River Of Fire (26 page)

When Rebecca gave her an encouraging glance, she continued, "You could alter one of your mother's gowns. Helen had wonderful taste, and since you have the same coloring, her gowns would suit you equally well…" Her voice trailed off. "Of course, you may not like to wear something that was hers."

Rebecca's first reaction was to reject the idea violently. As she hesitated, Lavinia said quietly, "It wouldn't be a bad thing if the thought of Helen became a part of your life again instead of being an aching wound that can't be touched."

Rebecca bit her lip, surprised that Lavinia understood so well. She made a wary attempt to consider Lavinia's suggestion, and realized there was something comforting about the idea of wearing a garment of her mother's. It would be like having Helen's silent support. "I… I think I would like that. Shall we go look? Her clothing is packed in trunks in the attic." She got to her feet. "I haven't the least notion of how to turn myself out fashionably. I'm going to need help."

"Approach your appearance the same way you would a portrait," Lavinia said shrewdly as she finished her tea and stood. "Don't look in the mirror and think, 'shy, unfashionable Miss Seaton.' Think of what you would do if you were painting that person and wanted to make her look lovely and elegant."

Rebecca looked at the other woman with new respect. "Lavinia, you're a godsend."

"Helen had an amber silk gown that will suit you right down to the ground. Shall we see if we can find it?"

As the two women went upstairs, Rebecca realized that her relationship with Lavinia had passed a watershed. They had gone from being friendly to being friends.

As usual, Kenneth stopped at his postal receiving station on his way back to Seaton House after finishing Sir Anthony's errands. The only letter waiting was from Lord Bowden. He frowned as he read it. Bowden was becoming impatient and wanted a report. Rather than arranging a meeting, Kenneth decided to write. He tucked the letter away and resumed walking, mentally composing a reply that would sound more substantial than it was.

It was more pleasant to think of Rebecca. By the end of the previous evening, she had been laughing and exhibiting her tart humor. She would have more confidence at her next engagement.

He could use some confidence himself, for the ball would be his own first venture into London society. He had joined the army before he'd had a chance to descend on the town as most young gentlemen did. If not for Hermione…

He suppressed the thought. Though his stepmother had been the serpent in Eden, his own weakness had turned the situation from difficult to impossible. He had gotten what he deserved.

It was almost noon by the time he got back to Seaton House. An invitation to the Candovers' ball awaited him on a side table in the hall. Michael and his friends were most efficient.

He went up to the office and found Sir Anthony conferring with George Hampton. His employer said, "Ah, Kenneth, just in time to help George find a picture in the vault."

"The vault, sir?"

"It's a storeroom on the ground floor that has been fitted out for keeping paintings. George will show you. I'd go myself, but a client is here for a sitting." He gave Kenneth a key, then left.

Hampton picked up a lit oil lamp, explaining, "I need to get the original of one of Anthony's paintings so I can make an engraving of it."

Thinking it was fortunate to have this chance to talk with Hampton privately, Kenneth said as they descended the stairs, "Is the picture you're engraving one of the Waterloo series?"

"Yes, the Chateau de Hougoumont painting. The first two are completed, and I'll engrave the Wellington picture as soon as Anthony finishes it. The series will cause a sensation when they're exhibited together, and we want to have the prints ready for sale when the show opens."

"That sounds like good business."

"As the son of a Kentish shopkeeper, I was born to trade," Hampton said with unmistakable dryness. "Which is just as well. If it was up to gentlemen to run the world, mankind would still be living in caves."

"I meant no insult. Quite the contrary."

"Sorry," Hampton said apologetically. "I've been oversensitive on the subject ever since I left the country to attend the Royal Academy Schools. It was frequently pointed out to me that I was not a gentleman and never would be."

"Surely few of the students at the academy are gentlemen by birth. Wasn't Mr. Turner's father a barber?"

"Yes," Hampton said, dry again, "but I don't think he made the mistake of becoming friends with his more aristocratic classmates."

Did Hampton resent Sir Anthony for his superior birth? Kenneth doubted that his employer would deliberately insult a man of lower rank, but he did have a natural arrogance that could be irritating. Hoping to elicit more, Kenneth said, "You couldn't have been accepted at the academy without talent and drive."

Hampton's broad face relaxed into nostalgia. "The day I was admitted was the happiest of my life. I'd always loved to draw. Even my father admitted that I was good. I went to London with great dreams. I was going to become the finest painter England had ever known, better than Reynolds and Gainsborough put together." He sighed. "Foolish, youthful fantasies."

The words hit uncomfortably close to home, for Kenneth's boyhood dreams had been much the same. Even now, he could not stop himself from secretly hoping that he would prove to have a natural genius for oil painting. That he would be able to create works that would become immortal. Instead, he couldn't even paint a still life worthy of the name.

They reached the ground floor and passed the kitchen and servants' hall to reach the back corner of the house. Kenneth had noticed the door before, but vaguely assumed it opened to an ordinary storeroom. As he turned the key in the lock, he said, "Perhaps you didn't achieve your earliest goals, but you have become the finest engraver in England. Surely there is satisfaction in that."

"There is," Hampton agreed as he went into the vault. "And a very good living as well. But it was a bitter blow when I started at the academy school and for the first time was among others whose gifts exceeded my own. Even at sixteen, Anthony's talent was so great as to break the spirit of lesser mortals. When I saw his work, I knew that I could never be his equal."

"Yet you became friends."

"Our talents might not be equal, but our love of art is," Hampton said musingly. "Its the same with Malcolm Frazier. Under his aristocratic hauteur, he has a fierce passion for art. For over thirty years, that bond has kept the three of us friends, despite all our other differences."

That shared passion had even preserved their friendship through Hampton's affair with Helen Seaton. Kenneth would not have been so tolerant if the woman in question were his wife. He wondered if the engraver had found secret satisfaction in cuckolding his more successful friend. Jealousy could take many forms.

He glanced around the vault. Cool and dry with high, narrow windows, it was filled with racks specially designed to hold paintings. He slid the nearest canvas from its slot. Both disturbing and lovely, it depicted a seductive water nymph drawing a vain youth to his doom in a forest pool. He remarked. "Surely this is by Rebecca, not Sir Anthony."

Hampton gave him a look of mild surprise. "She's showed you her work? A rare mark of favor. Yes, it's one of hers. That was done not long after her elopement." Humor glinted in his eyes. "The chap being dragged into the water bears a distinct resemblance to the young swine who seduced her."

Kenneth returned the canvas to its slot, glad that Rebecca had found a small way to even the score. "Is the Chateau de Hougoumont painting the same size as the others in the series?"

"Yes, which means it's probably in this rack." Hampton pulled a large canvas out, then caught his breath, pain on his face.

Kenneth understood the reaction when he saw the painting. It was a swiftly executed oil sketch of Helen Seaton, but not the laughing Helen of the portrait in the study. Instead, she was dressed in Greek draperies and wailing to the sky with grief, her auburn hair streaming over her shoulders like old blood. "Good God," he said involuntarily. "What is this supposed to be—a Trojan woman after the destruction of her city?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps it was… simply Helen." Expression bleak, Hampton shoved the picture back into the rack and reached for another canvas.

Wondering what the devil that meant, Kenneth said, "I heard you were the one who discovered her body after the accident."

Hampton nodded somberly. "I was taking a ride through the hills that day, following one of my usual trails and thinking of nothing in particular. Then from the corner of my eye I saw an odd motion, out of keeping with the setting. I turned to look more closely just in time to catch a glimpse of a green shape tumbling from Skelwith Crag."

"You actually saw her fall?" Kenneth said, startled. When the engraver nodded, he continued, "Was there anything else strange about the scene?"

Hampton frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Was someone with her at the top of the cliff?"

"Of course not," he said, puzzled. "Though my distance vision is so poor that I suppose a coach and four could have been on the cliff without me noticing. I simply saw that frighteningly human shape fall. Then I galloped to Ravensbeck, which was the nearest house. I was hoping against hope that Helen would be there and laugh at me for my fears, but… but I was not surprised when she was not."

A pity that Hampton's vision wasn't better. "Why weren't you surprised?"

"Why are you asking so many questions?" Hampton countered, his gaze sharpening to hostility.

Making his expression earnest and uncomplicated, Kenneth replied, "Everyone acts so strangely about her death. I've been concerned because I know that Rebecca is still troubled."

The hostility faded, but Hampton's reminiscences were over. "Everyone was troubled by Helen's death, Captain. Pull out that picture on the end. I believe it's the one we're looking for."

Silently Kenneth obeyed. He had been given another puzzle piece—and it was just as useless as all the others.

Kenneth helped Hampton crate the picture for transport to the engraver's studio, then headed upstairs. On the second floor, he encountered Rebecca and Lavinia, their arms overflowing with colorful fabrics.

"You two look pleased with yourselves," he observed. "What have you been up to?"

"Finding me something to wear to the ball," Rebecca explained. "Lavinia suggested altering one of my mother's gowns." She caressed a shimmer of amber silk that spilled from the top of her pile. "This one, I think."

Kenneth lifted the trailing hem and held it alongside her face. "Perfect. The color makes your eyes seem the exact same shade of amber."

Her lashes fluttered when he inadvertently brushed her cheek with the silk. She glanced away, a pulse visible in her throat. "I assume that you've also received an invitation to the ball?"

He nodded. "Luckily I had some evening wear made up when I was stationed in Paris, but I warn you, there is no chance whatsoever that I will steal your thunder."

"I'll have no thunder to steal," she said dryly. "However, Lavinia assures me that I shall not be a disgrace."

"Will you be too busy to paint this afternoon?"

Rebecca glanced at Lavinia. "Am I going to be too busy?"

"I'm afraid so," Lavinia said, smiling like a fond aunt. "We must go to my house so my maid can start the alterations. Then we'll have to choose your accessories. But it can all be completed today. Tomorrow you can return to your work."

As he watched the two women, he realized how much Lavinia was enjoying herself. She liked being helpful. A pity that she had never had children. He remarked, "There seem to be quite a pile of garments there."

"Lavinia wants me to be prepared in the unlikely event that I behave well enough to get invited somewhere else," Rebecca replied before the two women proceeded on their way.

As he watched the graceful sway of Rebecca's figure, he thought of a small gift that he could make for her in honor of her first ball. And unlike oil paintings, it was something he knew he could do.

Between the frustrations of his investigation and his painting, he would welcome a project that went well.