“That is an extra one from the shop.” She wiped her hands on a cloth and suggested, “We ought to wrap the canvases first, to protect them for travel. These landscapes are quite good.”
Stephen lifted one from the easel. “I like this one. Quite a different style for Wesley.”
“Oh, um. That’s not one of his. It... was done by one of his pupils.”
“Ah. If you would be so good as to see it returned.”
“Of course.”
He lifted another. “And this one of Wesley? Not a self-portrait, I take it?”
“No. Another by... that same pupil. I shall see it returned as well.”
He reached for another canvas, one Wesley had painted of Miss Dupont in Grecian robes—windblown hair escaping its pins, coppery highlights among the gold brushstrokes, her face thin but lovely, lips full, eyes large and searching. He wondered why he’d not seen any full-size paintings of Miss Dupont among the landscapes Wesley had brought home from Lynmouth the previous year. Apparently the miniature portrait Stephen had found was one of only a few small paintings and sketches Wesley had done of the painter’s daughter last year. This year, however, he seemed to have painted little else. Stephen wrapped the canvas with care, then picked up the image of her with a bared shoulder. Looking at it, he felt a stab of... What was it? Reluctant admiration? Resentment? Jealousy?
She glanced over, and a frown line appeared between her blond eyebrows. “Must you take that one? Any of me, really?”
He shoved the illogical feelings aside. “What would you suggest I do with them? Are they not Wesley’s property?”
“I suppose. But certainly you can understand why I loathe the thought of them sitting out in plain view somewhere in your family’s home?”
“Perhaps you ought to have thought of that before you agreed to sit for him.”
She ducked her head, and he immediately regretted his cutting tone.
“Of course, you’re right,” she allowed. “I wasn’t thinking clearly, and I certainly didn’t think it through.”
“Whatwereyou thinking?”
She shrugged. “I was simply helping a fellow—helping an artist with his work. I didn’t foresee finished paintings that might someday be sold or hung where his own family would see.”
He laid the final canvas in the crate. “There, that’s the last of them.”
She nodded. “I’ll send Maurice up with a hammer and nails to close the crate and carry down these supplies. I...”
Her face suddenly paled, and her eyes shot wide. She pressed a hand over her mouth, whirled to the door, and ran outside.
Through the window he saw her bend between two bushes and retch.
His own stomach clenched in reply.Oh no.Did it mean what he feared it did? Enough soldiers’ wives had accompanied his regiment for him to recognize the telltale sign. He thought again of her tears, her uneasy glances at the bed, that bare shoulder... If he was right, what should he do? Ignore the evidence of his eyes? Or offer some money to the poor, ill-used girl? But this was no London light-skirt. This was a respected artist’s daughter. This was the woman whose likeness he had secretly carried with him for nearly a year....
Miss Dupont entered on shaky legs a few moments later, trying to look nonchalant, probably not realizing he’d seen.
He handed her a clean handkerchief, and her eyes flew to his, then to the nearby window before her sickly green countenance reddened once more.
“I’m sorry. I’d hoped to spare you that. Not a pleasant thing to witness.” She forced a weak smile. “Must have been something I ate.”
He asked, “Are you feeling better now?”
“Yes. Now, where were we?” She turned toward the crate.
“Miss Dupont, wait.”
She slowly turned back.
“It wasn’t something you ate, was it.”
Her lips parted, then she said briskly, “Well, I can’t be certain, of course. But it’s nothing catching, I’m sure. Never fear.”
