PortraitofPassion (5 page)

“Come along, Bea,” Moorehead said, looping her hand through
his arm. “I believe you have caused enough trouble for one day.”

“Who, me?” she asked with a laugh. “Thank you for a
wonderful afternoon,” she said to Henry, before turning to Simon. “And a
glorious morning,” she said. She caught his gaze and held it for a moment. “I
hope we can repeat it again very soon.”

Simon was struck speechless. Trouble indeed, he thought,
watching her retreating form. Was it his imagination or did she put an extra
swing in her hips?

“Well, that was odd,” Henry said as they exited the
establishment.

“Indeed,” Simon agreed.

“What was Beatrice about, do you suppose, staring at Olivia
that way?” he asked.

“I’ve no idea.” Simon was only half listening to his cousin.
He was busy scanning the busy street, looking for a flash of emerald green. She
could not have gone far.

“You must admit she was brilliant there at the end,” Henry
said with a chuckle. “Too many amusements, indeed.”

From the corner of his eye, Simon caught a flash of green.
She was across the street, tucked into the doorway of a bookstore with
Moorehead, away from the bustle of the crowd. They were deep in discussion,
Beatrice’s hands waving about as she spoke. As Simon watched she threw herself
into her escort’s arms. He could see her shaking even from a distance.
Moorehead was rubbing his hands up and down her back in a motion that was
clearly intended to soothe. Beatrice crying?

But no. She lifted her head from where she had buried it in
Moorehead’s lapels, gave him a quick kiss upon his smiling mouth and stepped
from his arms. Then, and Simon would not have believed it had he not seen it
with his own eyes, she twirled about in a circle, arms outstretched above her,
head tilted back. Across the crowded street, Simon imagined he could hear her
laughter ring out. People stopped to stare, a few laughed, but most moved away
from the doorway as if to avoid a madwoman.

“You don’t suppose,” Henry exclaimed, forcing Simon to tear
his eyes from the scene before him.

“Suppose what?” he asked. It was evident Henry had not seen
Beatrice’s impromptu dance across the way.

“Perhaps she prefers the ladies?” Henry asked in a whisper.
“She could be a—what is it they are called?”

“Sapphist?” Simon asked, incredulous.

“Just so,” Henry replied. “That would explain quite a bit,
don’t you think?”

“Henry, trust me when I tell you, Beatrice is not a
Sapphist.” Simon looked out across the street, but she was gone.

“Oh how now, cousin.
Beatrice
?” Henry asked.

“It seems we are to be friends, Miss Morgan and I,” Simon
explained.

“I knew there was something between you this morning in the
park,” Henry said with a chuckle.

“She simply gave me leave to use her given name,” Simon
assured him.

“I even commented upon it to Moorehead when the two of you
lagged behind,” Henry continued.

“You what?” Simon demanded. The last thing he wanted was
Beatrice’s—what? Escort? Friend? Protector? She kissed him right there on the
street! Father? Could that be the mystery? Could she be Moorehead’s
illegitimate daughter? Whatever the relationship, Simon did not want the man
getting any ideas about a romance between them. He had the sneaking suspicion
that Moorehead would be extremely protective of the lady.

“And that gentleman did not seem at all surprised by the
idea, nor put off by it,” Henry went on as if Simon had not spoken.

“What exactly did you say?” Simon asked.

“I merely said that there seemed to be a spark between the
two of you. I noticed it last evening and again this morning.”

“And Moorehead?” Simon asked.

“Oh, well he said, ‘He puts me in mind of his father. Bea
would be good for him’,” Henry said in perfect mimicry of Moorehead’s jovial
voice. “‘Especially in that it won’t go far, as she will only be in London for
a short while.’”

Simon made no reply, for really what could he say? She would
be good for him, would she? As she had been good for his father?

Who was she? And what had been her relationship to his
father?

With Bertie’s help, Beatrice magically appeared at nearly
every
ton
event the Earl of Hastings was likely to attend over the next
week. They were remarkably successful in their endeavor, meeting Hastings at
the theater, Vauxhall and an intimate musical for more than one hundred of the
Marquis of Savoy’s closest friends. At each event Hastings and Beatrice greeted
one another with the same roguish bow and shamelessly extravagant curtsy until
the scandal sheets were indeed writing about
The Earl and the Artist.

For all that Bea enjoyed her time with Henry, the Earl of
Hastings, there was little opportunity at such fashionable events for her to
charm and befriend him. Adding to her dilemma, Simon was proving to be quite
devoted to his young cousin, constantly at his side, studying Bea as if she
were a mystery he must solve.

For Bea their encounter in the park dangled between them
like a pendulum swinging Bea’s emotions from embarrassment to fascination and
back again. Simon did not indicate in any way that he shared her predicament.
Instead he treated Bea with a sort of jaded humor, as if he saw through her
attempts to grab Henry’s attention and found them entertaining but doomed to
failure.

But it had been four long days since Savoy’s musicale, since
Beatrice had seen Henry. Bertie had been quite busy handling some matters
pertaining to his country estate and had not been able to fully devote himself
to learning which entertainments the young Earl would be attending.

Finally Bea bemoaned the delay to Bertie.

“Why can’t we simply throw an informal dinner then? We can
invite Henry and Easton and Lady Palmerton.”

“I know that seems a perfect idea to you,” Bertie said
gently, “but it would be seen as highly presumptuous on your part.”

“Time is moving too quickly,” she moaned. “I must engage his
affections soon. I cannot do that if I do not spend time with him.”

“I do not disagree that we must move this mad scheme of
yours forward,” Bertie said. “Perhaps a picnic?”

“Can I include Lady Palmerton in a picnic?” Bea asked.

“Bea, do not become sidetracked by Lady Palmerton.”

“But I never thought to meet her, and now I have. You cannot
expect me to just forget her. These few weeks are likely to be my only chance
to know her.”

“Next you’ll want to invite their mother!” Bertie threw up
his hands in mock exasperation.

“Good God, no!” she exclaimed. “I’ve no wish to make that
lady’s acquaintance. She has not returned from the country?”

“No, thank goodness. Your stratagem would surely be in
jeopardy.”

“Yes,” Bea agreed. “I shall write the invitation now.”

“Fine, fine, but allow me to read it before you post it.”

It took Beatrice the better part of two hours to find just
the right words.

My Dear Lord Hastings,

I hope this note finds you well. Bertie and I have spent
a lovely few days together exploring the city. We visited The Tower yesterday
and I do believe I saw the ghost of Anne Boleyn floating about the dark halls
of that great dungeon.

It put me in mind of our talk in Paris about the ghosts
that wander the halls of the Bastille. I so enjoyed the time we spent together
in that lovely city. And of course riding with you and Lord Easton was
wonderful. Thank you again for the lovely bonnet. I have been wondering when I
shall have an opportunity to wear it. It is such an impractical little
confection that the only event to which I could possibly wear it
would
be a picnic. It seems fitting that you should be present when it makes its
debut.

We would be pleased if you were to join us in Viscount
Moorehead’s gardens for a picnic on Saturday at eleven of the clock. Please
invite Lord Easton and Lady Palmerton if you think they might enjoy an
afternoon spent in the shade of the little gazebo with us. I was quite
captivated by that Lady’s beauty and would enjoy an opportunity to capture it
with charcoal. Perhaps she might someday allow me to paint her?

Yours in friendship,

Miss Beatrice Morgan

“Did you change your mind, then, about the picnic?” Bertie
asked that evening as they rode in his carriage to a supper hosted by one of
his friends.

“No, of course not,” Bea replied.

“If you desire Hastings to attend you in two days, the
invitation should have gone out today.” He looked at her suspiciously.

“Oh dear,” she said, trying to keep the smile from her lips
with little success. “I forgot to have you read it before I posted it.”

“Beatrice Marie,” he replied, “you did not forget. You
willfully sent it without my approval.”

“Perhaps I did. But really, Bertie, the invitation was all
that is proper. I simply invited Henry to join us for a picnic, and gave him
leave to invite Easton and Lady Palmerton.”

He patted her hand where it lay in her lap. “Bea, you must
not expect Lady Palmerton to desire further acquaintance. She is the very
proper wife of an earl. She cannot be seen in the company of a woman of
questionable reputation and unknown origins. I was dismayed that she agreed to
join our table at Gunter’s.”

“That is ridiculous,” Bea said with some heat. “I am as good
as she is.”

“You, my Bumble Bea,” Bertie said, squeezing her hand, “are
better than she, worlds better. But that is neither here nor there. It is
simply the way of the world.”

“And yet one more reason I am happy that I am only visiting
this world. To have to live in it would be dreadful. I should shrivel up and
die.”

“I have no doubt you are correct. Which brings me to a
question I have been meaning to ask you.”

“Yes?” she asked.

“What was that business with Easton in the park?” he asked.
There was no censure in his words, of course there wasn’t. Bertie was the last
man to pass judgment.

“How much did you see?” she asked.

“How much was there to see?” he countered.

How much to tell him? She wondered. But this was Bertie, and
she knew she could tell him anything.
“I want to come into you and hear you
cry out my name.”
Well almost anything.

“He kissed me,” she said. “Or perhaps I kissed him,” she
amended. “But really it was the smallest of kisses, our lips barely touched
before—oh you! You saw it.”

“Hard to miss.” He winked at her. “I don’t think Hastings
saw, but he seems to be an oblivious chap most of the time. He did however
comment that there seemed to be a spark between you and Easton.”

“Not so oblivious then,” she said.

“In the middle of Hyde Park, Bea! No telling what would have
happened had I not interrupted it. I thought to admonish you for your
carelessness, but since then I have seen the way Easton watches you.”

“Does he?” Bea asked innocently. She had felt his eyes upon
her whenever they were together, had met those eyes boldly as if daring him to
look away. Each time she found herself trapped by his gaze as she remembered
the feel of his hand upon her, the feel of his lips soft upon hers.

“I see the way you watch him as well, Bea,” he pointed out
with a chuckle. “It seems to me that this attraction between you and Easton may
work to our advantage.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” she agreed, “although
perhaps for altogether different reasons.”

“And what are your reasons?” Bertie asked.

“You first,” she countered.

“It seems to me you might secure Easton’s affections along
with Hastings’,” he said, “in a much different fashion of course.”

“Of course,” Bea agreed. She certainly did not intend to
entice Henry. She was beginning to think that she very much wanted to seduce
Simon. Or allow him to seduce her.

“If Hastings is at all inclined to deny your request when it
is put to him, perhaps you could enlist Easton’s assistance.”

“To sway Henry, you mean?”

“Should it prove necessary,” he said. “Hastings has shown no
preference for the property, indeed to my knowledge he has never stepped foot
on it.”

“Has he so many properties then?” she asked. She could not
fathom that he would not want to visit Idyllwild. She missed it with an
intensity that bordered on pain. “That he would not at least visit? Out of
curiosity if for no other reason?”

“Be glad that he has not,” Bertie advised. “Else you might
fail in this endeavor.”

“So you think I should attract Lord Easton to help me if
Henry is unconvinced.”

“That is certainly one reason. There are others.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t think it necessary any longer, but in case I have
misjudged, it would be a good idea for Henry to see that your romantic
interests are aimed elsewhere.”

“I had thought of that also,” she admitted. “I agree,
though, that it seems unnecessary. Thankfully it no longer seems that Henry
thinks of me as a potential paramour.”

“I must admit that I was quite worried about that little
kiss he bestowed upon you in Paris,” Bertie replied. “I should have known that
you would handle it with your customary aplomb. You do have a way of deflecting
a man’s advances. Puts me in mind of my Anna.”

“Where do you think I learned it?” Bea asked with a laugh.
She had learned much from Anna Forsythe in the years they had spent traveling
the continent together after her father’s death.

“Just so.” He chuckled. “There is one more reason I believe
this unexpected spark, as Henry so aptly termed it, might be just the thing.”

“Yes?” she asked, although she thought she knew. She had
thought of little else over the last week.

“I’ve known Easton since he was in leading strings. He’s a
perceptive, suspicious sort. If he believes, as do the gossips, that you have a
mind to seduce young Henry, he will surely dissuade his cousin from seeing
you.”

“So I should seduce Easton?” Bea asked with a giggle.

“Who said anything about seduction?” her countered. “You
have only to flirt with the man, turn his head with your attentions. From what
I have seen thus far you should have no difficulty. I am suggesting a small
dalliance, nothing more.”

“A dalliance,” Bea mused.

“I said as much to Henry.”

“You told Henry that?” she asked in surprise. “But why?”

“To give him fair warning, I suppose. To put the idea in his
head so that he would not be taken by surprise. I also reminded him that you
would be leaving in a matter of weeks so that he would understand that you
would not take it for more than it could be.”

“You told him that? But, that makes me seem—I don’t know,
loose, fast.”

“Nonsense. We can’t have him worrying that you will begin to
dream of marriage and happily ever after.”

“Of course not,” she agreed. She knew perfectly well that
nothing could come of this mad attraction she felt for Lord Easton.

“I believe you are well on your way to securing Henry’s
affections so not only would he worry for his cousin but for you, as well.”

“Me?” she asked. “Why should he worry for me?”

“Why, for the very same reason he no longer looks upon you
as a possible paramour. On some unconscious level he feels the same bond you
do. He doesn’t have the benefit of comprehending it, as you do. But he feels it
nonetheless.”

Bea sat up straight as the carriage came to a halt before a
stately town house, the home of Mrs. Southern, longtime mistress of Lord
Sydney, and a great friend of Bertie and Anna.

“We think alike, you and I,” Bertie said, ignoring the
footman waiting in the open carriage door to assist them down. “We always have,
ever since you were a little girl gamboling about the hills and woods of
Idyllwild. Are we of like mind now?”

“We are,” she answered. “I also think I would be good for
Lord Easton. He needs to be loved, I believe.”

“Love, Beatrice?” Bertie asked. He was clearly alarmed to
hear the word spoken by her in relation to their conversation. “I said nothing
of love. And neither should you. You must not even think of it.”

“Oh Bertie,” she said softly, raising her hand to his cheek.
“He is William’s son, so I love him already. I loved him the moment I saw him.”

Bertie pulled Beatrice into his arms for a quick, fierce hug
before holding her at arm’s length to look into her eyes. “You must be careful
in this, Bea, very careful. Do not lose sight of the goal, girl.”

“As if I ever could. I will get Idyllwild back.”

Bertie finally allowed the footman to assist him down and
turned to hold out his hand to Beatrice. As they walked up the short set of
stairs to the door held open by a uniformed livery, she whispered to him, “I
will get Idyllwild back, Bertie, for all of us. But I am thinking that I might
have a love affair in the process. Isn’t it about time I learned what all the
fuss is about?”

* * * * *

Hours later as they rode home, Bertie sprawled in the seat
across from her softly snoring, Bea thought about their earlier conversation.
As always, Bertie’s advice had been good. He had a way of seeing ahead, of
evaluating every possible contingency and adjusting their actions accordingly.
She knew she could not have taken on this task without his help. She would not
even have dared to attempt it.

She remembered the day she and her mother had left
Idyllwild, nearly nine years ago. It had been raining for days and the lawn and
the great drive were a mire of mud. Even so, Beatrice had turned in a long,
slow circle, standing in the downpour to get one final look at her beloved
home. She had tilted her head back to look up at her bedroom window, unable to
believe it was hers no longer. The garden where she had learned to sketch, and
later to paint, was no longer hers. The pond where Tom had taught her and Harry
to swim and to fish now belonged to someone else. The fields she had helped to
plant and to harvest. The stable that held her beloved Constance. But Constance
was no longer hers either. “All property, possessions and chattel,” the
officious man had said. They were leaving with little more than a few trunks
filled with their wardrobes.