A small flicker of warmth grew in his chest. Appearances to the contrary, perhaps his father did care for him, after all.
“Nevertheless, my path is set,” Trev said. “I shall take a berth on the next available ship for Bombay.”
“I cannot allow it.”
“You have nothing to say about it.”
“The devil I don’t,” the earl said. “Doesn’t a man have the right to protect his heir?”
Trevelyn frowned. Was it possible his father was experiencing some sort of apoplexy? Theobald was the elder. There was never any question of succession.
“It’s time you knew the truth,” the earl said. “The pertinent facts are all documented, sworn statements by those in attendance, in a sealed file in our solicitor’s office. You are the firstborn, Trevelyn, not Theobald.”
“My entire childhood was a lie?”
His father’s lips turned up in a smug smile. “It’s rare for a man to have the opportunity to select his heir, the right of primogeniture being what it is. How often does one see a firstborn who’s an absolute ass and a deserving second son who hasn’t a prayer short of fratricide of inheriting? When we were blessed with twins, I saw a chance to change that.”
“What have you done, Father?” Trev’s gut churned.
“By giving your place to your brother, I was assured the opportunity to name the most worthy of the two of you to succeed me. Given your past performance, it appeared I had made a wise choice. Then you surprise me with this unlooked for display of heroism. It seems the perfect time to reveal your true destiny.” The earl spread his hands in a gesture that proclaimed the matter already accomplished. “Trevelyn Deveridge, you will be the ninth Earl of Warre.”
Trev let that astounding idea wash over him for a moment. As a titled peer, he’d have more power than he’d ever dreamed. He could influence policy in the House of Lords. He might spare the Empire far more needless wars as a Member of Parliament than he ever could as a procurer of information on the Indian sub-continent. He might somehow win back Artemisia’s affection if . . .
His brother’s face rose in his mind.
“I’ve had my entire life to reconcile myself to the lot of a second son,” Trevelyn said. “What of Theo?”
“What of him?” The earl steepled his fingers. “His only accomplishment thus far has been siring a gaggle of daughters. Now, if he’d managed to father a son, one who showed promise—”
“You mean one who was willing to be molded to your liking.”
“Exactly,” his father said with raised brows. “How quickly you’ve grasped the subtleties of my position. It further reinforces that I am correct in naming you my heir.”
“Well, I refuse to be so named. Stop the carriage,” Trevelyn ordered the driver. The clacking wheels rolled to a halt. “You cannot manipulate people, least of all your own sons, in such a cavalier manner.”
“Of all people, you should understand the irony in that. Your work in Her Majesty’s secret service requires you to manipulate and—yes, I’ll say it—lie to everyone around you at all times. However, as your father, I have the right to raise you and your brother in whatever manner I see fit. My ‘manipulation,’ as you call it, has made you a man with far more spine than Theobald.” The earl’s dark brows lowered. “It is my wish to reveal you as my heir and I will have it so.”
Trevelyn climbed down from the carriage. “Then you will be disappointed, Father, because I have no intention of complying with your wishes. Be satisfied with Theo. He lives to please you in ways I never would.”
He slammed the door closed. “You can’t remake people to conform to your notions of what they should be. You can’t slice them up and reassemble them to suit yourself.”
“I’ll not stand such insolence.” The earl’s face turned deep purple.
“Yes, you will, but I promise it will be the last time. You shall not see me again, Father.”
“You ungrateful puppy.”
“Guilty as charged, but unrepentant,” Trevelyn agreed. “However I will offer you some parting advice. If you continue to try to change the people you should love without conditions, one day you will die as you have lived. Alone.”
Trevelyn turned and strode away. How had he come to it so late? He’d tried to change the woman he loved.
And he’d just pronounced his own punishment. Like his father, he too would die alone.
“Madam, please. You must stop to take nourishment or you’ll fall down in a faint.” Cuthbert’s face was creased with concern as he poured out a steaming cup of tea and laced it liberally with thick cream and two lumps of sugar.
“It’s almost finished.” Artemisia mixed a dollop of umber and brown on her palette. The studio was even untidier than usual, with trial sketches and experimental elements of her work scattered about. She’d forbidden Cuthbert to move anything. There was no discernible system to the disarray, but she knew where every scrap of it was. “Just a bit more here.”
“So you’ve said for days, Your Grace.” Cuthbert thrust the teacup before her. “Please, madam. Stop for only a moment to refresh yourself. One fears for your health if you continue thusly.”
The tea sent an aromatic summons that could not be denied. She put down her palette knife long enough to take a sip. The warm, sweet infusion of spices and cream slid down her throat. Perhaps she could do with a respite, after all.
“Thank you, Cuthbert. It seems you are right.” She lifted her cup and her brow at him. “As usual.”
“One does one’s best,” he said with modesty.
Artemisia sank onto the settee cradling her cup in both paint-stained hands. Pollux leaped onto her lap as if to add his weight to Cuthbert’s desire that she be anchored to the seat for a few minutes. His warmth and rumbling purr leeched out all need for frenetic activity, and she relaxed for the first time in days.
After Trevelyn had left her home, she didn’t have time to mourn his absence, though she felt it keenly. The rest of her life clamored for her attention.
Felix had appeared before her, sober and genuinely contrite for his part in the whole sordid business. He was even willing to confess to the authorities and accept whatever punishment was required, but Artemisia decided it was enough if he allowed her to tie up the estate until his thirtieth birthday. Felix agreed with gratitude and hadn’t given her a moment’s regret since.
Her mother was beside herself, first because Artemisia had been involved in such a scandalous business as espionage. Even if the matter remained undiscovered by the precious
ton,
it was “too bad” of Artemisia to put them all at risk of such sordid doings coming to light. It wouldn’t do to jeopardize Delia’s match with another unsavory episode. The shame of Florinda running away to Gretna Green with one of the stable lads had already sent Constance into a severe attack of the vapors. She’d only been revived when promised “carte blanche” in arranging for Delia’s grand wedding.
Angus was delighted when he heard Florinda was going to settle in the country with Hector Longbotham, but then Angus was delighted by most everything these days.
Her father’s mind was still stripped down to the barest flashes of normalcy, but his heart was always merry. Artemisia decided that if in the end, one was left with only the ability to feel happy with life, perhaps that was no bad thing.
She, however, did everything in her power not to feel anything at all. She pushed herself beyond normal limits trying to finish Mars. She took advantage of every moment of natural light to do detailed brushstrokes on the central figure of the piece in the foreground and toiled by lamplight on the shadowy background. Now that she had a moment to step back and really look at it, she realized suddenly that Mars was done. Even one more dab of paint would diminish, not add, to the effect.
Whether it was any good or not, she couldn’t decide. It was too dear to her to make that sort of judgment. But more than any other piece she’d ever produced, she’d poured her soul onto this canvas. She was an empty cup, drained to the last dregs. It would take far more than Cuthbert’s remarkable tea to revive her.
As if he sensed her thoughts, her butler pressed a plate of biscuits into her hand and then turned to look at the canvas. He took two steps forward and stopped.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked before nibbling half-heartedly on the crusty pastry.
“Ordinarily, one is of no opinion—”
“On the subject of art, yes, I know,” she finished for him dryly. “But what do you
feel
when you look at it?”
He stared in silence at the canvas.
“Honestly, madam?”
“I wouldn’t have it otherwise.”
“Hopeless,” he finally said.
“Oh, good. I was afraid I was projecting my own sentiments onto the piece. Very well.” She brought the cup to her lips again. “That was the point, after all. Art is about what it makes you feel. It seems I got it right this time.”
Cuthbert tugged his waistcoat down in front and fiddled with the watch fob dangling from his pocket, checking the time with uncharacteristic preoccupation.
“You’re nervous as a cat. What is it?” Artemisia asked.
“Madam, he’s back again.”
“Is he?” Her chest constricted.
“He refuses to take no for an answer. In fact, if I don’t admit him in precisely two minutes, Mr. Deveridge has threatened to break down the studio door.” Cuthbert adjusted his neck stock. “If one may be so bold as to suggest, one thinks, no, one
feels
Your Grace should see him.”
“Sometimes I think he’s all I do see,” Artemisia murmured. Nothing had changed. She hoped driving herself to finish the painting, emptying herself on the canvas would clear her soul of the desire to continue with her art. Even though she was exhausted, she knew it hadn’t worked. After a brief spell of recuperation, she’d be ready to create again. She’d
need
to create again.
She loved Trevelyn, but he didn’t love her if he thought to change this most intrinsic part of her. If she saw him, she feared her will would crumple and she’d give in to his demand to stop her work. It might seem like a fair trade now, when she craved him more than sunlight. But what if in the years to come, her love was tainted by resentment for the sacrifice he required? She hadn’t insisted he stop
his
work, had she? The Great Game was infinitely more dangerous than painting nudes.
She set her cup on the windowsill. “If Mr. Deveridge is coming in whether I will it or no, we haven’t much time to prepare then, have we?”
* * *
“Artemisia, I know you’re in there.” Trev pounded on the English oak till the door threatened to come off its hinges. “Please, I must see you. How can I apologize properly through a closed door?”
He raised his fist to hammer the portal again, but it opened before he could deliver another blow. Cuthbert waved him into her studio.
Evidence of her recent presence was everywhere, from the still wet paintbrushes congealing on the palette to the cooling teacup on the open windowsill. The faint scent of violets still lingered in the air. But Artemisia was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is she?”
Cuthbert gave a discreet shrug and lifted one hand toward the open window.
Trev could see it clearly in his mind. The little minx must have hoisted herself up and over the sill and disappeared into her overgrown garden to avoid him.
“So she ran rather than face me.” Trevelyn leaned on the windowsill and peered out, disappointment sagging his shoulders. If she was that determined not to see him, his case was truly hopeless.
The orange tabby sunning itself on the back of the settee laid its ears flat and hissed at him.
“Thank you very much,” he said to the cat. “Your mistress made her point most eloquently without your help. I’ll not trouble her again.”
Trevelyn turned to go, but stopped when he caught a glimpse of the canvas Artemisia had been working on. MARS IN DEFEAT was emblazoned in gilt lettering across the bottom of the work.
It gave him an odd sense of detachment, viewing his own nude form. His image strained in a prone gesture of despair. His gut clenched in remembrance of the cramps he endured to produce the contorted figure for her.
The canvas seethed with emotion. It was all there, just as they’d discussed—the misery, the needless death and destruction, the ultimate failure of war—etched on the same face he shaved each morning.
He noted that she’d made quite a few changes since he’d seen it last. His genitals were rendered in careful detail and thankfully in correct proportion this time. A rueful smile curved his lips.
“Well, perhaps she’s forgiven me a few things at least,” he murmured.
“It’s not one’s place to say,” Cuthbert began and went on to say, nevertheless, “but one suspects one’s mistress does not hold you in any but the highest of regard.”
Trev cast him a sideways glance. “Since she refuses to see me, I seriously doubt that.”
“No, it’s true,” Cuthbert said. “She is most particular about her art, as you well know, and yet she—” He stopped himself abruptly.
“What?”