Midsummer Eve at Rookery End (3 page)

She couldn’t leave. She needed to know what was going on and Lord Allingham intrigued her. Only a short time ago, he had appeared a man in control of his emotions and the situation – now he wore an air of bleak resignation.

What had she said to bring about such a dramatic change? Clearly she had touched him on the raw. Drawn to him by some unseen, visceral thread, she walked over, reached out and gently touched his shoulder.

“I’m sorry. You obviously love the portrait. The Virtuous Courtesan often has that effect on men. They are enthralled by her.”

“Love it? I hate the bloody sight of it,” he admitted, with a bitter laugh.

“Y-You do?”

“It reminds me of my father’s folly, but you will understand that.”

“No I don’t.” Removing the muffler from round her neck, Leonora walked back to the chaise, sat down and heaved a sigh. “To be honest, Lord Allingham, I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about. I think it’s time we were frank with each other. Agreed?”

He had turned around at her words and now, frowning heavily, joined her on the chaise. “Very well. Let’s start with your name.”

“Leonora Maddox.”

“Then you are indeed the daughter of Captain Henry Maddox - the man who sold The Virtuous Courtesan to my father?”

She nodded. “My father often sells paintings, but this sale was … different.”

“Oh?”

“Before I tell you why, do you know the story behind the portrait?”

“No,” he admitted with a shrug. “My father never told me and I have been too busy arranging matters since his death to find out. All I know is it is extremely valuable.”

Leonora swallowed. Taking the canvas out of the leather bag, she unrolled it on the carpet in front of them.

“That lady,” she began, pointing at the painting, “is Isabella Teresa Roxburgh. Isabella was renowned for her great beauty. When she came to the court of Charles II after his marriage, he grew infatuated with her. It was even said by some that he intended to marry Isabella if his wife, Catherine of Braganza, died during an illness. The Queen recovered, but for several years afterwards Charles considered obtaining a divorce so he could marry Isabella because she consistently refused to become his mistress. Her grace, beauty, intelligence and virtue became legendary and she had many admirers. She refused them all and managed to keep the King’s affections while spurning his demands to become his mistress, a difficult path which she managed with dignity and elegance, and which earned her the ironic yet affectionate epithet of The Virtuous Courtesan. Sometime later, Isabella fell in love and eloped with the Duke of Fernhill.”

“Did she find happiness with her Duke?”

“She did,” said Leonora, glancing up to find him staring at her. “And she returned to court eventually and kept her place in the King’s affections, a tribute to her quick wits and warm, generous nature.”

“A remarkable woman indeed,” he observed, his eyes remaining on her rather than the portrait. “The painter has captured not only her beauty, but the essence of her spirit.”

Mesmerised, Leonora searched his face. No one had ever looked at her in just that way. For the first time in her life, she felt the urge to confide all her cares and burdens to someone else, and he was a stranger.

Her senses were alive, acutely conscious of his scent, his warmth, his masculinity, the smile that lurked in his eyes. She wondered if the candlelight had cast a spell over her or if she was suffering from moon madness. The thought flashed through her mind that Lord Allingham embodied her ideal. He could have stepped out of her dreams.

Her voice came out in a ragged whisper. “T-The provenance of the original is unclear, but, given its style, is widely believed to have been painted by Sir Peter Lely at about the same time he painted the Windsor Beauties.”

“The famous collection of portraits which hung in the Queen’s Bedchamber at Windsor?”

She nodded.

“I see. That explains the high price my father was willing to pay for it.”

Leonora flushed crimson. “Yes, but—”

He silenced her by laying a finger gently over her lips. “I don’t blame you for wanting the painting back. No doubt you and Captain Maddox have discovered by now that the banker’s draft my father made out to cover payment was worthless.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, staring.

“Why, simply that my father had been overstretching himself financially for years. Unknown to me, he had mortgaged the estate to feed his obsession. Despite being deep in debt, he could not resist one last acquisition, an item that would be the jewel in the crown of his art collection – The Virtuous Courtesan.” He made a sound of frustration. “I only discovered all this after his death and then found myself at the heart of an apparently insoluble conundrum – I could not sell the portrait to help clear the estate’s debts, but neither could I keep it. Captain Maddox had received no payment, ergo the transaction was void and the painting still morally and legally belonged to him. Unfortunately, there was no information regarding Captain Maddox among my father’s papers. No address, no place of business, nothing, and I’ve been unable to uncover any trace of him since. That is,” he concluded with a grin, “until this evening when his charming daughter-turned-housebreaker crept into my library.”

“But I know nothing about the banker’s draft being worthless,” said Leonora, aghast. “When I found out what my father had done, I forbade him from presenting it!”

“How did you come to be here then?” he asked.

As understanding dawned, Leonora couldn’t suppress a giggle. “Oh dear, was there ever such a ludicrous tangle? Miles, I mean, Lord Allingham—”

He caught her hand and kissed it. “Pray do call me Miles – I like the sound of my name on your lips and this seems hardly the moment for formality.”

His tone brought the colour rushing back her cheeks. “Very well,” she said, smiling shyly. “Miles, I have a confession to make.”

“What, are you guilty of highway robbery as well as housebreaking?” he said, a laugh in his voice.

“Do be serious for a moment!”

“It’s difficult to be serious in a situation such as this.” Catching her indignant glance, he made the gesture of a fencer acknowledging a hit, folded his hands in his lap and made his mouth prim.

She choked back another gurgle of laughter. “The portrait – it’s not the original,” she said, watching his face.

“Not the original,” he repeated faintly, eyes widening.

“It’s a copy.
I
painted it.” She rushed on, her words coming out as a tumbled, disjointed speech, “My widowed father is a man who has lived mainly on his wits. Over the years he has turned his hand to various schemes in attempts to make money, none of which have been particularly successful. Oh, don’t misunderstand me – Papa is not a criminal – but his methods of transacting business can be a little, well,
unorthodox
. I have always loved painting and often painted original pictures for him to sell, allowing him to present them as his own work. Women who paint for anything but pleasure are frowned upon, you know, and it would not have done for anyone to know that I was the artist. My paintings provided a steady income, far better than his madcap schemes that often came to nothing. Then, some months ago, he discovered that I been secretly copying famous paintings purely for the fun of it. He was astonished and delighted at their quality—”

“I’m not surprised!”

“Well, I don’t like to boast, but my efforts are passable.”

“Passable! My good girl, your talents are extraordinary! But I interrupted you - please continue.”

“Papa became unwell and was unable to work. His creditors began pursuing him forcefully. Matters grew more desperate than I knew. These circumstances, and his concern for me, led him to take a foolish step.” Leonora dragged in a steadying breath. “One day I returned to the attic room where I paint to find that my copy of The Virtuous Courtesan had disappeared. I confronted Papa and eventually he confessed that he had taken it. Worse still, he admitted that he had sold it
as an original
. Horrified, I begged him to give me all the details so I might redress the situation. Realising he had gone too far, he was contrite and told me that he had sold the painting to the Earl of Allingham, who owned a great estate called Rookery End in Surrey. Papa was too ill to do anything, so I sent him to stay with his brother in Vienna while I began planning to retrieve the painting. The only solution I could think of that would not embroil us in scandal, or put us in prison for fraudulent dealing, was to steal it. A-And so … and so, I came here tonight to do just that.”

“When you were caught by me,” he said softly.

She gave an almost imperceptible nod. He was looking down at her, genuine amusement and something more, something indefinable in his eyes. Her heart flipped over in her chest. The moment stretched out. A thrill of pleasure shot through her as his hand caressed her cheek.

“Leonora, I care little for paintings, original or otherwise, but I can appreciate true beauty and grace when it appears at dead of night in my library. It sounds madness and I wouldn’t blame you for laughing in my face, or thinking what I’m going to say next is a sign of lunacy, but say it I must.”

Leonora’s heart leapt at the warmth in his eyes. Anticipation sliced through her. This was madness indeed. “Please … go on.”

“It’s simply this: the months and years I’ve spent searching for my heart’s desire seem to have been distilled into this one night. Into you.”

“You can’t mean it,” she said, her heart still thumping wildly.

“I do. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. You’re all I’ve ever wanted or dreamed of. Don’t ask me how I know it, I just do. I’m not wealthy despite what you see around us. All I have to offer is my heart and that - if you want it - is yours. Forever, from this night on. Would it displease you to let me court you, give you time to discover my many flaws and my modest talents, and then,” a nervous half-smile tugged at his mouth, “hopefully accept my addresses?”

“To – to –? Oh!” She gasped and then swallowed. She stared at him, breathless with emotion, as she made the leap of faith she knew she would never regret. “N-No, it would not displease me,” she admitted at last, “but I ought to say something sensible such as it being too soon. This is the first time we have met!”

“I knew the instant I saw you,” he said simply.

“Did you?” she whispered, torn between tears and laughter. She covered his hand, which was still cupping her face, with her own. “I confess I did too and now I feel foolish.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve never believed in love at first sight.”

He gave a low, throaty laugh. “Neither did I! We’ll have to blame it on midsummer madness.” He took her in his arms. “I’ve waited so long and now I’ve received my leveller at last – from a housebreaker. Our addle-brained fathers created this mess, but, given how things have turned out, we should thank them and seal our future happiness in a much more civilised way.”

With that, he lowered his head and kissed her.

Much later, Leonora raised her head from his shoulder. They had talked through the night. The candles had long since burnt down and fingers of dawn light were stealing into the room.

A becoming flush tinted her cheeks, her eyes sparkled and a smile played about her lips, and even an undiscerning observer would have noted she looked like a woman who had been thoroughly kissed. As indeed she was.

“Miles,” she murmured.

His head was leant against the back of the chaise longue and his eyes were closed, but the arm he had about her tightened. “Hmm?”

“Has your headache gone now?’

“Strangely enough, it has,” he said, flashing a knowing, satisfied grin.

Her blush deepened. “And are your pockets really to let?”

“I’m afraid so,” he admitted. “Does that alter things?”

“Not in the slightest.”

He chuckled. “Thank heaven for that, my adorable little housebreaker! Somehow we’ll restore the fortunes of the House of Allingham together, albeit without the help of The Virtuous Courtesan.”

“There is something else you should know,” murmured Leonora, her gaze on the opposite wall.

He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her. “What’s that, sweetheart?”

“That painting …”

“Which one?”

“The one over the fireplace.”

“You mean the miserable looking fellow in Tudor armour?’’ he whispered, leaning closer, his lips caressing the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “Awful, isn’t it?”

She sighed with pleasure. “Oh, it has some merit - I’ve just noticed it’s an original by Titian and worth a fortune.”

Siren’s Daughter

Miss Deborah King had just returned from supper when she saw his harsh features across the crowded ballroom.

He was not looking in her direction and she could only observe his unsmiling profile, but she recognised him instantly. Shock rushed through her - Sir Benedict Catesby was here, at Rookery End.

Deborah stared for a long moment, then closed her eyes and uttered a faint, disbelieving groan. All the hurt that this man had caused came rushing back, as vivid tonight as it had been on that fateful March day six years ago.

Hurriedly, she sank down on to a chair arranged against the wall and partially concealed by a large vase of flowers. Pressing trembling hands together, she fought a rising sense of panic. What was she going to do? An evening of pleasure had suddenly turned into a waking nightmare.

Until now Deborah had been enjoying herself. Lord and Lady Allingham’s Palladian mansion was set in landscaped parkland, and everything from the beautiful plasterwork in the entrance hall to the ornamental fountain was exquisitely done.

The finest musicians had been hired for the evening. The ballroom itself was decorated in opulent Louis XV style, almost seventy feet long and lit by eight enormous crystal chandeliers. Its polished marble floors and neo-classical columns accommodated most of the
haut ton
, who had flocked to the celebrated ball in their hundreds. Deborah had been enthralled by the atmosphere and magnificent setting, but Sir Benedict’s appearance had shattered her mood.