River Of Fire (7 page)

"He's jammed the horses together until they're virtually touching. It would be impossible in battle," Kenneth explained. "But the painting would have less power if the horses were spread out more naturally. This captures the essence of what it's like to be attacked by cavalry."

"Father always says that in painting, the illusion of reality is more important than technical accuracy." She cocked her head thoughtfully, then gestured for him to follow her into the adjoining breakfast parlor. "Here's a different kind of battle picture. Boadicea, the warrior queen, just before her final battle with the Romans. What do you think?"

Kenneth studied the painting, which depicted a barbaric, auburn-haired woman with a spear in one hand and a raised sword in the other. Her back was arched and the wind whipped her white draperies and wolfskin cloak about her as she commanded her troops to follow her to death. She reminded him of a fierce, uncompromising Rebecca. It must be the red hair. "Though she's not a convincing warrior, as a symbol of courage and the passion for freedom she's splendid."

"Why isn't she convincing?"

"Too slender—it takes muscle to wield such weapons. And too unscarred. Anyone who had been fighting the Romans regularly would probably have acquired some marks of battle."

Rebecca's gaze went from his marred face to his hands and wrists, where the faint scars of half a dozen minor wounds were visible. "I see what you mean. At least you'll be useful as a battle consultant."

He supposed he should take her left-handed compliment as a step in the right direction. His gaze went back to the picture. Thinking out loud, he said, "It's very fine, but the style is rather different from the other examples of Sir Anthony's painting I've seen. Was this an experimental work? The dramatic composition and richness of color are characteristic, but the lines are softer, with a quality that is almost poetic."

Rebecca didn't answer, merely watched him from narrowed eyes. Perhaps this was another test. He glanced at the corner of the picture, where Sir Anthony marked all of his work with a small AS. This time, however, the initials looked like
RS
. He stared. Could they stand for Rebecca instead of Anthony? "Good God, did you paint this?"

"Why the shock?" she said waspishly. "Are you one of those men who think women can't paint?"

Stunned, he looked at the picture with new eyes. "Not at all. It's only that I had no idea you are also an artist." And what an artist! Technically she was very nearly her father's equal, with a distinctive style that was simultaneously akin and different. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised; historically, female artists were usually daughters or wives of male painters. It was the only way a woman would have the chance to learn the necessary skills. "No wonder you don't want to spend your time on housekeeping. That would be a criminal waste of your talent."

For a moment Rebecca looked almost bashful at the praise, but her voice had its usual bite when she said, "I couldn't agree more. That's why it's essential to have someone capable to run the household." Her expression made it clear that she doubted he was up to the job.

It was time to prove his competence. "Before I meet the staff, I need to know more. How many servants do you have?"

She thought a moment. "There are currently four female and three male servants."

"Have they been with you for a long time?"

"Only the coachman, Phelps. The rest have been here only a few months."

A pity; servants could have been a prime source of information. Kenneth would have to cultivate the coachman. "Why so many new people? And why hasn't it been possible to keep a capable housekeeper?"

"My mother preferred to manage the household herself. Since her death, everything has been chaotic. My father has not… been himself. I tried two different housekeepers, but neither understood the requirements of running an artist's house. Father would become provoked and discharge servants who irritated him. The ones he didn't fire soon left for more orderly establishments. Then Tom Morley began overseeing the servants. That worked fairly well, even though the dusting suffered."

"Are there any positions currently vacant?"

"We're in dire need of a cook and a butler." A wicked gleam showed in her eyes. "Two applicants for cook should be here soon. You may do the interviewing and selection."

He nodded as if that were the most natural thing in the world. But as he followed her downstairs, he wondered wryly what the men in his regiment would think if they could see him now.

The servants were relaxing over tea and buttered bread in their sitting room off the kitchen when Rebecca arrived with Captain Wilding. The buzz of conversation died down and six pairs of eyes swiveled toward the new arrivals. Everyone but Phelps, the groom, was present.

"This is Sir Anthony's new secretary, Captain Wilding," Rebecca said tersely. "You will be taking your orders from him." She made an ironic gesture that transferred all responsibility to the captain.

As he surveyed the group, the maid who flirted with everyone glanced slyly at her favorite footman and gave a knowing giggle. Wilding's calm gaze went to her face. Her expression instantly sobered. Not a word was spoken. Then the smaller maid, the hardworking one, got to her feet. One by one, the other servants followed her lead. Before Rebecca's bemused eyes, the casual group began to resemble a squad of well-disciplined soldiers.

Captain Wilding said in a cool voice, "Standards have been lax. That will change. Anyone who considers the work too burdensome is welcome to seek employment elsewhere. Problems and complaints are to be brought to me. Under no circumstances are Sir Anthony and Miss Seaton to be disturbed unnecessarily. Is that clear?"

It was clear. The captain went around the room and learned the names and duties of everyone before he dismissed the group. The servants filed out, looking not precisely intimidated, but certainly impressed. Rebecca had to admit that she was impressed, too.

The captain had interviewed the two candidates for cook with equal efficiency. The first applicant was a very grand Frenchman. After examining the letters of recommendation, Wilding asked the Frenchman to prepare something for himself and Miss Seaton. Offended at the idea of having to prove himself in such a lowly manner, the applicant had stalked out.

The next candidate was also French, but female, plump and placid. Her references were not quite as glowing as those of her predecessor. However, when asked to prove her skill, she had merely raised her brows for a moment, then set to work. Twenty minutes later, she sent her judges a tantalizing dessert omelette and a pot of steaming coffee.

Rebecca's doubts about the hiring process vanished with her first bite. "Lovely." She took another bite. "Clever of her her to use brandied cherries for a quick sauce. Will you hire her?"

Captain Wilding, who sat on the opposite side of the breakfast room table, swallowed a substantial bite of omelette. "Yes. Madame Brunei passed all three tests very well."

Rebecca cut another bite. "What three tests?"

"First and most important was attitude. She was willing to do what was necessary." The captain drank some of the excellent coffee. "Secondly, she was ingenious. In a matter of minutes, she determined what she could make from available ingredients that would be swift and impressive. Lastly, her results were delicious."

Rebecca's fork paused in midair. "Shouldn't her ability to cook come first?"

"All the skill in the world is wasted if someone is too temperamental to do the job. A cooperative nature is doubly important in a household where there have been problems."

Thoughtfully Rebecca finished her omelette. The new secretary had a better understanding of human nature than his stevedore's appearance implied. He also seemed fond of art. Perhaps Sir Anthony hadn't chosen so badly after all. She got to her feet. "You're off to a good start, Captain. I will see you at dinner."

His dark brows rose. "So I've passed
your
tests?"

Uncomfortably aware of how skeptical she had been, she said, "You were hired by my father. It is not my place to test you."

"You are too modest, Miss Seaton," he said with a hint of irony. "I'm sure your father would not retain a secretary whom you found disagreeable."

"True. But I would not quickly complain of a man who pleases my father." She found herself staring at him again. What really went on behind those craggy features? He had been a model of courtesy, but she felt sure that blandness was not his real nature. What had made him so different from the other men she knew? She would never find out as long as he felt constrained to watch every word for fear he would be discharged.

On impulse, she said, "No one should have to be always circumspect, so I give you leave to speak freely around me. I won't use your words to persuade my father to get rid of you."

His brows rose. "You're giving me carte blanche to be a crude, tactless soldier?"

"Exactly."

A mischievous light glinted in his clear gray eyes. "You wouldn't object even if I expressed a desire to kiss you?"

She stared at him, hot color rising in her face. "I beg your pardon?"

"Excuse me, Miss Seaton. I didn't meant that I actually do want to kiss you," he said smoothly. "I was merely trying to establish the boundaries of permissible remarks."

"You have just exceeded them. Don't do it again." She spun on her heel and stalked out of the breakfast parlor. He certainly wasn't bland. But for the life of her, she wasn't sure what bothered her most: his outrageous comment about kissing her—or his claim that he had no desire to do any such thing.

* * *

With half an hour to spare before meeting with Sir Anthony, Kenneth went to his room. The maids had cleaned the place until it sparkled, and the footman had retrieved his baggage from the inn where he had spent the previous night. He guessed that most of the servants would prove to be satisfactory; they merely needed a firm hand.

It took only a few minutes to unpack his belongings. For some obscure reason, he had brought a portfolio of his drawings. He tucked it in the back of the wardrobe, safe from the eyes of servants. Then he drifted across the room, feeling as tired as if he had marched thirty miles. Deceit took energy.

He halted at the window and looked out at the small garden. Beyond were the houses and rooftops of Mayfair, the most fashionable neighborhood in the city that was the heartbeat of Britain. Though he had gone to school at Harrow, only a dozen miles away, he had never spent more than a few days at a time in London proper. At the age when he might have started to know the city's delights, he had left the country.