River Of Fire (18 page)

His eyes fell. "I… I want it too much to believe it's possible."

The words said a great deal about how life had treated him. Knowing he would loathe pity, she said briskly, "I'll teach you. Once you get past the foolish conviction that oils are beyond your capabilities, you'll do very well."

Seeing that he was on the verge of protest, she said with steel in her voice, "You have a great many foolish ideas about what it takes to be an artist. Forget them. The truth is that an artist is no more, and no less, than someone who creates art. You have the gift. Honor it."

Then she turned and marched to the door, throwing over her shoulder, "Be in my studio at two o'clock."

Her steps slowed after she closed the door and turned toward the stairs. She felt drained, and not only because of her sympathy for what Kenneth had endured. His talk of what it meant to be an artist stirred thoughts of her own life. She had been lucky, so lucky.

Sir Anthony might have been a casual parent in many ways, but he had always respected and encouraged her talent.

What would it be like to have the strength and lethal skills of a warrior and the soul of an artist?

Poor damned pirate.

Face set, she opened the door to her studio. By the time she was through with Kenneth Wilding, he would know he was an artist. Either that, or they would both die trying.

After Rebecca left, Kenneth sank into a chair, shaking as if with fever. He felt like a walnut that had been smashed open with a hammer.

She had said that he had talent. That he was already an artist. And Rebecca Seaton was not a woman for idle flattery.

He drew a ragged breath, wondering if what she had said was true: that it was not too late. Unconsciously he had always put oil painting on a pedestal, a skill more of gods than mortals. Now that Rebecca had made him aware of that assumption, he saw the absurdity. Granted, most artists began working with oils at a much younger age. Rebecca had started in the nursery. But he did draw well. He had a feel for composition and color.

Perhaps… perhaps he could learn to be a real painter. Not one on the level of Sir Anthony and Rebecca, but good enough to sometimes find satisfaction in his own efforts.

The prospect filled him with an unholy mixture of fear and excitement. The sensation, he realized wryly, was not unlike a young man's response to unchaste thoughts.

It was only when he got to his feet that he remembered why he had come to Seaton House: to investigate a mysterious death. Now his suspect's daughter was offering him the deepest wish of his soul. To accept her gift when his mission might destroy the person she loved most would be despicable. Yet God help him, he was unable to refuse.

For the first time, he considered abandoning Lord Bowden's assignment. An angry Bowden would immediately foreclose on Sutterton, but Kenneth might be able to endure that if he had a chance for the life he had always longed for. He could continue as Sir Anthony's secretary and devote his private time to study and painting. Someday, perhaps, he would be able to support himself as an artist. Plenty of people wanted portraits, and most of them couldn't afford Sir Anthony Seaton. Anyone who had lived as a common soldier could manage with little money and no comforts; it would not take many commissions for him to survive.

But what of Beth? She was his responsibility. He had no right to buy his own happiness at the cost of her future. Though starving in a garret might suit him, his sister deserved better.

His mouth tightened as he thought of Beth's uncomplaining good nature. It was impossible to withdraw, and equally impossible to resist Rebecca's offer to teach him to paint. His only choice was to go forward and pray that his investigation produced nothing to incriminate Sir Anthony in his wife's death.

Unfortunately, he had little faith in prayer.

Before going to Rebecca's studio, Kenneth stopped by the office to take care of a few small matters of business. To his surprise, his employer was there, gazing at the magnificent portrait of his wife and drinking what appeared to be brandy.

As Kenneth hesitated, Sir Anthony glanced over and said musingly, "It was twenty-eight years ago today that I met Helen. Sometimes it's hard to believe she's gone." A faint slur in his speech showed that the drink he held was not the first.

Kenneth entered the office. "Lady Seaton was beautiful. Your daughter is very like her."

"In appearance, but Rebecca's temperament is more like mine." Sir Anthony smiled ironically. "In some ways, she's even more like my older brother. Marcus would hate knowing that."

Curious to hear his employer's side of the family feud, Kenneth said untruthfully, "I didn't know you had a brother."

"Marcus is a baron and very starchy. Doesn't approve of me. Never did." Sir Anthony took a deep swallow of brandy. "He and my father were both convinced that for me to become a painter would be the shortest way to Hades. On the rare occasions when our paths cross, he always gives me the cut direct."

So Kenneth was not the only hopeful artist to face family opposition. Sir Anthony, however, had done a better job of surmounting it. "Why does your brother disapprove of you?"

Sir Anthony snorted. "To Marcus, painting is no better than being in trade. He must have been appalled when I was knighted five years ago. It put the seal of respectability on my disreputable career."

"Most men would consider an artist of your stature a credit to the family name."

"There were… other reasons for our estrangement." Sir Anthony's gaze went to his wife's face. "Helen was Marcus's fiancee. When we met, it was like being swept up by wildfire. She tried to resist, to do the honorable thing. I didn't even try. I knew the result was foreordained. Within a fortnight, we ran off together. Gretna Green was only a day's ride to the north. We were married before anyone could stop us."

"I assume your brother was not pleased."

"Marcus never spoke to me again, except to send a note saying I wasn't welcome at the funeral when my father died." Sir Anthony smiled without humor. "I can't blame him. In his place, I'd have been murderous if someone had taken Helen from me."

Wondering if the comment might be literally true, Kenneth asked, "He loved her?"

"Losing her might have hurt his pride, but not his heart. To him, Helen was a pretty, docile girl who would have made a comfortable wife. He never really knew her. God knows, he replaced her quickly enough. He was married within the year and immediately fathered a couple of sons to ensure that the title would never come to me."

"Lady Seaton wasn't sweet and docile?"

"She was a hellcat when her temper was up, but that was all right—I have a temper, too." Sir Anthony shook his head. "She was all fire and shadow. She would have died a slow death with Marcus. He is all honor and tradition. Worthy, but dull."

"He sounds very unlike you," Kenneth remarked. "You must not have minded being cut out of his life."

The other man stared down at his brandy glass. "He wasn't so bad. I quite admired him when I was a boy. He was a gentleman to the bone. I was the one who was a freak. My father was devoutly grateful that I was the second son, not the heir."

Kenneth's empathy increased. He, too, had been a freak, and it had cost him his father. At least he and Beth were on good terms. "Lady Seaton obviously didn't mind the fact that you were different from most members of the nobility."

"She didn't mind at all." Sir Anthony's gaze went to the portrait again. "I don't know how I would have survived after Helen's death if it hadn't been for Rebecca. She was like a rock. Strong. Steady. Enduring."

Surely a man who cared so much for his wife could not have murdered her. If there was some way to prove that, Kenneth could honorably fulfill his obligation to Lord Bowden without losing Rebecca's regard.

Sir Anthony's brows drew together. "Aren't you supposed to be posing for Rebecca now?"

Kenneth glanced at the clock. "Yes, sir. I came down to do some work, but it can wait." He headed toward the door.

His hand was on the knob when he heard Sir Anthony say in a barely audible voice, "Now she's gone, and may God forgive me—because it was my fault."

For an instant, Kenneth became rigid. Then he left the room, feeling sick to his stomach. If what Sir Anthony said was true, may God help them all.

By the time Rebecca reached her studio after discovering Kenneth's artwork, her fatigue had been replaced by brimming excitement. The picture of the dying soldier showed remarkable assurance, especially for a man who was essentially self-taught. No wonder she had felt drawn to him from the beginning; under his brawn and military bearing, he was as much an artist as she. Shared interests could become the basis of a deep friendship.

She went to her worktable and began to mix the tints that she would use in her afternoon's work. It was a process that she had done so often that her mind was free to question if it was really friendship that she wanted from Kenneth.

For a moment, the thought of marriage flickered through her mind. She instantly dismissed it. Marriage was not for her. Even if Kenneth was interested and willing to overlook her lack of reputation, she would never surrender her freedom. The selfishness essential to an artist would be fatal in a wife.

She supposed they could become lovers. The London art world was a tolerant one. If she and Kenneth were discreet, they could carry on as they pleased. Absorbed in his own business, her father wouldn't object. He probably wouldn't even notice.

But while her upbringing had given her a liberal outlook, her observations had convinced her that affairs could be a messy business. No doubt Lavinia could explain how to prevent pregnancy, but there were other hazards. The fact that a relationship was illicit would not make it any less painful when it ended. And end it would. Kenneth seemed to find her attractive, but she would be of more value to him as a teacher than as a not-very-skilled mistress. And they both knew it.

With a sigh, she finished mixing her tints. Friendship was clearly the best possible relationship. She would simply have to repress any lustful thoughts.

There was a gift she could give Kenneth, as a friend, that would help him develop as a painter. With a smile,she got to her feet. She would have just enough time to arrange it.

Kenneth arrived for his modeling session dressed in the boots, breeches, and open-throated shirt she had requested. Rebecca caught her breath when he entered the room. There was a darkness in his expression that made him an utterly convincing pirate, a man who lived by his own rules alone. Merciful heaven, how she wanted to capture that.