CHAPTER1
FELTONLANCE
October 18, 1814
Fade into the burnished walls of the quaint study. Give nothing away about the painting or its artist. Pretend your soul has not been quickened by seeing her brush strokes.
“The Ashbrooks have given it to me.” The Duchess of Repington stood behind Felton in this front room of Finchely House, the residence of Lord and Lady Ashbrook. “Lord Gantry? Are you well?
Don’t flinch, David Felton Lance.
Don’t move. Live to see another day.
His body stiffened as blood pounded in his ears. If he stepped closer to the painting would the hypnotic power of the artist and her honeyed scent come through the oils and command his pulse?
His resolve to admit nothing, to shield his heart from the damning questions gnawing at his chest took control.
Yet he couldn’t break his stare and face the duchess.
How could he pretend to not know the artist? If he closed his eyes, he’d see Cilia’s small, gifted arms stretching, her talented hands whisking a brush about a canvas as her perfect hourglass figure tolled that time was up for them, for their marriage, for the dreams he’d begun to imagine before she abandoned him.
Her Grace tapped his shoulder. “Lord Gantry, you don’t seem well at all. Should I get a doctor?”
“No.” It was all he could say. He’d come to fetch the duchess in service to his friend, the Duke of Repington. To look at Her Grace would give away his hopes. The torture of wishing for a different but similar countenance to look back at him would be his undoing.
Her footfalls tapped in front of him, blocking his view of the painting, the tropical landscape of the mythical Port Royal.
“You’re not well. Some men cannot handle being around a woman with child. Even a military man can become squeamish.”
That wasn’t it. He was a career military lieutenant with years of service in intelligence for the Department of War and the Colonies. He’d seen all manner of things and done the indescribable in service to the Crown. “No, a pregnant woman is beautiful.”
The duchess’s tawny brow arched. She thought him lying.
This woman didn’t know the pain in his heart. Cold and calculating to some, bumbling and joyous to others, withdrawn and analytical to most—no one saw his true nature . . . well, one person did.
Then she left him.
Her Grace nudged him. “Lord Gantry?”
It was best to be silent than to volunteer information that would make him look more of a fool or say something that could shock a lady.
“I know something is wrong. Tell me now. The duke and I and even the Widow’s Grace will help.”
Her voice was soft, as though she knew she’d summoned Felton from a nightmare, one that had consumed him for the past ten months.
The panic, the sheer terror of his Cilia being missing, being alone somewhere in England, made his skin tight, the scars to his shoulders pained.
Balling his hands behind him, he walked to the painting and took it off the wall. “Too many things on my mind. I think I’ve seen a copy of this somewhere. I . . . I should get you back to Sandlin Court.”
Her Grace put a hand on his elbow. “I’m captivated by the beaches, too. The port city looks as if you can walk right into the canvas and be there. I’m mesmerized.”
Mesmerized was a good way to describe what he felt.
“Sir, you do look pale, like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“An Obeah spirit, Your Grace?” Definitely one of the past. “I haven’t seen such detailed brush strokes in a long time. Look, ma’am, at the ice-blue waves curling to the land. The huts mingled with the wooden buildings with red and green shutters. It’s the best of Jamaica. The legendary Port Royal with the dark clouds in the offing. That’s destruction. The artist has a great imagination and a sense of irony.”
She picked up the painting before he could stop her, but he grasped the edges. The duchess was in a delicate condition with her abdomen slightly beginning to show. She needed no strain.
