River Of Fire (39 page)

"What are friends for?" Michael put his hand on Kenneth's shoulder. "Come along now. You and I are needed to offer toasts to the newly wedded couple."

Like all good wedding breakfasts, Beth and Jack's lasted until well into the afternoon. The celebration finally broke up in a happy babble of good-byes, thank-yous, and hugs. As Lavinia pulled on her gloves, she said to Rebecca and Kenneth, "I'm going your way. Can I take you in my carriage?"

Kenneth shook his head. "Take Rebecca home. I want to walk and enjoy the fine weather."

"May I come?" Rebecca asked. "I need to clear my head after the champagne."

"I shall be glad of the company."

He offered his arm with a smile. She took it, thinking that he looked very fine today. A pirate polished up for a wedding.

She gave a sigh of relief as they stepped into the street outside Ashburton House. "it's been a delightful day, but peace is very welcome after so much bustle. I don't want to go to any more social events for at least six months."

"Then this is probably not the time to remind you that next week we must go to another ball."

"That's right, the Strathmores. I'd forgotten." She made a face. "I suppose I'll be able to face a crowd again by then."

As they strolled through the Mayfair streets, she studied Kenneth from the corner of her eye. Even though she had been working on his portrait for weeks, she hadn't tired of looking at him. Moments like this, she rather wished she could keep him.

Pushing aside the dangerous thought, she said, "What happened with Hermione? Ever since she showed up smiling like a rabid hound, I've been perishing to know."

A smile lurking in his eyes, Kenneth described how his stepmother had burst raging into Ashburton House and been deftly tamed by Catherine.

When he finished, Rebecca broke into laughter. "Marvelous! Because Hermione is venal, she assumed Catherine is, too."

"Catherine venal?" he said, looking intrigued. "I thought at the time that I was missing something in the exchange between her and Hermione. What was it?"

"When Catherine said she wanted Ashburton to choose the right wife, she was implying that she wants him to marry a woman who won't bear him an heir," Rebecca explained. "That way, her own son would be in line to inherit the dukedom."

"Ah," Kenneth said, enlightened. "Since Hermione was married for years without conceiving, there's a good chance she is barren. At the same time she is beautiful enough to attract a duke, which makes her perfect for Catherine's alleged purposes."

"Exactly. The cream of the jest is that Catherine told me herself she's not keen on seeing young Nicholas inherit." Rebecca laughed again. "Naturally Hermione can't imagine anyone turning down wealth and power."

"So that is what was going on. Catherine is even more devious than I realized."

Rebecca gave him a slanting glance. "Nothing will convince me that your stepmother relinquished those jewels voluntarily. Did someone send a death threat in your behalf?"

He grinned. "I think Michael asked a friend with nefarious connections to arrange for the jewels to be stolen from the house and the note forged. Not that I asked for confirmation of that."

"Justice over law. I approve." She raised the bouquet she carried and inhaled the sweetness of the blossoms that had come from the Ashburton glasshouse. "Can the jewels be sold for enough to get you out of debt?"

"Probably not enough to pay off everything, but God willing, I'll realize enough to restructure the mortgages."

"So you're saved from bankruptcy. That's wonderful!"

"It's too soon to say that," he said cautiously. "I'd say the odds are about even." He paused to let a carriage to pass in front of them. "But there is one thing I can certainly do. In my grandfather's time, a neighboring manor called Ramsey Grange was added to the estate. The house, which is quite handsome, was let, and the land is farmed with the rest of Sutterton. Since Ramsey Grange was mortgaged separately from the other property, I can clear the debt and sign it over to Beth and Jack."

"So they will be provided for even if Sutterton is eventually lost," she said quietly. "How very generous you are."

He shrugged. "It's merely the dowry Beth is entitled to."

Perhaps, but not all brothers would do so much when their own finances were critical. What a thoroughly decent man her pirate was. She sniffed the flowers again, thinking vaguely romantic thoughts. It must be the champagne.

"Isn't that the bouquet Beth carried?" he asked.

Rebecca made a face. "She said that since I was the next to be married, she would give me the bouquet directly rather than throw it at random."

He gave her a smile of rueful understanding. "A false betrothal has unending repercussions."

"It's not false—it's quite official. We merely intend to break it before reaching the altar."

"But not for a while." He came to a halt and dug something from his pocket. "Take off your left glove."

Obediently she stripped off the white kid. He lifted her hand and slid a lovely antique ring onto the third finger. There was a brilliant flash as sunlight caught the exquisite diamond.

Rebecca stared at her hand. She knew that, traditionally, great care was put into ensuring that a ring was the right size because it was considered an omen for a harmonious union. This one fit perfectly. She swallowed, wanting to cry and not knowing why. "It's… it's very pretty."

"The ring has been in the Wilding family for generations," he said gruffly. "I found it in Hermione's casket and thought it would be useful for maintaining the pretense of betrothal."

Her hand curled protectively shut. "I'll take good care of the ring until the time comes to return it." She raised her gaze to his and saw a reflection of her own feelings. There was something too intimate, too full of promise, about a ring.

Rebecca pulled her glove on again, snagging the thin kidskin on the diamond. Then she took Kenneth's arm and resumed walking. Preferring to talk of business rather than more personal matters, she said, "Handing-In Day is in about three weeks."

"What is that?"

"The last day to submit work for the Royal Academy exhibition." She fingered her bouquet pensively. "Midnight of April tenth. That should be enough time for you to prepare a painting. Though not the one of Lilith, of course."

"What?" He stopped dead. "Me, submit to the academy? That's absurd."

"It most certainly is not," she retorted. "It may be hard to accept, Captain, but you are now a professional artist. The finest engraver in Britain is going to produce your drawings. Getting hung at the academy is the next step. It's the best way to bring your work to the attention of potential patrons."

Looking as if she had clubbed him with a fence post, Kenneth said weakly, "But even if I can paint well enough, what I want to do might be too radical for the academy."

"As my father says, an artist must do what an artist must do," she said, not giving an inch. "Hundreds of painters have their work hung every year, and many of them are no better than mediocre. With your talent, you have an excellent chance of being selected. If your pictures are too radical… so be it. Keep painting and submit again next year."

He stared at her for a long time, his face taut. Then his expression changed. "I'll submit a painting if you will."

"Me!" Her voice was almost a squeak. "Nonsense. There is no reason for me to exhibit."

"Feels different when the shoe is on the other foot, doesn't it? Though you have no financial need to sell your work, I think it's important for you to exhibit." His eyes gleamed wickedly. "You have a gift. Honor it."

Her words had come back to haunt her. "I do honor my work," she said defensively. "I'm always trying new techniques and striving to improve my skills."

He took her by the shoulders, his expression intense. "That isn't enough. Remember the biblical parable of the man who hid his talent in the ground rather than using it? That is what you are doing. You are an immensely gifted artist, and you have a moral obligation to share your gift. Give others the opportunity to be moved and uplifted or even angered by your work."

Rebecca tried to look away, but Kenneth's piercing gray eyes had snared her.

"What are you afraid of?" he said softly. "Surely not failure. Your paintings are superb, and you know it."

Her work had recovered from the weakness of spirit that had diminished it after her mother's death. Why, then, did the thought of exhibiting her paintings make her heart pound like a frightened hare? What was the real reason?

Dredging the words from deep inside, she said, "I… I'm afraid of exposing so much of myself to strangers."

"I understand, but get over it," he said bluntly. "Every artist exposes himself. Every writer. Every musician. At least, the ones who are any good. Do you think I relish knowing that my own private horrors are going to be available to anyone with a few shillings to spare? Yet if I don't put myself into the drawings, they will have nothing to say. The same is true for you. If you continue to bury your talent, it may eventually wither and die. Oh, you'll always be able to paint pretty pictures, but you risk losing the ability to touch the soul."

On some deep, intuitive level, she recognized that there was truth in his words. "You know the most vulnerable place to put your lance, Captain." She took an uneven breath. "Very well. I'll submit if you will."

"Done!" He bent and brushed her lips with the lightest of kisses. "Here's to our mutual success."

She shivered at his touch. What was it about Kenneth that threw her mind into such disarray? Before he had come to Seaton House, she had been resolved never to exhibit her work. Now, as she took his arm again and they walked the last blocks to her home, she felt a sense of humming excitement at the prospect.

Kenneth was right. It was time for her to dare.

When Kenneth went to his studio after dinner, he spent several minutes studying the Lilith painting. It was done except for the final varnish. A pity it could never be shown to anyone. The painting would always be close to his heart, and not only because it had freed him of his mental paralysis over working with oils. His gaze strayed to the bed for a moment. More important, the image was Rebecca in all her seductive power.

He covered Lilith and set the painting against the wall. Then he placed another canvas on the easel. He had primed it with a red ground in preparation for the picture he must paint now. It was not a project that would require lengthy sketches and experiments in composition, for the image had been seared into his mind years before.

To do the subject justice he would have to reawaken much of the old agony. The technique would be reckless, a swift, passionate howl to the heavens, and the red ground would add an undertone of fury. The result would be quite unlike the cool, detailed historical subjects the academy loved. Everyone, with the possible exception of Rebecca, would hate it.

Yet it was a picture he must paint.

Deliberately he summoned up the image, and the piercing horror that came with it. The pain that had diminished but never gone away.

Then, tears glinting in his eyes, he lifted his charcoal to the canvas and began to sketch.