Instead, I found the lord’s chambers. The walls were dark and peeling, and the room gave off a musty, petrichor scent. Theroom opened to a massive bed with an ornately carved frame—mahogany, perhaps, though I couldn’t make out the precise shade. The bed linens were worse for wear, but the rest of the furnishings were also carved with delicate leaves. A large wingback chair in an unknown color called the stone fireplace home. Overall, the room was only probably the work of a day or two before it could be used. Though we should probably check the chimney if the chirping sounds coming from it were any indication.
The bed was set between two large windows that spanned floor to ceiling. They were in need of a good wash but otherwise appeared unharmed. The curtains lining them had not fared as well. The ceiling angled, higher by the door than the windows, by five or so feet.
A large trunk was set at the foot of the bed, carved from a different wood with roses and the initials AJH etched into the locked plate. Unlike the rest of the room, it was free from dust. A glance around showed a few other personal effects. Whether Xander had instructed them brought up, or Godfrey had taken it upon himself to settle them here was anyone’s guess.
A second trunk, unadorned, rested on the floor near the door. Beside it was a stack of cylindrical leather tubes of varying lengths. Curiosity piqued, I knelt to open one.
The lid popped off at one end and a rolled canvas slid out.
It was a breathtaking landscape captured in watercolor, the details so soft and intricate I could hardly believe they were captured with a brush. A stone fence framed a series of rolling hills, dotted with various trees. The color was a mystery to me, one that was a frustration. And then, in the bottom right-hand corner, I caught a signatureX Hasket.
I hadn’t known, wouldn’t, couldn’t have guessed at such talent. My heart beamed with pride even as it cursed the knowledge that I could never appreciate it the way he intended.
With more care than I had ever taken, I rolled it back up and reached for another. What I saw stopped my heart. It was a portrait of a young man, kissed by firelight. Half of the man’s face was hidden behind a domino, but his eyes sparkled with mischief, framed by impossibly long lashes. His lips were pressed together in a suppressed smile. I felt my own mimic the position at the sight. Dark hair spilled over his ears in too-long waves, with a lock teasing his forehead.
I’d never seen myself in such a way. Mysterious and mirthful and absolutely fascinating. I was beautiful. And Xander had thought of me—remembered me in enough detail to capture the embroidery of my waistcoat and the freckle on my cheek—the one I often forgot entirely.
And his name was scrawled right where it belonged. Across my heart.
Breathless, I rolled that one back up with even more care before delving into another.
This one was different still. A rose garden at night lit by the moon, the stars, and distant torches. Two lovers embraced unashamedly on a wrought iron bench. The shading on this one was unusual. Somehow, I knew. He’d painted this in shades of brown, grey, and inky black. He’d painted the world the way I saw it, except instead of dull, it was awe-inspiring. How could I have ever considered it anything else?
“There you are.” Xander’s warm words washed over me. Not even he was enough to distract me from the sight in my hands. And wasn’t that incomprehensible? I was holding such beauty.
“Oh, you can put those anywhere. The valuable pieces are all in the drawing room.”
“What?” I croaked, finally glancing his way.
“I know they’re not particularly impressive. But I do enjoy myself.”
“Xander, these are?—”
“As I said, the valuable pieces are downstairs.”
“Perfect.”
He tucked his chin in like a disgruntled turtle before examining the canvas in my hands. “Ah, that one. I was rather pleased with how that one came out. Instead of packing away my things, I spent all night on it. It’d barely dried before we set off,” he said before snatching it out of my hands and rolling it roughly to return to its tube.
I was left with nothing but staccato wordless sounds of protest.
“You’ll be pleased to know I hired Miss Gillan. And at what I hope is an appropriate price.”
Desperate, I reached for the tube in his hands and yanked it open again before pulling it out with more care. After confirming it had not been damaged in its poor treatment, I rolled it carefully, and slid it back into the cylinder.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—and you’ve just manhandled it like a drunkard fondling a three-penny upright.”
“It’s just a painting, Tom, and not a particularly impressive one. Besides, even if it was impressive, it’s not as though I can display it.”
“You could, somewhere private.”
“Someplace where no maids or footmen will ever stumble upon it?”
“Even if it must be kept secret, it still shouldn’t be handled without care,” I insisted.
His point might have been valid, but mine was as well.
