But this was art, and art had principles.
He bowed his head. “Let me explain, if you will, Lady Bolton.”
“I would like very much to hear it.” She crossed the room to the chair and sat herself in it, folding her hands neatly on her lap. “And then I would like you to listen.”
He chose to remain standing, his face turned to the floor rather than to her, as he spoke. “You may remember that my grandfather is Italian. Shortly after you married, I left for Italy, and—”
She waved a hand, cutting him off. The gesture was imperious, she knew, but it had been a long day and her heart was aching and she had no time for social niceties. “I understand your motivations. Continue.”
“Well.” He coughed and took the seat opposite. His shoulders were frail, she noticed. Perhaps he was in his sixties now. He certainly had not been young when he had begun his tutorage. “I remained there for a long time ignorant of your activities, or in truth the state of the English art world in general. I worked for several prominent . . .” He caught her expression and stalled, licking his lips in a nervous gesture. “Yes, well, I suppose it hardly matters what I did when I was away. Suffice to say I had plenty to occupy me. A few months ago, a letter arrived from a Mr Knight, asking if I was your tutor and whether you employed a particular style. The note surprised me, but I was happy to convey the peculiarities of your style as I remembered them. I confirmed they were distinctive enough that I believed, as your tutor, I could recognise them.” The corner of his mouth curled in a weary yet pleased smile.
She refused to be gratified that he remembered the quirks of her paintings. “Did he say anything else?”
“He requested that I return to England and vouch to the Prince Regent that some paintings are yours. At first, I refused—the journey is long and I was occupied with painting—” He coughed again. “But, you see, my youngest daughter remained in England. She was at school here—”
“Yes, I’m aware.”
“Mr Knight made it plain that . . .” His voice trailed away, but Louisa knew enough of Knight’s methods by now to fill in everything unsaid. No doubt he had threatened Hyatt’s daughter—with ruin, perhaps, or seduction, or some mix of the two—and that had been enough incentive to bring the old painter back to England.
She could hardly blame him. But he had not once thought to inform her of the situation.
Or perhaps he was unaware of the power she now held.
“And so you were willing to destroy my future in order to secure hers,” she said.
He winced. “She’s my daughter.”
“Were you unaware of the fortune Lord Bolton left me on his death?”
By the look on his face, he had been. When he had left for Italy, Lord Bolton had been alive and well. “You might at any time have alerted me. Mr Knight is not a man of means.” She rose, expecting him to rise to meet her. But Mr Hyatt was not Henry; he did not match her challenge with his own steel. This was an expert in oil and nothing else. A man used to bowing to the whims of the aristocracy.
Pity swamped her, hard and fast, unexpected in its potency.
Yes, she had a right to her anger, but he was surviving the only way he knew how, and she could not fault him too much for that.
She sat. “This is how it will be,” she said, gentling her tone. “If you are called upon, you will tell the Prince Regent nothing conclusive. You will give me your daughter’s direction and I will write to her and to the school, warning them against admitting Mr Knight. He will have no way to access her; they will not wish to incur the wrath of a countess, I assure you.”
Relief broke out like sweat across the man’s face, and he bowed his head, revealing a bald patch shining through his hair. “Yes, my lady.”
“And if Mr Knight threatens you again, bid him to think of his sister and apply to me. All will be well, I assure you.” She gave a grim smile and rose. He did too, looking at her the way he always had when he had given her lessons. For a moment, she was a child of seventeen again, young and eager, filled with respect for a man who had so much talent, and desperate for his approval.
She shook her head and dispelled the image. She was a woman now, desperate for no one’s approval but her own, and she would not be beholden to another person for the rest of her days.
When she returned home, she brought out her canvas and began to paint.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
After confirming with his bank that the only way forward was to sell the London house, Henry made the necessary arrangements, and began the process of extracting his family from London. His father, unsurprisingly, was intractable, but when he was presented with the reality of the situation, all he could do was grumble and demand that he be given apartments of his own that he could rent.
Seeing there was no other alternative, Henry agreed.
His mother, however, he intended to remove from London, and Oliver would not be granted apartments in London at this time. Surprisingly, Oliver made no objection.
With everything else in motion, there was one thing left for him to do.
If Knight no longer had the painting in his possession, he could not use it against Louisa. The last of his duty towards her would be discharged, and she would no longer have her freedom and reputation threatened.
With the man himself still being absent from town, Henry did the only thing he could: the day after he returned from Yorkshire, he went out in search of the tavern that he and Louisa had followed the man named Markham to, all those days ago.
