Flirting With Fortune (25 page)

“And see now where that’s gotten ye, lad.”

“Actually,” he said, making an effort not to grind his teeth, “it got me quite far, until this mess yanked me back. Which, I feel compelled to point out, was entirely of his doing.”

She clucked her tongue, shaking her head from side to side. “Ye’ve always been harsh where yer da’s concerned. No’ without reason, I ken. But have you acknowledged, lad, that ye’d have never met yer lass if it weren’t for him?”

It was true, damn it. Colin dipped his head in reluctant agreement. Nothing else would have ever put him in the same room as Beatrice. And even if it had, the only reason she had given him even a moment’s notice was because of her fascination with his father.

The irony was rich indeed. His father was single-handedly responsible for both Colin’s love and heartache. He had simultaneously brought Beatrice to Colin and torn her from him.

Impressive, really.

“Oh, Colin, what’s an old woman ta do whit ye? Go. Walk the trails leading to the west. Frederick set out every morning for the foothills, no matter the rain or chill. I think ye need a different perspective, and sometimes that’s only ta be had among the forest. Ye never know when the fairies will whisper to ye.”

He doubted a trek through the estate in the dead of winter was going to bring anything more than frostbite. But he had been pacing like a caged lion in the house for days. There was not a room unsearched, no cupboard unopened. He was out of ideas, out of patience, and almost out of time.

“Perhaps I will.” Offering her a perfunctory kiss on her soft, wrinkled cheek, he strode to the front door, retrieved his greatcoat and hat, and set off toward the tree line where a narrow trail split the vegetation. The wind was vicious, but at least it had stopped raining last night, leaving the rocky path muddy but passable.

The cold was invigorating, clearing the muddled cobwebs from his mind. He took Gran’s advice, following the path to the west, away from the small loch and toward the foothills rising upward into the mist. He used to come this way when they first moved in, a young adolescent exploring his new domain. From the rolling meadow filled with wildflowers in the spring to the old gamekeeper’s cottage with its dilapidated thatched roof and river-rock chimney, to the crystal clear stream that swept through the property before dumping into the small loch not far from the house.

He might not have been born here, and he might not have even lived here for much of the past two years, but it was a part of him. It was home, more than any other place on earth. He loved it here and could scarce imagine anyone but his family calling it home.

The trail sloped up and to the left, delving deeper into the towering trees. He kept a steady pace, his boots hitting the rocky earth at an almost rhythmic pace. The bare, spindly branches extended over him in a weblike canopy, shielding him from the worst of the wind, but the bitterness of the day still chilled the exposed skin of his face.

His father had taken this walk nearly every day, Gran had said. Why? What had the land held for him? Perhaps he had been soaking it in. Enjoying the last of his time as master of the hard-won estate and the prosperity that he had earned and lost in the space of a decade and a half.

Before anyone else knew the dire state of their finances, he had already been saying good-bye.

Colin kicked a stone, sending it flying through the underbrush. A warning might have been nice. The selfishness of it all was hard to comprehend and impossible to forgive. Damn it all. This walk wasn’t having the intended effect. His breath came out in abbreviated puffs, and despite the cold, sweat trickled down his back.

He was about to turn around to head back when the stone chimney of the gamekeeper’s cottage came into view, its gray rock nearly blending in with the clouded skies behind it. It was probably best that he stop to rest before he soaked through his clothes and caught his death.

Slowing as he approached the tiny cabin, the barest hint of a smile lifted the corner of his lip. It looked exactly the same as it had a decade ago, with its squat walls covered in ivy and its uneven, thatched roof looking like an overgrown mop of hair. It sat right on the edge of the meadow, with a view to the mountains beyond through its two back windows. Perhaps “windows” wasn’t the right word—they were just open portals, covered by sturdy shutters that swung out on ancient hinges.

He’d spent many an afternoon in the place, exploring, reading, pretending to live alone in the woods. His pulse settled as he walked up the gravel path and stomped his feet on the flagstone stoop. It was like stepping back in time, standing here again. An icy blast of wind assailed him, and he quickly lifted the latch and let himself in.

Almost instantly, he came to an abrupt stop.

He stood in the doorway, frozen in a way that had nothing to do with the frigid air buffeting his back. Breathing deeply, he looked around the dim interior. The exact essence of his father was here—the scent of linseed oils and earthy pigments, the Spartan furnishings and bare windows, the open painter’s box set upon the single small table in the back of the room.

But the most significant of all was a simple easel set up beside the window near the back corner. On it a single canvas waited, tauntingly averted from where he stood.

Dear God.

Colin swallowed, his eyes riveted on the open frame of the back of the canvas. His heart beat so hard, the pounding seemed to ricochet through his head. Rioting hope propelled him forward, like sails catching wind for the first time in days.
Please, please.
He kicked the door shut behind him before rushing forward, the anticipation stealing the air from his anxious lungs. This could be it—everything he had hoped for. Everything that he had come here seeking.

Coming upon it, he paused, pressing his eyes closed. Sucking in a strangled breath, he sent up a quick prayer and stepped around the easel.

Blinking, he stared in astonishment at the sight before him, unable to fully absorb what he was seeing. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be. He rubbed his gloved hands over his eyes, pressing hard. Dragging in a deep breath, he opened his eyes, only to confirm what he already knew he would see.

The canvas was blank.

C
olin dropped to the stool beside the easel, his body seeming to lose all rigidity in the face of the discovery. He shook his head, staring at the canvas. Nothing. Emptiness. The words described the canvas, the day, and the suddenly absent emotions within him.

Logically, he knew the anger would come later. He knew he’d fight fury as he stood in front of Beatrice and told her that all he had to offer was his word. There was no doubt he’d be consumed with resentment when he was forced to move his family to God only knew where and went begging to his aunt to sponsor his last year at the Inns of Court.

But not now.

He reached out, running his hand over the blank canvas, primed as if only moments from being used. The painter’s box stood open, with brushes lined up and pig bladders full of premixed paint, everything ready to start fresh. It was as if his father had just stepped away, fully intent on returning to begin his next work.

Only . . . he hadn’t. And he never would again. And despite it all, Colin missed him. He was unreliable, infuriating, and at times neglectful, but he was still Colin’s father, and damn if he didn’t miss him.

He bowed his head, rubbing his hands up and down the tops of his legs. He was gone, and Colin would never see his face again. Never shake his hand, or argue with him, or see him across the table at supper.

With a long, deep sigh, he came to his feet. It was too cold to linger in a place that couldn’t help him, especially with the day dipping toward evening. He had taken two steps toward the door when he looked up and saw a figure. He jumped back in surprise, his body tensing as his mind ran a second behind his instincts.

His father was staring him right in the face.

Colin’s heart, his lungs, his brain—all of them stopped in an instant, and then everything came roaring back to life all at once. Not his father—a
portrait
of his father. Perched on a low shelf beside the door, a large canvas leaned against the wall. He rushed toward it, soaking in the sight of his father, perfectly rendered by the man’s own hand.

It was beyond incredible—it was astonishing. He stared back at Colin with the light of devilment in his eyes, so well painted as to look three-dimensional. God, it looked exactly like him. He hadn’t realized just how faded his memory of his father’s face was until that moment, when his angled jaw and broad brow came into sharp focus.

Despite the freezing temperatures, his blood warmed, pumped with renewed vigor through his veins. God, how he’d missed him. To see him again was like laying eyes on scotch after a month of water. The emotions assailing him were so sharp as to almost burn, searing their way through his chest and gut. All the anger, the resentment, all of the bitterness of the last eight months fell away like a broken shell.

It was several minutes before he could pull his gaze away from his father’s likeness and take in the rest of the picture. Behind him, the rugged Scottish landscape rose toward the heavens, with brilliant green grasses and leaves that seemed to move in an invisible wind. Wildflowers dotted the sloping meadow, and the rocky outcrops of the base of the mountain glistened with falling water.

It was masterful.

All those years he had set aside the landscapes that had been his first love had done nothing to diminish the talent. In fact, it seemed to have grown—Father’s first works didn’t have nearly this level of detail. Colin knew his father had grown disenchanted with portraits lately, but he rather thought it was painting altogether. But the joy in this picture was undeniable.

The landscape was that of the view from the cottage—the land Father had been so damned pleased to own. The estate! Colin had been so caught up in the revelation of his father’s only self-portrait, of seeing his face and experiencing the landscape, he had completely forgotten what the painting meant.

Freedom.

He finally had something to give to Beatrice—something of worth that could put them on equal footing. He could already imagine her delight, her joy at such a perfect gift. Mind made up, he pulled the canvas down from its shelf and started for the door. At the last moment, he doubled back and grabbed the primed canvas from the easel. Barely pausing to shut the door, he hit the trail running.

•   •   •

“Lady Beatrice, what a surprise.”

Oh, drat and blast, where had
he
come from? Beatrice turned slowly, nodding with a brief bob of her head. “Mr. Godfrey. I didn’t realize you were still in the city.”

She pulled her cloak more tightly around her, a not so subtle hint that it was cold and she didn’t wish to stand in the street and talk to him. She exchanged a glance with her maid, but the girl misinterpreted her silent plea and dropped back to give them privacy.

“Indeed. Is it because of the vitriol published about me in a certain magazine that you assumed I might escape to the country, or because you thought I might have given up and accepted the position my father so keenly wishes for me to take?”

Beatrice could actually feel the blood draining from her face. A very, very bold statement on his part. Good Lord, had Colin been right after all? If Godfrey knew she was the author of the letters, what, exactly, did he want with her? Despite the fact they were in the open for anyone to see, she suddenly felt extremely vulnerable.

“Neither, of course. Just that so many have already left the city for the winter.”

He shook his head, looking at her as though she were a profound disappointment. “I knew it was you the moment I saw the second cartoon, you know.”

At least now she knew where she stood. She stiffened her spine and lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated by the man. “Why? Because you so thoroughly recognized yourself? If you didn’t wish for the world to know of your underhanded tactics, you should have refrained from using them on me.”

He chuckled, the sound colder than the December air. “And here I went to all this trouble to come up with irrefutable proof that you wrote the bloody thing, and apparently all I needed to do was ask.”

“That’s right. Some of us have integrity and answer truthfully when asked.” It might not have been the wisest thing to say, but she wasn’t about to let him think he had her cornered.

“Oh, feisty today, are we?” He smiled, a cruel stretching of his lips that was more sneer than grin. “Well, I won’t keep you. I merely wished to congratulate you on your coming nuptials.”

Warning bells clanged in her head, making it impossible for her to turn and walk away. He had something more to say, something that she felt in her very marrow she did not want to hear. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“Truly, I wish you both the very best.” Tilting his head, he tapped the crystal handle of his rapier-thin walking stick against his chin. “I honestly thought that I would win the wager, but I underestimated the influence his father had over you. Of course, I didn’t foresee his ruse after the musicale, pretending to rescue you, either.” He gave a casual shrug of his shoulders. “Such is life. I did, however, find great amusement in the fact that the author of those pathetic letters fell victim to exactly what she thought to warn others about.”

He looked supremely satisfied with himself, his eyes alight with mischief. She clenched her teeth, willing herself not to respond. Wager? She wouldn’t believe a word he said. He was nothing if not a liar and a cheat. Still . . . how else did he know that Colin’s family was up the River Tick? Disgust welled up within her, almost choking her.

Had they had a wager? Even if they hadn’t, what did it matter? It was clear she would always doubt Colin’s motives—always be susceptible to thinking the worst of him.

Nothing felt certain except that she had to get away from Godfrey. She started to turn, to escape from his sneering face when his parting words brought her up short.

“Enjoy your fortune hunter, my dear. You two deserve each other.”

•   •   •

Traveling to Edinburgh had been a leisurely ride in the park compared to the trip back. Not only was Colin beyond anxious to get back to Beatrice; it was nerve-racking as hell to be transporting the painting. He doubted he would be this edgy if he were in charge of the crown jewels.

And, based on the way his family had reacted to the painting, it might as well have
been
the crown jewels. He smiled, thinking of their reaction when he arrived home with their salvation tucked beneath his arm.

“I knew yer father had ta be up to something,” Gran had said, nodding as though it hadn’t been months of hell wondering what would become of them. “All that walking, and nary an inch off his middle.” The celebration had gone on into the wee hours of the night, all four of them gathered around the painting, holding close the precious gem that was the image of the man they loved.

The brown grass and barren trees of the countryside gave way to the sooty sky and dirty buildings of the city, his impatience nearly burning a hole through his chest with each passing landmark. He was almost there—so close to seeing Beatrice again he could almost smell the lilac and linseed oil.

Thank God it was a fairly early arrival—he actually had hope of seeing her today. He could hardly wait to see the look on her face when he presented the painting to her. It was the perfect solution. She could have something of genuine worth from him, and the painting would stay in the family, something that meant more to him now than he ever imagined it would.

To have not only a likeness of his father, but one done in his own hand, gave Colin the connection he had been missing all this time. His father hadn’t just sat back and let ruin come to them. He truly had been trying to recapture his love of painting, to provide a way out of the unmitigated mess that fell upon them when the engraving business failed.

By the time the coach pulled to a halt in front of the London post office, he felt like a coiled spring, ready to explode. He made it to his aunt’s street in record time, heedless of the damp chill pervading the city or the disgruntled glances from the people he rushed by.

As he vaulted up the stairs to his aunt’s town house, the door opened and his cousin appeared, as impeccably groomed as ever. “Colin,” he said, taking a step back in surprise. “Wasn’t expecting to see you for a few more days yet.” His eyes fell to the items in Colin’s hands. “I say, is that what I think it is?”

There was no stopping the triumphant grin that came to his face. “Perhaps you’d best come inside with me.”

John agreed readily, trailing behind as Colin rushed to the drawing room. “Simmons,” he called as he passed the man, “I’ve a missive I will need sent momentarily.”

Carefully depositing his precious cargo, he went to the writing desk tucked in the back of the room and rifled through it, unearthing paper, pen, and ink. “I must say, it has been quite an eventful fortnight,” he said over his shoulder. “I can hardly wait to show you.” More important, he could hardly wait to show Beatrice. He didn’t care that he was chilled to the bone, hungry, and in need of a bath. He dashed off a quick note, tossed a handful of sand across it, and folded it into a neat square. By the time the thing was sealed, a footman stood waiting just inside the door. “Please, have this sent to Lady Beatrice at Granville House in St. James’s Square at once.”

The moment the man was gone, he turned to John. “Anything disparaging that I ever said about my father?”

“Yes?” John said, his lips already turned up in a grin.

“I take it all back.”

•   •   •

“I’m afraid you have not caught me in the best of moods, Sophie.” Beatrice smiled wanly to her friend, patting the sofa beside her. “Though it is nice to see a friendly face.”

“Oh dear—have you recently been in the presence of an
un
friendly face? Shall I seek them out and knock them over the head with my oboe? It’s quite stout, and I’m rather handy with it.”

Rotten mood or not, Sophie was impossible not to smile at. With her cheery daffodil gown and slightly mischievous smile—not to mention her sweet disposition—she was like walking sunshine. “Perhaps not. I should hate to get you in trouble.”

“Are you quite sure? It fits rather handily inside my cloak. No one would be the wiser.”

Beatrice couldn’t help but chuckle at her earnest expression. “You, my friend, are a treasure.” The moment the words left her mouth, her mood crashed to the floor once more.
A stór.
It was a sentiment she would probably never hear again, and if she did, there was no way to know if she could trust it.

Sophie hadn’t missed her reaction. Her constant smile slipped a bit as her brow puckered in concern. “You truly are unhappy. My dear, you are to be married soon.
And
you were able to choose your husband. I think there is a law somewhere that says you must be giddy with excitement. If nothing else, think of the trousseau!”

Grabbing a biscuit from the plate left over from tea earlier, Beatrice took a bite and shook her head. “Ugh, I’d rather not. At this point, I’ve done little else. I’ve been poked, and pinned, and prodded, and fitted within an inch of my life.” And she had felt like a fraud the entire time. Godfrey’s damning words repeated in her head, tightening her mouth and flaring her nostrils. Of course Colin would deny the allegations, but it was yet another thing that he would be unable to prove. She bit off another huge bite of the biscuit, taking comfort in its buttery deliciousness.

“Blasphemy, I declare,” Sophie said, shaking her head with great dramatic flair. “Well, fiddlesticks. In my mind, assembling a trousseau would be the most fun of all of it. I think I’ll pretend we never had this conversation, thank you very much.”

“I warned you I was dreadful company.”

The butler’s measured footsteps caught Bea’s ear, and she turned to the doorway. He appeared a few seconds later, holding a silver salver. That got her attention. Generally, any correspondence would be held until after a guest had left. “What is it, Finnington?”

“A letter, my lady, sent from Sir Colin Tate. He asked that it be delivered at once and his family’s footman is awaiting your response.”