“Hardly at all.”
“But you paint,” he said. “Are you talented? Lady Darleigh s-says you are.”
“She is kind,” Mrs. Keeping told him. “Sheis talented. Have you seen her caricatures? And her story illustrations? I paint well enough for my own pleasure and poorly enough that I always dream of that one perfect painting.”
“I s-suppose even Michelangelo and Rembrandt did that,” he said. “Perhaps Michelangelo sculpted thePietàand then stood back and wondered if he would ever sculpt something that was really worth doing. I shall have to s-see your work to judge how w-well you measure up to the masters.”
“Indeed?” There was a world of disdain in her voice.
“Do you keep them under lock and key?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “but I choose who sees them.”
“And I am not to be included in that n-number?”
“I very much doubt it,” she said.
An excellent setdown. He looked at her with appreciation.
“Why?”
Her eyes turned his way, and he smiled slowly.
She was spared the need to answer him. Miss Debbins had begun to play something by Handel.
She played for longer than half an hour, though she tried to rise from her place at the end of each piece. No one was willing to let her go. And she did indeed display a quite extraordinary talent. One would not really have expected it. She must be a good ten years older than her sister, perhaps more. She was smaller and plainer. She looked quite unremarkable—until she set her fingers to a musical instrument.
“How easy it is to dismiss the outer packaging without an inkling that one is thereby missing the precious beauty within.” His thoughts had acquired sound, and Flavian realized with acute embarrassment that he had spoken aloud.
“Yes.” And Mrs. Keeping had heard him.
The recital was at an end, and a number of his friends were clustered about Miss Debbins at the pianoforte. Lady Darleigh excused herself after a minute or two in order to go up to the nursery—Flavian suspected that she was unfashionable enough not to have engaged a wet nurse. Lady Trentham asked if she might accompany her, and the two ladies went off together. Vincent announced that tea would be served in the drawing room if everyone would care to remove there. Ralph was running his fingers silently over the harp strings. George was offering his arm to Miss Debbins and informing her that she must be very ready for her tea. Ben, who had not brought his wheeled chair into the music room, was hoisting himself slowly to his feet between his canes, and Lady Harper was smiling over him and making some remark that was lost in the hubbub of voices.
“Mrs. Keeping.” Flavian got to his feet and offered his arm. “Allow me.”
He had the feeling she had been sitting very quietly where she was, in the hope that he would wander away and forget about her. Maybethatwas part of the attraction, was it? That she had never put herself forward to attract his notice? Other women did—except the ones who knew him or knewofhim, though even some of the latter still pursued him. For some women there was an irresistible fascination about a dangerous man, though his reputation exceeded reality these days. At least he hoped it did.
“Thank you.”
She got to her feet and took his arm, the mere tips of her fingers touching the inner side of his sleeve. She really was rather tall. Perhaps that was why he had enjoyed dancing with her. She smelled of soap. Not perfume. Nothing either strong or expensive. Just soap. It occurred to him almost as a surprise that he would very much like to bed her.
He never thought of beds andladiesin the same context. And he had better banish the thought now. Which was a pity, for he would not even be able to indulge in a mild flirtation with her if there was any danger that it might lead to bed.
They were very sensible thoughts he was having and in no way explained why, when they entered the great hall from the west wing, he did not turn with her toward the staircase up to the drawing room. Instead he took a candle and its holder from a table, lit the candle from one that was already burning in a wall sconce, nodded to a footman who was on duty there, and was admitted to the east wing of the house.
Most surprising, perhaps, was the fact that Mrs. Keeping went with him without a murmur of protest.
The east wing, equal in size and length to the west wing, consisted almost entirely of the state apartments. They had been ablaze with light and splendor for the harvest ball back in October. They were dark now and echoed hollowly with their footfalls. They were also rather chilly.
And what the devil had brought him here?
“One tends to s-sit for too long in the evenings,” he said.
“And it is too early in the year to walk outside much after dinner,” she said.
Ah, they were agreed, then, were they, that they were merely seeking a bit of exercise after sitting so long listening to music? How longhadthey sat? An hour? Less for him.
“I must not stroll here for too long, however,” she added when he did not leap into the conversational gap. “Dora will believe I have abandoned her.”
