He had wondered once or twice if she was deliberately avoiding him, but that seemed unlikely. It was merely that her interests were elsewhere. Having accepted Kenneth as part of the household, she paid no more attention to him than she would a piece of furniture. He must find excuses to talk with her.
The devil of it was that his interest in seeing more of Rebecca was not solely because of his mission. He wanted to know more about her talent and her sharp edges and her hidden sensuality. The fact that she intrigued him increased his distaste for his deception. If Sir Anthony was eventually charged with murder, Rebecca would surely learn that Kenneth had entered the house under false pretenses. He didn't like to think what her reaction would be.
His route took him by the postal receiving station he was using. It was part of a stationer's shop, which meant it would be easy to find excuses to visit. He stopped and found that a letter from his sister had arrived. Beth must have written back as soon as she received his note. He broke the wafer and read the single, closely written sheet.
Dear Kenneth,
I'm glad your work is going well. Matters are in surprisingly good heart here, largely because of the arrival of your friend Lieutenant Davidson. As you implied, he was rather subdued at first, but his mood has improved markedly. His sense of humor is really quite droll. Cousin Olivia and I are both very fond of him.
Because of Lieutenant Davidson's crippled left arm, I find that with him I am not self-conscious about my clubfoot the way I am with most strangers. Each morning we ride together about the estate. He has a number of ideas for improving crop yields without having to invest much money. The tenants and laborers are impressed with his good sense. Sutterton seems a different place from when it was run by the old bailiff.
Beth went on to describe Davidson's suggestions. All were clear proof that his friend knew more about agriculture than Kenneth. If Sutterton was saved, he hoped Jack would stay on as steward permanently.
He refolded the letter and tucked it into his coat. Beth's buoyant tone assuaged his guilt over leaving her so soon after returning to England. But his good mood faded when he left the shop. Even the knowledge that he was working to save Beth and Sutterton could not mitigate his distaste for what he was doing.
As soon as Rebecca entered her father's studio, she saw that he was on the verge of a major explosion. Society knew Sir Anthony as one of its own, an aristocrat of impeccable wit and dress who happened to have a gift for painting. Only his closest associates saw the fiercely disciplined, intense artist that existed beneath the surface.
As a girl Rebecca had once sketched her father as a smoldering volcano on the verge of boiling over. He'd laughed in rueful acknowledgment when she showed it to him. When Sir Anthony encountered problems with a project he cared about deeply, the volcano erupted. Rebecca always tried to avoid him during such episodes.
The state of his dress was a good indicator of his mood. Usually he was as elegant as if he had just stepped out of a St. James club, but today his coat was tossed on the floor, his sleeves rolled up, and his graying hair disordered. All were dear signs that she should leave before he noticed her.
But it was too late. He set down his palette and brush and snapped, "Where the devil is Wilding?"
Resigned, she entered the studio. "I believe he went out this morning," Not that she had seen the captain go, but she'd noticed that the house felt different when he was home. More charged with energy.
Her father went back to glaring at the large canvas propped on his easel. "What's wrong with this damned picture?"
Though she'd watched the painting develop from sketches to nearly finished oil, Rebecca dutifully approached and studied it again. The last of her father's Waterloo series, it showed the Duke of Wellington on horseback, standing in his stirrups and waving his cocked hat forward in the signal for his army to advance against the French. The heroic figure of the duke dominated the canvas, with battered regiments in the background.
It was a good painting. Nonetheless, she understood her father's dissatisfaction. In some indefinable way, the picture lacked soul. But she knew no way to remedy such a failing.
Since an answer was expected, she said hesitantly, "There is nothing really wrong. It's a fine likeness of Wellington, and the battlefield looks very convincing. The forward sweep of his arm is very dynamic."
"Of course the composition and likeness are good— mine always are," her father said with exasperation. "But it's not a great painting—merely a good one." He frowned at the canvas again. "Maybe Wilding can tell me what is lacking. After all, he was there." His voice turned querulous. "Why isn't he
here
?"
"I'm sure he'll be back soon." Seizing the excuse to leave, she continued, "I'll tell the footman to send the captain up as soon as he comes in."
Before she could start for the door, it swung open and Captain Wilding entered. His blue coat and buff breeches were subdued, yet he drew the eye as surely as if he were dressed in a scarlet uniform. He nodded to Rebecca and set a parcel on the table. "Here are the pigments you ordered, Sir Anthony. Since I was near the colorman's shop today, I picked them up myself."
Instead of taking the opportunity to leave, Rebecca stepped back and scrutinized the newcomer, trying to analyze what gave him that air of command. His aura of physical strength was part of it, but only a small part. Intelligence was also there, and a hint of flinty integrity, yet none of those qualities fully defined his essence.
Instead of being gratified by the captain's presence, Sir Anthony growled, "Where have you been?"
"Interviewing wine merchants," Wilding said mildly. "You may recall that we discussed yesterday how your present supplier is inadequate. I believe I've found a better one."
"So I suppose you've been sampling and are now three sheets to the wind," Sir Anthony said sarcastically.
"Naturally I tasted some wine, but I'm certainly not drunk," the captain said, refusing to be baited. "I'm sorry if my absence was a problem. I didn't know you would need me here."
Furiously Sir Anthony picked up a bladder of white lead paint and flung it at his secretary. "You should have been here when I wanted you!"
"What the devil?" Wilding swiftly sidestepped the missile. The bladder hit the door with a soggy sound and splashed white paint in an arc across the oak panels.
All vestiges of control gone, Sir Anthony began hurling other objects around the room. The white lead was followed by bladders of Naples yellow and Prussian blue paint. A handful of his special long-handled brushes separated in midair and flew in all directions before clattering to the floor. With a sweep of his arm, he knocked everything from the table beside him before flinging his palette knife wildly. It whizzed by Rebecca, just missing her shoulder before bouncing off the wall.
Shaking inside, she prepared to take shelter behind the sofa. Then Captain Wilding bounded across the room and caught Sir Anthony's wrist in one powerful hand. "You may destroy your whole studio if you wish," he said in a dangerously soft voice, "but don't throw things at a lady."
Her father tried to wrench free. "That's not a lady, that's my daughter!"
The captain's fingers locked harder around her father's wrist. "All the more reason to control yourself."
For a moment the men were silhouetted motionless against the windows. The slighter figure of Sir Anthony crackled with furious emotion, but he was helpless against the captain's implacable strength. Rebecca had a swift mental image of lightning fruitlessly striking a mountain.
Her father's left arm jerked, and for a sickening moment she thought he was going to strike the captain. Then, in one of his swift mood changes, Sir Anthony's arm dropped.
"You're right, damn you." He glanced at Rebecca. "I've never once hit you, have I?"
She unclenched her fists. "Only with splashing paint," she said, trying to sound light. "Your aim is terrible."
The captain released her father, but his face was set and his gray eyes looked like flint. "You make a habit of such tantrums, Sir Anthony?"
"Not precisely a habit, but they're not unknown." Her father rubbed his right wrist where the captain and held it. "These furnishings have been chosen because they clean easily and are forgiving of minor stains."
"Very amusing," Wilding said dryly. "Nonetheless, you owe your daughter an apology."
Sir Anthony's face tightened at the implied rebuke from an employee. "Rebecca doesn't take my moods seriously."
"No? Then why does she look as pale as if she's just risen from a sickbed?"
Both men's heads swung toward her. She froze, knowing that her distress was visible to anyone who looked closely.
With his artist's perception, her father saw her state clearly. "It bothers you so much when I get angry, Rebecca?" he said with surprise.
She almost lied to ease his conscience, but she couldn't, not with Captain Wilding's probing gaze on her. "Your explosions always upset me," she admitted uncomfortably. "When I was little, they made me fear that the world was about to end."
Her father drew a sharp breath. "I'm sorry, Rebecca. I didn't know. Your mother—" He stopped speaking abruptly.
Her mother had never minded the explosions; she was capable of being equally explosive. It was Rebecca who had run and hid under the bed when her parents roared, singly or at each other.
She filled the awkward silence by saying quickly, "My father has been having trouble with this picture, Captain Wilding. He thought you might have some useful insights. It's the last of his Waterloo series. Wellington posed for it himself."
Wilding turned to look at the painting. Because she was watching him closely, she saw the skin over his cheekbones tauten. Though she'd initially thought him cool and passionless, she was learning to recognize subtle signs of emotion.
"Wellington ordering the general advance," the captain murmured. "Rather unnerving to see it again."
"You saw him give the signal to attack?" she asked.
"Yes, though I was much farther away, of course." He studied the canvas. "Sir Anthony, do you want this to be a classical, idealized portrait of a hero, or a realistic rendition of the actual battle?"
Her father opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. "Wellington is a great man, and I want viewers to see that greatness," he said finally. "I want this picture to live in their minds forever. Two hundred years from now, I want people to speak of Seaton's Wellington."
"Perhaps your rendition is too classical and restrained to create that sort of power," the captain said slowly. "The duke and his horse look as neat as if they were trotting across a parade ground. Waterloo wasn't like that. After a day of fierce fighting, soldiers and their mounts were exhausted and filthy with mud and sweat and black powder. Even as far away as I was, I could see lines of strain and fatigue in the duke's face."
"What was his expression like?" Sir Anthony asked.
Wilding thought before answering. "The sun was low in the sky and a ray of light struck his face as he swept his hat forward. His expression can't really be described—but remember how many years he had been fighting to reach this point. In Spain, he faced overwhelming odds for years on end. Inadequate supplies, a much smaller army than the enemy. Unbreakable will has put victory within his grasp—yet he has seen many of his dearest friends die. The steel inside the man should be visible."
"Stupid of me to draw the duke as he appeared in the studio," Sir Anthony muttered to himself. "I should have tried to imagine him as he was then." He gave the captain a quick glance. "Is there anything else I should consider."
Wilding gestured toward the background of the painting. "The soldiers are as clearly visible as on a fine day in May. That's wrong—the battlefield was a stinging hell of black powder smoke. Sometimes it was impossible to see a hundred yards away."
Sir Anthony's eyes narrowed in thought as he studied his painting. "I can use transparent gray glazes to get that effect. But Wellington is the key. The steel. I must show the steel."
The captain asked Rebecca, "What pictures are in the series besides this and the cavalry charge in the dining room?"
She went to a portfolio and removed two drawings. "The finished paintings aren't here, but these sketches are fairly accurate. This first one shows the allied regiments lined up along the ridge as far as the eye can see."
Wilding came to look over her shoulder. She was intensely aware of the warmth of his body, mere inches behind her. This man had been through the hells of the Peninsula and Waterloo, and survived. Like Wellington, he must be pure steel within. She asked, "Where were you positioned?"
He pointed. "About there, a little left of center. I spent most of the day skirmishing around a sand pit."
"For me, what makes the painting is these men in the foreground." Rebecca indicated the figures of a young ensign and a grizzled sergeant who were guarding their regimental colors. Above them, the Union Jack curled and snapped in the wind, defying the French army that stood in silent ranks on the opposite side of the valley.
"It's always the particular that moves us, not the general," the captain said reflectively. "A youth on the verge of his first battle who wonders if his courage will be equal to the challenges of the day. A battle-scarred veteran who has faced death again and again and wonders if this time his luck will run out. Any viewer who looks at this must wonder if these two men will survive what lies ahead."