Anne Barbour (27 page)

"Oh, Lord," muttered Eden, nauseated.

"I knew you would not understand."

"Zoë," continued Eden patiently, "the man is poison. Have you not heard the things—"

"I've heard a great deal of nonsense. Oh, I know," Zoë said, a little wildly. "He has done some things that are not quite, er,
comme il faut.
Well, perhaps somewhat beyond that," she added as Eden snorted, "but he is not a bad person—not truly. There is something ... something I feel... inside him that gets in the way of his real self, and ... Oh, I cannot explain what I mean. It is as though he is under a wicked spell."

"And you are his fairy godmother? Sent to kiss the frog and turn him into a prince?"

"Of course not," replied Zoë with such quiet dignity that Eden felt ashamed—and not a little frightened.

"Zoë, is your heart truly engaged? I mean—you're not going to do anything stupid, are you?"

Zoë stiffened, but a moment later, that strange smile again curved her lips. "Please don't worry, Eden. No, I'm not going to do anything stupid. I promise."

With that, Eden knew she must be content, for Zoë flung aside her coverlet and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

"What do you say to a spot of shopping?" she asked brightly. "It's been quite a while since you and I invaded Leicester Square. I have nothing to wear to Lady Brumborough's soiree next week, for I simply will not appear in public again in that ghastly little gros de Naples tunic."

Eden sighed, rose, and made her way downstairs to await her sister's appearance. The sick heaviness in her heart was in no way alleviated, but having an immediate purpose gave her some respite from the pain she knew would be her companion for the rest of her life.

It was necessary to get through breakfast first with her Mama, who was in a state of utter bliss.

"Oh, my dear, I am so happy!" she repeated over and over until Zoë entered the breakfast chamber. Apparently, her lord had instructed her that the news was not to be spread about the household until matters had been formally settled.

At long last the sisters sallied forth to the precincts of Oxford and Bond streets and the silk warehouses of Leicester Square. It was some hours later that Eden returned home with Zoë, the carriage ladened with packages, to find her father waiting for her. She had dreaded this confrontation and steeled herself for what was to come. She stared at him curiously as he bore down on her, for his expression was not one of exultation. His face was contorted in raw fury.

"Ah, you're home are you, missy? And about time, too."

To Eden's complete astonishment, he grasped her arm and shook her violently.

"What the devil do you think you're up to, missy? You march right into my study, for you and I are going to have a talk. Yes, indeed, a talk," he growled, bending to glare furiously at her, "about what you've been doing with your damned paints! Did you really think you could plunge the family into a scandal and not have to answer for it?"

Speechless, Eden allowed her father to half pull and half drag her into his study.

Chapter Twenty-one

Pale and shaking, Eden stared at her father across the desk. He thrust an empurpled face toward her.

"Haven't I always been a good father to you? Haven't I always provided for you? Ain't I done everything I could since you was a puking babe to help you grow up right? And is this," he continued without waiting for an answer, "how you repay me?"

Eden could only stare dazedly at him.

Had something gone wrong in his negotiations with the Duke of Derwent? A faint light shone through her cloud of depression. But what was that about her paint pots? A stirring of apprehension made itself felt deep within her.

"The duke?" she whispered.

"Oh, yes, I saw the duke," snarled Lord Beckett, "and we arranged your betrothal to his heir all right and tight. No thanks to you." He swallowed convulsively. "I can't believe you've been going behind my back!" By now, he was fairly trembling with rage. "You've been painting! For money!"

If Eden had not been sitting, she would have fallen. Dear God, not content with causally delivering her into bondage, Seth had now betrayed her in a wholly different fashion. The universe spun around her as she listened to her father's next words.

By now, he had regained a modicum of composure and, while he still loomed over her from his side of the desk, the ominous color in his cheeks had faded somewhat.

"By God," he sputtered, "I have a good mind to take a cane to you as I used to do when you were a spotty-faced brat. To think," he added in some puzzlement, "you've actually managed to sell some of your daubings. And you're doing portraits, too, I understand."

"Where . . . where did you hear this?" whispered Eden through the lump that had risen in her throat to all but rob her of breath.

"Why, I was having a pleasant conversation with His Grace at Derwent House. In his library. I glanced about the room, and there, hanging on the wall, was one of your god-awful daisy pictures! The duke saw me staring and said, as chirpy as you please, 'Oh, do you like it? It's a recent acquisition. Not my usual taste, but I understand the artist'—a female, for God's sake—'is making quite a name for herself.' I couldn't believe my ears! And to boot, he said young Lindow had purchased it on his behalf! I've been thinking about that, missy, and I'll wager he did it as a favor to you. Aha." He nodded at Eden's stricken expression. "I was right, wasn't I? And all the while I thought him such a fine young fellow. I even thought of him as a mate for you, at one time. Where was I? Oh. I must have blurted something inadvertently at that point, for he gathered almost at once that I was acquainted with his female artist, and he winkled your name from me almost immediately."

"Oh," said Eden faintly.

"Oh, indeed. I must say, he was most understanding. I thought he might well break off our negotiations at once, but when I assured him the paintings would be withdrawn and you would not peddle any more, he took it all in good spirit. Even told me a tale on one of his daughters who, he said, at one time had ambitions to be a novelist, if you would believe. I asked him where he'd got your daisy painting, and after we'd concluded our business, I nipped around to this Rellihan's gallery. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw four more of your daubs hanging on his wall. Good God, I don't know how the man stays in business if that's what he considers fine art. When I asked about the pictures—I didn't give my name, of course— he emptied the sauce boat over me, trying to tell me you're one of his most successful young artists and all that balderdash. That's when he told me about the portraits. He actually asked me," concluded Lord Beckett, beginning to swell again, "if I'd like to have him approach Miss Baird—evidently that's the name you're going under, and thank God you had sense enough to make something up—for a study of me or my loved ones. It was all I could do to keep from ripping the fella's tongue out by the roots.

"I surely would have ripped the damned pictures off the wall, but that would have involved an explanation—that is, I suppose I would have had to give him my name eventually. At any rate, missy"—his glower intensified—"that will be all we'll see of Miss Abigail Baird's wretched pictures in Mr. by-God Rellihan's fancy gallery." He swung a meaty hand to point at her. "Just how much money have you made from your sales?"

When Eden told him, in a barely audible voice, his eyes bulged like plums popping through a pie crust.

"Good God! How many of the things have you flogged?"

"Just three, Papa."

"Good God," he said again, in a tone of genuine bafflement. "There must be more loose screws in this town than I suspected, willing to part with their gelt for a few gaudy splotches of paint on a canvas." He rubbed his hands together.

"Well, what I'll do is return to Rellihan's place tomorrow and retrieve your daubery. I'll explain to him very carefully that should he ever divulge your name, he'll be meeting me at the business end of a horsewhip. Now, what we're going to do right now is go to Coutts' bank and take out all the money you've stashed there. Get your bonnet, girl, we're going into the City."

"Bank?" Dear Lord, this was worse than she had envisioned. "How," she faltered, her lips ashen. "How did you find out about the bank? Did Seth tell you—?"

For the first time. Lord Beckett's furious color faded, and an uneasy expression crossed his features. He waved his hand airily, however. "Yes, that's it. Lindow told me. I... I confronted him after the duke told me who'd purchased the painting."

No, thought Eden dully. She really could not bear this. Not only had Seth chosen her as the sacrificial goat for the duke's purposes, he had given her up to her father's wrath. In the space of two days' time, he had wiped out her life's dream. He didn't just not love her, he must truly hate her to have done this to her.

"I said, come along, Eden," barked her father.

"But Papa," she whispered, "it's my money. I earned it!"

"Hah!" barked Lord Beckett mirthlessly. "Your money, indeed. You are not entitled to so much as a farthing of it. Surely, you can't have arrived at your advanced age without realizing that you have nothing but what I say you may have. I've paid for everything in your possession, from your reticule to the paintbrushes you so wickedly used to your own advantage, and by God, they're mine. And so is that nice little pile of earnings you've accumulated, so let's get on with it."

"Papa, please! I... I had no wish to defy you! I merely wish to be independent, to live on my own and not be a burden to you."

If Eden expected to soften her father's attitude with this artless speech, she was doomed to disappointment. If anything, he grew even angrier.

"Independent! What kind of talk is that for a gently bred young woman. Out on your own? Before my agreement with the duke, I planned for you to live at Clearsprings with your mother and me, where you could be a comfort to us in our old age. I figured if I couldn't get you married and turning out grandchildren, at least you'd be around to be of some good to me!" He rubbed his hands. "Luckily, things have turned out much better than that."

The words flayed her, but such was her anguish that she scarcely heard them. She was conscious only of an engulfing blackness that presaged the end of her precious dreams. Her hopes of fulfillment and accomplishment had been thrown from a cliff to be trampled and left to lie shredded and bleeding into the dust. And it was Seth who had taken them, along with her heart, into his slender, capable fingers and casually tossed them from that pinnacle. But why had he done such a thing? The words swirled around her like dry leaves in an icy vortex. How could he? they sounded in a rustling moan. To what end had he so betrayed her?

"Papa, I don't know what Seth may have told you. I... I am sorry to have caused you distress, but I feel it is my right to... put by my own money to—"

"Yes," interposed Lord Beckett dryly, "to go off on your own like one of those wretched free-thinking women that set everyone's backs up. Well, I won't have it, Eden. What would people say? That Beckett cannot support his own family? That his eldest daughter is forced to peddle her wretched scrawls to put bread in her mouth? Speaking of which," he said, descending abruptly from his lofty rodomontade, "your little nest egg will come in very handy just now. The way your mama and your sister have been spending the ready since we arrived in London would drive Golden Ball Hughes to the poorhouse."

"No, Papa," said Eden resolutely. "I must speak further with you on this. I know you perceive my actions as a direct assault on your authority, and I meant it as nothing of the kind—or at least," she added, incorrigibly truthful, "I did not intend to cause you discomfort. This means a great deal to me. Papa, and I do think you might at least hear me out. I have never asked you for anything beyond the physical support any parent is obliged to provide for a child. The money I earn—"

"The money you earned," interposed Lord Beckett sharply. "Past tense. Eden, I wish to hear no more of this nonsense. Where did you get these fool notions, anyway? Whoever heard of a gently bred female leaving her parents and her home to go haring off on her own? No, not another word." He paused for a moment, then continued not unkindly. "You are behaving as though this is the end of the world. It is not as though you are to be sentenced to a life of penury if you do not sell your paintings. Am I a tyrant? Do I beat you every day and order you to do my bidding?" He shifted uncomfortably. "Well, yes, I do have the ordering of your life, but it is only for your own good. I do my duty by you, Eden, and I expect you to do the same." He held up a hand as Eden opened her mouth once more. "We will leave now for the bank."

"We can't," declared Eden. "Look, Papa." She gestured to the clock on the mantelpiece. "It's too late. The bank offices close at five o'clock, I believe, and it's just going on six."

Lord Beckett grunted in annoyance. "Well, tomorrow morning then. First thing." He turned to level a hard stare at his daughter. "I will not be cajoled out of this, Eden, so do not think to try any of Zoë's tricks on me. I am still very angry that you would so forget your rank. I have still not determined whether or not to punish you for this outrageous behavior."

He turned on his heel and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him with considerable force. Eden sank back into the chair and gave herself up to dismal reflection.

She knew further remonstrance with her father would be useless. In all her seven-and-twenty years, she had never known him to change his mind once it was set.

It was not as though she hadn't known how it would be if Papa were to discover her purpose. Men of his stamp saw it as their God-given right and responsibility to regulate the lives of the women in their family. She might talk herself hoarse, but she knew that tomorrow morning on the stroke of nine, she would walk into the portals of Coutts' Bank on her father's arm. A few minutes after that, her precious account would be a thing of the past and Papa would no doubt convey her meager little hoard to his own bank with all possible speed.