The Painted Lady (10 page)

“Yes. Sir Osgood alluded to some family problems forcing you to remain here. Perhaps now that some time has passed, the situation might be altered?”

“The only thing that has altered is the name of my husband’s current mistress. The dastard will not let me return home, not even to his country place.”

Lady Edgecombe jabbed the point of her parasol into the packed dirt of the stable. Castor started, and almost stepped on Kasey’s foot. He cursed, then apologized.

“I apologize again if this is indelicate, but surely your husband will wish you home eventually, if only to beget an heir.”

“He already has an heir. I was the second wife, you see, for insurance against any misfortune to his son. I did not please him as much, it seemed, as his ladybirds. I refused to be shamed by their presence in my own home.” She whapped the parasol against the stall door, and Pollux whickered in fright. “So here you see me, banished to a hospital for mental patients.”

Kasey would have seen her banished from the stable, but he did feel sorry for the woman. He might not have all his wits about him, but at least he was free to be batty wherever he wished.

“You have my sympathies. Can your family not intercede on your behalf? Could they not take you in?”

“Half of them believe that I am insane, to get so crazed over a Cyprian or two, or two at a time. Edgecombe threatened the rest with reprisal if they came to my aid. He’s wealthy,” she added, as if that explained such despicable behavior. “And what could they do anyway? According to law, a wife is her husband’s possession, to do with as he will. No court is going to force him to take me back.”

“Good grief, why doesn’t the man simply divorce you? The scandal cannot be much worse than declaring you insane.”

“No, but the cost is higher. And the process could take years.”

“Have you spoken to Sir Osgood about it?”

“The man has as much warmth as last Friday’s fire,” Catherine told the duke, her last hope. “I could not appeal to his sympathy or his senses, though Lud knows I tried.” She had wept, whined, and wheedled Bannister into doing something. She’d even tried winding his clock, but the old windbags had no inner workings, it seemed, only an abhorrence of excitement. “Besides, what could he do?”

“He can tell the authorities that you are not insane, for one.”

“What, when they think he is, with his cracked-brain theories? The ton trusts Bannister with their wayward daughters, but no one will take the word of a disgraced doctor over that of a wealthy viscount. Now a duke might be different...”

“I’ll have my solicitor look into the matter as soon as I return to Town. Perhaps if I spoke to Edgecombe, put a flea in his ear, you know.”

“If you put a sword through his black heart, I’d be more grateful. Do you want to know how grateful?”

Kasey could imagine. In fact, he could feel hot breath on the back of his neck, and it was not Castor’s. He sidled to the other side of the horse, to put a mountain of gelding between him and the woman. “Why don’t you, uh, wait until I accomplish something before you shower me with thanks?”

Lady Edgecombe had followed the duke and now poked him with the parasol. “Never say that is the nature of your problem?”

That was not his chest, and that was not what snapped the blasted umbrella in two. “My apologies, ma’am, the brush must have slipped. I’ll pay for a new parasol, of course. That reminds me of a favor that you could do for me, actually, if you are going into the village. Do you think you might be able to purchase a small paint set? Watercolors, nothing expensive or intricate. A few brushes, a pen, a pad of paper?”

“What, do you paint then?”

“Just a bit now and again,” he lied. “I thought it might help pass the time.”

“Ossie won’t like it.”

Kasey untied Castor’s lead, to switch horses. “Sir Osgood likes very little.”

She stepped back, out of the way. “That’s a fact, but are you certain this won’t be more upsetting to him? I shouldn’t like to think of Ossie blaming me for undermining his course of treatment. I have few enough privileges now.”

“What, do you think I am going to paint naughty pictures and hang them in his office? I simply wish to fill the hours. A book only takes so long to read, Patience grows wearisome after a few hands, but there is always something new to paint. And I can hide the whole thing under my mattress so Sir Osgood will never have to know. I doubt the maids will think to look until after I leave.”

Lady Edgecombe sidestepped Castor’s swishing tail. “Perhaps you’ll paint my portrait, then. I’ve never had it done, you know.”

“Oh, I could not do justice to your rare beauty in watercolors. I would need oil paints to capture the depths of expression, the richness of tones. You, madam, are not made for thin pastel pigments.” And Kasey would rather paint Castor’s hind end than have Lady Edgecombe model for him. He shut the door on the bay’s stall.

Catherine was flattered enough, though, to agree to the purchase. Unfortunately, she only had pin money. Sir Osgood permitted her to maintain accounts at a few of the local shops; he did not, naturally, give her enough cash to run off. The duke half emptied his purse, telling her to purchase a gift for herself, besides the new parasol. And some pastries, he added, if she thought she could smuggle the lot back to Bannister Hall.

“You are quite sure?”

He was.

Kasey was a duke in his blue blood, but he was a painter intrinsically, inherently, in his bones. How could he be true to himself if he denied that part of his being? Without art he felt naked, bereft. Surely such emotions could not be healthful. Besides, how was he to know that he was improving if he did not experiment?

“I am sure, with all my heart. And I will not forget about you when I leave, dear lady, I swear.”

Coming into the stables, Lilyanne saw the duke and Catherine, with nary a horse in sight. She saw him in his shirtsleeves, bending over Catherine’s fingers, and she heard his words of love. She felt sick.

The rake had not been here two days and he’d already made arrangements with Lady Edgecombe. No, an assignation. In an empty stall, like a groom and a dairy maid. Like rutting goats. Lilyanne had been right, after all: Caswell was in truth dangerous and depraved. Long walks and less Turbulence were not going to change his profligate nature, not until pigs took wing. Why was she so disappointed?

Kasey found himself shoveling manure, after all.

* * * *

Dinner that evening was even more dreary than the preceding one. Lady Edgecombe did not make an appearance, most likely, Kasey thought, because she’d found better fare in the village. Miss Bannister barely spoke a word, and ate less, not that Kasey blamed her. Tonight’s meal seemed to consist of the same boiled meats and vegetables of yesterday, cooked inside a piecrust. Even the pudding looked watery, as if it had been left over, too. No one ate theirs, despite Sir Osgood’s urging. Kasey found himself praying, long after grace, that Lady Edgecombe had brought back something edible, almost as much as he prayed for a paint set.

After dinner, Miss Bannister claimed a patently spurious headache, so Kasey had to listen to Sir Osgood’s elevating readings without benefit of knitting or spinning or staring at the intriguing young woman. He must have nodded off, after his day’s exertions, for the doctor had to prod him when the tea cart arrived. One benefit of Miss Bannister’s desertion was that Kasey got to eat her share of the tea and toast.

The short nap must have relieved Kasey’s weariness, for once he was upstairs, after Cosgrove had left, locking the door behind himself, Kasey felt not at all sleepy. He partially undressed, then took out the pencil he had retrieved from his greatcoat pocket, and the cheap paper he had “borrowed” from the butler’s pantry. Likely the man kept it to make lists for errands and orders, but Kasey had a better use for the stuff.

First he sketched Miss Bannister as she’d appeared this afternoon, kneeling by the rosebushes, her hood fallen back and a curtain of black satin hair framing her high cheekbones.

There was not much His Grace could do with such crude materials, despite the subject, but the woman he drew was serenely beautiful—and blessedly silent.

Daringly, he started to portray the lady from the oil painting, back in London. The pose was slightly different, and the eyes refused to focus properly, a pencil having few enough gradations in tone. And her mouth—oh, Lord, her mouth was closed but he could hear her calling his name. No! No, it could not be happening again!

“I know you are awake, Caswell. I can see the light under your door. I have brought your paints.”

Trembling, Kasey picked up the shredded paper and went to the door. “I fear you are too late, ma’am,” he whispered against the wood. “They lock me in at night, you see.”

“What, you haven’t figured out how to open the door by now? It only took me one night.” He could hear a scraping sound, then the door opened and Lady Edgecombe was pressing one of her hairpins into his hand. “Simple.”

Him or the method? Kasey was too delighted to see that she had a large sack in her other hand to ask. “Perfect, ma’am, absolutely perfect!” The paint set wasn’t half bad either, he noted while he chewed on a raspberry tart. The brushes were not the usual quality His Grace employed, but no matter. He’d have used Castor’s tail for a paintbrush if he had to.

He set the paints and brushes on the straight-backed chair next to his bed and took Lady Edgecombe’s hands in his, to thank her properly. “You have made me the happiest of men, my dear.”

Which was, of course, what Miss Bannister heard when she checked on the noises in the hall. What she saw was worse. Catherine was in her filmy, low-cut dressing gown, only a shade less bare-chested than His Grace, who was licking his lips.

Lilyanne gasped. It was better than fainting.

Chapter Eleven

“This is not what it looks.”

Lilyanne was not looking. How could she, with a half-naked man and a pink-negligee-clad woman practically embracing right in front of her? Not what it looks? Ha! What else could it be but an offer of marriage, and an acceptance, after the fact. The fact being that they were en dishabille, in the middle of the night, in Caswell’s room, in Lilyanne’s home. Decent, respectable people lived here, but these two had not even respected Lilyanne and her uncle enough to use the stables! Or they could not wait long enough.

Of course it could not be a true marriage, since the lady was otherwise bespoken—and now Lilyanne understood why Lord Edgecombe spoke so poorly of Catherine. At least now Uncle Osgood would see that the debauched duke could not stay under their roof. What if Lisbet were home? What if one of the young maids had come upstairs with hot water? No gentle female should witness such wantonness. Lilyanne was more than sorry she had. She turned to leave.

“Wait!” Kasey called, grabbing Miss Bannister’s hand to keep her from leaving. She stopped and faced him, but with all the loathing of someone who found herself holding a live jellyfish, the dangerous kind, with purple tendrils. He let go of her hand and drew his fingers through his hair. Zeus! Miss Bannister stood as rigid as a stone in front of him, pale in her white flannel, high-necked nightgown and robe, the long black braid that hung nearly to her waist the only contrast to her, except for those gray, gray eyes. Granite could not have been harder, or colder. If Miss Lilyanne Bannister were the marble goddess she appeared, thunderbolts would be flying next. Kasey was sunk.

He did not want his hostess to think him a libertine.

He did not want her to know about the paint set.

He did not want to be cleaning chamberpots for the rest of the week.

Kasey did the only thing possible. He reached into the paper sack and grabbed a paintbrush—no, he grabbed a tart, and stuffed half of it into Miss Bannister’s open, protesting mouth.

“Lady Edgecombe was bringing me a treat from the village,” he said. “That is all, I swear.”

Catherine was giggling, but she nodded.

Lilyanne bit down, for that was all she could do with her mouth full of pastry. Flaky crust met her lips, sweet raspberry filling oozed onto her tongue. She chewed and swallowed, then took another bite. Why, this was the most delicious morsel she had tasted in years, since her parents’ deaths and the arrival of Uncle Osgood, in fact. She’d forgotten about sweets and sugary treats, licorice and peppermint drops, barely missing them at first, for all the rest she was mourning. Then she just became used to not having delicacies. But how could something so delectable be so bad for one’s mental equilibrium? How could enjoying one’s food be over-stimulating to the brain?

As Lilyanne kept chewing, her eyes closed with pleasure, Catherine edged past her, out of the room. Kasey put his shirt on, although he did not button it. He rummaged in the sack. “Here, try this one.”

In for a penny, in for a pound, Lilyanne decided, accepting a slice of shortbread. “Oh, my.” She licked crumbs off her lips, lest any escape. She decided right then to have a talk with Uncle in the morning. Why were they living like Puritans, fanatically abstaining from every worldly pleasure? Lilyanne was tired of it. She was the one who did all the work with the distressed young females who paid Sir Osgood’s exorbitant fees, after all, so it was about time her opinions counted. Past time. “I.... I think patients might get a feeling of well-being from such treats, rather than becoming distraught. As long as they ate the sweets in moderation, of course.”

“Of course. Moderation is everything. We would not wish to cause any brain fevers with overindulgence.” He was holding out a gingerbread man, with currants for eyes.

“Oh, we used to have these all the time, as children.”

The sacrifice of his snacks was worth every hunger pang to Kasey. He was suffering worse by watching Miss Bannister savor every bite, her pink tongue darting out to capture crumbs, her eyes growing luminous with pleasure. He shook himself from the dangerous direction his thoughts were taking him—straight to the bed behind him.

He turned to open a dresser drawer, to find one of his lawn handkerchiefs. He used it to dab at her chin, where raspberry filling had dripped. “You see, there was no dalliance going on.”