CHAPTER 21
WHERE THE HELL WASshe? Hadn’t they agreed yesterday to meet this morning? He racked his brain trying to think but couldn’t come up with a definitive answer. Who could remember such details when consumed with lust and the obsessive compulsion of committing her beauty to stone?
“Samson!” he called his butler, and his servant appeared with his usual aplomb. “Did Lady Renier say what time she would come in today?”
“She did not, my lord.”
“Has she sent word?”
“I have not checked the correspondence today, my lord.”
“Well, go check it. And if there’s a message from her, bring it at once.”
His harried butler departed, and a minute later returned with a note.
“She had indeed sent a message, my lord,” his butler intoned.
With a ferocious frown that failed to intimidate his unflappable butler, he ripped the paper from the man’s hands, reading the words several times, as if their meaning could change. Not that there was much to read. She only said she could not come today and that she would call the following day. That’s it. No explanation. No reason why she couldn’t come. This was unacceptable.
“Have my carriage readied,” he said as he strode from the study.
Five minutes later, he was entering his coach and directing his coachman to take him to Thalia’s house. How dare she cancel their standing agreement? She had committed to him! They had an arrangement, and she could not cancel their sessions at random. What could she possibly have to do that was more important than their meetings?
He drowned the tiny voice in the back of his head, reminding him he was being unreasonable. He was not the master of her time. In fact, he couldn’t demand anything from her at all. She had a life that did not include him, and he had to accept that.
The thought only made his mood plummet further and his scowl turn more ferocious. When he rapped on her door, a timid little maid answered. The woman took one look at him, and her eyes practically popped out of her face.
“I’m looking for your mistress, Lady Renier.”
“Sh-she’s not home at the moment, my lord.”
“What time is she expected back?”
“I-I don’t know, my lord.”
“I’ll just have to wait for her then.”
“My lord?” The little maid looked sufficiently intimidated but still hesitated to invite him in. She would not stop him, though.
“Well?” he said, imbuing the word with all the aristocratic hauteur he was capable of. “Direct me to the drawing room. I’ll wait for her there.”
“Yes, my lord. Of course.” With that, she stepped back, and after taking his overcoat and hat, led him to the drawing room, a quaint little room right off the foyer.
He looked around, taking in the space. Looking for traces of Thalia in the decor. Had she selected the furniture? The chairs and settee were comfortable and well worn, upholstered in a faded rose fabric. Though not expansive, the room was thoughtfully arranged to maximize both comfort and charm.
The intricately carved fireplace served as the focal point, its mantle adorned with a few keepsakes and a modest collection of well-loved books. He read the titles on the spine and smiled. Austen, Gaskell, the Bronte sisters. His little muse liked romantic novels.
A small writing desk in the corner caught his eye next. It was topped with a vase of fresh flowers and an array of drawing supplies. Graphite pencils, charcoal sticks, and pastels were all arranged in little containers. He was familiar with the materials, for he used them himself in his work.
A sketchbook was lying open on the surface of the desk. He got closer to examine the drawing. It was a sketch of ladies having tea in a garden. The subject was not particularly original, but the technique was good. Thalia was much more talented than she let on.
Smiling, he turned the page to another sketch. This one of a young lady that resembled her sister. It was an excellent likeness, but unfinished. Then he flipped to the next page and his blood froze, the smile fading from his face.
It was a grotesque caricature of a man who looked like Viscount Greaves perversely leering at two small girls. The man was disreputable, for sure, but this caricature suggested a more devious crime.
He turned to the next page. And found another caricature. Another gentleman, by the looks of his clothes. He couldn’t recognize this man, but he was fat, and the drawing depicted him being serviced by two prostitutes while holding a leg of mutton in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other.
With sinking horror, he kept turning the pages, only to find similarly grotesque caricatures. Caricatures like the ones that had circulated about him. Caricatures mocking people. Implying heinous crimes or debauched behavior. Demeaning,dehumanizing. Was this her work? Maybe she had not created them. Maybe this sketchbook belonged to someone else.
