“Neither you nor Jane understand why I need my art. Her notions of exhibiting won’t let the world see my paintings. I feel like the marquess’s little secret.”
Cecilia made cute Roman soldiers. He’d seen a dozen or cute but embarrassing pictures. Why should the world ever see them?
But he couldn’t say that and expect to reconcile. “Cilia.”
“She thinks her disdain is warranted since she you’d rather be away than with me.”
It was time to tell her the truth. “It’s not that I wanted to be away, I had to.”
“Yes, for your friends.”
“No, for the Department of War and the Colonies.”
“What?”
“I work or I worked for Lord Liverpool at the Department of War and the Colonies.”
“Another name I don’t know has given you a job?”
“I’m not supposed to say. The Department of War and the Colonies deals in secrets and spying.”
“You have a job and you’re sneaky?”
“I don’t think you understand the point.”
“Yes, I do. You’re a member of the ton. Lady Jane goes on about things one can’t do, like working or exhibiting, and you have a job.”
Exhibiting the Roman soldier paintings was not to be done. He’d have to hire her a tutor for lessons to improve and make something sensible that he could show the world. He stepped closer to her easel, readying to gently illustrate why London wouldn’t be on fire for pictures of a silly husband holding a torch, and he gaped. He had to force his mouth closed.
Expecting something silly, he saw shocked by the divine. The grass and land looked like Demerara. He knew the spot. It was near the government building where they first met.
It looked as if he could walk right into the painting. The Roman soldier did look like him, or was it a younger version of Tramel? The fellow looked regal and strong in the toga. Not a scar marred his limbs. “You somewhat captured my likeness. That is me?”
Her lips trembled. “It’s no good. It’s hard to concentrate when I’m upset.”
Why did her face leak more tears? She was a waterfall, a wave of sobs poured down. “This is very good. I’m sure you’ll get better with more practice. No more fretting. I’m here now.”
“You have a job, you’re a spy.” Her red eyes grew larger. “Were you spying on my colony when we met? Oh goodness, I’m a traitor.”
Her accent was heavy, and it sounded of heaven, soulful and free.
But there was no freedom in her face—just frowns, frowns that broke his heart. “It’s British now, more or less. And you saved my life that night. My friend Johnson was shot by those guards. Pretending to make love to you on the steps saved me.”
“Did we pretend to marry? It happens sometimes with Brits coming and going. Girls are used up, confused by you slick-talking men.”
“Cilia.”
“Is this fake? Have we been living in sin? Is that why you go away? Penance?”
He rubbed at his face. “This is by far the worst confession I have ever given.”
“Don’t spies get confessions, not give them?”
Calm.Don’t react to her frustration.
Think.Think of the reward of her in his arms.
Plan.Make the movements, this dance of touching and sensations, do the negotiations.
