River Of Fire (13 page)

Absorbed in her art, she had never had close friends, and more casual acquaintances had dropped her after the idiotic elopment with
Frederick
had exiled her from respectable society. The members of her father's inner circle treated her with careless good nature, but only Lavinia and her honorary Uncle George were truly fond of her. To the others, she was merely Sir Anthony's eccentric daughter.

It had been the same with her father's previous secretaries. All had been polite and respectful, but she guessed they saw her as some kind of freak, a disgraceful painting female who must be tolerated as part of the job. No wonder she was susceptible to Kenneth's wholehearted attention.

Heaven knew they were very different, yet there was an unexpected empathy between them. Perhaps it was simply their aloneness. Certainly Kenneth could not be attracted to her; she wasn't the sort to inspire a man to unruly passion. Frederick had been in love with the idea of love, not with her.

A thought struck her. Kenneth's tension probably stemmed from his awareness that any sort of relationship with his employer's daughter was fraught with potential hazards. She shouldn't have insisted that he sit for her. Though she hadn't intended coercion, he'd probably felt he had no choice. It might have been better for them both if he had felt free to refuse. Yet she could not regret having him for a model.

Her pacing had brought her to the studio end of the attic. She picked up her sketchbook to study her drawings. Several were quite good, though well short of what she wanted to accomplish.

Slowly she paged through the sketches, wondering what would be the best way to capture his essence, the mingled qualities of warrior fierceness and sensitive observer. Perhaps she should paint the captain in his army uniform. She had a vague recollection that Riflemen wore dark green. That would be more interesting than the usual scarlet uniform, and the color would not dominate the canvas. She could show him after a battle, weary to the soul, yet unbroken.

Dissatisfied, she shook her head. Though it would be effective, such a picture belonged in her father's Waterloo series. It would not have quite the mythic quality she wanted.

That led her to imagine Kenneth in a mythic white toga. She smiled at the fanciful thought. Women often looked splendid in classical garments; the gowns of the French Revolution had been fashioned after antique clothing. However, the style did not suit modern men nearly so well.

She considered other possible compositions without finding one that seemed suitable. Then she flipped a page too far and unexpectedly found one of her falling woman sketches. Jolted by pain, she ripped the drawing out and threw it into the fire with a muttered oath. Kenneth Wilding might be a problem, but at least with him there was pleasure mingled with the pain.

Kenneth woke gasping from a restless sleep. Nightmares again.

He'd always had an excellent visual memory. He could recall the exact colors of a sunset or sketch the face of someone he had seen for only a few minutes. Having looked at Rebecca's hand earlier, he could have drawn the pattern of lines if he wished. He'd thought his ability a blessing until he entered the army. It was far more pleasant to remember sunsets than battles.

The last image of Maria flared in his mind again. Stomach churning, he sat up and lit his bedside candle, forcing himself to think of other things. He visualized how Rebecca's eyes narrowed when she was studying an object. The hint of a dimple in her left cheek. Her delightfully free-spirited hair.

She was only ten feet away, on the other side of the wall.

As his pulse quickened, he acknowledged that thinking of her was not without its own kind of hazards. Still, arousal was far more pleasant than images of death and desolation.

Knowing he would not sleep again, Kenneth rose and quietly donned his worn robe. He would do some sketching; he'd learned very young that for him, drawing was a better escape from grim reality than drink or mindless fornication. Creating peaceful, empty landscapes was very soothing. After the horrifically bloody seige of Badajoz, he'd done a series of Spanish flowers in watercolor. Waterloo had been the spark for some rather decent pastel sketches of children at play.

He went for his sketchbook and drawing supplies, which were concealed in the back of his wardrobe. As he felt behind the hanging garments, he touched a smooth, metallic object wedged down into a crack. A sharp tug freed a handsome silver card case. Inside, the top card read, "Thomas J. Morley."

Perfect; he'd wanted an excuse to call on Tom Morley so he could discreetly probe for information. Now he had it.

Taking the find as a good omen, he brought out his drawing materials and settled into a chair. A moment's thought gave him a good subject. A few days earlier, Beth had forwarded a letter from his friends Michael and Catherine. They had announced the birth of a son and invited him to a week-long christening party to be held on an island off Cornwall. A pity he could not afford the time or money to attend; he could not even afford a proper christening gift. A picture would have to do.

He set to work, using pencil to lightly block in a family group standing beside a baptismal font. In the center was Michael, delighted and a little nervous to be holding his infant son in his arms. To his left was Catherine, her head inclined toward her husband as she made a gentle maternal adjustment to the sweeping folds of the christening gown. On the right Catherine's daughter Amy was beaming at her new brother. Amy must be all of thirteen now. Kenneth hadn't seen her since before Waterloo, so he would have to guess at how much she had grown. She was almost a young lady and must look even more like her beautiful mother.

The final drawing was laid in with pen and India ink. Sometimes his fingers seemed divinely guided, and this was one of those occasions. Ink was unforgiving of errors, but every stroke went in exactly right. He took particular care with the expressions, wanting to portray the love that had created a new life. Since he did not know the actual setting, he made several vague,curved strokes in the background to imply churchly arches.

The picture pleased him, and he thought it would please Michael and Catherine as well. Yet when he set it aside, he felt sadness. For years, he had dreamed of his return to Sutterton. Eventual marriage had been part of the dream. He had never imagined that he would be too poor to support a wife and family. Even if Lord Bowden cleared the mortgages, years of struggle lay ahead. Capital would have to be invested in Sutterton, and whatever money could be spared must go to provide for Beth.

Forcibly he reminded himself that his situation was far brighter than before Bowden had entered his life. It might take ten years before he would be in a position to many, but with luck and hard work, the time would come.

He glanced at the drawing, and for an instant he saw the figures of himself and Rebecca instead of Michael and Catherine.

Rubbish! Rebecca might be intriguing, but she was the least wifely female he'd ever met. If and when he settled down, it would be with a warm, loving woman like Catherine, not a sharp-edged spinster who preferred painting to people.

Feeling depressed, he set his sketchbook aside. Outside, the sun was creeping above the horizon. Perhaps taking Sir Anthony's horse out for exercise would improve his mood.

Kenneth spent a moment studying the young man working diligently inside the small office. Thin, neatly dressed, an intelligent face, and a faint but unmistakable air of self-importance. Here was someone who looked like a private and personal secretary.

A rap on the door frame brought the young man's head up. "Come in, sir," he said politely. "I'm Thomas Morley, Sir Wilford's secretary. He is not available, but may I help you?"

Kenneth advanced into the room. "Actually, I came to see you. I'm Kenneth Wilding, Sir Anthony Seaton's new secretary."

A flicker of surprise implied that Morley was another who didn't think Kenneth looked right for the job. Concealing the reaction, he rose and offered his hand. "A pleasure to meet you. I'd heard Sir Anthony finally found someone. It's
Captain
Wilding, isn't it?"

Kenneth agreed to the title. After shaking hands, he produced the silver card case. "I'm in your old room, and yesterday I found this wedged in a corner of the wardrobe. Sir Anthony told me your current address, and since I was coming to Westminster anyhow, I thought I'd drop it by in person."

Morley's face lit up as he took the case. "Splendid! This was a present from my godmother when I finished at Oxford. With all the confusion of moving and starting a new position, I feared it was lost for good." He slipped it into a pocket. "I was about to dine at the tavern down the street. Will you join me, Captain? I should like to buy you a dinner to show my gratitude. You can tell me the news from Seaton House."

Since Kenneth had timed his visit with the idea of inviting Morley out, he accepted immediately. Soon they were eating excellent beefsteak at opposite sides of a table in the nearby tavern. The fact that both of them had worked for Sir Anthony created a bond that caused Morley to talk easily.

After half an hour of describing his political work, Morley broke off with a laugh. "Sorry for running on so, but I am enjoying my position greatly. What do you think of Seaton House?"

Kenneth swallowed a mouthful of ale. "Different."

Morley smiled. "A tactful description. One could meet the most prominent people in Britain at Sir Anthony's, but I'm not sorry to be gone. There's something a bit too chaotic about artists, don't you think? Trying to make that household efficient was an uphill battle, as I'm sure you've learned."

"Commanding a company under battle conditions was good preparation," Kenneth said with a faint smile. "Things got into a sad state after you left, but I'm beginning to sort them out. Sir Anthony hasn't thrown anything at anyone for days."

The other man gave an elaborate shudder. "I liked the old boy, but I don't miss his tantrums. I never could understand why he carried on so when he's the most fortunate man I know. Have you ever watched him work? He stands back from his easel with a long-handled brush and hardly seems to watch where he's slapping the paint. A few days of that and voila! A portrait someone will pay hundreds of guineas for." Morley sighed. "Hardly seems fair the way fame and fortune have fallen into his lap, while men like you and me must work for our livings."

"Sir Anthony may make painting look easy," Kenneth said dryly, "but it took years of discipline and hard work for him to know where and how to 'slap paint.' " Wondering what the other man thought of Rebecca, he continued mendaciously, "When Miss Seaton heard I might see you, she sent her greetings."