River Of Fire (4 page)
Bowden shrugged. "You can call her a slut if you prefer. At the age of eighteen, she ran off with a self-proclaimed poet, then didn't have the decency to marry him."
Elopement seemed to be a family trait, Kenneth thought dryly. "Does she live with her father?"
"Yes. It's a mark of his own low morals that he took her back into his household."
Kenneth did not agree; for a man to turn his only daughter away because of a youthful mistake would have been even more immoral. Keeping the thought private, he said, "She would be the logical person to run the household instead of her father's secretary. I wonder why she doesn't."
"She's probably either lazy or incompetent. I assume that you'll find out which." Bowden got to his feet and gave a cold smile. "After all, I am paying you a fortune to learn every
single
thing about my brother's life."
As Kenneth escorted his visitor out, he wondered wryly whether the faint scent in the hall was mildew or brimstone.
Before changing for dinner, Kenneth went to tell his sister the good news. She was sitting by her bedroom window, taking advantage of the last of the light to do mending.
He frowned and crossed the room to the fireplace. "It's freezing in here, Beth. You must take better care of yourself."
She glanced up from the pillowcase she was darning. "No need to waste coal. I'm used to the cold."
He knelt and laid a generous scoop of coal on the feeble fire. A few pumps with the bellows created a warm blaze. He rose and was about to speak when he saw a small painting. "Good God, the Rembrandt! I thought it was gone."
"I'm sorry, I should have told you yesterday, but I forgot in the excitement of your arrival." Beth began stitching again. "Whenever Hermione came to Sutter-ton, she looked for valuables to take to
London
. I knew that picture was your favorite, so I switched frames with that awful little landscape in the hall and brought the Rembrandt in here. Hermione did come in once, but didn't give the picture a second glance."
"Thank heaven for that. The painting isn't a major work, but it's worth a hundred pounds or so. Enough for Hermione to covet." Pulse quickening, Kenneth went to the small still life of fruits and flowers. It was easy to overlook in its new plain frame, yet to a discerning eye, it was unmistakably the product of a master. He had always loved the sensual colors and forms. How was it possible to get such depth, such richness?
Touched by the knowledge that his sister had cared enough to save the painting for his sake, he glanced up and was struck by how much she resembled their mother. "Bless you, Beth," he said quietly. "I thought I'd never see this again."
She smiled. "I'm glad you're pleased." Her smile vanished. "We won't lose the picture to bankruptcy, will we?"
Remembering why he had come, he said, "Our luck may have turned. A gentleman called this afternoon and asked me to do some work that might save Sutterton."
Beth gasped and her darning dropped forgotten into her lap. "Good heavens, what kind of position could do that?"
"It's an odd business, and I'm not at liberty to discuss it yet. But if all goes well, next year you can be presented at court as Miss Wilding of Sutterton." Forestalling the questions he saw in his sister's face, he added, "What I'm doing isn't dangerous or illegal, merely odd. However, I'll have to go to London for a time—anywhere from several weeks to several months.I'll leave some of the money I got from the sale of my commission to cover the household expenses."
"You're going away so soon?" Though she tried,
Bern
couldn't keep the disappointment from her voice.
Kenneth shifted uncomfortably. His sister had already been alone too much. A thought occurred to him. "When I came through
London
last week, I saw my friend Jack Davidson. I've mentioned him in letters. He lost the use of his left arm at
Waterloo
and has been rather at loose ends ever since. However, he's the younger son of a squire and quite knowledgeable about agriculture. If you don't object, I'll ask him to come to Sutterton. I think he'd be willing to act as a temporary steward. He can survey what will be needed if we're able to keep the estate."
Beth glanced wryly at her cane. "Mr. Davidson should fit in very well here. I'll have to find a chaperon, though." She thought a moment. "I'll write Cousin Olivia. She'll come if I let her stay in the Royal Suite."
Kenneth smiled. "Done. Let's hope everything else falls into place as easily." But as he left to dress for dinner, his good spirits faded. He wondered how long it had taken Faust to develop doubts about his bargain with Mephistopheles.
Sir Anthony Seaton cast a disapproving eye on the dishes laid out in the breakfast room. "The cook calls this a meal? That idiot Frenchman deserves to be discharged."
"He
was
discharged, Father," Rebecca Seaton said without raising her gaze from the sketchbook beside her plate. "You got rid of him yesterday."
Her father frowned. "So I did. The insolent devil deserved it. Why hasn't he been replaced?"
"Finding a new cook takes time, particularly when all of the registry agencies shudder at my approach." She paused for a bite of toast. "We've become notorious for the frequency with which servants leave. Luckily, the kitchen maid can cook a little."
"How would you know? Half the time, you don't notice what you're eating." Sir Anthony scowled at her. "Why aren't you doing a better job of running this place?"
Knowing her father's temper would not improve until he had his morning tea, Rebecca laid down her pencil and went to pour a cup. She stirred in milk and sugar and handed him the steaming beverage. "If I spent my time on such things, I would be unable to help in your studio."
"There is that." Her father swallowed a scalding mouthful. "Damn Tom Morley for leaving. He wasn't particularly skilled at domestic management, but he was better than nothing."
Without much hope, she asked, "Did you interview that young man Mr. Morley suggested as a replacement?"
Her father made a disgusted gesture. "He was an ignorant puppy. Quite unsuitable."
Rebecca sighed. Advertisements for a new secretary would have to be run in the newspapers. Because her father had no patience for interviewing, she would be the one to weed through the hordes of applicants. She hoped someone acceptable appeared quickly. "Two of the registry offices promised to send over cooks today. With luck, one of them will do."
He put two slices of ham on his plate. "Make sure you don't hire another temperamental artist."
"I'll do my best," she said dryly. "No household can survive more than one temperamental artist."
Her father gave the sudden smile that made even his enemies forgive his high-handedness. "Quite right— and I'm it." He paused to look over her shoulder. "What are you working on?"
She tilted the sketchbook toward him. "I'm considering the Lady of the Lake. What do you think of this composition?"
Her father studied it. "Interesting how you've made her half nymph and half warrior. I like the way her hair is drifting in the water as she raises Excalibur."
High praise from Sir Anthony Seaton, who didn't believe in tact when it came to art. Rebecca got to her feet. She hoped her father found a secretary soon so she would be able to begin the new painting.
Rebecca had intended to spend only a few minutes sketching studies for the Lady of the Lake, but the next time she glanced up, it was early afternoon and she still hadn't written the advertisement for a new secretary. By now, it was too late to make the following day's newspapers. Drat. Worse, she was not satisfied with the Lady of the Lake.
She stood and stretched her cramped muscles, then wandered across the slant-ceilinged room with her sketchbook. Her studio took up half of the attic, and was her sanctuary. No one came in without her permission, not even her father.
She perched on the window seat and glanced outside. The house stood on a corner, which gave her a good view of traffic on both streets. Below her on Hill Street, she recognized two neighborhood servants pausing in their errands to flirt. The pert maid made a slight, preening gesture as her gaze slanted up at the handsome young footman.
Rebecca flipped to a fresh page of her sketchbook and quickly recorded the arch of the girl's neck and the teasing angle of her eyes. Someday she wanted to do a series on lovers. Maybe she would learn something about love in the process.
When she glanced up again, she saw a costermonger pushing his battered wheelbarrow around the corner into Waverton Street. The weathered old man was a regular in the area. Her father had several times lured the fellow away from his barrow to pose for minor characters in large-scale paintings. The costermonger was delighted to be made "ferever famous."
She was about to move away from the window when a man turned the corner from Waverton. He caught her attention because of the way he moved. Erect, confident, almost arrogant. Though he wore the garb of a gentleman, his broad, muscular build was that of a laborer. An interesting contradiction.
The fellow hesitated on the corner and glanced down Hill Street. She caught her breath when he turned his head and she saw his face. He wasn't handsome—quite the contrary. His features were harsh, almost brutal, and a thin scar curved across his cheek and into his dark hair. Yet at the same time, he gave an impression of feral intelligence. A pirate in Mayfair. She could not take her eyes off him.
The spell broke when he lowered his head and began walking again. She dropped back onto the window seat and began to draw, her pencil racing to record the man while he was vivid in her mind. A few quick lines caught his physical features, but the expression eluded her. She tried again, then again, but couldn't capture that air of lethal unpredictability.
She raised her head and looked out the window. Might the man be persuaded to pose for her? But of course he had long since gone. She sighed. Once, she would have chased him down the street to get a better view of that face. Perhaps someday that creative passion would return. She certainly hoped so.
Kenneth paused across the street from Seaton House. Being a society portrait painter obviously paid well. The wide Mayfair residence, so convenient for fashionable clients, must have cost Sir Anthony a fortune.
He wondered what he would find inside. Though Lord Bowden had called him a spy, the chief skills of a reconnaissance officer were riding and the ability to make maps and sketches of French positions. He had never had to infiltrate the enemy as he was doing here.
