Things had not improved when Kimpton had swooped in and stolen Lorelei’s attention and affection. Nor did they improve when Kimpton failed to understand or accept Harlowe’s talent. Of course, being the stubborn nitwit he’d been, Harlowe had dug in his heels.
On the upside, Harlowe had turned out to be a damned good artist. At Lorelei’s insistence, Kimpton funded Harlowe’s education and his Grand Tour. For Kimpton’s part, it kept Harlowe from being underfoot.
Harlowe lifted the candle and did a slow circle of the room. It was too dark to determine if there was any dust, but he suspected his sister made sure the studio was regularly cleaned. There were no exposed canvases, they were all shrouded with white cloths. A couple of tall wood easels stood empty. He went to the closest sheet and whipped it away, revealing a stack of pictures against the wall.
Nostalgia hit him in the chest with a punch. These works he’d done the first Christmastide Lorelei and Kimpton were married. Seeing them now, as the grown version of himself, had him cringing. Objectively, however, he could see the underlying lines of true talent. He thumbed through picture after picture, some finished, many not. Landscapes dominated the majority. There were a few where he’d attempted portraits, but he’d never entertained a model in his sister’s home. He shuddered at that thought. He moved to another section and pulled away its covering. These works showed more maturity.Somematurity. It was clear he’d had a long way to go.
At the back of the stack, he found a rendition of Colonel Robert Lundy being confronted by another man who stood on the opposite side of a wooden table, clutching a wrinkled missive.
Harlowe extracted the painting and set it up on one of the empty easels. What an odd portrait for him to paint. He took up a candle for a clearer view.
Lundy had been accused of treason. But the man had perished in 1689, for God’s sake. The scythe in the picture was more difficult to locate. Harlowe found it in part of what one could decipher in the note.
None of this made a lick of sense. But every situation of these men he’d painted… these traitors, warned danger was afoot. He just couldn’t say how. Not now, knowing Maudsley was already dead. Griston, too, or might as well be since having been committed to Bedlam. And Vlasik Markov dead… it left… no one. No one but Harlowe, and he couldn’t remember a damn thing.
So why did his insides seem to crawl with some vile disease for which there was no cure? His head pounded as he turned away from the painting. He went to the window and looked out over the cloudy night into the shadows where nothing was in focus.
Maeve.
What was it about her?
How disappointing to learn she was to take a drive with Dorset. She had Kimpton scouting new lodgings for her. Away from him—
Not you,he chastised himself. Her mother. She’d complained enough about Lady Ingleby. Even Kimpton had the odd comment. Maeve Pendleton oozed independence. Self-assurance. Self-appointed liberty. What would she want with a man who couldn’t remember his own dead wife? Or a man who harbored doubts about the child residing in the nursery being of his own blood?
He went back to the easel and stared at Robert Lundy. “Why did I feel it necessary to include you?” he demanded. His voice bounded against the walls. Thick, though they were, he was certain no one in the house could overhear him.
He blew out all but one candle and, carrying it, made his way down two flights of stairs to the inside of his chamber.
Rory stood at the windows, but they were closed.
The room was stifling. His shirt clawed at his neck. “I need out of this house.” He went to the wardrobe and found a hat.
“I might accompany you, if’n you don’t mind, milord.”
“Be quick about it then. I have no intention of waiting all night.” He was glad it was Rory rather than Casper. Still, it wouldn’t have mattered—he needed out. Now.
Somewhere a clock chimed the eleventh hour.
“And be quiet about it. If Lady Alymer hears us, she’s liable to demand to come along. The woman has the ears of an elephant.”
Maeve’s gown fell in a pool at her feet. She accepted Parson’s assistance, slipping her night rail over her head. “Did you hear voices?”
“Now it’s a crime for a man and his valet to talk?”
“I’m being silly, I suppose.”
“I wouldn’t presume to say so, milady.”
Maeve met Parson’s eyes in the vanity’s mirror. “Of course, you wouldn’t.” Every exchange since the day before, at Maeve’s show of temper, grew more awkward. “By the way, I’ll be accompanying Lady Kimpton and Lady Brockway to the park with the children tomorrow. I shan’t need your services.”
“But—”
Maeve cut her off. “Not for the park, leastways. I will, however, need for you to retrieve some things from Ingleby House for me. I’ll make a list and you can have one of the footmen assist you.”
Parson’s pained smile didn’t quite work.
Ignoring her, Maeve pulled the pins from her hair. “I’m going to begin working on Alymer’s ancient secret society texts. Finish what he began. Add to his legacy, if you will.”
