He tugged his hat brim lower and turned up the collar of his greatcoat. In less than two weeks he would again exchange civilian clothes for his uniform, return to duty, and make his grandfather proud. But first he had to find Wesley and send him home. With Humphries retiring, someone needed to help Papa oversee the estate. Their father was not in good health and needed a capable spokesman to keep the tenants happy and the estate workers on task. As a captain in the British Army, the role had come easily to Stephen. But his leave would soon be at an end, Napoleon exiled or not.
The role of managing the estate should have fallen to his older brother. But Wesley had again gone south for the winter, in spite of their mother’s pleas. His art came first, he always insisted. And he preferred to leave practical, mundane affairs to others.
Rounding a bend, Stephen saw a craggy headland—rocks piled atop one another like castle battlements—with a sheer drop to the lashing currents below. He looked down to assure his footing, but a flash of color caught his eye and drew his gaze upward again.
He sucked in a breath. A figure in billowing skirts, wind-tossed cape, and deep straw bonnet stood atop that high precipice. Wedged between a rock on one side, and the cliff on the other, her half boot extended over the edge. What was the fool woman doing?
She fell to her knees and stretched out a gloved hand... trying to reach something, or about to go over? Did she mean to harm herself?
Pulse lurching, Stephen rushed forward. “Stop! Don’t!”
She did not seem to hear him over the wind. Leaping atop the summit, he saw she was trying to reach a paper entangled in the prickly gorse.
“Stay back. I’ll retrieve it for you.”
“No,” she cried. “Don’t!”
Taking her objection as concern for his safety, he extended his walking stick to reach the paper and drag it back up the slope. Bending low, he snagged a corner of the thick rectangle—a painting. His breath caught.
He turned to stare at the tear-stained face within the deep bonnet. He looked back down at the painting, stunned to discover the image was of the very woman before him—a woman he recognized, for he had carried her portrait in his pocket during a year of drilling and fighting, and had looked at it by the light of too many campfires.
A gust of wind jerked the bonnet from her head, the ribbon ties catching against her throat, and its brim dangling against her back. Wavy strands of blond hair lifted in the wind, whipping around her thin, angular face. Sad, blue-grey eyes squinted against a dying shaft of sunlight.
“It’s... you,” he sputtered.
“Excuse me?” She frowned at him. “Have we met?”
He cleared his throat and drew himself up. “No. That is... the portrait—it’s your likeness.” He lifted it, also recognizing the style—clearly his brother’s work.
Instead of thanks, her face crumpled. “Why did you do that? I was trying to toss it to the four winds. Make it disappear.”
“Why?”
“Give it back,” she demanded, holding out her hand.
“Only if you promise not to destroy it.”
Her lips tightened. “Who are you?”
“Captain Stephen Overtree.” He handed over the paper. “And you must be Miss Dupont. You know my brother, I believe.”
She stared at him, then averted her gaze.
“That is, he let a cottage from your family. I stopped at the studio but found the place locked. Can you tell me where to look for him?”
“I should not bother if I were you,” she said. “He is gone. Sailed for Italy in search of his perfect muse. His Dulcinea or Mona Lisa...” She blinked away fresh tears, and turned the painting over, revealing a few scrawled lines in his brother’s hand.
He read:
My dear Miss Dupont,
That visiting Italian couple we met invited me to travel with them to their homeland. To share their villa and paint to my heart’s content. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, and I could not resist. You know how I love Italy! We sail within the hour.
I know I should have said good-bye in person. I tried to find you, but could not. Thankfully, as a fellow artist you understand me and realize I must follow my muse and pursue my passion. Must grasp this opportunity before it leaves with the tide.
We shared a beautiful season, you and I. And I shall always remember you fondly.
Arrivederci,
