He heard Isabel’s footsteps behind him and turned to face her. She handed him a portable leather-bound folio. He raised the little latch, opening it to reveal a small but exquisite portrait of a man standing behind a woman seated on a low chair. His hand rested lightly but possessively on her left shoulder. The woman held a baby in her arms.
He glanced up, noticing a line between Isabel’s eyebrows, a sure sign of the rigid self-control she imposed on herself.
‘I know about the child,’ he said quietly.
She let out a breath.
‘My aunt and grandmother let it slip,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘That was painted when William was three months old. It is a very good likeness of Anthony.’
And you, Sebastian thought.
There could be no mistaking Isabel, even dressed in a light blue gown with her dark hair worn in a soft, flattering style. In her painted smile and the ease with which she cradled the child in her right arm while her left hand was raised, touching that of her husband, he saw genuine happiness. What had changed?
He turned his attention to Anthony. He looked very much as Sebastian had expected. The word ‘fop’ came first to his mind. Anthony wore his dark curled hair fashionably long with the long sideburns similar to those affected by Freddy Lynch. In further emulation of Freddy, his waistcoat appeared to be expensive brocade worn with a high starched collar and intricately tied neckcloth. He was no judge of male beauty, but he guessed that a woman might consider Anthony, Lord Somerton, a handsome man with his high cheekbones and well-shaped mouth. He scanned the face looking for something that might give some indication of character, but he found nothing. It was as if the man’s handsome features were a mask.
What was he hiding?
‘Do you think we are much alike?’ Sebastian commented, handing the precious folder back to Isabel.
‘You mean in looks? There are moments when I think there is a superficial similarity, but in all other respects you are as unlike as two men could possibly be.’ She looked down at the folder in her hands for a moment before raising her face, her expression grave. ‘Trust me, Lord Somerton, that is a good thing.’
For a long moment, they stood quite still, looking at each other. There was such unguarded pain in her eyes, he had to resist taking her in his arms. It was the death of her child, not her husband, which had robbed this woman of light and life. He wondered what it would take to bring her back.
Isabel glanced away, her shoulders lifting as if she remembered herself. When she looked back at him, the mask was back in place, calm and implacable.
‘Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?’
Sebastian cleared his throat. ‘Tomorrow is Sunday. What time is the church service?’
Isabel’s eyes widened. ‘Nine-thirty,’ she said.
‘Do you attend?’ he asked.
‘Of course, but...’
He frowned, ‘But?’
‘It’s just that Anthony rarely?—’
‘I am not Anthony,’ he said in a tone that even to his ears sounded sharp.
She regarded him for a long moment. ‘Well then, if you care to accompany me, it is my custom to walk to the church directly after breakfast.’
He nodded. ‘Thank you. I would like to do that. Now I think I should rest or I will have to answer to Bennet.’
‘I will have dinner sent up to your room.’
He nodded and left her standing in the parlour, clutching the precious portrait to her chest.
Isabel waiteduntil she heard Sebastian’s boots on the hall tiles before closing the door to the parlour. She opened the little portrait and set it on the escritoire. She kissed her forefinger and touched the painted face of the small baby in her lap.
This was all she had to remind her of that brief moment in time when she had been happy, completely and utterly happy, and she clung to the memory, taking it out, like the portrait, holding it in her hands, feeling its warmth sustain her for a little longer.
She wondered what it was about Sebastian Alder that had prompted her to show this likeness to him. He seemed to invite confidences and that thought unnerved her.
Taking a steadying breath, she picked up her pen, trying to concentrate on a letter to Lady Ainslie.
