The Truth About Love (2 page)

This time, he succeeded in turning his mind to Lord Tregonning’s offer. To considering its pros and cons. Desires, instincts, and the consequent impulses left him twisting in the wind, swinging first this way, then that. Returning to the bridge over the Serpentine, he halted and took stock.

In three hours he’d accomplished precisely nothing, beyond confirming how accurately Tregonning had read him. He couldn’t discuss such a proposal with any fellow artist; his nonartist friends wouldn’t comprehend how tempted yet torn he felt.

He needed to talk to someone who understood.

It was nearly five o’clock when he climbed the steps of Vane and Patience Cynster’s house in Curzon Street. Patience was his older sister. His parents had died when he was young; Patience had been his surrogate parent for years. When she’d married Vane, Gerrard had found himself welcomed into the Cynster fold, treated as one of the family, as Vane’s protégé. In becoming the man he now was, the influence of the Cynsters had been critical, a fact for which he was deeply grateful.

His father, Reggie, had been no satisfactory model; to the Cynsters, Gerrard owed not just his financial success, but also his elegance, his unshakable confidence, and that touch of hard-edged arrogance that among tonnish gentlemen set them, and him, apart.

In reply to his knock, Bradshaw, Vane’s butler, opened the door; beaming, he assured him that Vane and Patience were indeed in and presently to be found in the back parlor.

Gerrard knew what that meant. Handing over his cane, he smiled and waved Bradshaw back. “I’ll announce myself.”

“Indeed, sir.” Fighting a grin, Bradshaw bowed.

Gerrard heard the shrieks before he opened the parlor door. The instant he did, silence fell. Three heads jerked up, pinning him with accusatory stares—then his nephews and niece realized who’d dared to interrupt their playtime.

They came to life like demons. Uttering ear-splitting cries of “Uncle Gerrard!” they hurled themselves at him.

Laughing, he caught the eldest, Christopher, and dangled him upside down. Christopher shrieked with joy; laughing, Gregory jumped up and down, peering into his brother’s upturned face. Therese joined in. After shaking Christopher thoroughly, Gerrard set him down and, growling like an ogre, spread his arms and swept the younger two up.

Juggling them, he walked to the chaise facing the fireplace.

From the armchair angled before the hearth, with her youngest son, Martin, bobbing on her knees, Patience smiled indulgently up at him.

His broad shoulders propped against the side of Patience’s chair, Vane grinned; he’d been wrestling with the three older children when Gerrard had walked in. “What brings you our way? Surely not the chance to have your hair pulled by our resident monsters.”

Disengaging Gregory’s and Therese’s death grips on his previously neat locks, Gerrard fleetingly returned the grin. “Oh, I don’t know.” Setting the pair on the chaise, he dropped down to sit between them. He looked from one to the other. “There’s a certain something about them, don’t you think?”

The children crowed, and seized the opening to bombard him with tales of their recent exploits. He listened, as always drawn in by their innocent, untarnished view of mundane events. Eventually, they tired. The boys slumped on either side of him; Therese yawned, slipped from the chaise and crawled into her father’s lap.

Vane dropped a kiss on her soft curls and settled her, then looked at Gerrard. “So what is it? There’s obviously something.”

Leaning back, Gerrard told them of Lord Tregonning’s offer.

“So you see, I’m trapped. I absolutely definitely don’t want to do the portrait. His daughter will doubtless prove to be a typical, spoilt featherbrain, worse, one who’s used to ruling as queen in her rustic territory. There’ll be nothing there for me to paint beyond vacuous self-interest.”

“She might not be that bad,” Patience said.

“There’s every likelihood she’ll be even worse.” He sighed deeply. “I rue the day I allowed those portraits of the twins to be shown.”

From his earliest years, he’d been a landscape artist. He still was—it was his first and deepest calling—but ten years ago, purely out of curiosity, he’d tried his hand at painting portraits of couples. Vane and Patience had been the first he’d asked to sit for him; that painting hung above the drawing room fireplace in their house in Kent, safely private. He’d subsequently painted other couples, all family or connections, but the resulting paintings had always graced private rooms. Yet his hankering for challenge had lured him on; after painting portraits of each couple, he’d decided to paint matching portraits of the Cynster twins, Amanda, now Countess of Dexter, and Amelia, Viscountess Calverton, each holding their firstborn sons.

The portraits were intended to be hung in their country homes, but those of the ton who saw the portraits while they’d still been in London had set up such a clamor the custodians of the Royal Academy had begged, literally
begged
him to allow the works to be shown in the annual portrait exhibition. The attention had been sweet; he’d allowed himself to be persuaded.

And had lived to regret it.

Vane regarded him with amused affection. “So hard to be such a success.”

Gerrard snorted. “I should appoint you my agent and let you deal with the horde of matrons, each of them ineradicably convinced that their daughter is the perfect subject for my next great portrait.”

Patience jigged Martin on her knee. “It is just one portrait.”

Gerrard shook his head. “That’s not how it works. It’s one of those great risks—choosing a subject. At present, my reputation is solid and intact. One truly ghastly portrait could incalculably damage it. Regardless, I refuse to pander to the expectations of my subjects, or their parents. I paint what I see, which means Lord Tregonning and his darling daughter are very likely to be disappointed.”

The children were growing restless. Patience rose as their nurse looked in; she beckoned to the matronly woman and glanced at the children. “It’s time for your tea. Bread pudding tonight, don’t forget.”

Gerrard hid a wry smile as the allure of bread pudding trumped the attraction of remaining with him. Both boys slid to the ground, reciting polite farewells. Therese, helped up out of her father’s lap, blew him a kiss, then ran to beat her brothers out of the door.

Patience handed the baby over, then shut the door on her departing brood and returned to her chair. “So why are you so agonized? Simply decline his lordship’s invitation.”

“That’s just
it.
” Gerrard raked his fingers through his hair. “If I decline, I not only lose all chance of painting the famous Garden of Night myself, but ensure that the only painter who’ll get the chance in the next fifty years will be some portrait dabbler who probably won’t even recognize what he’s looking at.”

“Which will be what?” Vane rose, stretched, then moved to another chair. “What is it about these gardens that makes them so special?”

“The gardens of Hellebore Hall in Cornwall were originally designed in 1710.” Gerrard had searched out the details after Cunningham had first called on him. “The area’s unique—a narrow protected valley angled southwest that captures the weather in such a way that the most fantastic plants and trees that grow nowhere else in England thrive there.

“The house is situated at the head of the valley which runs all the way to the sea. The proposed designs were seen by many, and generated much excitement at the time. Subsequently, the gardens were created over some thirty-odd years, but the family turned reclusive. Very few people have seen the gardens complete.” He glanced at Patience. “The few who did were enraptured.

“Landscape artists have been itching to paint the gardens of Hellebore Hall for decades. None have succeeded in gaining permission.” His lips quirked. He glanced at Vane. “The valley and its gardens lie within a large private estate, and the cove is rocky and dangerous, so slipping in and sketching on the sly has never been a viable option.”

“So every landscape painter in England—”

“And the Continent and even the Americas.”

“—would jump at the opportunity to paint these gardens.” Vane cocked his head. “Are you sure you want to pass up the chance?”

Gerrard let out an explosive breath. “
No.
That’s my problem. Especially given the Garden of Night.”

“Which is?” Patience asked.

“The gardens comprise multiple areas, each named for an ancient god or mythical being. There’s a Garden of Hercules, which stands along one ridge and has lots of big, tall trees, and a Garden of Artemis, with topiary animals, and so on.

“One of the areas is the Garden of Venus. It contains a large number of aphrodisiacs and heavily perfumed species, many of which are night-blooming, and incorporates a grotto and a pool fed by the stream that runs through the valley. It’s located at the valley’s head, just below the house. Due to some quirk of nature, that particular area grew rampant. One lucky soul who saw it only a decade or so after planting described it as a gothic heaven—a dark landscape to eclipse all others. It became known as the Garden of Night.”

He paused, then added, “In landscape artist’s terms, painting the Garden of Night is akin to attaining the Holy Grail. It’s there, but has for generations remained out of reach.”

Vane grimaced. “Difficult choice.”

Gerrard nodded. “Very much a ‘damned if I do, and damned if I don’t’ decision.”

Patience looked from one to the other. “Actually, the decision’s quite simple.” She caught Gerrard’s eye. “All you have to decide is whether you’re willing to risk that your talent is up to the task of painting a
reasonable
portrait of this young lady, against the certainty of being able to paint your Holy Grail.”

She tilted her head. “Put it another way—how much do you want to paint the Garden of Night? Enough to challenge yourself to creating a decent portrait of one young lady?”

Gerrard met her gray eyes, held her direct gaze. After a moment, he glanced at Vane. “Sisters.”

Vane laughed.

E
ven after Patience’s succinct reduction of the decision facing him, he might have refused, if it hadn’t been for the dream. He spent the evening with Patience and Vane, idly chatting about other things; when he parted from Patience in the hall, she kissed his cheek and whispered, “You know what you want to do, so do it. Take the risk.”

He’d smiled, patted her shoulder, then ambled home, wondering, examining the possibilities, but increasingly along the lines of how he might pull off a portrait of a vain flibbertigibbet without being overtly insulting.

Reaching his rooms in Duke Street, he climbed the stairs to his bedchamber. Compton, his gentleman’s gentleman, came hurrying up to divest him of his coat and bear it away to be brushed and accorded all proper respect. Gerrard grinned, undressed and fell into bed.

And dreamed of the Garden of Night.

He’d never seen it, yet it appeared so vivid, so enticing, so mesmerizingly dark. So full of that dramatic energy that as a painter he was most attuned to. There was danger and excitement, a hint of menace, and something even more profound, more elementally sinister lurking in its shadows.

It called to him. Whispered seductively.

He woke in the morning with the summons still fresh in his mind.

He didn’t believe in portents.

Rising, donning a velvet robe over trousers and shirt, he went downstairs. Making major decisions on an empty stomach was never wise.

He’d barely made a start on ham and eggs when a rat-a-tat-tat knock fell on the front door. Recognizing the signal, he reached for the coffeepot and filled his cup—before the Honorable Barnaby Adair could drain the pot dry.

The parlor door flew open. “My heavens!” Barnaby, a tall, elegant, golden-haired figure sporting a dramatically hunted look, swept in. “May the saints preserve me from all doting mamas!” His gaze fell on the coffeepot. “Any left?”

Smiling, Gerrard waved at both pot and platters as Compton hurried in with an additional place setting. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you—you’re a savior.” Barnaby sank into the chair beside Gerrard.

Gerrard eyed him with affectionate amusement. “And good morning to you. What’s put you out? Did Lady Harrington’s ball prove too exercising?”

“Not Harrington.” Barnaby closed his eyes, savoring the coffee. “She’s a decent enough sort.” Opening his eyes, he considered the platters. “It was Lady Oglethorpe and her daughter Melissa.”

“Ah!” Gerrard recalled the connection. “The old friend of your dear mama’s who was hoping you’d oblige and escort her darling about town?”

“The same.” Barnaby took a bite of toast. “You remember the story of the ugly duckling? Well, Melissa is that in reverse.”

Gerrard laughed.

Barnaby and he were much of an age, of similar temperament and background, had similar likes and dislikes, and both favored an eccentric pastime. He couldn’t remember how they’d first come to knock around town together, but over the last five years, they’d seen each other through various adventures, growing ever more comfortable in each other’s company, and now unhesitatingly called on the other for any and all support.