Prologue
Colchester, England – 1819
T
he breeze in Colchester stirred the trees in the softest flutter of discernible utterances. Winslow Spears, Viscount Yates and future sixth Earl of Griston, ambled down the country lane. He was only eight years old, but that was old enough to know several life-altering facts: His father had gone mad, and Winslow could never hope to outlive the shame. His grandmother would likely not allow him back at Eton. And a Mr. Julian Featherstone, his appointed guardian, had already been installed.
Another was a less believable yet irrefutable truth. With his father now gone, the trees had grown much quieter. Winslow still heard the chants, but they were very faint now. It was a bit of a relief. Lately, when father had been about—Since the house party, Winslow thought—the sounds were… deafening.
Solitude made for a long life, and he was terrified that was what his life was being reduced to, for a reason not of his understanding or choosing.
Winslow kicked at a pebble on the dusty path, ran up, and kicked it again. Then again, until he was running. As hard and as fast as his legs would carry him. Until tears streamed down his face and there was nowhere else to run.
One
Colchester, England – 2019
Y
es. That washer. The worst art critic Alistar Spears, eleventh Earl of Griston—also known as Jess Aldis in the art world—had ever had the misfortune of having linked to his name.His work.From behind, Peyton McKenzie looked nothing like her scathing words would indicate. He’d expected to see long and dark, stringy hair, topped with a black pointy hat. Instead, a chaotic bob of dark curls rested just below her nape. The cut drew his eye to a slender waist and gentle flair of hips. Such enticing perfection infuriated him.
The sound of her laughter breached his eardrums from across the small gallery. Did it have the sound of a throaty, sultry quality, reminiscent of Esmeralda who haunted the halls of Notre Dame before the notorious fire had destroyed the landmark? No such luck. It more resembled the soft tinkles of tiny ice cubes gently dropped into a fragile glass—softer still as her laughter faded like fizzing champagne bubbles rising to the top in its delicate flute.
She turned, catching him unprepared for the heart-shaped face, complete with pert, upturned nose and full, pink, kissable lips. A prickle of heat crawled up through his chest, whispered over his arms, and down his spine, rendering him immobile.
A string of withering insults that bordered on defamatory over the course of her bourgeoning career seared his brain like a bad tattoo indelibly inked onto his forehead, every ounce of his aristocratic heritage deserting him as he swallowed his growl of frustration before it erupted in the form of an ancient warrior cry on the attack.
Artist Lover’s Digest, January2016: The art world is being turned on its head. The reason? Jess Aldis’s works depict a period in history most Europeans would dearly love to leave behind. Subjects of slavery and murder dominate each and every watercolor. One must wonder why he has not seen fit to offer anything more creative than images seen and done time and again. I’ve yet to experience the depth of color needed to bring, dare I say, Art to life… Does the man have any modicum of talent? Perhaps an ability to tap into an inner eye? If you run across an Aldis, I suggest you keep running. On the other hand, S. C. Beck splashes the world with her abstracts’ brightness. They are worth their exorbitant prices... Peyton McKenzie
The Art Lover’s Journal, November2017: Are you a lover of history? Of dashing works filled with excitement and adventure? Check out the exhibitions at the USC Fisher Museum of Art in Los Angeles. The Elizabeth Holmes Fisher Collection will steal your breath with stellar works that include 17thand 18thcentury British portraits. Missing the Flemish masterworks would constitute a crime. Choosing the Armand Hammer Collection over Jess Aldis’s brooding savagery is sage advice. Aldis’s works are better suited for the underground. When I say underground, I do mean buried beneath the Tower of London never to see the light of day… Peyton McKenzie
Oh, there were others. Many others, but it was Ms. McKenzie’s last review posted inArtiste Internationálthat had sent the blood surging through his veins in a rage of fury.
Artiste Internationál, August 2018: I’ve often wondered what Jess Aldis eats for breakfast. Such mundane subjects over the years are enough to boggle the mind. Still sadly lacking after fourteen years of watercolor as his main medium, perhaps Mr. Aldis might consider advice from a Yale MFA alumni in selecting a different way to express his disgust of humanity. Pottery comes to mind… Peyton McKenzie
How dare she suggest she understood art better than he? He had half a mind to trap her in a dark closet and express his disgust of humanity one-on-one.
Alistar clenched his hands into fists, preparing for the battle he’d waited over a decade for.
“Down, boy,” Carson Deeds, his longtime friend and agent, hissed.
Alistar’s lip curled into what he was certain resembled nothing like a smile. He flexed his fingers, willing himself to loosen up, waiting for the moment she caught sight of his latestvision. It was sure to silence her small-minded smugness. He caught a wide smile on Carson’s face.
“Hot little thing. Who is she?”
Snagging a glass of chardonnay from a passing a tray, Alistar’s gaze never wavered from thehot little thingas he sipped. “Peyton McKenzie, art critic extraordinaire.”
Adrenaline spiked Peyton McKenzie’s pulse, sending it thudding in an erratic pace that pressed the air from her lungs. The eyes from the fiercewarrior—the only word that came to mind—stabbed her with an intensity designed to kill. As casually as she could manage, she turned to another stunning work that let loose a swarm of butterflies in her stomach. She snatched the arm of Tarron Coombs, her best friend in the whole world. He accompanied her to many of the gallery openings, and quite suddenly she was glad he’d made it to this one in the gently rolling meadows of the English countryside. With a stolen glance over her shoulder, where the warrior’s gaze on her shoulder threatened to knock her to her knees, she spun back, lowering her voice. “Tarron, look at this.”
Strong, heavy strokes of thick oil left Peyton feeling as if the hand that had wielded the paintbrush knew just how much pressure to use and where to apply pigment. The strokes were almost… erotic. The colors depicted were somewhat nondescript really. Faded reds, browns, ivory, yellow. Nothing to write home about. But somehow her connection to the work felt… visceral. There was nothing remotely sensual in the subject—just a period piece, oddly enough, of a framed picture. It was a strange way to portray the painting of another picture.
“I don’t understand,” she said softly to no one in particular. The painting showed a framed art piece propped sideways against a table. Brilliantly streamed, yet muted, sunrays through an open window illustrated a gentle breeze and billowing sheer linens from behind. The soft light showcased the painting within the painting. The artist portrayed other less distinguishable objects shrouded in gloom. A youngish woman, perhaps in her twenties appeared stiff, her long black hair without a single curl had been gathered and pulled forward over one shoulder. Her features were vague except for the slight curvature to her red lips that portrayed a depth of sorrow that brought a sting to Peyton’s eyes. The young woman sat at a scarred wood table, quill in hand, poised to write in a journal, though the journal was closed as if she’d just finished her latest entry.
A tingling sensation started in Peyton’s fingers, working its way to her other extremities, leaving her feeling a little lightheaded. She hadn’t responded so physically to a piece of art since college when she was working on her master’s in fine arts. A work which continued to haunt her to this day. She’d never confided to anyone what she’d seen. The scene of a gruesome double murder: the man behind a desk, his head dropped forward, a black pool saturating the disorganized papers on top, and at the other end, a woman lay on the floor, her eyes open, in another black pool, this one at her head. The only light in the dark picture of black and gray was the shiny brilliance of the diamond on the woman’s left hand. And most shocking of all, within the depths of the shadows beneath, hugging the dead man’s legs, was the murky outline of a small child.
It was the first painting Peyton had been assigned to critique. The overwhelming sensation of black dots had teased the edge of her vision that day, constricting her chest until she couldn’t breathe. As if the unseen murderer had her by the throat and squeezed until she’d fainted.
Just remembering that painting still made her skin crawl. A scene she found too similar. A scene that drew her in, mind and body.
