The Stepsister's Triumph (5 page)

“Then what do I do to help your plans, Helene?” She spread her hands. “Keep being the moneybags?”

“That is a vulgar expression.”

“Perhaps I'll set a fashion in language, too. Wouldn't that surprise everybody?” Madelene tried to smile, but it faded quickly. “I want to do something. Really do something. It's what we've talked about, isn't it? If I don't try new things, I'll just keep being afraid.”

“But if it's too soon . . .”

“It's not too soon,” Madelene said. “But I'm afraid it might be too late.”

“Never.” Helene pressed her hand. “I won't let it be.”

“Have you considered there are some things that might be out of your control, Helene?”

“Yes. I'm making a list.”

Madelene laughed. The mirth came as a surprise and was all the more wonderful because of it. Helene returned a smile that was more a flash in her eyes than an expression on her face.

Then those eyes grew hard again. Madelene had become used to Helene's hard looks. They were not deliberate. It was just that when Helene was thinking, she paid attention to nothing beyond the currents of her own mind. It was the thoughts she was looking at, not Madelene.

“Madelene, are you attracted to Benedict Pelham?” Madelene wasn't sure what expression showed on her face just then, but whatever it was, it was strong enough to make Helene pull back. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I should have said that differently.”

“It's all right, I, just . . . I'm not sure, but I think so.”

“Look at me, Madelene.” Helene took her hand. “It's all right if you are. Adele's talked with Mar . . . Lord Windford and Monsieur Beauclaire. They say he's a good man.”

“Yes, I know, that is, I feel sure he must be. And please don't ask me how I can tell.”

Helene waved her words away. “The question is, Madelene, do you want to see more of him?”

Madelene bit her lip. She pulled the note out of her sleeve and read the words again.
You are not alone. The door is open.
He had a firm, clear hand. Not a wasted motion, no blots or blurs.

“You know what happened last time I got a proposal,” she said, running a thumb across the
B
.

Helene nodded. Memory churned Madelene's stomach. The entire family had collaborated in the scenes. Her stepmother began with a stream of laments that her poor, dear, helpless Madelene was throwing herself at a fortune hunter; that her cruel husband would take control of her money, leaving her, and all her family, in rags. Her father joined in, mostly at mealtimes, droning on in icy disapproval about what a worthless, loose woman Madelene was, encouraging the attentions of every vagabond wastrel in a well-cut coat. Lewis raged at everyone. Glorietta and Maude wept at the drop of a hat about how their looming poverty would doom them both to spinsterhood.

It had gone on for days until Madelene had allowed Mama to dictate her refusal note to the gentleman in question.

“Not that I think Lord Benedict would ever propose to somebody like me,” Madelene croaked. “I mean, he might consider it for the money, I suppose, but . . .”

Helene squeezed her hand, and Madelene closed her mouth around the words.

“Do you want to see more of Benedict Pelham?” Helene asked again.

Madelene tucked the note back into her sleeve. She got to her feet and walked over to her window. She rested her fingers lightly on the sill and stared out at the street. She did not see the fashionable neighborhood below, or the rooftops of Grosvenor Square three streets over. She saw the long procession of years, sitting in a room like this, staring out a window like this, fearing the step in the hall and the knock on the door. She felt the cold dread of each meal, and each afternoon in the parlor, because they might bring another demand for money, or another bill in the post.

She saw the glittering celebration Mama would insist on for her twenty-fifth birthday. After that, it was only a matter of time. She would be still unmarried and worn entirely down, and all they had to do was wait a little longer until Madelene became so tired that she would do what was wanted. She would sign the money away to her father and his second family, just so she could at last be left in peace. Once that money was theirs, she might finally be allowed to marry whoever would agree to take her without a fortune, or she might even be allowed to retire to someplace like Bath or Bristol with a paid companion. It would be a bleak, barren life, but it would be better than this.

Madelene turned away from the window. She glanced toward the locked door and Helene, who was waiting patiently.

Then she went to her desk and took out paper and quill and ink. She wrote out a letter, sealed it, and penned the direction of the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane. Then she wrote a second letter:

Miss Sewell,

Enclosed you'll find a letter for my cousin Mr. Henry Cross asking him to call and explaining some of our plan. Will you please post it from No. 48? I've directed him to send any reply there, to save the awkwardness of questions at home.

Yrs. Sincerely,

Madelene Valmeyer

*   *   *

Without a word, Madelene sanded and sealed the letter. “Here,” she said, holding out the quill to Helene. “You'd better write the direction on this one so it's not in my hand, in case anyone in the house sees.”

Helene nodded and did as Madelene suggested. Then she stowed the letter in her reticule. “And what about Lord Benedict, Madelene? Miss Sewell thinks one of us should be the subject of his painting to be unveiled at our ball. Will you do it?”

Will I?

She knew what her answer should be. She also knew what it must be. “Helene, if I don't get out of this house I'm going to die. I know that sounds hysterical and you hate hysterics, but it's the truth, I promise it is. I
have
to make this season work, all of it. It's not just about a party or a . . . a flirtation, do you see? It's not even about social position. It's about a life for me.”

Helene laid a hand on her shoulder. “You know we'll help you. All of us.”

She smiled, and tears stung her eyes. “I may need a lot of help.”

“You just watch,” Helene said. “Together, there is nothing we can't do. This letter”—she patted her bag—“this is only the first step.”

“The door is open.” Madelene touched her sleeve and felt Benedict's note press against her skin, exactly where he'd held her to keep her steady when she stumbled.

“And you are not alone,” Helene agreed. “You never were.”

“Hello, Pelham.”

“Windford!” Benedict looked up from the canvas he was fixing to a frame, surprised but not unpleased. He waved the hand holding the tack hammer toward the cluttered expanse that was his studio. “Move something and have yourself a seat.”

Marcus Endicott, the Duke of Windford, took off his hat before he ducked under the low threshold. Knowing full well the hazards of paint and charcoal that lurked in the artist's studio, Windford had dressed for the visit in old breeches and a plain coat.

“I'm not interrupting a new masterwork?” he said, pausing to peer at the sketch of a lake that had been set on an easel by the windows.

“Not yet.” Benedict tapped the last tack into place and flipped the canvas so it lay faceup. “What brings you so far out of the stylish districts this morning?”

Benedict's studio was in a half-timber house in Lincoln's Inn Fields that had once belonged to a prosperous merchant. But fashions in neighborhoods as well as in dresses could change within the space of a season, and the merchant had left long ago. Now, it belonged to a canny old widow who had divided the rooms up into a series of flats that she let to artists and musicians and the occasional law clerk.

“I'm here on an errand.” Windford, against all expectations, found a cane-bottom chair that was free of brushes or paint pots or newspapers and sat down. “My sister has a request, an urgent one. In fact, she took utmost pains to impress upon me that it is a matter of life and death.”

“Yours?” Benedict quirked one eyebrow.

“Mine,” Windford agreed solemnly. “You may or may not know that Adele and a couple other girls have been taken up by Miss Deborah Sewell.”

Benedict found an unusual amount of his attention absorbed by the need to place the tack hammer in exact alignment with the worktable's edge. “I did know it. One of the girls is Miss Valmeyer, is she not?”

“She is.” Marcus's tone was studiously bland. “Are you acquainted with the lady?”

“I met her at your house party, briefly.”

Windford was watching him with unusual intensity. He wondered what exactly Lady Adele had told him. Had Madelene showed her
The Prelude
? Was Windford here with a message?

Benedict adjusted the hammer's position again, suddenly not trusting himself to speak.

“Well, Miss Valmeyer, Lady Helene, and my sister are thick as thieves these days. Adele's turned modiste for the crowd and is causing something of a sensation with her dresses.”

“You sound like you don't approve.”

Windford shrugged. “Well, it's not exactly an unexceptionable coterie. That Lady Helene is certainly a . . . surprise.” He paused, and there was a thoughtful and distant look in his eyes that caused Benedict's brows to lift another fraction of an inch. “How such a mild little thing as Miss Valmeyer got drawn into her orbit, I have no idea. A man never quite knows what she'll do next.”

“Miss Valmeyer?”

“Lady Helene.”

“Ah.” Benedict wiped at his face before Windford saw his smile.

“I'm not sure I entirely trust Miss Sewell as a chaperone either. Have you read that book she's supposed to have written?”

“Yes,” Benedict said. “I'm a little surprised that you have.”

Windford shrugged. “It was recommended.”

“By Lady Helene?” Benedict inquired.

Windford didn't answer, and Benedict very carefully did not smile. Instead he went over to the stove that served heat for the room and lifted the lid on the kettle. “Coffee?” he asked. “Or I think there's a bottle around here somewhere.”

Windford waved, refusing both.

“If you don't like the company your sister's keeping, you could forbid her from seeing them,” Benedict said placidly. “You're head of the family, after all.”

Windford's smile was grim. “Oh yes, I could, and then I'd never hear the end of it. My aunt is entirely in Adele's corner these days. Even Patience is arguing in favor of their little conspiracy.”

“Conspiracy?” Benedict said. “That's a strong word.”

“Accurate, though. When Adele sent me out here, she swore me to secrecy about my errand. It seems the lot of them are engaged in some grand scheme to throw a magnificent party at the end of the season.”

“I wish them the joy of it. But what does it have to do with me?”

“They want you to paint them a picture for it. A new portrait in your famous classical style.”

“I don't paint portraits anymore,” Benedict said flatly.

“Yes, I told Adele that. You've turned entirely to landscapes.” Marcus paused. “Except for that one painting that caused a stir at the exhibition.”

Benedict shrugged. “It was an experiment. I am through with portraiture.”

“Even of Madelene Valmeyer?”

Benedict's quiescent heart skipped a beat. He also realized that Marcus was watching him closely.

“It's Madelene Valmeyer who wants the painting.”

“Why Miss Valmeyer?” Benedict asked.

Marcus shrugged. “I couldn't tell you. But I am sent here upon pain of never having another moment's peace to ask if you will accept the commission. I am to impress upon you that they can pay for a piece, that it is . . .” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a notebook. “And I'm quoting Lady Helene here—she made me write it down exactly—‘three-quarter length, includes the hands, rendered as a classical scene or setting and . . .'”

Benedict held up his hand to cut him off.

“Why is this coming from your sister? Why isn't Miss Valmeyer's father commissioning the portrait?”

Marcus's mouth twisted abruptly into an expression of profound distaste. “Have you ever met Sir Reginald?”

“No.”

“Well, I have, and you may trust me that a portrait of Madelene is the last thing he'd be interested in.”

“Her stepmother, then?”

Marcus shook his head. “The stepmother doesn't think any better of Miss Valmeyer than her father, or her stepbrother.” Marcus tucked his notebook away in his pocket. “Well, Pelham? What's your answer?”

What was his answer? He knew what he wanted it to be. He wanted to say yes, loudly, immediately. He wanted Miss Valmeyer here, with him. He wanted to see her smile, at him, for him, and with him. He wanted to know what she looked like when she was relaxed and happy. He wanted to see her in the sunshine. Hell, he wanted to see her in the rain with her dress plastered against her. Emerging from the fog like a spirit and opening her arms to him. He wanted her naked as a Grecian goddess, lounging in a meadow with nothing but a wreath of flowers in her red gold hair.

He wanted to see her a thousand different ways, and wanted it so badly his hands had begun to shake, and it was a good thing he was standing up and facing the windows so he could look over the rooftops until his cock subsided.

I can't.
He pressed his fists against the windowsill.
I don't dare.

“I'll have to think about it,” he said, although he had to drag the words out one at a time. “You can tell Lady Adele I'll let you, and her, know shortly.”

He half expected Marcus to get to his feet then, but his friend stayed right where he was.

“How long has it been, Benedict?”

“Since what?”

“Gabriella.”

“A year,” Benedict answered, but he stopped. That couldn't be right; it had to have been longer. Some of it was lost time, lost to drinking and dosing and rage. “Two.”

“Four,” Marcus said.

“No. Not that long.”

Marcus nodded. “That long.”

Benedict stared across the rooftops, leafing through the calendar in his mind. Yes, Marcus was right. Four years. God in Heaven, how had that happened? The wounds were still as raw as they had ever been.

Except they aren't
, murmured a treacherous voice in his mind.
If they were, you wouldn't have been able to paint such a thing as
The Prelude
. You wouldn't be ready to plant your fist in Lewis Valmeyer's smug, drunk face because of the way he treats his sister. You certainly wouldn't be standing here panting after another woman.

“It doesn't matter,” Benedict said to Marcus, and himself.

“It does.”

“Not to me.”

“I worry about you, Benedict,” Marcus said. “It isn't good for a man to stay mired in his past, however much he blames himself for what happened there.”

“Someone could say something similar about you, Marcus. You've kept yourself at least as alone as I have, and for longer.”

Marcus laughed, but it was forced. “I wish I was more alone. Household full of women and an estate full of worries. I can barely move for all of them.”

“It's not the same as a wife's companionship.”

“No,” he agreed quietly. “But that's not an option for someone with my entanglements.”

They were silent for a moment. Benedict was one of the few men who knew the full extent of the mess the previous duke had left behind for his son to cope with.

“You don't really believe that anymore,” Benedict said. “At least you don't want to.”

“What makes you say that?” Marcus asked sharply.

“You've mentioned Helene Fitzgerald at least three times since you got here. I've never heard you talk so much about a woman you weren't related to. Or entangled with.”

“You should stick to your brushes.”

“Probably.” There had been a time when Benedict would have looked at a man such as the Duke of Windford and smiled and offered up witty flattery. But that had all been washed out of him in the tide of feeling that mingled grief with cold, hard truth.

“Well, I've done what I came for.” Windford climbed to his feet. “Don't take too long in making up your mind, Pelham, or Lady Helene might just come pounding on your door herself.” He realized what he'd said a moment later, and his face twisted. “Have you . . . ever met someone who got under your skin for no reason you can understand?”

“Yes,” Benedict replied. “As it happens, I have.”

Marcus retrieved his hat and pushed open the door, but he paused on the threshold. “You should take the commission, Benedict,” he said. “Let yourself live.”

Benedict made no answer. He did not even turn to look at his friend but kept his eyes on the rooftops. He heard Marcus sigh, and he heard the door close, and his boots clomp down the bare wooden stairs.

Only then did Benedict turn around. He didn't go back to his worktable and the canvases. Instead he crossed the room to his older paintings, most of them failures waiting to be scraped down and rubbed with turpentine so the canvas could be reused.

Most, but not all.

He moved these aside to reveal one set of canvases, hidden by a great spill of oilcloth. Benedict pulled this off.

Gabriella.

They were all scenes from Greek or Roman legend; Clytemnestra preparing for her final bath with the shadow of the son who would murder her falling across the tiled floor. Demeter standing before Zeus in a bleak winter landscape, demanding the return of her daughter Persephone. Last and most striking was the witch-queen Medea, wearing a bold purple dress and a black cloak. She held aloft the magical golden veil that she would use to murder Jason's new bride. It was the expression on her face, though, that held the eye. It was triumphant, almost transcendent.

He'd known. His artist's instincts had seen she could not be trusted before his conscious mind did. He'd painted her as a dozen different classical figures, but never the laudable ones—always the dangerous, even deadly, women.

Not that Gabriella had objected. She loved them all. Even Medea. He remembered how she'd laughed and leaned over his shoulder, her breath and her perfume filling his senses.
Yes, that's it exactly. You make me great, you make me feared! You make me look like queen of the world!

You are queen of the world
, he'd answered.
And queen of my heart.

And then they'd laughed and toasted her new image with champagne.

Now Benedict stood in front of this final picture and stared at the transcendent triumph that lit the painted face. He waited for the knife-sharp pain. He waited for the guilt, and the slow, sick, ever-present understanding that he was the reason that these painted images were all that remained of the vibrant woman.

But this time, that guilt didn't come. Oh, it hurt. A hundred memories flashed through him, including the last one. Especially the last one. But the killing grief, the deepest well of guilt that required wine or drugs to cover over, that was missing.

Slowly, Benedict rewrapped the paintings. He returned to his stool and his easel. He took up a sketchbook and folded it open to a fresh page. He found a pencil on the table and held it over the page. He stared, not at the blank page, but across the room, opening his mind's eye. He saw Madelene Valmeyer in the gallery, just as she'd turned toward him, startled, pale. Beautiful. Delicate. Lost and waiting to be found.

His hand began to move, laying down simple outlines, defining boundaries, creating basic shapes. He worked quickly, not thinking too much. He just let the images flicker across his inner vision and let his hand break them down into line and shadow. When at last he rose back into normal consciousness, he looked at the picture in his hand.

It was Madelene Valmeyer as the goddess of the moon. Not the cold warrior figure of Artemis, but Selene, who drew her silver chariot across the sky. Selene had once looked down on the earth and fallen in love with a sleeping shepherd named Endymion. In the story, she feared the consequences of loving a mortal, so she begged a gift from her father Zeus. She asked that Endymion be placed in eternal sleep, so he'd never grow old and die, and never leave her.

Yes. Benedict let out a long, slow breath. It was right. This was what he what he felt when he was with Madelene—a warm heart held at a distance, a woman who wanted love and life and yet feared it.