Cecilia studied her sketch thoughtfully. There had to be
something
more to Miss Wyatt than her undeniable beauty and her obsession with all things fashionable. Surely there was something there besides the obvious—something deeper that had attracted and held the attention of a man like the Earl of Charrington.
Cecilia was still mulling over her unexpected encounter with the Earl at Somerset House. At the end of their first meeting, she had ultimately and reluctantly admitted him to be a man of intelligence, or certainly keen powers of observation. That concession in and of itself had been difficult enough, for she would have preferred to dismiss him as simply a wealthy, quietly elegant man of the world and nothing more. But there had been something about Sebastian, Earl of Charrington, even at that initial introduction that had drawn her to him and made her uncomfortably aware that he was a man to be reckoned with.
Their subsequent meeting had only served to strengthen her first impression. Now Cecilia was not only drawn to him, she was intrigued by him. Not only was he a clever and astute observer, which he had proven almost immediately, he was a man with a soul—a man who had suffered the isolation of being an outcast in a very rigid society and come to terms with it, a man who had made a success out of the talents that had set him apart from his peers, a man who was not so different from herself in his drive, his ambition, and his independence.
Cecilia felt heat rise in her cheeks as she remembered the way his dark eyes had bored into her the first time he saw her, and then later, the glow of appreciation and even intimacy that had warmed them as he raised her hand to his lips. No, the Earl of Charrington was not so different from Lady Cecilia Manners; he was remarkably similar—disturbingly so.
And it was time to stop thinking about him and concentrate instead on his fiancée. Cecilia bit her lip so hard that it hurt as she forced herself to focus on the delicate oval of Miss Wyatt’s face, the large brown eyes, the slender nose, the firm little chin.
There was no doubt that it was an enchanting face, but... Cecilia’s mind went back to their previous conversation and she could not help chuckling as she recalled Barbara’s look of horror when Cecilia had declared herself to be uninterested in marriage. Her eyes had gone from Cecilia to the crowded little studio and back again. To a woman like Barbara, accustomed to the most luxurious surroundings money could buy, it was inconceivable that anyone could be satisfied with anything less.
That was it! Cecilia grabbed her chalk and began filling her rough sketch with the finer shadings of character. It was Barbara’s very obsession with fashion and society—her drive to be a diamond of the first water and a leader of the
ton,
her refusal to accept anything less for herself than the position of an Incomparable, despite her damaging connections with trade—that made her who she was and, to some extent, gave her a certain dignity of character.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Cecilia, put chalk to paper and worked furiously until the fading light forced her to stop, sit down, and take a drink of the tea that Susan had brought her nearly an hour earlier. But tepid though it was, the tea revived her. After lighting the candles, she went back to her work.
The warmth of the candlelight bathed the room in a golden glow, softening the surroundings—hiding the clutter of brushes and pigments, the stacks of books and papers in the shadows—and making the room appear cozier than it was during the day. Cecilia glanced around with a sense of peaceful satisfaction. No, it was not luxurious, but it was her place. She had told Barbara that she wanted nothing more, which was mostly true. However, her innate honesty forced her to admit to herself that this was not entirely true.
What she truly longed for—though most of the time she would not allow herself to admit it—was her light, airy studio overlooking the Bay of Naples—the water glittering a brilliant blue in the warm Mediterranean sun, the scent of orange blossoms wafting in through open windows. Even more, she longed to see her father in the chair opposite her, studying her sketchbooks with the half-critical, half-proud expression that he reserved for her and her alone. How she missed him!
A lump rose in Cecilia’s throat. No, she would not think about it. It did no good to think about it. Those days were gone forever, never to return, and she should count herself fortunate to have experienced them. She should also count herself fortunate that she had her art to support and sustain her, that she had no need for anyone to watch over her, or care for her. She did not need anyone else’s criticism or appreciation; she had herself for that.
Those days might be gone, but they were not forgotten, and the very next day a most tangible reminder of them appeared in Cecilia’s very own studio.
“A gentleman to see you, my lady.” Tredlow barely had time to announce the visitor before he ushered in a handsome-looking gentleman of medium height whose expressive eyes and prominent nose lent an air of sensitive intelligence to his smiling countenance.
“Signer Canova!” Cecilia exclaimed in delight as, snatching up a handy rag, she wiped off her paint-daubed fingers. “How very happy I am to see you! Do come in. I have been thinking longingly of Italy—Naples especially—on this gloomy day, and you are like a ray of sunshine, a welcome reminder of those happiest of days.”
“Ah, the Marchese di Shelburne, your father—how much we miss him! Such a clever, amusing man and warm companion. It is to his friendship that I owe the many connections that now bring me here. But I still miss him, as I do you, my talented young friend. I hear great praise of your work, here in London, Signorina Cecilia. Your papa would be very proud.”
“You are too kind. Signer.” Cecilia smiled gratefully at him. “But see for yourself.”
The sculptor stepped forward to take a closer look at the evolving sketch of Barbara Wyatt. “You are struggling with this one, I see, Signorina Cecilia. There is great beauty there and the beginning of a sense of the person underneath.” He pointed to the detailed rendering of the nose and chin. “But the eyes, though lovely, are empty.” He shrugged. “No matter. I know you. You will work and you will work, and in time you will get it exactly right. Still,” he glanced over at the recently finished canvas of Sir Jasper, “you are busy, I think, and that is good.”
“Yes, that is good, though they are only portraits, and not the paintings I truly wish to do.”
Canova raised a sympathetic eyebrow. “So young and so impatient. These things take time, my dear. Even Signorina Angelica was forced to paint portraits to survive, despite her reputation as a history painter. Do not worry: sooner or later all those hours you spent copying the sculpture and the ruins, the paintings of the Italian masters, will ultimately convince the critics that you are capable of working on greater things. And, now that I am advising your government on the purchase of Lord Elgin’s marbles, as well as executing a few commissions for your prince regent, I am in an excellent position to remind them all of your considerable talents for painting history as well as portraits.”
Cecilia smiled gratefully. “You are too kind. But tell me, how have you been enjoying London?”
The Italian’s eyes lighted up. “It is a most remarkable city! Such wide handsome streets and squares, so clean, so ...” he searched for the words, “... so very prosperous. And everyone has been so kind—the prince, the queen, the Landsdownes, the Hollands... Oh, everyone has kept me exceedingly busy and exceedingly well entertained.”
“Not so well entertained, I hope, that you will not be able to join me on Sunday. There are a number of artists living nearby, and we hold informal conversazioni at one another’s studios. This Sunday it is my turn to host our little group.” Cecilia shot him an impish look. “It would indeed be a feather in my cap if I could offer the possibility of your presence as further enticement to my guests.”
Canova laughed. “But of course. Anything I can do to further the reputation of one of my favorite artists.” Then his expression grew sober. “It is rather like the old days, is it not? The congenial conversation, the fellowship of artists, and the pleasure of good company. I still miss your papa’s afternoon gatherings at the Villa Torloni.”
“As well as those at the Palazzo Sessa. We sorely felt the lack of Sir William when he returned to England, but Papa did his best to carry on the tradition.”
“Signer Hamilton was a good friend and a most important patron. We are all indebted to him.” Canova agreed.
They spoke for some time of mutual acquaintances and shared memories of Cecilia’s life in Italy, as well as the projects on which they were both working. In fact, it was not until Tredlow came to announce the arrival of another visitor that Cecilia realized they had been chattering away for the better part of two hours.
“The Earl of Charrington,” Tredlow announced in stentorian tones, as though he were leading the visitor into the most impressive of drawing rooms instead of an artist’s cluttered studio.
“0 Dio!
Look at the time!” The sculptor rose hastily as he caught sight of the bracket clock in the bookcase. I must be going. I promised Lady Holland I would call on her today and the afternoon is almost gone. You are too charming a companion, Signorina Cecilia. It is far too easy to lose all track of time in your presence.”
“I hope I do not interrupt,” Sebastian began hesitantly.
“You are not interrupting anything, my lord.” Cecilia could not think quite why she was so eager to reassure him of this, except that the Earl of Charrington, despite his broad shoulders and imposing height, looked oddly forlorn at having discovered another visitor in her studio. “In fact, I am delighted to present Signer Canova to you. He is one of our oldest and dearest friends, and I am happy to say that business with our government has at last brought him here to London.”
Canova bowed and smiled at Sebastian in the friendliest of fashions. “It is a great pleasure, my lord. But indeed, I believe that we are not total strangers, for my friend Sir Humphry Davy often speaks of you as one of the cleverest men in the Royal Society. In fact, if I am not mistaken, I saw you when I was there with him the other day.”
“Ah yes, of course.” Sebastian relaxed so visibly that Cecilia wondered what it was that had made him appear so hesitant in the first place. “You are the one who was so helpful to him when he was in Rome last year. Actually, it is his recent discussion on the nature of the pigments used in the frescoes at Pompeii that is responsible for my visit to Lady Cecilia today. I am no chemist, and naturally I would not even begin to compare myself to Sir Humphrey Davy, but after reading his paper, ‘Some experiments and observations on the colours used in painting by the ancients,’ I did some research of my own that I thought might be of interest.” Sebastian’s words were addressed to both of them, but his eyes were all for Cecilia.
And there was no mistaking the expression of admiration in them or the flush that stained Cecilia’s cheeks. Her other visitor watched the entire exchange with avid interest, and hastily stifled a sly smile that crept across his lips.
“How very kind of you to think of me.” At last Cecilia found her voice. “I am afraid I am but a poor scientist, however. You will find me sadly ignorant where such technical matters are concerned.”
“And that is utter nonsense.” Canova edged imperceptibly toward the door. “Lady Cecilia is one of the most clever women it has ever been my pleasure to meet. But now, I fear that I am expected by another clever lady.” He turned to Cecilia. “You will be delighted to know that she has been a great contributor to our cause.”
Seeing Sebastian’s puzzled expression, Cecilia hastened to explain. “In addition to advising the government on the marbles it is considering purchasing from Lord Elgin, Signer Canova is raising a subscription to return the works of art plundered by Napoleon to their rightful owners.”
“A truly Herculean task.” The sculptor shook his head sadly. “But thanks to patrons of the arts everywhere, we are slowly succeeding. Or, as in the case of this courageous lady here, we managed to rescue them before they were stolen to grace the emperor’s various residences, and those, it was easy to return. But now I truly must bid you adieu, though I look forward to your Sunday conversazione.” And with the briefest of bows, Canova hurried from the room, congratulating himself on having introduced a topic of conversation designed to increase the earl’s patent admiration for the lovely and talented C. A. Manners.
Chapter Ten
“I hope you will pardon me for asking how you aided in Signor Canova’s cause, but I feel sure that there is an interesting story behind it, and my natural curiosity will not let me pass it up.” Sebastian looked down at Cecilia with a smile that was somehow irresistible.
“Oh, I did not do anything much.” Cecilia’s knees, which seemed to have become oddly unreliable in the earl’s presence, now threatened to give way entirely. Gesturing to a chair on one side of the fireplace, she sank into the one opposite it, hoping desperately that she looked grateful rather than overwhelmed.
“I simply agreed to take some of the pictures in danger of being plundered with me when we were forced to leave Naples. It was easy enough to remove them from their frames and stretchers and roll them up inside some of my own paintings.”
“I agree with Signer Canova; you are a courageous woman indeed.”
“Nonsense.” Self-consciousness made Cecilia respond more tartly than she intended. “There was not the slightest bit of danger. No one would think to notice, let alone question, a young girl.”
“Perhaps,” he admitted. “Nevertheless, while you might not have been in any actual physical danger, you acted on your principles by taking up a noble cause and helping to advance it. Very few people have the strength of mind, much less the will to do anything that would discommode then, let alone expose them to difficulty or even discomfort. You are a very different person from your brother, I think.”
“What?” Thrown off guard by this unexpectedly prescient observation, Cecilia could only goggle at him stupidly.