The Prisoner (27 page)

“Yes, of course,” said Genevieve, overwhelmed by the crowd of people staring at her paintings. The canvases had all been set in heavily carved gold frames, which gave them a far greater look of import than they had borne while strewn about her cellar. She had no idea if the people currently gaping at them loved them, hated them or were merely indifferent. “How are you, Mr. Lytton?”

“It's a madhouse!” Mr. Lytton burst out excitedly, gazing about. “An absolute madhouse! My associates had invitations delivered to our regular clientele, but because it was such short notice, we also decided to print a small advertisement in
The Herald,
thinking that we might lure a few more interested parties. Well, Mr. Stanley Chisholm, the esteemed art critic, happened to see the advertisement, and he decided to come by the gallery yesterday while we were still making preparations. It is no exaggeration to say that he was quite taken with the work. Quite taken indeed. So much so that he wrote an article for today's
Herald,
hailing Monsieur Boulonnais's work as exquisite and saying that anyone with an interest in seeing paintings of rare sensitivity must not miss this exhibition. He also happened to mention that the reclusive artist just might be making an appearance here this evening, which seems to have had the effect of rousing people's curiosity.” He bobbed his head about nervously. “Do you know if Boulonnais is here?”

Haydon pretended to search the room, which was filled with elegantly attired women and men who were laughing and sipping champagne. “My wife and I have only just arrived, so I cannot be certain. If I see him, I shall let you know immediately.”

“I do hope he decided to make the trip. At last count we had already sold thirteen of the twenty paintings—and the evening has scarcely begun! The Duke of Argyll purchased five of them before we had even shipped them here from Inveraray, but I told him they had to be included in the exhibition. He did not mind, of course. The exposure will only have the effect of increasing their value.”

Genevieve's eyes widened incredulously. “You have sold thirteen paintings?”

“And I don't mind telling you, after we saw how glowing Mr. Chisholm's article in
The Herald
was, we adjusted the prices accordingly,” Mr. Lytton admitted surreptitiously. “Your husband's commission on the sales will be even greater than we expected, Mrs. Blake, and of course his friend, Boulonnais, will profit very handsomely as well. I trust he will be so pleased that he will continue to permit our gallery to represent him in Scotland.”

Haydon smiled. “I have no doubt that when he finds out how well the work was received, he will be interested in maintaining your representation.”

“Excellent. Do forgive me, but Lord Hyslop is signaling to me that he wishes to purchase that painting of the girl with the rose. A magnificent piece, really. So beautiful, and yet there is something terribly melancholy about it. I should have asked more for it.” He sighed with regret. “Excuse me.” He straightened his spectacles and made his way across the room.

“Thirteen paintings,” Genevieve repeated, stunned.

Haydon retrieved two glasses from a silver tray that was sailing by on the arm of a harried waiter. “Would you care for some champagne?”

Genevieve gripped the stem of the glass so tightly Haydon feared it might snap.

“Let's have a toast,” he suggested. “To the mysteriously reclusive Georges Boulonnais. May he continue to paint and enchant the art world for many, many years.” He raised his glass, took a sip, then frowned. “What's wrong, Genevieve? Don't you like champagne?”

She shook her head, distracted by all the people laughing and milling around her. “I don't remember. I haven't had any since the night my betrothal to Charles was announced. That was years ago.”

“I believe you will find it tastes much better when one has something truly wonderful to celebrate. Not that your betrothal to Charles wasn't cause for a drink,” he added dryly.

She gave him a mildly exasperated look before cautiously sipping her champagne. A flurry of cold bubbles danced upon her tongue and tickled her nose. She took another sip, and then another. The crowded room was warm and she was suddenly extremely thirsty. Another swallow and her glass was empty.

“More?” asked Haydon.

She nodded. “Please.”

He dutifully retrieved another glass for her. “Perhaps you should drink this one a little slower,” he advised. “Champagne does have a tendency to go down easily, and then all at once make one feel rather lightheaded.”

“I'll be fine,” Genevieve assured him, taking another sip. “You needn't worry about me.” She turned away so she could watch a group of people who were having an animated discussion in front of her painting of Simon and Jamie.

The champagne and the heat of the gallery had brought a rosy flush to her cheeks, which gave a lovely contrast to the creamy softness of her throat and breasts. She was easily the most beautiful woman in the room, Haydon realized. What made her even more attractive was the fact that she had no inkling of the effect she was having on nearly every man who laid eyes upon her. He saw their initial pleasure, which transformed into curiosity as they tried to deduce who she was and what her relationship to him might be. He was glad he had had the foresight to give her a wedding band before they set out, or he would have been forced to chase off every fatuous fool who came near. Genevieve was well past the girlish bloom that must have made her completely enchanting when she was first presented to society some eight years earlier. But in that girl's place was a woman of incredible strength and fortitude, who had not only survived hardship and despair, but had constantly given of herself in every way she could so that others could survive as well. It was this combination of beauty, determination, and selflessness that set her apart from every other woman around her.

“Can you imagine that all these people have come here to see my work?” Genevieve was completely awed by the thought of it. “And that they are actually buying it?”

“They would have to be blind not to see the beauty of your paintings, Genevieve. There is a poignant intimacy to your work that touches people. I recognized it the moment I saw your paintings, and I knew others would see it too.”

She considered this a moment as she watched a gray-haired gentleman stare with pleasure at her painting of a weathered fishing boat gliding across the leaden surface of a loch.

“If my work does have merit, then it shouldn't matter that the artist is a woman. The work should stand on its own.”

“You're right,” Haydon agreed. “I hope one day that prejudice changes, but until it does, you must maintain your identity as Georges Boulonnais. As long as you can keep painting under his guise, you might be able to support yourself and your family. I realize it is unjust, Genevieve, but I hope that your financial success will be enough to counter the frustration of not having your talent recognized under your own name.”

Of course it was enough, Genevieve realized, overwhelmed as she contemplated the magnitude of what Haydon had done. Haydon had orchestrated nothing less than her family's survival. He had not done it by giving her money and demanding something in return, the way Charles might have done, or for that matter any other man she had ever known. Instead of giving her charity, Haydon had found a way for her to stand on her own. She would be able to earn a living for herself and her family by doing something that she loved, which was expressing herself through her paintings.

It was by far the greatest gift that anyone could ever have given to her—the gift of self-sufficiency.

She raised her eyes to his, wanting to tell him how grateful she was. He regarded her steadily. He was unbearably handsome in his evening clothes, with his black hair curling against the fine fabric of his evening coat and his jaw cut firm and strong in the soft blaze of light afforded by countless oil lamps and candles. He seemed so refined and at ease amidst all the fashionable beauty and wealth floating about them, it was obvious to Genevieve that this was his world. And yet there was something about him that set him apart from every other man in the gallery. There was a menacing quality to him, a faint hint of danger that suggested he was not as civilized as his attire and manner suggested. It was this that was attracting the attention of many of the women in the room, who were stealing glances in his direction, trying to determine just what his relationship was to Genevieve. She felt a stab of jealousy.

Haydon frowned, wondering at the change that had suddenly come over her.

“Good God, Redmond,” called an astonished voice from somewhere within the crowded room, “is that really you?”

Genevieve's breath froze in her chest.

Haydon stiffened slightly, then forced himself to affect an air of utter calm. Inhaling deeply, he slowly turned to greet the fiery-haired young man hurrying toward them.

“Hello, Rodney,” he said, smiling. “Fancy meeting you here. Permit me to present you to Mrs. Maxwell Blake. Mrs. Blake, this is an old friend of mine, Mr. Rodney Caldwell.”

Genevieve fought to restrain her panic. Her champagne glass gripped tightly in one hand, she graciously raised the other to the handsome man, whom she judged to be about thirty. “How do you do, Mr. Caldwell?”

“A tremendous pleasure, Mrs. Blake.” He pressed a brief kiss to the back of her hand. “I can see the marquess still has an affinity for keeping company with the most beautiful woman in the room.” His manner was friendly and teasing. “Haydon, you sly wretch, just where the devil have you been? We heard about some nasty business concerning a murder trial. They said you had been hanged, but clearly those stories were shamelessly exaggerated.” He laughed.

Haydon sipped his champagne, looking faintly amused. “So it would seem.”

“Well, I'm glad that mess is all straightened out. Just an unpleasant misunderstanding, was it?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Thank God for that. Everyone up in Inverness had given you up for dead—except for me, of course. I knew whatever scrape you'd gotten yourself into, you would somehow manage to squeak out of it. I can tell you, they'll be positively tickled when I tell them that I saw you gadding about Glasgow, drinking champagne in the company of a beautiful woman at an art exhibit.”

“Really, Mr. Caldwell, you flatter me too much,” protested Genevieve, forcing herself to smile. “Lord Redmond, would you mind escorting me back to my husband? If he sees me standing here talking to two such handsome men, I've no doubt that he will become insufferably jealous. You will excuse us, won't you, Mr. Caldwell?” she asked sweetly.

“Of course, Mrs. Blake.” He tilted forward in a small bow. “It was a pleasure to meet you. How long are you planning to stay in Glasgow, Haydon?” he asked, turning to Haydon. “I'm here for the week. Perhaps we could dine together one evening, and you can tell me all about how you managed to escape the hangman's noose.” His tone was jovial.

“Unfortunately, I'm leaving tomorrow.”

“That's a pity. Are you heading for home?”

“Not directly. I expect to return within a few weeks,” Haydon said evasively.

“Business matters, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

Rodney sighed. “I regret to say it's the bane of us ne'er-do-wells, Mrs. Blake. We are forced to actually work occasionally so that we can go on playing in the style to which we have grown accustomed. Well then, Haydon, I suppose I shall have to wait until we are both back at home before you can regale me with your sordid tales about how you escaped your execution. I can tell you, I'm most anxious to hear all about it.”

“I shall look forward to that.” Haydon offered his arm to Genevieve. She obediently laid her fingers lightly upon the fabric of his sleeve. “And now, if you will excuse us, I must deliver Mrs. Blake safely back to her husband. Good night, Rodney.” He smiled and turned away.

“We have to leave,” he said tautly as he steered Genevieve through the crowd. “Now.”

Genevieve maintained a frozen visage as Haydon retrieved their cloaks. She saw Mr. Lytton hurrying toward another prospective buyer, who was involved in an animated discussion with his wife over the merits of one of her paintings. She was vaguely aware that she had probably sold another one. People were still drinking and laughing and talking loudly. Nothing had changed in the room.

She shivered as Haydon laid her cloak over her shoulders.

Neither spoke during the carriage ride back to the hotel. Once they were safely ensconced in the privacy of Genevieve's chamber, Haydon bolted the door and leaned heavily against it, trying to think.

“Is this Mr. Caldwell a good friend of yours?”

He shook his head. He had no good friends.

“That would explain why he didn't have a clear grasp on what had happened to you,” Genevieve mused.

“I suppose he was recalling whatever gossip was being churned about at social events up near Inverness,” Haydon reflected. “Apparently they do not yet know of my escape. Either that, or Rodney has been away from the crowd for a bit, and is not quite on top of things.”

“But now that he has seen you, he is sure to tell others.”

Haydon didn't answer.

Despair began to wrap around Genevieve. For a brief moment, as they walked into the gallery together as Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell Blake, she had felt strangely happy—as if she were actually living the charade that they had so carefully constructed. No one in Inveraray had recognized Haydon as the marquess of Redmond. Her handsome, charming, apparently devoted husband bore little resemblance to the filthy, brutal drunk who had lain burning with fever upon the foulness of the jail floor. Constable Drummond had mentioned to her that the marquess had an estate in the Highlands north of Inverness. That had seemed so far away, she had not imagined that anyone Haydon knew might accidentally see him in Inveraray or Glasgow. Now that someone had, this deliciously unexpected tidbit of news would quickly fly from mouth to mouth. Eventually someone who knew that the marquess of Redmond had escaped would hear of it and they would feel compelled to share this morsel with the authorities. Haydon would instantly be linked to Mrs. Maxwell Blake, for Rodney Caldwell was not likely to spare any detail of their meeting.