Felton’s heart trembled, then raged. He stormed down the hall looking for Tramel. The man always brought chaos and sorrow wherever he went. This time he’d involved Cecilia.
CHAPTER12
FELTON—BADDADDY
Noise spilled from Cecilia’s little studio. He stopped at the door. She must be inside. She always hid from these Saturday gatherings. Starting to turn, he stopped. He should get Cecilia and together they’d confront Tramel. At last, she’d see that the duke was nothing but trouble.
Was Felton smirking? His insides surely must have a smile at the duke finally being exposed.
With a quick knock, he waited. “Cilia—”
“No, Papa.”
Agatha?
He pushed on the door and found his eldest, the six-year-old miss standing at a small easel. Her creation looked like trees. What type, he wasn’t sure.
Five-year-old Amelia waved at him. She too stood at a smaller easel. This one looked more like trees, a little more like a forest.
Between his two strawberry-blond children was a large easel, the one that held the whimsical toga painting from last night. Now it showcased something very different.
The landscape could be a mirror image of the fields of Warwick Manor. Every detail was there, the massive pastures, the rocky cliffs, the sea foaming on rocks below.
There were hints of Cecilia’s talents last night in the Roman soldier picture, but this was magical. The passion and energy of the composition was undeniable. This was true genius.
“Papa, your mouth is open,” Amelia said. “Didn’t you say that I would catch flies?”
“Probably. Your father is known to be stupid. This art is fantastic.”
Amelia grinned and did a little jig in her white gown covered in the blue smock. “See, sis, I told you he did know how good Mrs. Cecilia is.”
Agatha rolled her eyes. “Lady Jane or Great Aunt don’t. Neither do any of our cousins.”
Felton hadn’t thought her this talented, not until this moment. Shame warmed his cheeks.
“Pick your favorite, Papa.” Amelia’s paint-stained fingers grabbed his hand and led him to a pile covered by sheets.
Her tiny hand pulled at the largest one, but Felton whipped it off like a magician. The shroud from his eyes had been torn. He saw the truth of Cecilia’s genius. Flipping from canvas to canvas, there were images of Demerara, of their boat to Jamaica, the one to Portsmouth, the seacoast of Ballard Cliffs and the Isle of Purbeck, and a few adorable ones of the girls.
Each was a masterpiece.
Why hide these?
“See, Papa, now you know her secret. Mrs. Cecilia says only true artists should see those.”
“True artists? Like you and Agatha.”
“And Grandpapa,” his oldest said. “He comes and watches us paint sometimes. He and Lady Gantry discuss some old dead men. I mean artists.”
Felton nodded even as his throat became thick. Somehow this part of his wife had been withheld. Why be silent to her husband on this matter? He spun in his low heels to his girls. “Lady Gantry is very talented.”
“Grampa says she is a savant, not a servant like Aunt Jane says.”
He rubbed at his jaw. “It seems the family is divided into those who love art and the brutes that don’t.” Felton was sure he was on the “brute” side.
“We love art, Papa.” Amelia rubbed her thumbs on her tiny smock, adding yellow stains. “Mrs. Cecilia lets us paint if we don’t argue.”
“Her name is Lady Gantry,” his oldest said. “You know Aunt Jane said to call her Lady Gantry. The other way is not proper.”
