River Of Fire (21 page)

With a sigh, she dropped onto the sofa. The Persian carpet was silky behind her back. She could almost imagine that she felt her corsair's warmth lingering there.

The portrait of Kenneth was the first project she had really been excited about since her mother had died. Perhaps painting him would infuse her with some of his valor.

A painful thought crossed her mind. She became very still. There was another picture that she should paint, one that would require all her courage.

Before her nerve could fail, she lifted a sketchbook and began to draw a falling woman.

Kenneth's meeting with Sir Anthony's solicitor involved only routine financial matters. He took advantage of the occasion to make oblique inquiries about

Helen's death, but learned nothing of interest He was unsurprised; there really didn't seem to be much to learn.

Even though a chilly rain was falling when he left the solicitor's office, he decided to walk back to Seaton House. On the way, he stopped at his postal receiving station. A letter from Jack Davidson was waiting. Jack described his plans for the spring planting and gave an estimate of the cost. Kenneth paused to calculate. With the money left from the sale of his commission, plus what he had saved of his salary, there should be enough, barely. God help them if an unexpected emergency arose.

He looked back at the letter. In the last paragraph, Jack switched from business to personal.

Kenneth, I can't thank you enough for bringing me to Sutterton. During the years in the Peninsula, then in hospital after Waterloo, I had forgotten the pleasures of living close to the land. I had also forgotten the gentle charm of a true English lady. Your sister has been everything kind and amiable.

A sentence was scratched out. Then:

It is too soon to speak of paying my addresses to Miss Wilding—but I mention the subject now so that you might consider what your answer would be when the day comes that I can honorably ask.

Respectfully yours, John Davidson.

Kenneth smiled as he tucked the letter inside his coat. He'd already guessed from Beth's letters that she was equally taken with Jack. The two were very good for each other.

But his expression was somber when he resumed his walk. He'd asked his friend to Sutterton with the knowledge that Jack and Beth might suit very well. However,
matchmaking
was a chancy business and he'd had no real expectation of success. Now he had mixed feelings about the results. Not about the relationship itself; though not brilliant in worldly terms, he could not ask for a more worthy husband for his sister. But there could be no marriage without enough money for a couple to live on, and Beth and Jack were dependent on him. If Sutterton was lost, Jack would have to seek employment elsewhere. It might be years before he could support a wife. That meant Kenneth could not walk away from Lord Bowden's investigation. His personal desires could be indulged only to the extent that they did not interfere with his mission.

Given the gloom of the weather and his thoughts, Kenneth was glad to reach Seaton House. He hung up his wet cloak and hat, then went to the studio to let Sir Anthony know he'd returned.

He walked into an oasis of warmth and laughter. Kenneth halted in the doorway, fascinated. He'd known from the appointment book that Sir Anthony was scheduled to begin a complicated group portrait involving two earls and their countesses. What he hadn't known was that the ladies were lovely identical twins. Sir Anthony had posed the women sitting slightly turned away from each other, like mirror images. The two husbands, one blond and one dark, framed them on each side.

Kenneth was intrigued by the way the grouping subtly delineated the relationships. The twins, the same only different, close to each other and closer still to their respective husbands. The men, friends as well as brothers-in-law.

While Kenneth tried to analyze why the arrangement worked so well, Sir Anthony glanced up and said whimsically, "When you make the daybook entries, be sure to note that the Countesses of Strathmore and Markland are
extremely
identical."

"An interesting painting challenge, sir."

"Particularly since I'm going to be doing two portraits, one for each household." Sir Anthony studied his clients. "The arrangement will be different for the second, though."

One of the countesses said with a chuckle, "Identicalness can be overdone."

"Anything worth doing is worth overdoing," the dark husband said with a private smile for his wife. "That is definitely true when it comes to beautiful women."

There was a ripple of laughter from several friends who had come to keep the principals company. The group of them had turned a gray day into a party.

After checking to see that the servants had provided refreshments, Kenneth withdrew and headed toward his room to change into corsair clothing for his session with Rebecca. Just before ascending the stairs, he paused, his attention caught by a painting he had never particularly noticed before.

It was a rendition of the death of Socrates, a popular classical subject. The large canvas depicted the noble philosopher holding aloft the cup of hemlock while his heartbroken disciples wept around him. It was not really a bad painting, but neither was it especially good. While the underlying drawing was technically sound, the poses were stiff and conventional, the composition and color undistinguished. Worst of all, it had no soul.

Dryly he reminded himself that the execution was better than anything he could do. He was about to go upstairs when a male voice drawled, "Do you like the Socrates, Captain?"

Kenneth turned to see the debonair figure of Sir Anthony's friend Lord Frazier, who had just arrived. Noticing the intentness of Frazier's gaze, Kenneth said tactfully, "Yes, my lord. A very powerful subject. Is it your work?"

Looking gratified, Frazier removed his hat and shook the rain off. "I painted it five years ago. After it was exhibited at the academy, I received several very flattering offers, but of course I turned them down. I'm a gentleman, not a tradesman. Since Anthony admired the picture, I gave it to him."

If Sir Anthony had expressed admiration, it had been out of politeness for a friend; the picture was unremarkable. Keeping the thought to himself, Kenneth said, "Naturally I knew of your reputation before I came here, but this is the first example of your work I've had the privilege to view. Do you do many historical pictures?"

"Of course. They're the only worthwhile subjects for a serious painter. Are you familiar with Sir Joshua Reynolds's writings on painting in the Grand Manner? He discourses beautifully on how art must be on an elevated plane, purged of the gross human element." Frazier pursed his lips. "A pity that Anthony must do portraits to earn a living. He's really quite good at historical painting, when he has the time for it."

The veiled cattiness of the remark confirmed what the groom, Phelps, had implied. Though Lord Frazier and Sir Anthony were friends of long standing, Frazier also nourished some resentment for the other man's greater success.

"His portraits may not have the sweep of historical works, but they are very good in their own right," Kenneth said. "The one of Lady Seaton in the office is truly splendid."

"I remember the day he started that picture," Frazier said, a faraway look in his eyes. "A dozen of us were picnicking on the lawn at Ravensbeck. After consuming a bottle of champagne, Anthony said Helen looked so lovely that he must immortalize her. He immediately went for paint and canvas, claiming he had to work outside to capture the light properly. We all laughed at him, of course—only a fool would choose to paint outdoors rather than in the controlled conditions of a studio. Still, the portrait came out well." He shook his head regretfully. "Only a few weeks later, Helen was dead. I can't think of Anthony's comment about immortalizing her without feeling a pang."

"You were in the Lake District when Lady Seaton's accident took place?"

"Yes. In fact, she and Anthony were engaged to dine with me that evening." Frazier's expression became troubled. "Anthony's work has suffered since Helen's death. I worry that he may never fully recover from the loss."

"Really?" Kenneth said innocently. "I think his Waterloo pictures are the equal of anything he's ever done."

"Certainly they are competent," Frazier said with a touch of hauteur, "but if you were an artist, you would see the subtle deficiencies, the loss of power."

Trying to look properly impressed at the other man's superior knowledge, Kenneth said, "If grief has affected Sir Anthony's work that way, the tragedy is twice as great."

"His reaction seems like more than grief," Frazier said, half to himself. "Ifs almost like… like guilt."

Kenneth's gaze intensified. "What do you mean?"

The other man's face blanked. "I meant nothing. I should not have spoken." He bent his head and brushed an imaginary wrinkle from his sleeve. "Is Anthony free? I stopped by to see if he wished to go to Turner's gallery with me."

"He's in the middle of a portrait session, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you looked into his studio to say hello."

"No need." Frazier donned his damp hat again. "Just tell him that I called, and I'll see him this evening at the club."

Kenneth frowned after the departing Frazier, wondering what the devil the man had meant. Though he might envy his friend's success, he'd been quick to retreat from the suggestion that Sir Anthony might have something to be guilty about.

The painter's friends were admirably loyal to him. But in the process, perhaps they were being disloyal to Helen Seaton.

By chance, Rebecca glanced out her window and saw Kenneth return to the house. Naturally she hadn't been watching for him, but she was glad to know that he would soon be up for his sitting. The strain of starting her falling woman picture had left her craving company.

When Kenneth did not appear, she decided to wander downstairs and see what was delaying him. She was at the top of the staircase that led to the main hall when she saw him ending a conversation with Lord Frazier. She drew back, preferring not to be seen. Not that Frazier was ever less than polite, but she'd always known that he had no real interest in her. The feeling was mutual. Of her father's old friends, George Hampton had always been the best company.

Kenneth's face had an odd expression as he watched Lord Frazier leave. It wasn't precisely calculating. Analytical, perhaps. Frazier had probably made some pompous statement about Art, and Kenneth was trying to decide if there was any truth to it. She smiled. There was more genuine artistic feeling in Kenneth's little finger than in the whole of Lord Frazier's highly polished person.