River Of Fire (17 page)

"How promiscuous, you mean." Her gaze touched the portrait of her mother before moving to the safety of the window. "How could I be upset? The apple didn't fall far from the tree. I ruined myself at eighteen. Wantonness is in the blood."

"I don't believe that," he said gently. "Did you really elope because of the example of your parents? Or was it because you were looking for love?"

After a long silence, she said, 'Just before my come-out, I met a young viscount who came to Father for a portrait. I mistook his flirtation for serious interest and agreed to go riding in the park. He tried to maul me when we stopped to walk. When I resisted, he said that since I'd grown up with artists, I had no right to play Miss Propriety."

"I'm sure you didn't let that pass without comment."

"I pushed him into a fountain and left, resenting both him and my father, whose way of life had laid me open to such insult. Not very reasonable, perhaps, but I was young and hurt."

A hard pulse beat in her throat. "Then I was presented to society, and met Frederick. He sighed and wrote poems and told me he loved me, which was balm to my bruised heart. My parents didn't like him, and probably nothing would have come of it if I hadn't learned about Mother and Uncle George. Though I'd known about Father's affairs, it was a shock to find that my mother was no better. Three days later, I eloped." She gave a twisted smile. "I quickly realized that my parents were right and that marrying Frederick would be disastrous. Luckily, I found that out before tying myself to him for life."

Privately thinking that the elder Seatons should have given their daughter less freedom and more guidance, Kenneth said, "I presume that an advantage of having liberal parents was their willingness to take you back in spite of the scandal."

She nodded. "The only lectures I got were on my judgment, not my morality. My father said he was glad I had the sense not to marry such a loose fish, my mother said she was sure that I wouldn't make such a mistake again, and that was that."

"And she was right—you didn't repeat the mistake."

"Nor will I in the future," she said in a tone that said the subject was closed. "I came down to ask what happened to the roll of canvas I ordered. I'm almost out."

"Yesterday I wrote the supplier and received a note from him in this morning's post. He apologized for the delay and said the canvas would be delivered day after tomorrow. Is mere anything else you wished to inquire about?"

"Oh. No. That was all." She turned to leave.

"Is this afternoon's painting session still on, or are you too irritated with me for that?"

She gave him an ironic glance. "Not at all. Being assailed by lusty females like Lavinia is in the best tradition of Byronic heroes. Exactly right for a corsair."

As he chuckled, she exited and closed the door. His smile faded as he evaluated what he had learned. The Helen Seaton described by Lavinia might have had several potential murderers. Sir Anthony's superficial complaisance about her affairs might have masked festering rage. Perhaps the mystery mistress had yearned to have the painter for herself, or Helen had decided to dismiss George Hampton from her life and he had killed her in a jealous fury. Or there might be other, unknown lovers.

Passion and gain were the most likely reasons for murder, if indeed there had been a murder. Kenneth sighed with frustration. The longer he spent in Seaton House, the more he appreciated the difficulties of determining the truth about Helen Seaton—and the more he disliked his own duplicity. Becoming Rebecca's confidant when he was here under false pretenses was a kind of betrayal. If she ever learned what he was doing…

It wasn't a thought he wanted to complete.

Rebecca mentally berated herself as she made her way back to the safety of her studio. When she found Lavinia kissing Kenneth, she should have quietly left and returned at a later time. Instead, she'd felt a surge of jealousy. Worse, she had showed it even though she had no right to be jealous where he was concerned. The one impulsive kiss they had shared had meant nothing, even though it had affected her down to her toes. Kenneth was her father's employee, not her suitor.

Nonetheless, even though she and Lavinia had always gotten on well, she felt like scratching the other woman's eyes out. Rebecca blushed when she remembered Lavinia's speculative gaze; had she guessed that Rebecca had more than a casual interest in her father's secretary?

To relieve her feelings, Rebecca did a quick sketch of what Lavinia would look like if she weighed twice as much and had acquired a good set of wrinkles. The childish exercise cheered her no end. Reminding herself that Kenneth had given Lavinia no encouragement, she prepared for the afternoon painting session. It took only a few minutes to arrange the sofa, Persian carpet, and mirror that would be used for the shadow portrait.

Kenneth wouldn't come until after luncheon. She glanced restlessly around the studio. There were a dozen things she could do, none of which interested her.

Her gaze fell on the painting of Diana the Huntress. Drat, she had promised to frame it and replace the dreadful paintings in Kenneth's room. Thinking that making the change would be a subtle way of apologizing for her bad temper, she mounted Diana in a suitable frame. Then she selected two other pictures, a large Lake District landscape and a study of the Gray Ghost stalking a bird with panther wildness in his amber eyes.

She carried the two smaller pictures downstairs and knocked on Kenneth's door, entering when she received no answer. The existing paintings made her wrinkle her nose. All were an insult to anyone who appreciated good art. In Kenneth's place, she would have pitched them out the window.

She was hanging the Diana when her foot grazed a portfolio propped against the armoire. It tipped open, spilling drawings across the carpet. Wondering what the captain was doing with an artist's portfolio, she bent to close it.

She stopped, frozen. On top was a pen and ink sketch of a battle scene. Soldiers lunged with raised bayonets, smoke drifted, and horses reared in the background.

But what riveted her attention was the figure at the center of the page. Defined entirely by the dark lines of the background, it was a pure white silhouette of a man jerking in agony. Without a shred of detail, the outline conveyed the lethal strike of a bullet ripping into fragile human flesh. Shock and death, a moment of eternal silence set amid the horrors of hell. It was an image of profound, visceral power.

She dropped cross-legged to the floor and began paging through the portfolio. Charcoal and pastel portraits, precise topographical renderings of buildings, a handful of lovely watercolor landscapes. Though none matched the drama of the first picture, all were skillfully executed.

The last sketch was of a couple clinging urgently together. The scrawled legend said "Romeo and Juliet." Though the man and woman wore medieval garb, the aching emotion in the picture made her suspect that the two were real lovers, perhaps on the verge of a wartime separation.

She was studying the picture when the door opened and Kenneth stepped in. He stopped dead when he saw her, his expression turning thunderous. Then he slammed the door shut and advanced into the room, his usual quiet deference vanishing in a blaze of anger. "What the bloody hell are you doing?"

Repressing the urge to cower, she laid a hand on the portfolio in her lap. "You drew these pictures?"

He leaned down and snatched the portfolio away. "You have no right to pry among my possessions."

"I wasn't prying," she protested. "I accidentally knocked the portfolio over when I was hanging new paintings." Wondering why he was so upset, she asked again, "This is your work?"

He paused, as if considering a lie, then reluctantly nodded.

At a disadvantage on the floor, she scrambled to her feet. Unfortunately, Kenneth still towered over her. He was a fearsome sight; she sympathized with any unfortunate Frenchmen who had encountered him on the field of battle.

Curiosity overcoming caution, she said, "Why have you been hiding the fact that you're an artist?"

"I'm not an artist," he snapped.

"Of course you are," she retorted. "No one learns to draw this well without years of practice. Why is your work such a secret? And why are you acting like a raging bull?"

He drew a deep breath. "Sorry. My drawing isn't exactly a secret, but I'm a mere dilettante. It would be presumptuous to mention my sketches to you or your father."

She made a rude noise. "Rubbish. You're very talented. No wonder you were able to impress Father with your understanding of painting." She smiled a little. "I've been surrounded by artists my whole life, and you're the only one I ever met who wanted to hide his light under a basket."

Raw vulnerability in his voice, he said furiously, "
I
am not an artist
!"

Startled by his vehemence, she set her hands on his shoulders and pressed him to a sitting position on the bed. Eyes almost level and hands resting lightly on his shoulders, she asked, "What's wrong, Kenneth? You're behaving very strangely."

The muscles under her palms tensed, and he dropped his gaze. After a long silence, he said, "My father hated my interest in art and tried to beat it out of me. He didn't consider drawing and painting a proper pursuit for his only son."

"Yet you didn't stop."

"I couldn't," he said simply. "It was like a fire inside me. In pictures, I could say things that I could never put into words. So I learned to conceal or destroy whatever I did. To pretend that it didn't matter."

"How ghastly for you." No wonder he had been so disturbed by her discovery. Resisting the desire to kiss the shadows from his eyes, she brushed his cheek with the back of her hand, then stepped away. "I would have gone mad if my parents had tried to stop me from drawing."

"Instead, you had the good fortune to live with one of the finest painters in England." He gave a twisted smile. "When I was young, my secret dream was to study at the Royal Academy Schools to become a professional artist. It's too late for that now. I became a soldier, which is the antithesis of art." He glanced at his portfolio. "Being surrounded by so many wonderful paintings makes me want to burn my own feeble efforts."

"You
are
an artist, Kenneth," she said emphatically. "You already draw better than half the professionals in London. With some concentrated effort, you could become outstanding."

"I have a knack for drawing, and I do decent water-colors," he agreed, "but those are standard accomplishments for all young ladies and a good few gentlemen. I'm thirty-three. The time when I might have learned to be a real artist has passed."

Curiously she said, "How do you define an artist?"

"Someone who goes beyond rendering a likeness to reveal something new or hidden about the subject," he said slowly. "This picture of the Gray Ghost is pretty and amusing and painted with great fondness. Yet at the same time, it reveals his feral side—the wildness that lurks within the heart of every plump hearthside tabby. Similarly, your painting of Diana the Huntress shows her strength and pride in her skills, but also the loneliness that comes from being set apart The yearning to be like other women. She reminds me of you a little."

Damn him! It was all very well to be perceptive about paintings of cats, but not about her. Ignoring the comment about the Diana, she said, "I merely painted the Ghost as I saw him."

"You saw him that way because you have an artist's vision." He went to study the painting more closely. "Your unique, individual view of the world infuses everything you do. I think I would recognize anything done by your hand."

The thought that he could so clearly recognize her in her work was as intimate as a kiss.. Preferring to keep the discussion about him, not her, she removed several pictures from his portfolio. "You have the same ability." She indicated the pastel portrait of a dark Spanish beauty. "This woman is not only lovely but driven. Fiercely dedicated. Dangerous, even."

The tightening of Kenneth's face confirmed her description. She lifted the picture of the bullet-struck soldier. "If it's unique vision that makes an artist, you've got it. This is brilliant, and wholly original."

He shrugged. "That's a fluke. I did it last night because of what you said about drawing pictures of what upset you. Since for me drawing was always an escape,I decided to see if one of my milder demons could be safely released."

She glanced down at the drawing. If this was a mild demon, she'd love to see a major one. "Did it work?"

"Actually, it did. That image scorched my mind like a brand during my first battle. Drawing it made the memory seem…" he frowned, trying to define his thought, "not less clear, but farther away. Safer."

"It also gave me a chance to see and understand something I will never see in reality." She closed the portfolio again. "If that doesn't make you an artist, what would?"

He smiled faintly. "The ability to paint with oils. No other medium can
match
the intensity, the richness of color, of oil painting. The charcoal and watercolors I use are wielded by every schoolroom dauber."

"Then learn to use oils," she said tartly. "It's no great trick. In many ways, watercolor is far more difficult, and you've mastered that."

The scar on his face whitened. When he didn't speak, she said quietly, "You don't think you're capable of it."