didn't help that it had been months since he had lain with a woman. He had found the lightskirts of Paris much like French pastries: sweetly enjoyable and quickly forgotten. Rebecca Seaton would be a very different dish.

  Knowing he must distract himself before he started to smolder, he commented, "Sir Anthony in a rage is an alarming sight. I don't blame you for being frightened."

  "I wasn't afraid," she said with mild surprise. "Father would never hurt anyone. I just don't like shouts and flying objects."

  Her faith in her father was rather touching, but Sir Anthony's outburst had convinced Kenneth that the painter was capable of doing grievous harm. Had Helen Seaton challenged her husband about his mistress and become a victim of the kind of fury displayed today? What kind of woman had Helen been?

  Now seemed a good time to learn more. He asked, "How did your mother like being surrounded by mad artists?"

  "She loved it." Without looking up, Rebecca tore off a page of her sketchbook and set it aside, then resumed drawing on the sheet below. "Friends called her the queen of the London art world. Every poor artist in the city knew she could be relied upon to lend a few pounds to keep starvation at bay."

  "Did they ever pay her back?"

  "Occasionally." Rebecca smiled reminiscently. "Some painters repaid her with specimens of their work. Usually bad ones, since first-rate artists are less likely to need loans."

  "That explains the dreadful landscapes in my room. She must have been trying to hide them."

  "Very likely," Rebecca agreed. "If they offend you, something better can be found. Heaven knows there are plenty of paintings in this house."

  "Could you lend one of yours?" He scanned the ones he could see. "Perhaps that marvelous one opposite me. Diana the Huntress, I think." The goddess was standing quietly, her hand on a bow as tall as she, and a pensive expression on her face. It reminded him a little of Rebecca.

  "If you like." She flipped to another page of the sketchbook. "I have a frame that will suit it nicely."

  "Before you continue, do you mind if I take a break?" he asked. "I'm not used to sitting still for so long."

  "Oh, of course. I'm sorry." She smiled ruefully. "When I work, I forget how much time is passing. Would you like tea? I usually make a pot about this time every day."

  "That would be much appreciated." Kenneth stood and stretched to loosen the tightness in his shoulders.

  Rebecca rose and went to the fireplace, bending gracefully to hang the kettle over the fire. "Give thanks that you're modeling for me instead of my father. He's even more ruthless than I am." She examined him with eyes that seemed to slice through to the bone. "Father was right—you would make a wonderfully formidable sergeant in the prebattle picture."

  "I should look the part. I was a sergeant for years."

  "A sergeant? You?" She stared at him.

  "I took the king's shilling and enlisted when I was eighteen," he explained. "Later I was promoted from the ranks."

  "For conspicuous bravery," she said softly. "That's always the reason, isn't it?"

  "That's part of it, but a certain amount of luck is involved." He smiled a little. "One must be brave within sight of an officer who will recommend the commission."

  "You're a man of surprises, Captain. From your speech, I assumed you were..." She paused, disconcerted.

  "You assumed I was a gentleman," he said helpfully.

  Her eyes dropped. "I'm sorry. Obviously you are a gentleman, and all the more credit to you for earning what is usually an accident of birth."

  He shrugged. "Actually, my birth is respectable, but I was estranged from my father, so I had no money to buy a commission. That meant enlistment."

  "What caused the estrangement?"

  Feeling uncomfortable, he began strolling the length of the attic, staying in the center to avoid banging his head on the angled ceiling. He was supposed to be probing Rebecca; how had things become reversed? "A year after my mother's death, my father took a seventeen-year-old wife. We... didn't get along."

  "It would have been hard to accept any stepmother so soon after your mother's death," Rebecca said sympathetically. "A girl your own age in her place must have seemed indecent."

  Far worse than indecent. For an instant, remembered rage and revulsion reared their ugly heads. Kenneth clamped down on the feelings, reminding himself that he had not been without fault in what had happened.

  "It didn't help that she wasn't a particularly nice person. However, my father was in love. Or in heat, to be more accurate. I could not stay under his roof." Turning the conversation, he continued, "Do you think your father will remarry? And if he does, how will you feel about it?"

  She looked startled, as if she had not yet considered the possibility. "That would depend on whom he marries," she said without enthusiasm. "I'll have to wait and see."

  "Is Lavinia hoping to be the next Lady Seaton?"

  Rebecca bent to take a jar of tea from a small cabinet. "I doubt it. Under her brash exterior she's really quite sweet, but I think she's too fond of a widow's freedom to give it up. Father will probably remarry someday, though. He likes having a wife to pamper him." The kettle began steaming, so she lifted it from the fire and poured hot water to warm the teapot. "There's a picture of Lavinia behind you."

  He turned and quickly found Lavinia among the un-framed canvases leaning against the wall. Clad in revealing classical draperies, she reclined on a Greek sofa, her gaze a cool invitation. In the eternal struggle between the sexes, Lady Claxton would be hunter, not quarry. "Let me guess," he said. "She's portrayed as Messalina, the Roman empress who defeated the chief prostitute of Rome in a fornication marathon that exhausted half the men in the city."

  Rebecca chuckled as she spooned tea leaves into the pot and added boiling water. "Actually, she's supposed to be Aspasia, the most beautiful and learned courtesan in Athens. I've painted Lavinia several times. She enjoys modeling.
"

  But she would probably not be Sir Anthony's next wife. If that was true, who was the mistress that might have been the cause of Lady Seaton's death? Thinking he had asked enough questions for the time being, Kenneth strolled toward the far end of the long attic. Small windows opened onto the street, bright southern light illuminating a utilitarian table and chairs.

  This was Rebecca's workshop, with rolls of canvas and stacked frames in the corners. The Gray Ghost slept on the table between a picture frame and a mortar and pestle. The cat opened its eyes a slit at Kenneth's approach, then resumed snoozing.

  To the left, an alcove contained a massive piece of furniture that resembled an elaborate Italianate building. Faint lines showed where drawers had been cunningly concealed among pretend pilasters. He stroked the curve of an arch, which framed a pigeonhole containing brushes and small tools.

  Seeing his interest, Rebecca called from the other end of the attic, "That storage cabinet was made specially for a seventeenth century Flemish artist called Van Veeren."

  "I'm afraid I've never heard of him."

  "No reason why you should have." She assembled a tea tray, then brought it to the workshop. "He was a not very talented painter of portraits and genre still lifes."

  Kenneth grinned. "Vegetables and dead rabbits?"

  "Exactly. But he must have made a good living at it." She set the tray on the table. The Gray Ghost instantly rose and came to investigate. "There are some rather nice currant cakes in the tin, if you can get them before the Ghost does."

  She gently pushed the cat away from the tray. The Ghost hunkered down like a stone lion, his avid gaze fixed on the cake tin while Rebecca poured tea. She handed a cup to Kenneth, then sat in one of the well-worn wooden chairs.

  He had not expected this quiet domesticity from Rebecca, but it suited her well. Very well. His willingness to model for her had changed their relationship, putting her more at ease with him. He should feel satisfied; he'd wanted her trust and confidence so he could extract information from her. A pity that success was tempered with shame.