It was all she ever wanted from him, and he had been so close to making her his. So close to a life—a true life with a family, with children. With the hole that had always been in his soul, filled.
Five days, but Rowen wasn’t about to give up on finding Wynne. Wasn’t about to bow to the demons in his head. Demons telling him she was gone. Telling him too many days had passed. That she was not coming back to him.
Rowen refused to entertain those demons, not even for a second.
He took another sip of brandy, stretching out his legs as he glanced at the tavern in the early morning light. Red had been in there for hours, and Rowen had watched as the lanterns on the level two floors above the bar went out. For once, Red was in bed before dawn.
Rowen hadn’t been by the art gallery in two days. After he had broken into it to look through paperwork and then found nothing, he had Luhaunt keep an eye on it and the clerk. But there had been nothing unusual to report.
Rowen looked up at Red’s windows again. All was quiet there and on the street. It was a good time to check the gallery for himself.
To his feet, Rowen hurried west past Charing Cross, and was soon walking along the street of the art gallery.
Before he reached the front window of the gallery, he could see several of the empty spots from the other day were now filled. The first two new paintings were pedestrian, the usual gardens. Rowen slowed his gait, now before the shop’s windows. At that moment, his eyes caught sight of the painting on the far right.
Rowen sprang before it.
Phalos.
It was unmistakable. A dark horse. Haunted. Dramatic. Eyes that told of greatness. The odd ring of white around his left ear. Phalos.
Just the stallion’s head, filling the canvas, larger than life.
Rowen looked in the bottom left corner. An odd splotch of black paint cut across the corner where Wynne would usually sign her work with a humble “WT.” But Rowen knew it was hers. He knew it was Phalos.
Blood pounding in his veins, Rowen resisted the urge to smash the glass and grab the portrait. He had to be smart.
Wynne could not be sending him a clearer message than if she were standing in front of him, yelling his name.
But what was the message? She sent him Phalos. There were no words on the canvas, no scenes buried in the peripheral as she liked to do. Just Phalos.
He had to get his hands on the painting, but he also knew he couldn’t just walk in and buy the painting after the other day. And neither could Luhaunt.
Loathing to turn from the painting, Rowen ripped his eyes away and spun on his heel, taking off down the street.
If he was going to be smart, he needed someone he could trust.
At least as far as Wynne was concerned.
~~~
Wynne shot upright, eyes open and the blanket falling from her chest. The creak of the door now instantly sent her body on guard, even from the deepest sleep.
She had orientated herself before the door fully opened. By the light in the window, it was early morning, much earlier than the man usually appeared.
He carried the usual bowl of porridge, setting it within her reach.
Her eyes fell to the floor, docile.
“It sold,” he said, walking further into the room.
“What?” She couldn’t control her head from jerking up to look at him.
“It sold. It was not there but a day, and it sold for a tidy sum.”
Wynne dropped her head, collapsing inward on her excitement. She couldn’t let him see it. Couldn’t let him see the smile on her face.
“You will paint more. And you will paint faster.”
Wynne kept her head down, wrapping her arms around her ribs, trying to control her breathing.
“Do not look so distraught,” he said. “This is a good life. You can paint. You are fed.”
I am a prisoner. She swallowed the words, instead, nodding her head, but refusing to let him see her face. No reason to poke the devil. Not when she had hope. Not when the painting had sold so quickly.
It had to be Rowen. It had to be.
“The woman that bought it liked the horse. She is a collector and wealthy. She asked if there were more like it. And it was promised to her.”
A woman? Maybe someone had bought it for Rowen? Or maybe it had been random. Either way, she needed to send him another painting.
Her excitement tempered, Wynne looked up at the man. The swelling around her left eye had gone down enough that she could see out of both eyes again. There had been no more beatings. As long as she was painting, he let her be.
He brought in porridge. Tea. Replenished the paints. But Wynne moved very lightly around him, not looking him directly in the eye. She wasn’t about to give him reason for another beating. Reason to hurt her mother.
But now she needed something more. She needed to know something about this man. If Rowen knew she was alive, she now needed to somehow let him know where she was.
The problem was, she had no idea of her location. The only thing she could see out of the window was sky. She heard things—carriages, horses, people—so she guessed she was still in the city or maybe in a nearby town. He could not have brought her far.
But still, she had not a clue where she was, and she couldn’t very well paint the man into the portrait—too obvious and it would only result in fists to her face.
“I will do the horse again.” Wynne forced her voice to its softest. “But please, let me see my mother. I paint faster when I have someone to talk to.”
His chin jutted out, clucking his tongue as he stared at her.
“Please. I worry for her, and it slows me. I can work faster when worry does not bog down my mind.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Start. If I see progress, I will allow it for a short time.”
Wynne nodded, bowing her head. “Thank you.”
Hours later, Wynne had much of Phalos done. She had set the horse—this time in his full form, but much smaller—off to the left of the canvas. She didn’t know what she was going to do with the rest of the scene—she would have to figure that out after she talked to her mother.
The door opened, and Wynne stepped back from the canvas. The man came in, leading her mother.
In a simple peach muslin dress, her mother looked about the room, her lazy hazel eyes stopping on Wynne. She looked more lucid than the other day, but still slightly out-of-focus, like she was stumbling out of a yearlong daze.
She smiled upon finding Wynne’s face.
Wynne glanced at the man. “May she have a chair?”
He looked down at Wynne’s mother. At that moment her mother swayed. It was enough to convince him. “Yes.” He moved her mother’s hand from his forearm to Wynne’s hand.
The man left, shutting the door behind him.
Wynne grabbed both of her mother’s hands. What she wanted to do was to hug her, cradle her, but she didn’t know if she would get this chance alone with her mother again.
She squeezed her mother’s hands, searching her glassy eyes. “The man. Who is he?”
“Who?” Her mother’s stupefied smile was still on her face.
“The man who walked you in here. What do you call him?”
“Vutton?”
“Vutton, what? Is that his Christian name? His family name?”
Her mother wedged a hand free, placing it on Wynne’s cheek. “My daughter?”
“Yes. It is me, mother, Wynne.”
“You left me?”
Instant tears sprang to Wynne’s eyes. She nodded. “Yes. I did. I was afraid.”
Her mother’s smile did not fade. “You were right to leave. I was afraid for you.”
Damn. There was so very much to say. Wynne took a deep breath. She had to stay focused. “Mother, do you know where we are?”
“We are here, dear. At home, Wynne.” Her mother brushed a tendril of hair from Wynne’s forehead. “Home.”
Wynne swallowed a scream. She didn’t want to agit
ate her mother, but she needed real information—details.
“No, mother. Where is this house? Where—”
The door opened, cutting Wynne’s words short. The man walked in, carrying a simple wooden chair.
Her mother turned to him. “Where are we? Wynne was just asking.”
Instant rage flashed in his eyes. Rage directed at Wynne. “She was?”
Her mother nodded, the soft smile still on her face.
The man’s focus shifted from Wynne to her mother. He grabbed her arms, pulling her from Wynne. “Come, let us get you back to bed. This must be overwhelming.”
Docile kitten, her mother nodded, following him out the door.
Wynne’s eyes closed, her throat collapsing on her. She couldn’t take another beating. Not now. Not when she had something tangible in hand. A name. It was little, but it was something.
She didn’t have to wait in agony for long. Within minutes, the door opened, and she widened her stance, bracing herself. She knew if she fell to the floor, he would kick her. And the kicking—the toe of his boot—was the worst. Her ribs still pained her with every brush stroke, and she couldn’t slow down because of the pain—not now.
The rage in the man’s eyes had not waned. He advanced on her, and Wynne’s head went down.
He stopped in front of her, grabbing her chin and forcing her face up to him. “Do not test me again. You know very well how that will end,” he seethed. “You are lucky that I have another engagement to attend to and have little time. Now get back to work. You have a painting to finish.”
He shoved her chin, and Wynne had to take a step backward to catch her balance, the chain clanking across the floor and almost tripping her.
The door closed, and he was gone by the time she looked up.
Her body shaking, Wynne exhaled all of her held breath, collapsing to the floor. It took long minutes for the shaking to subside, for her mind to start working again past the immediate threat of pain.
She looked up to the canvas, staring at the empty area. His name. What had her mother said? Vutton. Why did she know that name?
The white of the canvas stared back at her, taunting.
She had to fill it with something, but what?
The name—she couldn’t just paint it in. The man was too canny for that. And the retribution would be harsh.
Vutton. The name flashed in her mind once more, recognition hitting her like lightning.
Vutton—the man that had stolen Rowen’s almost-fiancée.
Wynne’s mind swirled. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be the same man. Could it? Rowen had said he had shown up in the area of Notlund and stolen Victoria from him. And Notlund was fairly close to Tanloon.
She fought to calm her excitement. It could very well just be a coincidence. Vutton could be the man’s Christian name, for all she knew.
But it was information. True information she needed to get to Rowen.
Wynne got to her feet, contemplating the canvas. She needed to get this right.
Hands heavy, she picked up her palette and brush.
{ Chapter 27 • Worth of a Duke }
Four days had passed since the painting of Phalos had appeared, and Rowen was still stuck in the mud in his under-the-stairs hovel. His patience whittled down to a tiny shred.
He sighed as an enormous black carriage stopped on the street right between him and the Flashing Crow, blocking his sight line.
When the carriage stayed stubbornly in place, Rowen actually took a moment to look at it.
“Damn,” he muttered to himself, getting to his feet. The Letson family crest on the carriage door stared at him. The duchess.
He hurried to the coach’s door, letting himself in before one of the liveried footmen could let down the stairs.
He opened the flap in the roof to the driver. “Go. Fast.”
He sat, heavy, opposite the duchess, shaking his head. “Pure idiocy. You should not be in an area such as this.”
“And you should not be gracing my carriage with the filth on your person. Is this some sort of penance for losing Wynne, L.B.?” She wrinkled her nose. “Your friend, Lord Luhaunt told me where to find you.”
“What are you doing here, Duchess?”
“The next painting has appeared.”
Rowen near jumped to his feet, but had to settle for moving forward to balance on the edge of the bench. “It has?”
“Yes, I received notice this morning. I have already purchased it.”
“Is it hers? Are you sure?”
“It is, as far as I can tell. Like the last, it does not bear her mark. But it does look like her style, and your horse appears in it again.”
“Where is it?”
“Your residence. It came to my home first, and then I had my men deliver it.”
Rowen settled back on the bench. “I assume that is where we are going?”
She gave him a pinched smile. “It is.”
Rowen looked out the side window. They were almost out of the rookeries. “What is it of?”
“It is a scene with people. Your horse is oddly off to the side.” She flickered her white-gloved fingers in the air. “I can make nothing of it. You will hopefully see something I cannot.”
Rowen nodded.
They rode in silence, Rowen’s leg tapping. Flecks of dirt fell off his ragged trousers, dropping to the carriage floor. Rowen saw the dowager’s face twist in disgust, but she said not a word.
Near his townhouse, the duchess cleared her throat. “I have been thinking, L.B., on these paintings from Wynne. The colors do not seem as vibrant. Not her usual paints. You had bought her the best at Notlund. Here in London, she also had access to the best.”
“Yes?”
“So how many sellers of paint are there? Many, I imagine. But then again, maybe not so many.” The duchess leaned forward. “Someone has to be buying the paints for Wynne.”
The carriage stopped. They were in front of Rowen’s townhouse.
A smile spread across Rowen’s face. He stood and bent over, his hands capturing the dowager’s cheeks. “Genius.” He kissed her forehead. “Genius.”
She bristled under him, appalled or shocked, Rowen could not tell. It didn’t matter. The dowager had just delivered him not just one lead, but two. He would kiss the devil himself if it meant a way to Wynne.
“Thank you, Duchess.” He opened the carriage door. “I will keep you apprised of the progress.”
“Please do so,” she said as Rowen jumped from the carriage.
Bounding up the stairs, Rowen was into his study in seconds, his heels skidding to a stop when he saw the painting. Propped on the floor, it was Wynne’s—he could see that immediately.
He quickly went to the sideboard, moving the brandy and crystal-cut glasses to his desk. After checking the back of the canvas and any nooks that could possible hold a hidden clue, he set the painting atop the sideboard, leaning it to the wall.
He sat on the edge of his desk, staring at the scene. What was Wynne telling him?
The canvas captured an outdoor view, Phalos on the left. The back of a man was next to Phalos. Dressed in tall black boots, buckskin breeches, and a loose white shirt, the man had dark hair and a hand possessively on Phalos’s neck.
Clearly, that was him.
The slight profile Wynne gave Rowen in the painting showed that he was looking at the two figures on the right of the canvas. Both of them also faced away.
That was where the mystery came in. And that was where Rowen knew the message was.
A woman and a man, her gloved hand nestled into the crook of his arm. The woman had on a gown, emerald, bold and expensive. A necklace, gaudy and fat, even on the back side, graced her neck.
The man was dressed in finery as well, tail coat, cravat, trousers. In his hand opposite the woman, he held a riding crop.
Above them, further away in perspective, a brown mare stood, head hanging.
He scanned the rest of the painting. A forest, and the moo
rs—a bog—rounded out the landscape. She had located him and Phalos near Notlund.
Rowen looked back at the rendering of himself. His fist was clenched, but other than that, he could see no emotion on the figure. So, he was mad and near Notlund. Nothing unusual there.
His eyes traced a path around the painting, again and again. What was Wynne trying to tell him?
A half hour of staring at the painting passed, and Rowen rubbed his shriveled eyes, turning to the brandy next to him and pouring a dram. He was still chilled to the core.
“You have not changed your clothes.”
Rowen tossed back the amber liquid, eyes going to the door of the study. Luhaunt walked in, stopping next to him to take in the painting.
“This is it—the latest?” Luhaunt asked.
“Yes.”
Luhaunt took a side-step away from Rowen, his eyes on the painting. “And you still smell.”
“I am aware.”
“Beautiful—she is talented. But other than Phalos—and I am guessing that is you beside him—I do not understand it.” Luhaunt looked from the painting to Rowen. “Do you?”
Shaking his head, Rowen sighed. “No. But I did not expect this to be easy. Wherever she is, she cannot just write a note with her location into the painting. But it does reinforce that she is trying to reach me. Trying to tell me something in the only way she can.”
“Reassuring.” Luhaunt clamped his hand on Rowen’s shoulder. “I had thought at the start of this that we would have little chance of finding her. But you kept faith, and it was warranted.”
“Do you have news?” Rowen asked, looking to his friend.
“I have a list.”
“Of?”
“The duchess found me this morning and set me to discovering all the proprietors of paint in London.”
Rowen rolled his eyes. “Of course she did. I apologize for her presumption.” The duchess wasn’t about to wait for Rowen’s approval in sending his friend to do her bidding. But since it was for Wynne, Rowen gave pardon to her audacity. He turned to his desk and poured a glass of brandy for Luhaunt.
“She thought it may help in finding who has purchased a full set of lower-quality paints recently.” Luhaunt took a swallow. “I agreed with her idea. Painters go through different colors at different speeds, so are more apt to buy one or two colors at a time. But to buy a complete set at once—it would not happen that often and it would narrow the search.”
Lord of Fates: A Complete Historical Regency Romance Series (3-Book Box Set) Page 26
