The Painted Lady (24 page)

Posies, hell. All Kasey could bring Lilyanne was a blot on her reputation. He kept his distance, despite temptation, letting the sprigs take her sightseeing and driving in the park and dancing.

Kasey sulked, although he did not call it that, of course. He called it having too much time on his hands. He would have gone to the Lonsdale Street house to escape the hordes of mooncalves on his own doorstep, but he did not feel like painting, or seeing the painting. Ayers was still gone, besides, so the place was cold and the pantry was bare. His Grace supposed he’d have to hire more staff if Ayers did not come back soon, or sell the place after all. Charles Warberry did not have an address for the man this time, so he could not send for Ayers.

Charles did not have time to keep the duke company, either. He was too busy closeted with Lady Edgecombe and her solicitor, trying to figure how wealthy the lady would be once her loose screw of a spouse succumbed.

Jason was no help. Kasey’s own brother was embarked on a new course of agricultural enlightenment, when he wasn’t at Lilyanne’s feet. Kasey suggested the moonling consult with Lord Granleigh, Phillida’s father, who practiced all the modern farming methods—and who had confided in Caswell that he needed a son-in-law to take over his fields, not a foreigner. Jason would be set for life if he gave up his youthful dare-deviltry, and Lady Phillida could do far worse, Kasey reasoned, for there was no meanness in the lad at all. They were already friends and had much in common.

Mutuality was a sorry basis for marriage, though, he was coming to see. People should be free to wed for love, to beget children in joy, to share their lives, not just their names and fortunes, no matter what Society said. No, Kasey would not discuss a practical marriage with his brother, whenever he saw the gudgeon again.

The thought of a love match making him more blue-deviled, Kasey searched out his aunts. Unfortunately, they, too, were too busy for the duke.

“He likes me better.”

“No, he likes me better. He ate all the macaroons I ordered special.”

“Well, he drank the elderberry wine I found in the cellar.”

“He likes when I read to him.”

“Faugh. He fell asleep. Leaning against me.”

The aunts were not dickering over the dog; they were squabbling over Sir Osgood. The physician had endeared himself to both of the ladies by listening to their lengthy lists of complaints. Then he’d prescribed a special diet for them. Bannister had not tried to force his theories of abstention onto the duke’s dinner table, not after his first sumptuous repast there. He did, though, introduce his patent puddings at dessert. The ladies had not slept so well in years, they swore, vowing to recommend the good doctor to all of their friends. Sir Osgood could make his fortune in Bath. Didn’t dear Caswell have property there?

Not even Ticket had time for the master of the house. After one day of listening to the ladies’ jealous quarreling over the animal, Lilyanne had convinced her hostesses to purchase another dog, a young female pug they named Cricket. The aunts were in alt. Ticket was in love, and Kasey was indignant. Not only hadn’t he been asked if he wished to own a pack of push-faced pugs, but he should have thought of the idea ages ago.

He went to the park across the street anyway. Dimm was not on his bench, naturally, for he was following Miss Bannister around town, at Kasey’s expense, in Kasey’s own carriage. At least the pigeons were still present, still cooing and bobbing their heads up and down as they looked for crumbs, which Kasey did not have. He should have thought of that, too. Thunderation, he should have thought of a lot of things, like not bringing Lilyanne to London.

She’d be spoiled. She’d lose her freshness. Devil take it, she’d become like every other female in London and lose her innocence, if not her virtue. Worst of all, she’d pick one of her suitors, no matter what she said, and she’d marry. Kasey felt like he’d already lost her.

He kicked a stone in the path, sending the pigeons into flight, and Kasey wished he could dispel his dreary thoughts as easily. One of the frightened birds flew right overhead and, in effect, told His Grace to shake off the doldrums, after he wiped off the other. Right, he’d get up and get moving, make the world dance to his tune for a change. He was a duke, by George, demented or not.

* * * *

He did not like her anymore. That’s all Lilyanne could think. His Grace must be sorry he’d invited her to London, for he never sought her company or shared his confidences. She’d never looked finer, with the most elegant and becoming gowns she’d ever worn and someone else to fuss over her hair, and he never noticed. Oh, he paid her the usual compliments she was getting used to hearing, the same ones every other caller bestowed on her and Lady Edgecombe indiscriminately and insincerely. In addition, he was trying to marry her off, seeing that she was introduced to every unwed gentleman in Town. Then she’d be some other man’s headache, out of Kasey’s mind and off his conscience. Too bad Lilyanne couldn’t remember half of her dance partners’ names. They all paled in comparison to Caswell, the shining paradigm of what a gentleman should be, in Lilyanne’s estimation. The only one who appealed to her at all was Lord Jason, but only because she saw so much of Kasey in his young brother.

Miss Bannister was no nearer her goal of finding a position or founding a school, no closer to providing for her sister, and a great deal further from what peace of mind she’d found in the country. She missed her walks and her dyes and her spinning wheel. Here, in the largest city in the world, Lilyanne was the loneliest she’d ever been.

That was why, when Kasey invited her to accompany him to his studio that night, she readily agreed.

“I know it’s not at all the thing,” he said, “and could ruin all the effort we’ve put into seeing you accepted in Society, but, devil take it, I never get to talk to you.”

“But your aunts ... ?”

“Would have apoplexy if I spirited you away in the middle of the night, and rightly so, but it is the only way. You have a flock of baa-ing sheep trailing your skirts every other hour of the day or night. I want to show you the studio, and the painted lady, to see what you think.”

“Has she been bothering you?” He had not seemed so haunted-looking to Lilyanne, the few times she had been able to carefully study his handsome face without being noticed.

“No, she is not speaking to me.”

No wonder he had not sought Lilyanne out, she thought. He was no longer persecuted and perplexed. “That is wonderful. I am glad to hear it, for your sake.”

“No, you do not understand. The painting is still talking, just not to me.”

“What, is it speaking to other people now? I don’t know if I am brave enough to walk into the room of a wraith, much less hold a conversation.”

“I do not know if she will talk to you, or me, but she is still there. I can feel her presence in the room, no matter whether she says anything or not. You know, like when you get a prickling between your shoulder blades, as if someone is watching you?”

Lilyanne was getting shivers down her back, all right, but they were from the duke standing so near. “Perhaps the feeling will dissipate in time”—she doubted her own would— “when the portrait stays still? As Uncle would say, if you stop thinking about it, perhaps it will go away.”

“I cannot take the chance. I have to resolve this once and for all, sane or insane. Will you come with me?”

For all that Lilyanne had tried to show the duke that she could fit into his world, he’d never noticed. She may as well follow her own inclinations now. “Of course. I can tell your aunts I am feeling tired. In truth I would be happy to forego yet another rout party. I don’t know how the ladies manage to keep so busy without falling to exhaustion.”

“They usually sleep until noon,” he reminded her. “While you are used to waking with the dawn. I’ll have a hired carriage waiting an hour after the aunts go to bed, so you have time to dismiss your maid and don your hooded cape. We cannot take Fanny, for she’d be missed in the servants’ quarters, if we could trust her not to cry rope. But I swear you will not be without a chaperone.”

* * * *

Mr. Dimm sat across from them in the hackney coach, smiling like a well-fed barn cat by the light of the carriage lamps. Lilyanne was pressed so closely against Kasey’s side that she could feel the muscles in his thigh. Hers was trembling, and she wondered if he could feel that, too. He held her hand in the shadows, but more for his own comfort, she worried, than anything else.

Ayers had still not returned, Mr. Dimm’s nephew reported, but young Thomas had taken to keeping watch from the house’s kitchen, with His Grace’s permission, so fires were lit and candles were burning. He stayed below, putting on the teakettle for when they returned, surely chilled.

When they reached the attic level of the narrow house, Kasey having hurried her past the blessedly dark bedrooms, Lilyanne instantly understood what he’d meant about feeling a presence in the room. While he and Mr. Dimm filled oil lamps, Lilyanne looked around. She’d been prepared to be impressed, of course, having seen the duke’s drawings before, but now she was awestruck.

The sheer volume of the paintings would have confounded her, thinking of all the hours Kasey must have spent here alone. But each picture was more beautiful than the last, each a perfect rendition of a lovely woman. The nudity of the models did not embarrass her, since she saw nothing prurient in the duke’s veneration of the female figure. He liked women; he’d never made a secret of his profligate past. This work transcended any lewdness, the way the collection of Greek marbles she’d seen that very afternoon had nothing to do with bare male bodies, and everything to do with beauty.

One of the portraits was more stunning than the others, the model far more attractive, the painting far superior to anything Lilyanne had ever seen. Why, it was so lifelike, she would not have been surprised if... if the woman spoke.

“This is the one,” she murmured.

Kasey came to stand behind her, and they held their collective breaths, but the painting was merely a masterpiece tonight, not a thing of magic.

Then Dimm called to Caswell, asking if it would be possible for His Grace to do up a sketch of Ayers for his men to show around town, since not knowing the man’s whereabouts was beginning to wear on the officer’s instincts.

While Kasey assembled his pad and pencil, Lilyanne stayed by the painting. The woman was so beautiful, she wanted to weep. How could she compete with such perfection? No fancy gowns or elaborate hair style was going to make her half as attractive, half as appealing in Kasey’s eyes. No wonder he did not notice her, despite all her maid’s efforts. And no wonder a man of such skill, such perception, such amazing devotion to his art could not be troubled by plain Miss Bannister of Upper Lytchfield.

He was troubled, however.

“Why must you cause him so much pain?” she whispered. “You are far too beautiful to be evil. I know you love him. I can see it in your face, even if you stare toward Mr. Dimm. Please, I beg of you, do not destroy him.”

Chapter Twenty-six

The kindly old gentleman from Bow Street handed her a handkerchief. Lilyanne wiped at the tears she hadn’t felt coursing down her cheeks, while Mr. Dimm pretended to study the painting.

“Aye, m’wife, bless her kind heart, used to get teary-eyed when she saw a rainbow or a pretty sunset. Some songs had her blubbering like a babe, I swear. I imagine she’d turn into a watering pot now, too, seeing all this, and seeing it hidden away in the dark. I wish she could see it, no matter that she’d weep on my shirtfront, likely wilting the collar.”

Lilyanne tried to smile for him. “I promise not to do that, at least.”

He nodded. “Hit me like that, too, it did, the first time I seen them all. Not tears, a’course, but a body can’t help being moved, can it? Like going into Westminster the first time, I’d wager. Been there yet, miss?”

Lilyanne shook her head. “There is so much to see.”

“That there is, that there is.” He waved one hand around the room. “A man could spend days, right here. He’d always come back to this picture, though. The others are good, even an ignorant old thief-taker like me can see that. But this one ...” Dimm shrugged. “Seems like you can almost see her breathing, doesn’t it?”

Or see her nod, Lilyanne thought.

“Uncanny knack His Grace has, hm?” Dimm showed her the sketch of Ayers before carefully tucking it into his breast pocket. “ ‘Xactly like I remember the cove. A shame it is, too.
Maybe you can change His Grace’s mind for him, though. Like I always says, there’s nothing like the love of a good woman to bring a man to his senses.”

“Oh, but he doesn’t... I don’t...”

“And I didn’t get to be one of Bow Street’s chief inspectors by mistaking the nose on my face for a flowerpot, miss. I’ll be wishing you the happiness me and my Cora knew. May she smile down on your wedding day.”

“But...”

Mr. Dimm winked and took her arm, leading Lilyanne out of the room while Kasey lowered the wicks on the oil lamps. As they were just going out the door, Lilyanne thought she heard an odd murmuring, as if water were running down the eaves, although it was not raining.

“Did you hear that, Mr. Dimm?”

“No, but m’hearing ain’t as sharp as it used to be. Nothing is, these days, don’t you know.”

Kasey heard the voice loud and clear: “Get something right for once, bucko. The answer’s right at your fingertips, so don’t lose this chance, too.”

When he joined Lilyanne at the hall landing, she slipped her hand into his. Kasey looked down ... right at his fingertips. He raised them to his lips.

Being a romantic at heart, although he would never admit it to his hardheaded compatriots at Bow Street, Inspector Dimm rode up on top with the hackney driver for the return to Grosvenor Square. There was nothing the man liked better than a little matchmaking, so long as everything was above-board. This romance was; Dimm would wager his pocket watch on it.

No one else shared Dimm’s certainty. About anything.