River Of Fire (20 page)

The empty trail stretched ahead between rows of trees, disappearing into the dawn mists. Kenneth said "Go!" and gave his mount its head. They leaped forward.

For a few minutes, his mind was blessedly free of everything but the pleasure of a fine horse between his legs and the sting of a wintry wind. Reality returned when he reluctantly reined in his mount and turned toward Seaton House again.

Usually he was refreshed after exercising Sir Anthony's horse. Not today. The previous day's painting lesson was painfully vivid in his mind. It had not gone well. The feel, the weight, the flow of oils were entirely different from watercolors, and they'd demonstrated an infuriating reluctance to do as he wished.

Though he had always deprecated his artistic ability, he saw now how accustomed he'd become to the praise of his army friends. Catherine Melbourne and Anne Mowbry had loved his sketches of their families. Though he knew they overrated his work, he had found their compliments gratifying.

With Rebecca, however, he was unable to forget how amateur his efforts were compared to hers. He'd felt like a clumsy oaf. That wasn't her fault; her calm comments had not contained a hint of scorn. Nonetheless, he'd been tempted to kick the easel over. The experience made him sympathize with the occasions when Sir Anthony hurled objects in all directions.

Things had gone no better later in the evening, when he had ascended to his new studio and set up another still life so he could paint in private. He had thought that his second attempt would go a little better. He had been appallingly wrong; he couldn't even paint a simple bowl decently. The flat, muddy result had made him ashamed of his own arrogant dreams. He'd ended the session by furiously scraping the paint from his canvas because he could not bear the sight of his own failure.

He reminded himself forcefully that he had only had one lesson. Surely he would get better. Yet he could not shake the bitter belief that his small talent for sketching was utterly inadequate when it came to creating real art.

Arriving back at Seaton House, he dismounted and led the chestnut into the stable. He was rubbing the horse down when Phelps, the groom and coachman, emerged from his small apartment above the stable, a clay pipe clamped between his teeth. After nodding a greeting, Phelps went to stand in the doorway and gaze out at the courtyard.

The groom was the only long-term Seaton servant. His taciturn nature made him a poor source of information, but Kenneth enjoyed his company. When he finished rubbing down the horse, he went to join the groom in the doorway. "Cold this morning. Hard to believe it will be spring soon."

"Not soon enough." Phelps drew in a mouthful of pipe smoke, then slowly exhaled it. "Be glad to leave London for the Lakes."

"When does Sir Anthony usually go?"

Another puff of smoke spiraled into the mist. "A fortnight or so after the Royal Academy Exhibition begins."

Since the exhibit opened the first Monday in May, the journey north would be in mid-May. More than two months away. Kenneth wondered if he would still be part of the household then. "Does Miss Seaton enjoy going to the country?"

"Oh, aye. 'Tis good for her. In London, Miss Rebecca scarcely ever sets foot out of the house."

Kenneth realized that Phelps was right. He made a mental note to try to coax Rebecca out for some fresh air.

Since the groom was in a relatively talkative mood, Kenneth remarked, "From what I've heard, a good part of Sir Anthony's circle also goes to the Lakes."

"Aye, that's true enough. Lady Claxton, Lord Frazier, and half a dozen others have places near Ravensbeck." Phelps made a face. "As if we didn't see enough of 'em in London."

"George Hampton also summers there, doesn't he?"

"With his print shop to run, Mr. Hampton only takes a few weeks of holiday," Phelps explained. "Usually August."

Kenneth wondered if it was significant that Helen had died during the time when George Hampton was in the neighborhood. As her lover, he must be considered a suspect. "I heard that Hampton discovered Lady Seaton after her accident."

The groom's teeth clicked tight on his pipestem. After a long silence, he said, "Aye, you heard rightly. That was a bad day. A very bad day."

"Her death must have come as a great shock."

"Mebbe not so great as all that," Phelps said cryptically.

Startled, Kenneth studied the other man's expression. "Were you expecting such a tragedy?"

"Not expecting, no. But not surprised."

Sensing that the groom would not elaborate, Kenneth said, "I've heard that Mr. Hampton and Lady Seaton were… very close."

Phelps spat onto the cobbles. "Too close. Sir Anthony should've taken a horsewhip to Hampton, but no, they were the best of friends. Still are. Shameless, the lot of 'em."

"Such goings-on aren't what I'm used to," Kenneth agreed. "What about Lord Frazier? He seems like a man who might have an eye for the ladies."

"Aye. Gets particular pleasure in taking women away from Sir Anthony." The groom smiled a little.

"Not that Sir Anthony cares. He's got more important things on his mind."

So there might be undercurrents of rivalry between the two men. The same could be true with Hampton; Sir Anthony's fame greatly exceeded that of his two old friends. Kenneth considered asking more questions, but restrained himself. One thing he had learned in his intelligence work was to stop before his subjects became suspicious.

He let the conversation drift into horse talk before excusing himself and going into the house. It was the most Phelps had ever said about the family tragedy. Interesting, his comment that Lady Seaton's death had not been entirely a surprise. Perhaps Helen had been the sort of woman who didn't look as if she would make old bones. Kenneth had met such people; in some invisible fashion, they carried the mark of doom on them. In the army, they often became heroes and martyrs. Perhaps they lived life too quickly, consuming their share of mortality in fewer years than the common run of humankind.

Maria had been like that. On some level, he had always known that her time was limited. Perhaps that had added to the sorrowful intensity of their affair.

Kenneth washed and changed, then went down for breakfast. Uncharacteristically, Rebecca was in the breakfast parlor, yawning over toast and coffee. She had slumberous bedroom eyes, and her wonderful hair was tied back loosely with a green ribbon. She looked adorable. His somber mood began to lift. "Good morning. You're up earlier than usual."

"Not by choice." She gave him a pained glance. "I loathe people who are cheerful at the crack of dawn."

He grinned. "Dawn cracked some time ago. It was quite lovely in the park with the sun glowing through the mist."

"Paint it." She spread a spoonful of marmalade over her toast. "That will be close enough to dawn for me."

He picked up a plate and helped himself to eggs,ham, and fried oysters. "A cruel comment. My painting would not do justice to the subject."

She came alert. "It will. Give it time."

He set his plate opposite her, poured coffee, then took his seat. "Patience has never been my strong point."

"I never would have guessed," she said dryly.

He chuckled. "When you're irritated, you look like a furious ginger kitten."

She smothered a smile. "My hair is not gingery. It's a decorous shade of auburn."

"Almost decorous. Incidentally, your father has asked me to meet with his solicitor this afternoon, so I won't be able to sit for you until after three o'clock." He tackled his food with gusto. After clearing his plate, he said, "It really was lovely in the park. You don't get out enough. Shall I escort you to see the Elgin marbles?"

"No!" she said sharply. "I have no desire to be marched around London like a schoolgirl."

"You'll wither away if you don't get some fresh air and sunshine."

"Both of which are almost nonexistent during March in London," she pointed out.

He abandoned his teasing manner. "I know you're devoted to your work, but you really should get out more. In the heart of one of Europe's most exciting cities, you live like a hermit."

Her gaze dropped. "During the summer, I'm often out of doors. London is too dirty and noisy."

Following his intuition, he asked, "Is that the real reason, or is it because you feel like a social outcast?"

She began shredding her toast into damp pieces. After a long silence, she said, "It isn't so bad going to places where no one would know me. Fashionable destinations, like the park during the promenade hour, or visiting the Elgin marbles, are different. I suppose it's very feeble of me, but I would not be comfortable."

He frowned. "It's been almost ten years since your elopement. Surely the scandal has been forgotten by now."

She smiled humorlessly. "You underestimate the memories of the socially righteous. Not six months ago, I was given the cut direct by an old schoolmate when our paths crossed in the British Museum. It was not an experience I enjoyed."

"I would have thought your father's position would provide some protection if you wished to go out in society."

"He is a famous artist, knighted by the king. I'm a disgraced spinster, which is quite a different matter. I have no place in normal society, except at the fringe of the art world." She slanted him a glance. "Surely when you were commissioned from the ranks, you learned something about social ostracism. Or were you accepted because your birth was obviously respectable?"

He gave a wry half-smile. "From sheer stubbornness, I didn't even try to convince other officers that I was their social equal. It was quite educational. A few despised me for my presumed vulgarity. Most accepted me once I proved my competence." He thought of Michael Kenyon. "And a few took me exactly as I was. They became friends."

She sighed. "You're braver than I. I prefer to avoid society rather than challenge it."

It was probably easier to ignore social barriers in the army, where war was the ultimate test, than in the artificial world of London, where status was all. Even so, he'd experienced enough snubs to know how uncomfortable they could be.

If he took the social position to which his birth and rank entitled him, he should be able to help Rebecca as well as Beth. Once Rebecca began going out and making friends, she would no longer be self-conscious about the past. She could build a fuller, more satisfying life.

In fact, if Michael and Catherine came to London for the Season, they would surely be willing to receive Rebecca. The two women would like each other very well. The thought vanished as soon as it appeared. Nothing could be done while Kenneth was acting as Sir Anthony's secretary. Damn his present deceptions.

But there might be another, better way for Rebecca to become established. "You could create your own place in society if you exhibited your work. As a respected artist, Angelica Kauffmann was received everywhere, even though she generated a few scandalous rumors of her own."

Rebecca's expression tightened. "I have no desire to exhibit my paintings."

"At least consider submitting something to this year's exhibition," he said coaxingly. "You have dozens of pieces that are suitable."

She crushed her napkin into a ball and stood, her eyes snapping. "You don't listen very well, Captain. I said that
I am not
interested." She turned and exited the breakfast room.

He frowned after her. A pity she was afraid to go outside the bounds of her safe, narrow world. He must do something about that. As he rose and headed to the office for his morning business session with Sir Anthony, he wondered why he felt so compelled to help Rebecca. His desire went beyond the need to return some of what she was giving him.

He had the uncomfortable suspicion that he was trying to make amends for the hurt he would surely inflict on her.

Rebecca stalked into her studio, slamming the door behind her. She should have breakfasted from a tray in her room, as she usually did. Having to face an insufferable, arrogant male first thing in the morning was a terrible way to start the day.

Especially when he was right.

Damn the man! She grabbed a pillow from the sofa and hurled it across the room. Before his arrival, she had been content with her life. She had her work, she had… she had…

Very little else.

Her experience had never been broad. What worldly knowledge she possessed came from observing the people who sought out her father. Always shy, after her disgrace she had withdrawn completely, concentrating on her painting and relying on her parents for companionship.

Then Helen Seaton had died, and something vital had been broken deep inside her daughter.

Rebecca went to her desk and brought out the gimmal ring that had been her mother's. After a long, brooding study, she scowled and put it away again. She was as flawed and incomplete as the ring, and the proof was in her work. She hadn't done a first-class painting since her mother's death. All of the pieces Kenneth had singled out for special comment had been done earlier.

Oh, she'd kept busy and painted a number of pictures in the last months, all of them technically sound. Most people would think them very fine. But her fatal weakness was reflected in her paintings, and was a compelling reason for not submitting to the Royal Academy. To have older pictures accepted would be a farce when she could no longer match that quality.