Spinster's Gambit (11 page)

“See, now!” he started, but his companions pulled him back to his seat. 

“What news, then?” a black man asked, his voice deep and steady. Jac stared at the man, taking him in. He was wearing a fine coat and breeches and a delicate pair of spectacles hung from a silver chain around his neck. His calm question seemed to settle the room, most of whom quieted to hear the answer. Aspen turned back to her and gestured to the open seats at the closest table before he glanced back at the curious man.

“Mr. Hastings, buy my friend Jack Holcombe and me a coffee, and for your two pennies, I will answer,” he replied, clasping the black gentleman’s hand in greeting.

“Two cups!” the man called toward the back of the room, nodding when he saw a bartender already making his way through the crowd, the cups in hand. A serving girl carrying a blue pitcher followed behind him. Jac glanced back to see the whole table standing and looking at her, as if only having just noticed her behind the duke. They bowed to her in turn, listing their names. Jac bowed in return, feeling remarkably overwhelmed. 

“Why were you in Norway?” Jac asked but the question was lost in the noise. 

“Mr. Holcombe, good to see you again,” Lord Monson said, bowing shallowly and Jac blinked, only then recognizing the gentleman beside her. She bowed formally, pleased to see at least one familiar face, even if he had been a bit sour at Blancard’s political soiree. 

“Quit your loitering, our conversation has long since gone stale. Tell us something we’ve yet to discuss, Your Grace,” a man down the table pleaded. A ‘Mr. Williams’ if Jac remembered correctly. The ‘Your Grace’ seemed tacked on, a gesture at formality that neither the man nor Aspen apparently cared about in this strange setting.

Aspen sat down at the head of the table, facing his audience and the barkeep supplied them both with cups of dark, steaming coffee. Aspen started recounting news of the remarkable speed of his ship and Jac sipped at her cup of the nasty liquid. She’d never been a fan of its taste, which ranged from something animal-like to something bitter and vaguely earthy. Still, that had never been the draw of the coffee-house. Not for anyone, as far as she understood it.

“Regardless, before I departed for London, I heard some striking news, which I have not heard a whisper of here. Norway proclaimed independence,” Aspen stated, sitting back as if he’d just released his dice and was waiting to see how they fell. From the way the table silenced and ogled at him, Jac knew she was not alone in being utterly uninformed. So
this
was how men always seemed better appraised of the latest happenings, she thought, oddly annoyed by the idea.

“My word, will the entire continent be crumbled into the independence-ridden equivalent of a child’s jigsaw puzzle?” Mr. Hastings asked, raising his cup for a refill. Jac snorted despite herself and was delighted to find the rest of the table laughing with her and not staring.

“Can Norway stand on its own economy?” the thin spectacled man asked, sounding skeptical.

“If one has to ask…” another man drawled and Aspen chuckled, taking a strong gulp of his coffee as he watched the response to his news unfurl. He looked extremely pleased, even a bit smug, Jac thought, smiling at him. This was not only a man’s realm, Jac thought, inspecting the room again. This was his realm.

“Does its Latin not break down to ‘way north’? We even labelled it as a passageway to better places,” Mr. Williams replied, lifting his own cup as well. 

“Does that mean you consider the Arctic Circle to be a ‘better place’?” Jac asked, leaning forward to join the conversation.

“Ha!” Lord Monson laughed and pounded on the table. Aspen seemed to choke on his coffee and turned his head away to wipe it off his chin.

“More coffee for His
Grace
, I’d think,” Mr. Hastings commented wryly. Aspen lifted two fingers in a rude gesture and it was Jac’s turn to almost choke on her coffee. A new man walked in, a short, stocky gentleman with thinning brown hair and a decorative cane. 

“Have you heard the news of Norway?” Lord Monson called out before the man had taken off his hat.

“I haven’t,” the man replied, leaving his hat and coat on their respective racks and striding forward. The whole table stood up and bowed and Jac followed suit, only just remembering not to curtsy. “Mr. Simon Gardener, at your service,” the man introduced and Aspen led them in introducing themselves in turn. Jac stumbled over her false name but it went unnoticed as Mr. Gardener sat down at the end of the table, opposite the Duke of Aspen, and called for a cup of coffee.

Do none of these men know each other?
Jac wondered belatedly, staring around the table as the Duke of Aspen repeated his news and the newcomer’s mouth fell open in shock. 

“How will that be received in parliament, do you think?” Mr. Gardener asked and the group clambered to answer him. She wanted to be welcomed here herself, she realized, a familiar want squeezing at her stomach. The place was amazing.

Jac followed Aspen out of the establishment when the crowd thinned, rather desperately needing to pee. Her mind felt worn thin and frayed from too much time learning and thinking. 

“I had a splendid evening,” she said as they walked toward her carriage waiting down the street. Aspen glanced at her and she shoved her hands into the pockets of her breeches, thinking she’d made it sound like a courtship. 

“I did as well. I do enjoy returning to Smyrna when I have large news,” he replied.

“Is that why you travel?” Jacoline asked and Aspen shook his head, walking around a pile of dog scat left on the walkway.

“Simply a pleasant result of it. Would you like to return home straightaway or would you rather share a brandy?” he invited. Jac wanted to growl in frustration and pushed her hands into her pockets more firmly.

She desperately wanted to join him. What would they talk about, alone in a study together? She wanted to spend the whole evening with the man. But she had rightfully agreed not to enter the duke’s home under false pretenses and Daniel was doubtlessly waiting at home for her, his blood pressure rising with every passing hour. They approached the carriage and Harold sat up from lying across the coach bench. 

“I should retire, Your Grace. I will drop you off first of course, however,” she replied, glancing at Harold to relay the order as she climbed into the carriage, forsaking the step. Aspen pulled himself up after her, letting out a hearty grunt. 

“I appreciate it,” he said simply and Harold shut the door. They drove in silence down the quiet street. Jac wondered how late it was, not seeing a single lamp lit window in any of the passing homes. 

He never answered why he traveled to Norway,
Jac realized, blinking.

“So why did you travel to Norway?” Jac pressed finally, for it did sound as if he’d had a reason. Aspen let out a quiet huff, sounding frustrated. Jac leaned forward, more interested now. He glanced over her face, as if determining whether or not he could trust her. Jac sat forward, interested and wondering how to look more trustworthy.

“I paint,” he admitted finally, taking off his gloves to rub his thumb into his palm. Jac blinked, wondering for a moment if he was dissembling, lying about the real reason he travelled. He was a tall broad-shouldered man, hardly the lithe, effeminate figure she pictured as a portraitist. She glanced down at his weakened left hand, seeing how the skin pulled stiffly over his knuckles, reddening under his self-massage.

Let me,
she thought, wanting to reach out and take his warm bare hand in hers. That was hardly on, between two gentlemen. 

“Why does that mean you need to travel?” she asked instead and Aspen blew air out from between his cheeks. 

“You really couldn’t be bothered that I don’t like discussing this, could you?” he replied. Jac smiled ruefully, guessing he wasn’t truly annoyed. He didn’t sport that pinched over-stuffed expression he had when he’d talked about women or when he’d spurned Mrs. Faring.

“I could let it rest,” she offered finally.

I’m hiding enough from you to embarrass all of England,
she thought guiltily.

“It’s no matter,” the duke replied, shaking his head and letting his bangs scatter over his forehead. He pulled a hand over his dark hair, swiping the bangs away from his face, and resumed massaging his hand. “I paint scenes of important historical events that were not captured at the time. But first I research all I can, gathering first-hand descriptions and accounts, and then I go to their actual site,” he replied uncomfortably. “I do a few sketches of the place from different angles and take a few notes, and come home to paint it. In this case, the flight of Saint Olaf from Norway.”

Jac blinked, thinking she’d heard of such art pieces.

“But isn’t that copying Richard Wilson?” she protested and Aspen beamed. Jac sat back, startled. She didn’t think she’d seen Aspen grin so widely. It lightened up his whole face, pulling the wrinkles up around his eyes and showing off his white teeth. His scars jerked at his smile, keeping it lopsided and almost painful-looking. But his eyes still shone with pleasure and the scars were nothing.

“Oh, drat it all, you are Richard Wilson, aren’t you?” she said, feeling like a fool. Aspen only smiled more and she shook her head. “Yes, of course, Richard is your Christian name, isn’t it?”

“It is. My full name is Richard Benedict Caraway but for God’s sake, don’t call me Richard. Even my mother has called me Aspen since I was a boy and I’d make a cake of myself, forgetting to respond,” he said, his smile gentling before it faded altogether. He swallowed, looking nervous suddenly and did not speak.

“Your work is magnificent,” she said honestly, hoping she did not sound too exuberant. “It's like getting a moment of history handed to you in full color,” she said, smiling at the memory of
The Séance Royal of Louis XVI
hanging in their sitting room. Perhaps now she knew how Daniel had acquired the coveted piece without parting with half their fortunes.

“And you went to France? Were we not already at war?” she asked, flabbergasted. Aspen smiled stiffly, looking pained.

“It was a remarkably badly timed trip. I left after Napoleon’s Treaty of Amiens, when it seemed like the country had finally stabilized. I had no idea we’d be again at war with the man not a year later, though in hindsight I should have suspected,” he replied, shrugging as if he had not been a Londoner in the middle of Paris at war. 

“Are you mad?” she asked and Aspen smiled again.

“I believe so, yes,” he replied, looking at ease again. He released his tortured hand and let his palms settle on his knees. His left fingers were almost grazing her leg, Jac thought, wanting to lean towards him. She stilled suddenly, remembering something he’d told her the week before.

“So then that’s why you were caught by the mob, that’s why you were in France nine years ago,” she replied. She’d still been in Abingdon, stranded without anyone to introduce her to society, until years later, when Daniel had come home. She’d missed the horror and flurry of scandal when the Duke of Aspen had returned to society with his scars and had only heard of it afterward. Aspen grimaced, apparently caught in the memories.

“Yes and Daniel traveled for two straight days to get me out. I gave him the painting, after I recovered,” he confirmed.

“So Richard Wilson is going to paint
The Flight of Saint Olaf
?” she asked, doing her best to pull her mind out of the gruesome story and sound excited at the prospect of a new art piece. Aspen nodded, his face clearing and brightening with pride.

“I’ll attempt it,” he said, smiling.

“Why do you use a pseudonym?” she asked and Aspen leaned back on his seat, relaxing again.

“When I started I liked to tell myself that I was competing on even ground with my fellow men, my rank and status hidden and only my art’s image working to promote itself. I have since realized that’s a lie and a foolish one, but now I’m grateful for the pseudonym for it affords me greater privacy,” he replied. Jac furrowed her eyebrows curiously.

“Why do you think it’s a lie that you were competing on equal terms? Without your name you had nothing but your art to recommend you,” she asked, hating the feeling of the carriage slowing and finally jerking to a stop. She was interested by this conversation, she’d been interested by everything this man had said all evening and that had not happened in a tediously long time. Harold pulled open the door, sending the chill air rushing into the warmer carriage, but Aspen did not immediately pull himself from his seat. 

“Every man, other than one incomparably miserable sod, has advantages over other people in the world. I cannot and should not deny mine. I have the time and money to travel and paint rather than have my energy consumed by my own survival; no pseudonym could ever change that and I was lying to myself thinking any differently,” he answered fervently. Jac blinked, processing the words, and nodded. Aspen started to pull himself out of his seat and paused, glancing at Harold and back at her, looking a bit sheepish again. Jac glanced over his scarred face, wondering where he’d gotten the strength to profess only his advantages in the world.  

“I trust your coachman can keep your secrets?” he asked, taking up most of the carriage, half standing in the small space. Jac raised her eyebrows in surprise at the change of subject, before she remembered that he’d just mentioned his painting.

“That and more,” she promised and Harold stood a bit straighter, looking proud.

“Excellent. I would get no critics if every man knew Mr. Richard Wilson was better known as ‘his grace’,” Aspen replied and pulled himself the rest of the way out of the coach and onto the street. He shook Harold’s hand and Jac thought she saw a full guinea change hands. “Good night,” he said to her, holding up a hand in farewell and Harold started to close the coach door.

“Wait!” Jac called out belatedly, pushing against the closing door to keep it open. Aspen hesitated, already turning to walk into his home, and faced her again. “I’d almost forgotten to tell you,” she said, her voice weak in her ears. “I leave for the Americas next week. I am considering a move to Boston and I shall travel there to explore the area,” she said, wanting to cry in the face of yet another lie. She kept her eyes locked on Aspen’s face instead. Aspen frowned, looking perturbed.