Gwendolyn set her books on the desk and stood beside him. “He referred to the portrait as his aunt. She drowned trying to save her son. Have you heard the story?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “Her son was very young, and they believe he fell into the river close by. The thought is that she drowned attempting to rescue him. They both died, and the current marquess inherited.”
The story disturbed him, but in a way hecouldn’t explain. He looked away from the picture, taking in the quiet of the small library. The back of his neck tightened. There was danger here. He had a flash of memory, of the glint of the knife Olin Winstead had used to attack him, of the man’s dead body in the passageway between the brothels. The dreams had been a warning, but he’d not had one of late. What had he involved Gwendolyn in—?
“I am not leaving,” she said, accurately reading his mind. “You are a formidable bodyguard, Mr. St—” She caught herself. She looked toward the hall door as if she had finally become aware of the danger if they were overheard. He wished he’d listened to her and shut it when she’d suggested. At the time, he’d been more concerned over suspicious minds if they were discovered alone behind a closed door together. Golden-brown eyes returned to him. “—Mr. Curran,” she said as she corrected herself.” Her voice very quiet, she continued, “Your presence seems to have ruffled feathers and in a surprisingly short period of time.”
He nodded.
“Then let us sow doubt. Let us continue as if we are who we say we are. If there is a connection between you, this portrait, and Colemore, someone will show their hand. They always do. That is a bit of gambling wisdom my father taught me. Best of all, Lady Orpington’s campaign to reinstate the whist tournament will keep everyone stirred up. There is nothing close company like a house party enjoys more than a contretemps.”
“Contretemps?” he echoed. He smiled. Hersensible words and patient tone were helping him to recover a sense of balance. Dreams were strange things. He didn’t believe anyone could see the future, but he had experienced moments he thought he’d lived through before. Moments he’d believed he’d dreamed. Now, looking at the picture, he wondered if he was merely imagining this was his singing woman, possibly because she sat at a pianoforte. In his dream, her hair was as dark as his own, and hundreds of women had lively eyes and determined chins. He felt himself relax.
“A quarrel,” Gwendolyn said as if, from his silence, he needed the wordcontretempsexplained. “An opportunity to watch two old friends bicker back and forth. It will keep the other guests amused. Meanwhile, we discreetly ask questions.”
“Ican ask questions. You don’t need to be involved further. I mean those words, Miss Lanscarr. No more prying on my behalf.”
“But I have been successful, haven’t I?” She nodded to the portrait, proof that she had helped him. He might have discovered the painting on his own, but not the story behind it.
She’d also calmed him down when his inclination was to bolt, to drag her out of Colemore if need be. But now, well, she was right. He could appreciate a sounding board. “Come, we are required at dinner.” He offered his arm, but she didn’t take it.
Instead, she confronted him, her voice low.“Understand this, sir. This is the most excitement I’ve ever had in my life.Youare not going to run me off. Especially since I can ask the questions you can’t. Frankly, I think Lady Middlebury is not happy you are here because she knows you are her husband’s son.”
She could be right.
And he realized a truth—he wanted to collaborate with her. He hadn’t liked seeing Ellisfield cozying up to her. It had made him want to pack her up and send her back to London. However, Gwendolyn was also an antidote to Violet and those pesky debutantes.
He wasn’t in danger of reigniting an old flame. Violet had jilted him. She could send all the longing looks she wished his way. They would have no impact on him. The door had closed between them. As for Miss Purley and her friends, he preferred a more spirited woman.
“What did I overhear that drunken fop say to you?” Beck asked.
“Do you refer to Lord Ellisfield? He seems to have sobered considerably from this afternoon.”
“The name still fits. You knew who I meant.” He took a beat and then added, “Except... Except he did call you ‘quite extraordinary,’ Miss Lanscarr.” He paused and then said, “He’s right. You are.”
Gwendolyn blinked as if startled by the compliment. Her lips spread into a smile so broad, he had a desire to compliment her every day and every hour.
And then she almost destroyed his regard forher by saying, “To be honest, I find Lord Ellisfield rather charming.”
“In what way?” Beck challenged her.
“He is capable of introspection, something that isn’t common of his set.”
So she thought kindly of Ellisfield? That was no excuse for Beck to hope the man roasted in hell, but it was a start.
She continued, “He understands that his title and his wealth don’t come from his work or by way of his hands or his brain. It is just a happenstance of birth. And of death. He has a title because someone died.”
“That is the way of all inheritances.”
“It is still weighty, isn’t it? One person’s good fortune depends on another’s misfortune?” She gave a shiver at the thought.
“He can always do whatever he wishes with his life. His family is rich enough. There is the military, government service, the clergy. Many things he could do besides spending his days drinking with his mates.”
“Except he is the oldest son. Many families don’t wish for the heir to be in danger.”
“No, that is just for lads like me who had to put their lives on the line to make something of themselves. A marquess’s son is not put on the front lines. He would have been more in danger in the clergy or wandering around Parliament.”
“I told you it weighs on him. He confessed to me that he shouldn’t have been the heir. That his father was a younger brother who inherited the title after a child died. This was the tragedy Lady Orpington spoke of earlier.”
Beck doubted Ellisfield was as sensitive as she believed. And yes, the death of a child was tragic but war had taught Beck the world was full of such heartbreaks.
