Saved by Scandal (20 page)

Ansel was sleeping in Margot’s room, in her bed? Galen wished he’d left the sprig in Sussex. “What did the doctor say? I should have asked before.”

“He said that Ansel appeared to have been ill, and was now recovering. He did not even suggest he stay in bed.”

What a competent physician she’d found. Galen liked the fellow already.

“He did say Ansel should avoid strenuous activities.”

Galen had to force his mind away from a
certain strenuous activity once Ansel would be in the nursery where he belonged. “He still gets nightmares, though nothing as bad as those about your father. Did you know about them?”

“No, he never spoke about his dreams to me. He always said he could not remember the nightmares, or my father’s accident.”

“I don’t think it was an accident. I intend to send a man back to Penrose to dig around.”

“You mean you think someone tried to kill my father? That he did not die in a freakish riding misfortune?”

“Ansel heard a gunshot. That’s why he’s been kept drugged, so it became part of his bad dreams. And the someone is your uncle. We might never be able to prove it, since
the event occurred so long ago, but I aim to try. I’ll stop in at Bow Street in the morning to start the investigation.”

“Could you ask about Ella’s husband while you are there? She doesn’t even know where he’s been taken, only that there are not many more days before he is transported. Ella swears he is innocent.”

“Yes, I did promise that, didn’t I? Very well, while I am there, I will hire another Runner to locate Mr. Humber, then I’ll send my solicitor, Hemmerdinger, to argue an appeal. It is about time that pompous little puffguts earned his keep. If he won’t subpoena those Penrose Hall estate books now, on my say-so and Ansel’s, Mrs. Hapgood’s, and the cook’s, then I will get a new solicitor. That dastard uncle of yours is going to pay, one way or another.”

“And you are not angry at me any longer?”

“By George, we’d better kiss and make up again.” He gathered her back onto his lap. “Here, I forgive you for driving a man to distraction, and for letting Ansel sleep in your bed instead of me.”

“And I forgive you for acting like a bear with a sore foot. You are wonderful for taking on the burden of my uncle, and Ella’s husband, and for taking such good care of Ansel.”

Soon her skirts were over her knees and his coat and waistcoat had joined the cravat and slippers on the carpet. Galen smiled and said, “This marriage business is fairly easy, isn’t it? I cannot imagine why so many people make such a muddle of it.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Whoever said a picture is worth a thousand words could have written an entire encyclopedia from the works in Viscount Woodbridge’s studio. Ansel was awed, Margot was amazed, and Galen stood awkwardly, apprehensively, in the doorway while they surveyed the vast, sky-lighted room, waiting for their verdict.

“Well, ma’am, do I pass muster?”

Margot went from piles to stacks to portfolios, shaking her head. She was finally used to living with the masters downstairs; now she was married to one! Galen had a style of his own, she decided, which was looser than the classical works, but not as amorphous as a Turner. His work was somewhere between, and eminently pleasing. The watercolors were so pure and jewel-like, they might have been stained glass windows. The oils were rich, glowing still lifes, portraits, landscapes. Was there nothing he could not do? For certain there was little he had not tried or material he had not experimented with. One corner table held a wire armature, with clay in a basin waiting to be sculpted over the form. Blocks of stone and chisels were on a shelf above. No wizard’s workshop was half so fascinating.

Since he had not received an answer, Galen found the latest sketch pads and tore out the pastel drawing of Ansel at the horse fair. Margot was thrilled, as he’d known she would be, but she wanted to flip through the other pages of the pad.

“Later, my dear. We have much to do this morning.”

“They’re all of you, Margot, the first ones,” Ansel piped up. “That’s why he doesn’t want you to see.” Ansel had not
stirred from a collection of small equine paintings. The horses were running and jumping, grazing in meadows, not standing stiff-legged as in so many others of the type.

Ansel was carefully studying each painting, his hand resting on Ruff’s head. Ruff had quickly learned that where the small one was, food was sure to appear. Mrs. Hapgood, Ella, Margot, and Clegg were constantly bringing Ansel treats and sweets. Even Fenning kept a dish of sugarplums nearby, and naturally the boy shared with his new best friend, to Galen’s chagrin.

“How come Attila the Hungry has not eaten Ansel?” he asked now, trying to distract Margot from her intense scrutiny of his work. No one else had been up here in years, and Galen found he did not like the feeling that his very soul was on display. Devil take it, what if she said something damning like “Very nice” or “How lovely”?

What she said was, “Oh, I told Rufus that Ansel was a friend,” without looking up from a stack of pen-and-ink drawings.

“You never told him I was a friend,” he exclaimed in indignation.

“I wasn’t sure you were. Besides, I think Ruff has some herder in him, and he thinks Ansel is one of his lambs.”

“If that menace has shepherd in him, it is from eating the poor herdsman. If he saw a lamb, he’d declare lunchtime.” Galen, of course, had ordered a plate of sweet rolls brought up from the kitchens, for Ansel, he told Fenning. Rufus barely tolerated the viscount in the room with the Penrose pair; Lud knew what he’d do when the rolls were gone. “We’d better hurry along now, my dear. I told Mr. Hemmerdinger to expect us within the hour.”

Margot was still studying the black-and-white sketches. One of them was of her on the stage, in her lace mantilla, playing her guitar. She had not performed that song since long before they were wed, so seeing it warmed her heart, that he’d been interested in her, admired her, months ago. Galen hadn’t offered for her merely out of pique with the
vanished Lady Floria, then, as the handiest, most unsuitable female he could find. Of course he had also depicted flower-sellers and orange-girls, too, but Margot chose to believe that Galen was drawn to her. She smiled.

Ah, she did not hate his work, Galen thought, surprised at the relief he felt. He knew he was a decent enough dauber, and he’d never cared what anyone else thought since he only painted for his own satisfaction, but Margot’s approval mattered a great deal.

He turned to his other critic. “So what do you think, Ansel?”

The boy had not moved from the block of horse paintings. “I still think you don’t use the earth colors enough for contrast, and some of the foreshortening seems skewed. And here, these horses’ heads are much too small.”

“Whoa, bantling. Those horses are my Arabian breeding stock, and they are built differently from what you are used to. After you’ve seen them for yourself at Three Woods, I’ll demand a retraction.”

“Can I ride one?”

Embarrassed at her brother’s presumption, Margot chided, “Ansel!”

Galen only teased. “What, have you outgrown your pony already? Mrs. Shircastle’s cooking is excellent, but I didn’t think it was that good.” He ruffled Ansel’s short hair and added, “Of course you may ride the Arabians, as soon as I am certain you are strong enough. Look, here is Charlemagne, and this one is MacHeath, the two stallions even I have a hard time controlling. There’s Peaches and her foal Schemer, who was always finding a way out of the paddock. The Beau hates getting his feet wet, and…”

Margot listened to her husband and her brother, seeing their closeness, and felt such a burst of affection that she wanted to embrace both of them at once. Ansel would have been mortified, and Galen—Well, they had a lot to do this morning.

Reminded, Galen tried to lead them out of the room, but
Margot was not leaving without her drawing of Ansel. “This one goes in my bedroom, of course. But why are none of your paintings displayed downstairs? Surely they would not look out of place near the masterpieces you have hanging.”

Galen’s heart swelled, not that she thought his work fit to be in the same room as a Rembrandt or a Fra Angelico, but that Margot was fond enough of him to say so. “I never paint for anyone else’s eyes. I think that would ruin my pleasure in creating, wondering if someone else is going to like it.”

Margot tilted her head. “We call that stage fright, my lord. Nevertheless, these florals would look lovely in the morning room, instead of that dreary Zepporini. He might be renowned for his brush strokes, but I cannot admire a gruesome hunt scene while I am having my breakfast. I could embroider cushions to match the paintings, but that would take too long, so we ought to have new floral seat coverings made. Your father asked me to refurbish some of the rooms that have not been touched since your mother’s time, you know, so I am not being officious and encroaching. The horses would be perfect for your book room.”

“No.” Galen realized he’d spoken with unwonted force when Ruff showed his teeth. “No, that is, I do not choose to put myself on public display like a—”

“Like a common performer?” Icicles could have formed on Margot’s voice. “A viscount is above such plebeian pursuits, is that it?”

“Dash it, Margot, I meant no such thing. I was going to say, I will not puff up my paintings like a dilettantish dabbler.”

“No, you’d hide your light under a bushel instead, where no one can enjoy such beautiful works of art. I think you are merely modest, my lord, or afraid of criticism. We’ll see about that. I want at least three of those flower paintings for the morning room, and I mean to have them.”

Ansel had one of the horse pictures, the one with the mare and her foal, in his hand. “May I borrow this one for the
nursery sitting room, Galen? The only things hanging there now are an ugly, muddy watercolor picture of this house and a sampler that’s so ragged I can’t make out the words.”

“That’s Harriet’s work. And no, you may not borrow the painting for your sitting room. The resident of the nursery has to fill the walls with his or her own work. That’s the rule of Woburton House, and I expect you to start shortly. You may have the painting for your own, though, for your bedroom, if you wish.”

“Come on, Ruff, let’s go find the right spot for it!”

When Ansel was gone, Margot turned to Galen with a martial glint in her eyes, “Ansel can have one, but I cannot?”

“Well, perhaps we might negotiate, my dear. If I hung them in my bedroom, would you come visit? Just to see the paintings, of course.”

*

After a rather breathtaking round of negotiations, during which Margot’s hair became so tangled again that Ella clucked her tongue, they all went to the mews behind the house to see if Ansel’s pony had arrived, and to pick out a stall for it. Galen would have left the boy behind then, but Ansel asked if he could go with them to Bow Street, since there would be so much to see along the way. Margot pleaded silently. The house was so big and so new to her brother, and he was so small. Ansel ran back to the house to get a cap when Galen said yes, he could come, and the viscount watched him dash off.

“He’ll do,” he told Margot.

“He’ll do wonderfully.” She quickly kissed his cheek while the groom’s back was turned. “So will you.”

Ansel answered the few brief questions that were all Galen permitted the Bow Street Runner to ask him, then he was sent to watch another officer who was trying to draw a wanted poster of a highwayman from a witness’s description. Ella answered more questions about her husband. Margot supplied the names of her housekeeper and cook, and the vicar at Rossington who could vouch for their honesty.

“Sounds shady to me, all right, m’lord. I doubt your man fired the shot what got the nipper’s da killed, not by hisself. But mayhaps someone in the neighborhood would be talking now, for a bit of blunt.”

Galen placed a heavy leather purse on the battered desk. “Whatever it takes.”

When they left, Galen was that much poorer, but Ansel had earned a shilling, doing a better job at the wanted poster than the Runner.

They were late for the appointment with Mr. Hemmerdinger, but Galen remembered sitting on the unpadded bench waiting for the solicitor, so he was not too concerned. This time, they were shown directly into the inner office, and Hemmerdinger’s corset creaked when he bowed to Lady Woodbridge. Ansel’s eyes grew big, but Galen pinched the back of his neck, so the boy did not say anything.

After Galen explained their mission, the man of affairs harrumphed a few times and said, “Oh, dear. We’ll have to look into your charges immediately.”

“I do not want you to ‘look into’ anything. I want the guardianship of Ansel transferred tomorrow, if not this afternoon.”

“Does that mean Uncle Manfred couldn’t take me away?” Ansel wanted to know.

“It means the magistrate will be taking your uncle away if he so much as speaks your name. Which means you’ll be stuck with me for governor, lad, and I mean to be a strict one, too. No gambling, cursing, or womanizing. Understand?”

Ansel laughed, as Galen had planned, so he would not dwell on the past and his repulsive relative. “But what about Penrose Hall?” he asked.

“We’ll have to wait for the estate books to be examined, but I’d wager there are enough discrepancies in the accounting that Manfred will give up that trusteeship also, rather than be brought up on charges of embezzlement and mismanagement. We’ll hire an honest manager, and visit
ourselves to make sure the estate and its people are restored to good condition, the way your father would have wished.”