The Portrait (12 page)

She leaned her head against the window, feeling the cold glass upon her skin, along with sinking despair. She wasn't the kind of woman Whitaker would be attracted to, she never could be, and the thought filled her with a sense of loss that was impossible to bear.

As impossible to bear as the notion that she might not see him again.

"Imogene?"

Katherine's voice came from the hallway. Imogene's godmother had been solicitous and kind over the last two days, but for once Imogene didn't want kindness. She didn't want the busywork of embroidery and tea. She wanted to think through her confusion—for once she wanted the solitude that had been her life in Nashville.

But Katherine meant well, Imogene knew, and so she sighed and turned from the window. "Come in."

The door squeaked open, and Katherine peeked around the edge. "Oh, Imogene, you are here," she said. There was a breathless relief in her voice. "Haven't you heard me calling?"

Imogene frowned. "No. I didn't hear anything."

"Well . . ." Katherine stepped inside, holding out a piece of paper. "This just came for you. I think it's important."

Imogene stared at the note in Katherine's hand, feeling an odd dread at the sight of it. Odd because she knew it was about Jonas Whitaker, though she had no reason at all to think it. It wasn't torn from a sketch pad like the last message she'd received. This was a heavy, cream-colored stock that bespoke elegance and money, as different from the other as it could be. So

different Imogene told herself it was absurd to think it had anything to do with Whitaker. But her breath caught anyway as she hurried toward her godmother, and her hands trembled when she took the note from Katherine's hand.

Katherine frowned, her deep brown eyes dark with concern. "Imogene, is everything all right? Is this— were you expecting this?"

Imogene shook her head. The paper felt thick and textured against her fingers. She unfolded it slowly, noting with part of her mind that the thin copperplate handwriting was not one she recognized. Her chest tightened with apprehension. It was bad news, certainly. A quick, impersonal statement telling her he would no longer be teaching her. That, or maybe something even worse, something informing her of his untimely death or . . . or . . .

An echo of Peter's words lingered in her ears.
"The madness is waiting for me, Rico. Should I give in to it?"

She shut her eyes briefly, willing away the thought before she undid the last crease and read the words. Like before, the message was simple:
Jonas Whitaker requests the pleasure of your company immediately.

There was no signature.

Imogene felt a sudden, fierce joy, along with an uneasiness that made her mouth dry. "Someone brought this?"

"He's downstairs now," Katherine said. "He insisted on waiting." She patted Imogene's hand, a gentle, reassuring touch. "Dear, is everything all right?"

"He wants to see me."

"Who does?"

"Mr. Whitaker." The questions rang in Imogene's mind. He wanted to see her immediately, and she had no idea why, still could not begin to fathom what he wanted from her. She could not believe he meant to give her a lesson. It was late, already near dinnertime.

"Well, thank goodness," Katherine said. "So you'll be going to the studio in the morning, then?"

Wordlessly Imogene held out the note. Katherine read it quickly, the frown furrowing deeper between her eyes as she handed it back. "He can't be serious," she said. "Certainly he means for you to come tomorrow?"

"It says immediately."

"Yes, but—"

"Perhaps I should talk to the man who brought it."

Katherine motioned to the stairs. "He's in the hall," she said.

Imogene had to force herself to take the stairs with dignity and grace. Still she couldn't quite go slowly enough, though it seemed an eternity before she saw who waited in the foyer.

Frederic Childs. Imogene hesitated. He was quite possibly the last person she expected to see, and yet he stood as if he belonged there, lazily studying a framed woodcut, his long blond hair falling over the shoulders of his fine blue coat. Like Nicholas, she thought. Comfortable in any situation.

Immediately a smile curved his mobile mouth, his eyes sparkled. "Miss Imogene," he said, making a small bow. "I'm delighted to see you again."

"Mr. Childs." She didn't smile back. She gestured with the note. "You brought this?"

"Yes." he said, starting toward her. Then he stopped, and his gaze slid beyond her. "
Pardon
," he said with cool aplomb. "1 didn't realize there was another beautiful lady on the stairs."

Imogene half turned to see Katherine standing behind her. She'd forgotten her godmother was even there. Distractedly she introduced them.

Childs smiled again, that dazzling smile. "I've heard a great deal about you, Mrs. Gosney. You and your husband are quite well thought of in the art community."

"Oh, you're an artist?" Katherine threw a questioning glance at Imogene.

"He's a friend of Mr. Whitaker's," Imogene explained, hearing the edge of impatience in her voice. "Please, Mr. Childs. This message—"

"Ah, yes, the message." His smile stayed steady, the good humor in his voice didn't fade, but something came into his eyes, some expression she couldn't read. "I've come to escort you to the studio."

Katherine frowned. "It's nearly time for dinner. Surely he doesn't mean—"

"Oh, but he does."

"I know artists have strange hours, Mr. Childs," she continued reasonably. "But surely this can wait until tomorrow."

Childs shook his head. "Forgive me, Mrs. Gosney," he said, disagreeing with firm politeness. "But this can't wait." He looked back to Imogene, and his smile mellowed, his face softened. If possible, it made him even lovelier than before, added a gentleness that was more real than his smooth charm, more insidiously captivating. "Miss Imogene," he said softly. "Jonas would like to see you. Please come."

She wanted to. Oh, Lord, she wanted to, but it was dangerous to want to go to him so badly.
Say no.
She opened her mouth to say the words.

Then she looked at Childs, really looked at him, and the refusal died in her throat. She saw the urgency in his eyes, an urgency cloaked in smiles and nonchalance, and it made her think again of Whitaker alone in his studio, staring out the window while the others pounded on the door. Her reservation died, forgotten in the strength of compassion and concern. There was no question; of course she would go to him.

Imogene crumpled the paper in her hand. "Very well," she said. "I'll get my mantle."

Katherine's frown deepened. "I don't know—"

Childs glanced at her. "I promise to keep her safe,
madame
. You have my word she'll come to no harm."

Imogene heard her godmother's hesitation. "Perhaps in the daytime," Katherine said. "But at night ..." Her words trailed off uncertainly, her eyes studied Imogene for a moment before she sighed and nodded. "At least let me send you in our carriage. Henry can wait for you then."

"By all means." Childs spoke with smooth, unemotional courtesy, but Imogene thought she saw relief in his expression when he turned to her, as well as a slight impatience. "Shall we go then, Miss Imogene?"

She nodded, hurrying to the small armoire at the back of the stairs. She grabbed her mantle and glanced down at her gown, wishing for a brief moment that she had something fancier than the thick bayadere silk with its stripes of darker lavender velvet and its unadorned flounces. She banished the absurd thought quickly. Lord knew Whitaker wasn't summoning her for her looks. She doubted he would even notice what she wore.

She closed the frogged fastenings of her mantle and grabbed her bonnet by its ribbons as she hurried back down the hall.

Childs looked up and smiled. "Ah, there she is," he said. His blue eyes sparkled when he glanced back at Katherine. He took her hand and bowed over it. "It has been a delight talking to you, Mrs. Gosney."

"And you," Katherine answered. Her voice was slightly breathless, the way it always was when she was enjoying herself. "I shall talk to Thomas this evening about commissioning you."

"
Madame
, you are too kind. I await your word." He released Katherine's hand with a smile, and then he straightened, shaking back his hair with a quick, graceful movement before he turned to Imogene and held out his arm. "
Chérie
?"

Imogene nodded and clutched the arm he offered— in her haste grabbing a little too hard. He raised a brow at her, and she smiled weakly and forced her fingers to loosen, feeling the hard warmth of him through her gloves and his heavy coat, smelling his rich, spicy cologne. When the front door shut behind them and they were standing on the stoop, the cool, damp autumn air brushing against her skin, threading through his hair, Childs turned to her with a smile.

"Don't be so afraid,
chérie
," he whispered. "You look as if you've just handed your soul to the devil for safekeeping. I assure you I am not so dangerous."

She looked at him in surprise. "I'm not afraid," she said. "Should I be?"

He blinked, and Imogene realized that he had expected some witty or clever remark. She glanced away again, feeling embarrassed and foolish, wishing once again that she was the practiced flirt her sister had been, that she knew anything at all about captivating a man. She half expected Childs would abandon her there on the step and take back his offer of escort, but he only chuckled and led her toward the waiting carriage.

"I don't know," he said. "Perhaps you should."

His words only added to the strangeness of everything she was feeling, the anticipation edged with worry. But Childs's steadying hand on her arm as they entered the brougham was reassuring and soothing, and Imogene found herself trusting him despite the fact that she hardly knew him.

"You are kind to do this,
chérie
," he said, looking at her somberly. His voice was quiet and even, but there was an undercurrent in the words, the same undercurrent she'd heard when he asked her to come, and she thought of Peter's story, felt the keen stab of worry.

"What's wrong with Whitaker?" she blurted.

"Wrong?" Childs looked at the window, resting his elbow on the narrow sill and his chin in his hand. She could see nothing but the curtain of his hair and part of his profile. "Things are never 'wrong' with Jonas. They are only more or less normal." There was an edge of something in his voice—grief maybe, or perhaps nothing more than simple sarcasm.

Imogene frowned. "I don't understand."

He gave a small laugh and looked back at her, a bitter smile on his lips. "No, I don't imagine you do," he said, and this time he didn't look away, but stared at her thoughtfully. Imogene flushed beneath his scrutiny, feeling as if he were searching for something, as if he expected to find something in her face, and when he spoke again she wasn't sure if he'd found it or not. "Ah, but you're such an innocent," he murmured—the words so quiet it was as if he were talking to himself. "Why has he chosen you, I wonder?"

His question startled her, Imogene felt the soft seduction of fear. "Chosen me?" Her voice sounded harsh and too sharp. "What do you mean?"

His gaze stayed on her for another moment, and then he smiled—a light, self-mocking smile—and turned away. "It's nothing," he said, shrugging. "I have known Jonas a long time. Too long, perhaps. There are things you don't know about him—"

"I know he's mad," she said, wanting suddenly to show him she was not as naive as he thought.

He only laughed. "Mad?" he asked. "Who told you this?"

"Peter McBride."

"Ah, Peter. Well-intentioned, well-heeled Peter." Childs looked at her, his gaze piercing. "What else has he told you?"

Imogene licked her lips, feeling as if she'd said something stupid, as if she'd misunderstood something, though she didn't know what it was. "He told me about last spring."

Childs leaned his head back on the padded wall of the brougham, saying nothing, letting the silence fill the carriage until Imogene's head pounded with it.

The carriage slowed. Imogene looked out the window to see the familiar buildings lining West Tenth Street, and concern tightened her chest so it was suddenly hard to breathe. She leaned forward, half turning to look at Childs, and found herself touching his arm to get his attention. "Please," she said, hearing the urgency in her voice. "Please tell me—is he like that today?"

Childs's expression was so somber and questioning it took her aback. "If I told you he was," he said slowly, "would you run away?"

The words were familiar. She heard Jonas Whitaker's deep timbre in her mind, the haunting rhythms of his voice.
"What is it you want from me, Miss Imogene Carter? Why don't you run away . . . ?"

She didn't take her eyes from Childs. She shook her head. "No," she said. "No. I wouldn't run away."

The brougham lurched to a stop. She heard the wheels splash through mud, the groaning squeak of carriage springs. Frederic Childs sat up and leaned forward, reaching for the handle on the door. He opened it and stepped down, holding out his hand to help her. Imogene put her gloved fingers in his palm.