“Yes. I see how the clouds change. It looks so true, like this was a window.”
“Port Royal was joyous and then destroyed in a single day by a hurricane and an earthquake.” Cecilia did have a wicked sense of humor, or was this her expression of them as a couple, happy and then ripped apart in a day? Guilt and memories and unrequited love dumped down his tightening throat. He coughed not to drown. “When did Lord Ashbrook say he purchased this?”
“I think recently. That’s what Lady Ashbrook told me. It gives me hope that such talent is here in London.”
Eyeing the proud woman of tawny complexion and small topaz eyes, he wondered who’d confess to recognizing the artist first.
The duchess retreated and took up her reticule and the cloth that her morning sickness might require if her jittery stomach didn’t settle. “I’m ready to go, Lord Gantry.”
Cradling the painting as if it were a child, like one of his daughters when they were babes, he led Her Grace to his carriage.
It was a silent drive to the duke’s residence in Town. Neither he nor the duchess seemed to want full disclosure. Asking a pregnant woman about the artist’s disappearance could lead to an upset in Her Grace’s delicate condition that shouldn’t be done. Like all the secrets he kept for the Department of War and the Colonies, he’d keep this one close while doing all he could to find his wife. It seemed Cecilia was alive and in London, painting again and perhaps ready to forgive and fight for their marriage.
CHAPTER2
FELTONLANCE
October 20, 1811, Three Years Earlier
Felton liked all of his assignments in the West Indies—except the ones like this which could get him killed.
The heat of the day crept into the office he and his colleague had entered in the government building located in Stabroek, Demerara.
In the humid air, his long sleeves stuck to him as did his waistcoat and jacket. He needed to maintain the persona of an English gentleman coming to look at property in the colony, not that of a British operative.
Yeoman Johnson peeked through the cracked door. “We must hurry, Gantry. More people are gathering in the hall. I thought tonight’s ball would keep them away.”
“The information is not here.” Felton eased the drawer shut. “And balls are dangerous things. Do you know how many matchmaking mamas are out there?”
“Not as dangerous as Dutch soldiers with guns. We need to leave.” His friend laughed. It was quiet and merry. The transplant from Grenada loved life, justice, and his three-month-old son. “You might need to get in touch with one of those mamas, Gantry. You’ve been widowed now two years. You might want to think of being caught and staying home. Those two girls of yours would like that. I’m thinking of this too. We can’t always be savin’ the world.”
The dark bronzed face lit with an internal glow when he smiled. He was wise and a good spy.
And he was right about Felton’s girls.
Amelia, his precocious two-year-old, and Agatha, his pique-inducing three-year-old, would enjoy him not taking his long trips, but he was no good for them. His sister, Lady Jane, and his aunts, godsends, stepped in to help his now motherless girls.
A wife to soften him and help guide his young girls would be the best course of action.
Yet, that would play into his father’s hands. The Marquess of Tramel would find him another wife and use her as a way to manipulate Felton. You’d think the man had enough time on his hands waiting for Felton’s grandfather, the fourth duke of Tramel, to die.
His late Elizabeth was strong, but she fell privy to Tramel’s influence and his purse, which controlled every decision, such as where Felton’s family should live.
The loss of his practical, understanding wife changed everything, and he threw himself headlong into his work to assuage his guilt of leaving her alone too much during her last pregnancy.
“You’ve gone silent about a new wife. Gantry, did you fine something in that desk?” Johnson chuckled, a deep baritone laugh.
He shook his head. “Too many missions to remarry now. But if her face and fortune are fine, I could be tempted.”
“Logical, Gantry. Always logical.” Johnson leaned against the cracked door. “Perhaps when we’re done, you might think of slipping into tonight’s festivities. I hear Mr. Thomas is showing off his girls tonight at the subscription ball. It’s the perfect place to hide until the streets clear.”
“Save my boots, I’m dressed for it.”
“You blend in. Nothing but white men coming to look for a wealthy man’s daughters, particularly his mixed ones. If you’re not particular on the color of the money, you’ll find quite a few tidy sums and lovely backsides.”
His friend talked a lot of guff for a happily married man.
“The woman who’d turn my head, Johnson, has to be special. She’d need to be understanding and loyal. I don’t intend to give up my work, which means long absences for the Crown. I don’t want to fret about her bringing special new friends to my cold bed or her being neglectful of my daughters.”
