Mr. Martin smiled his crooked smile. “Of course.”
* * *
“What was going on in there,”Aidan asked, as they walked away from the music room and took the stairs to the first floor.
“Gwinnie is not known as Lady Guinevere Nowlton when she goes about her charity work. She does not want to appear like many society women do, granting favors to the lower classes, but never dirtying the hem of their dresses. She wants to genuinely help, and to do that, she works incognito. I assume she met Mt. Martin in her charity volunteer role.”
“Why was I not told of this?”
“Why should you be?”
“Because I—” He stopped. “The family needs me to do the things I do. And for that, I have to know what is going on. My family are artists. They don’t have their feet on the ground. I have my feet on the ground, and I do for them those things they would not know how to go about doing.”
Bella emphatically shook her head. “I’ve listened to your family talk. They take for granted what you do for them. They think it’s wonderful, they say it was something you developed as a small boy, asking what you can help with and have continued to this day. They believe it’s what you like, so they find things for you to do for them, but they don’tneedyou to do them.”
Aidan looked at her, his brows furrowed. “I’m not talented like the rest of the family.”
“That is not true,” Bella protested, stopping in the middle of the stairs, forcing Aidan to stop as well.
“Bella, they have unique talents. I showed no signs of a talent that my parents could have—and would have—nurtured. They always encouraged me to try different things, and that is part of why I helped the others, thinking maybe I would find my niche. I never did.”
Bella laughed. “Yes, you did.” Her eyes danced. “You are a successful gallery owner.”
Aidan rolled his eyes.
“What made you successful?” Bella persisted, climbing the stairs again.
“My family’s position in society. I have no illusions about that.”
“I will grant that was a contributing factor for society to seek you out,” Bella said. “But your family connection wouldn’t have lasted if you didn’t have a critical eye for art.”
“I have merely used what my mother taught me,” he said.
“She may have encouraged you to like art, but you take it beyond that. Youunderstandart. Others don't have an eye for the art aesthetic that you do. You see the art inside yourself. You feel it,” she said earnestly. “Even Harry saw that. You can discern a technically competent piece from a brilliant piece.—And Lady Malmsby depends on you for that talent.”
Aidan’s lips twisted as he thought about that. He shook his head. “I will consider your words; however, I feel you are only being kind.”
“Kind?” Bella protested, her voice rising. “No, I am telling you what I see. And I’m telling you, as loving as your family is, they are using you to deal with things they don’t want to do.”
Aidan compressed his lips, not responding. They had reached the old nursery and ballroom floor. He turned toward the nursery wing.
“Lake’s writing eyrie, as he calls it, is the former governess’s room,” he said as they reached the old nursery. The door stood open.
Bella couldn’t help but smile as they crossed the threshold to see child-height tables and chairs, books, long-forgotten toys, and small chalkboards still in the room. It was obvious the room continued to be maintained by the staff long since its use. There was no dust anywhere, and light streamed in clean windows.
“The governess room is over here,” Aidan said, leading Bella to a door across the room.
Aidan knocked on the door.
“Wait!” The curt order came from within the room.
Aidan lounged against the door frame. “We could be here moments, or up to half an hour,” he told Bella.
“How exceedingly rude,” she said, frowning. “Even for the son of a duke!”
“No. If his muse is talking to him, he puts off visitors to finish a thought or a scene, so he doesn’t lose the threads of the story that is in his head. When he finishes, he will open the door. This is why I wanted to warn him before Mr. Martin comes to talk to him.”
When the door opened a few moments later, Lord Lakehurst’s appearance quite surprised her. Shirt sleeves rolled up, no cravat, ink-stained fingers, the beginnings of a red beard shadowing his face, and his wavy dark-red hair standing on end in all directions. She blinked. “Lord Lakehurst,” she said, inclining her head.
