by Louise Allen
‘My father, my brother, the local gentry and their sons. Oh, and the Bishop of Elmham—the retired one—and his secretary and the Duke of Aylsham. I was a bridesmaid at his recent wedding.’
‘You move in very respectable circles, Miss Newnham.’
‘You mean the Duke being such a pattern card of perfection? I can assure you, marriage to my good friend Verity, who is the Bishop’s daughter, has changed him considerably.’
‘Why am I not surprised by that?’
Jane felt the sudden heat in her cheeks. ‘Might I suggest that we do not quarrel, Lord Kendall? Otherwise I might be inclined to take myself—and my money—elsewhere.’
‘I meant,’ he said, with only the faintest twitch of bruised lips, ‘that Aylsham doubtless required enlivening.’
Hmm, Jane thought. That was as neat a piece of foot-removal from mouth as I have ever heard.
‘Of course you did,’ she said cordially. He stared back, his expression blandly innocent. ‘You are not at all what I expected an earl to be like.’
‘No? I have spent the last nine years in the army, perhaps that accounts for it. I have had only three months’ practice at being an earl and only two weeks of that in this country.’
‘Nine? My goodness. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-seven. I joined as an ensign.’
He looked older, she would have guessed at thirty, but perhaps that was the bruises and cuts and general air of hard-won experience. ‘I am twenty-two,’ she offered in an attempt to elicit more confidences.
‘And fresh from the Season, I presume?’
‘I have not had a London Season. Papa considered that local society would be quite sufficient, although Mama disagrees.’
And I have an expensive older brother, she could have added, but did not.
‘And was it sufficient? There is no fiancé or a string of beaux left behind in London?’
‘They would be in Dorset if I had any, which I do not. We were only in London visiting Aunt Hermione for a month because she has been unwell. Not that I want a beau, let alone a betrothal.’
Lord Kendall stopped tracing a crack in the planked table top with his index finger and looked up sharply. ‘Why ever not?’
‘Marriage and husbands seem to complicate life so much. They restrict it. I am an artist. Matrimony and art are not compatible—unless one is a man, of course.’
It was the first time she had said it out loud, the thing she had been thinking secretly. It felt momentous, just to say the words, I am an artist, and to mean them, not as a description of what she enjoyed doing as a pastime, but as something that defined her, Jane Newnham. Artist.
‘Surely that is not what you should expect of marriage. You certainly draw with great proficiency and insight, but what has a husband to do with that? Most ladies sketch and paint in watercolour and I assume you all have drawing masters or governesses to teach you.’
‘I am not interested in a mere genteel pastime,’ Jane explained. The strange sense of recklessness her declaration had produced seemed to sweep through her, take over her voice. ‘I want—I need—to improve, to paint in oils to be as good as I want, to be able to paint portraits to a professional standard.’
‘You mean, earn your living as a portrait painter? Impossible,’ Lord Kendall said flatly.
Is that what I meant? Could I do that?
It was a terrifying prospect, something that had never occurred to her. Then his look of disapproving incredulity struck home.
Anyone would think it was the equivalent of earning a living on my back.
Jane almost said so, swallowed, and recited, ‘Artemisia Gentileschi, Elisabeth Vigée le Brun, Angelica Kauffman, Mary Beale, Sofonisba Anguissola—’ She wished she could think of more female artists, especially modern English ones.
‘Exceptions that prove the rule. I refuse to believe in that last one and, besides, you are an English gentlewoman of tender years. You must have a husband.’ There was an edge to that statement, some hint of scorn, almost. Whatever it was, it made her bristle. If he had not thought it a possibility, why had he suggested it? And the thought was tantalising, alluring and dangerous. Could she?
‘I must have a husband?’ Jane snorted inelegantly, almost drunk on the terror of her own rebellion, on the possibilities his careless, scornful suggestion had thrown up. ‘I shall be an independent artist and I neither need nor want a husband. Men are dull or unsuitable or untrustworthy. Or lacking in originality and imagination.’
‘Thank you.’ This time his lips showed no sign of that amused twitch.
‘There is no need to take it personally. You are an earl and heir to a marquess,’ she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘You are certainly more than suitable. For all I know you might be exciting and faithful. But it is academic, I am not talking about you.’
‘We might be if your family discovers that we are spending the night here.’ That was said without the hint of scorn.
Aha, there was definitely an amused twinkle in his eyes just now.
And they were rather nice eyes, dark blue, long-lashed. His best feature, in fact, although there were those shoulders... It was gratifying to make the blue sparkle and it would be a challenge to catch that in oils. But one battered earl was not the problem.
How much could I charge for a portrait? Could I really make my living?
He was still regarding her quizzically.
‘They will not discover it,’ she assured him. ‘Why ever should they?’
‘Miss Newnham—’
‘Call me Jane, then we do not risk tripping up in our pretence of being brother and sister,’ she suggested. Wrestling with the practicalities of their present situation was at least calming.
‘Very practical, Jane. And I am Ivo, although I think you may forgo the frequent dears. Siblings are rarely so affectionate from what I have observed.’
That was true, in her experience at least. She and Hubert, her brother, had quarrelled their way through childhood and had nothing in common as adults.
The maid came in, unfurled a large white cloth across the table, replaced the tea things when Jane clutched at the tea pot, produced cutlery from her apron pocket and bustled out again.
‘Ivo is a nice name. An unusual name. Mine is so dull—Plain Jane.’ She poured herself more tea. ‘Shall I ring for another cup? No? If I am to succeed as an artist, I think I should change it.’ Already in her imagination a picture was forming of a studio, an easel, a chair and a chaise longue for her subjects, a scattering of tasteful props and drapes, herself in a flowing smock, paintbrushes stuck in her elegant but artistic coiffure. The dream of achieving elegance with her mousy, rather fine and wayward hair was perhaps the most improbable element of that vision.
‘Like a nom de plume?’ Ivo queried. ‘That would be nom de pinceau, I think.’
‘Paintbrush name?’ She found herself smiling at him. ‘I should have to find something, certainly. Bath would be an excellent place to set up a studio, don’t you think?’
‘No, I do not. How much money do you have, Miss Newnham?’ The sudden switch to seriousness wiped the delightful imaginings from her mind and, with them, the flutter of happiness.
She did not want to be serious. Laughter kept the nerves about what she had just discovered about herself from tying her stomach in knots. Jane raised her eyebrows with mock hauteur. ‘It is surely somewhat early in our acquaintance for you to be considering dowries, Lord Kendall.’
He did not rise to her teasing, the irritating man. ‘I could not agree more,’ he said with unflattering emphasis. ‘I meant, how much money do you have at your immediate disposal?’
‘Thirty pounds. Sufficient for the journey and contingencies.’
‘That is ample to hire a respectable maid for the remainder of your journey—and to sleep in your bedchamber tonight. I am sure t
his inn could supply you with a suitable young woman for a few days.’
It was what she had told Billing to do, not what she wanted to hear herself. ‘We have already established that there is not room for three in that chaise. Not in any comfort.’
‘I remain here, of course.’ The bruises, which were beginning to colour up nicely, did nothing to make his expression any more amiable.
‘With no money, no means of identification, a wound in your shoulder and the visage of a not very successful pugilist, my lord?’ He was unsettling her and it helped to hit back. ‘Unless you have an acquaintance living nearby, I suggest that it might be a long walk to wherever you might be known.’
‘I am aware of that. I am also aware that I have placed a lady in a compromising position. What becomes of me need not concern you.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake.’ Jane jumped up. The tea things rattled and she just managed to stop the milk jug from tipping over. Lord Kendall got to his feet, but she flapped one hand at him, irritated. ‘Sit, do. I want to pace up and down so as not to throw the sugar bowl at you. I did not haul you into my chaise and prepare to fend off ruffians with my parasol to leave you battered and destitute here. Those louts may have followed us for all you know.’
‘Indeed. Another excellent reason why I want you to go. It is not too late now for us to find you a maid and for you to drive to the next inn for the night.’
‘I am not leaving you like this. You are patronising, irritating and, just at the moment, a thorough nuisance, but I refuse to have you on my conscience.’
‘And I will not have your ruined reputation on mine.’ He stood up again, clearly furious at having to grab at the back of a chair for balance.
‘Poppycock,’ Jane pronounced inelegantly. ‘I will feel much safer with a gentleman’s escort than with an unknown maidservant. And do sit down, you are swaying. No one knows me and, with you having been abroad until recently and with your face like that, I doubt anyone would recognise you either.’ A fleeting memory of something Cousin Violet had been gossiping about when she had last seen her came to mind. ‘And your grandfather has an estate close to Bath, does he not? Exactly where you need to be.’
Chapter Three
There was a pain in his hand and Ivo looked down to see his knuckles white on the back rail of the chair. He unclenched his fingers. His grandfather’s house: exactly where he did not want to be and precisely where he should have gone on arriving back in England instead of haring off on that wild goose chase after Daphne Parris. Charles Parris’s wilful little sister. The girl he had grown up with, seen transform from a plain, sulky child into an exquisite young woman in front of his bedazzled eyes.
He had fallen in love, had proposed on the eve of his departure with Charles to join their regiment in France. She would wait, she had promised, if he would promise to come back to her. He was her hero, so gallant, so fine in his scarlet regimentals. She had been enchanting, that evening, so lovely in her wide-eyed admiration of him and he had felt like a demi-god, believing he could defeat Napoleon single-handed if she only wished it.
He had known her parents would think her too young for a formal betrothal and she had, too, but they could keep it a secret, she had agreed as they exchanged tokens—an enamelled heart on a chain for her, a lock of her hair for him. That white-blonde curl had been in the wallet he had lost in Knightsbridge.
Had he been arrogant to believe the love she had professed so ardently would last and that she would wait until the fighting ended? Deluded, perhaps. It seemed that he had misunderstood the depths of her feelings, but not his own, not as the war had dragged on across Spain.
His promise to Daphne had brought him through times when it would have been easier just to give in and die. And then Charles, dying of one enemy neither of them could defeat, had told him that news had reached him that Daphne intended to marry a rakehell baronet. Ivo must promise to stop her, Charles had pleaded. He was the only one who had known of the secret betrothal and he could not seem to grasp that his sister might actually jilt his best friend.
And Ivo did swear to it, reassuring Charles that it would all be well, even as he fought back the pain at Daphne’s betrayal, his mind reeling with the shock that she had changed so much and he had not been able, somehow, to sense it. He had promised Charles and he had failed.
He had told himself that it must be a misunderstanding, that she had lost faith in him somehow and that it could all be set right if only they could talk. That had kept him together, right up until the moment that they were face to face. After that... How were you supposed to feel when the woman you loved rejected you, sent men after you to beat that rejection into your thick skull? Did she hate him so much—or was this how a woman who married in defiance of friends and family and sacred promises reacted to defend that decision?
‘Why were you in that alehouse?’ Jane asked abruptly, jerking him out of the dark downward spiral of his thoughts. ‘Are you avoiding your grandfather?’
That is usually the most restful option...
‘I had made a promise to a friend. A dead friend.’
‘Oh. I am so sorry.’ She sat down again. ‘And that deathbed promise was what sent you into danger?’
‘Charles—that was my friend’s name—was worried about his younger sister. It seems he had every reason to be anxious, although at first I thought he was exaggerating because he was in a fever. I could not believe that Daphne would be so...foolish.’ So disloyal. ‘I tried to tell him he was worrying about nothing, tried to keep him calm but, when the story became clearer, I realised it was serious. She was being courted by a baronet with a wild reputation. I won’t name him, but Charles was convinced that he had no good intentions towards Daphne, who is well dowered and fatherless into the bargain. Besides, she was already promised to someone else.’ Someone who was not in England to protect her. Someone who had thought that a love could be kept alive for years on hasty, irregular letters scrawled by campfires.
‘Once news reached England of Charles’s death there would be no one to stop her or to warn off her seducer.’ Except the man who had blithely gone off to fight the French in the happy certainty that Miss Parris would sit at home patiently waiting for him.
‘And she would not heed her brother? Had he managed to write to her?’
‘He did—and received a letter in reply. She was certain it was love. The man to whom she had had an understanding was not there, she had grown tired of waiting for him because he would surely have come for her if his feelings were true. She felt neglected, I am certain.’
And I should have thought more about how young she was, how much she would need the reassurance of constant letters, not my scribbled notes when I had the time and the energy to think of that other world apart from the battlefield.
He tried to keep those betraying emotions from his face and from Jane’s bright, interested gaze, and was fairly certain he succeeded. But was the fault his neglect of her—or a fundamental misunderstanding of Daphne’s character? Or had he mistaken the depth of her feelings for him in the first place?
‘Charles declared that he would ask for leave, just as soon as he could haul himself out of bed. He had no idea just how sick he was, I realised. He told me that he would go home, forbid the match. He was his sister’s guardian, after all, and he could not sit by and let her fall into the hands of a confirmed rakehell, even if she was prepared to break her engagement to the man he had expected her to marry.
‘Charles had tossed and turned, distressed that his sister could have betrayed his best friend, tormented by his inability to imagine why she had done so. “I must stop her,” he’d said, just before he sank into the final delirium. I promised to do what I could. I would have done so even without that promise. I had known her all the years she was growing up.’
I loved her. Despite everything I still...
‘But you were in the army—how could
you get away?’ Jane leant forward, both elbows on the table among the cups and saucers. Her eyes were fixed on his face. She caught her lower lip between her teeth as though she was listening to some gripping tale of derring-do. Clearly she had no idea that this was even more personal than he was admitting.
‘I would have asked for leave, of course, but, in the event, the news of my father’s death reached me on the day we buried Charles. I had every good reason to hasten home to England and sell out and my colonel sent me on my way with his blessing. The Treaty of Fontainebleau had been signed, Napoleon was defeated, I could easily be spared.
‘I was too late: Daphne had already eloped from home with her dubious baronet. Her aunts were distraught, but finally received a letter from her four days ago. She was back from Scotland where they had married and had been for weeks. I found her in her new home, a crumbling old house just outside Kensington. Sir Clement was away from home and I thought that being abandoned with cobwebs and surly, unpaid servants while he dealt with unspecified business would be enough to bring her to her senses. I suggested that he was paying off his most pressing creditors with promises of Daphne’s money, but that got me a vase thrown at my head.’ He did not repeat to Jane the angry, defiant words she had thrown first. It was foolish of him to believe that such beauty was incapable of venting such spite and anger. He was shocked as well as hurt. What had happened to the laughing, clinging girl he had left behind?
‘Ouch,’ Jane sympathised.
‘I ducked,’ he said with a shrug, pride making him hide the personal hurt from her. ‘It hardly touched me. She was defiant and determined and she refused my offer to take her back to her aunts while the problem could be settled of how legal the marriage was. I told her that the courts might be able set aside the union, although it would take some time and money. I pointed out that she was still just under age, was abducted from her home and married without her brother’s permission.’ And he had managed it calmly, somehow hanging on to his temper, somehow refusing to let Daphne see how deeply this affected him. All he had achieved was to salvage a little empty pride.
