The Wrong Woman (9 page)

Burnley opened another door just off the front hall. He gestured toward it and pronounced in cultured tones, “The hall is yours, Lord Revere. Please call me if you desire refreshments.”

“Thank you, Burnley, as always.”

The butler smiled, inclined his head, and then stepped out of the room, gently closing the door as he did so.

Lord Revere turned to Isobel with a broad smile on his face. It was almost the one she had seen the other evening.

“Well...?” He gestured to the room behind him so that Isobel finally looked. She gasped at the sight before her.

She and Lord Revere stood in a grand hall, at least three times the size of the front entrance but decorated in much the same manner. The hall was longer than it was wide and must have stretched for the entire length of the house. It rose two floors above them. A richly colored and highly polished marble covered the walls. At regular intervals down the length of both sides were carefully carved pillars that stretched all the way to the ceiling. It seemed to be an ancient Greek building right inside of the house. Isobel was overawed at the sight.

And it only grew more impressive. Sunlight streamed in through large windows placed high in the walls. The sun caught the bright marble and left them without the need for candles, though Isobel did notice a chandelier of fantastical size suspended from the high ceiling.

It all had the effect of making her feel quite small. She had fancied herself, after ten years in town, quite a jaded person, thought she had seen everything. But this hall was... marvelous. It was the only word that came into Isobel's mind.

Isobel did not know how long she stood there taking in all of the intricate and delicate details of the room. Like the careful scrolling at the top of each pillar or the marbled pattern of the floor.

“Your eyes are like two saucers, Miss Masters. I take it you are impressed with my little surprise.”

She blinked rapidly at him, as if just waking from a dream or trying to clear a mirage from her eyes. “I am certainly impressed, Lord Revere. I don't know what to say.”

His sudden smile seemed brighter than the sunlight shining off the marble walls. “I had the same reaction the first time I stepped foot in here. Quite astonished.”

“Where are we?”

“A little place I have discovered on my adventures through the city. The owner is a rich man who likes his privacy and his art.”

“So this is not a public museum?”

“Oh, no,” Lord Revere laughed, the warm, deep sound echoing down the hall. “I doubt the collector would ever agree to that. His Grace hates the museums where society people flock only to spout the same old opinions about the same tired works of art. He — and I join him in this — despises those books that tell everyone what to think. I cannot imagine him ever opening this place to the public and having to hear that inane talk.”

“But...” Isobel was still confused. “If this is not public...”

“How did I gain access?” Lord Revere finished her sentence. “I made friends with the owner. He allows me to come and go whenever I wish.”

Isobel looked carefully at the man before her. Lord Revere was a puzzle. This afternoon so far he had remained cold and distant. But now some fresh enthusiasm and excitement animated him.

“I see that I puzzle you, Miss Masters,” an impish smile curved his lips. “In spite of my reputation, I do not spend all of my time at the club drinking and gambling or frightening aspiring society girls.” He frowned, growing serious. “Only most of it...”

Isobel could not help the laughter that burst from inside of her. A joke! At his own expense. He grinned at her now and Isobel decided that she liked him very much when he smiled. It softened him in a very pleasing way.

“So you are impressed, Miss Masters?” The teasing tone of the other evening was in his voice. She was unable to resist the temptation to tease him back.

“Only a little.” She threw the words over her shoulder at him as she moved toward the statue closest to them. She was pleased to hear him chuckle.

“The hall is ours for as long as we want it. Shall we explore and see what treasures we might find?” Lord Revere put his hands comfortably behind his back and began to stroll down the hall. Isobel moved to follow him, excited now to see everything that was in this large place and confident the two might avoid more awkward pauses and vain attempts at conversation.

* * * * *

Miles loved the peace and light here. It was a rare treat for a man who lived in the bustling, nighttime world of London society. He’d sensed that Miss Catherine would enjoy a place like this. She had taken such innocent joy from the ball and the musicale and their drive in the park. Miles had found it invigorating to experience the world again through her young eyes. He had not felt such excitement in a very long time.

He’d also wished her to see a different, more private side of himself, the side that did not always have a cold face and unsmiling lips. Here in this place, Miles felt a little freer to express who he used to be before Wesley’s accident. He supposed it was a kind of a test for Miss Catherine, to see if she might be more than just a pretty bride. Miles had seen his friends’ marriages, though he knew he did not deserve it, he would try to find something different, something more meaningful than that.

But instead he was here with Miss Masters. And he was still not quite sure how or why that had happened. He thought he knew. It was his own guilty conscience about the other night when Jack had defended Miss Masters and he had not.

In his own way, Miles was trying to prove that he could do something nice for her. One afternoon to help undo some of the damage he'd caused her over the last ten years. He was eager to impress upon her that he was not the unfeeling cad who'd stood by while his friends insulted someone he was coming to know as a kind and generous person.

Isobel Masters was starting to seem more like the “good sort” Jack had said she was. Yes, she could be clumsy. He'd experienced that first hand. But it was only a small part of who she was, a part she seemed to accept with gracious resignation. And she’d been very kind to Jack. Not everyone would tolerate, or indeed engage, his brother as she had done. Besides, Miles knew he would need her approval if he was to marry her sister. The women were very close to each other and he could not imagine one displeasing the other, especially in something like marriage. So today Miles would make it his task to prove he was a decent man, worthy of marriage to Miss Catherine.

Miles stopped his strolling through the hall and turned back to see where Miss Masters was. She was looking at an ancient sculpture of a woman and seemed to be as oblivious to him as he had just been to her.

Miles watched as Miss Masters examined the piece of art. There was not much that was entirely remarkable about it, except, of course, that it came from a long time ago. That made it precious. The stone had been carefully transported to this hall and mounted on a pedestal to stand for the rest of her days. Many times, he had stood there in the same spot as Miss Masters stood now and admired the statue’s unchanging face and figure.

But now he contrasted the cold, unmoving marble with the woman in front of the statue. The two made a remarkable difference. One was the ideal of feminine beauty both ancient and modern: lithe limbs, elegant posture, perfectly formed features that would never age. The other was a laughingstock of town society: plump and clumsy. And yet, it was the live woman who held his attention, whose face changed each moment she looked at the carved marble in front of her.

He examined Miss Masters as she looked up to the face of the statue. It was as if the two women were about to speak to each other. Miles watched as a faint smile curved over Miss Masters’ lips. She reached out and touched the half-exposed foot at the bottom of the statue. It was an impulse he had shared but had never dared to do.

Miss Masters must have felt his eyes on her. She turned to him with a guilty expression on her face.

“I could not help it,” she shrugged. “This place is magnificent, Lord Revere.” She began to move toward where he stood, her eyes shone in the glow of the reflected sunlight.

“I must agree with you, Miss Masters.” She had reached his side. They both turned toward the painting that hung on the wall next to where Miles had unknowingly stopped.

“Oh, how charming!” Miss Masters exclaimed.

The painting showed two young boys, close to each other in age. They looked quite seriously out of the painting, but one could almost see a glimmer of mischief in the younger one's eyes. The older boy stood with his arm around the shoulders of the younger. It was no remarkable scene, but Miles loved it because it reminded him of his brother Wesley. This was also the reason he hated the painting. It made him think of the past.

Whenever he stood here, Miles had the same impulse that seemed to seize Miss Masters now, to move closer and look more carefully.

“I should like to know these two little boys, I think,” she declared.

“Should you?” Miles stepped closer to her, eager to hear her thoughts.

She hummed in affirmation. “They seem like they would be great fun.”

“Do they?”

“Oh, yes! The younger one has mischief in his eyes, like he is impatient with having his portrait drawn.” She gestured to where she was looking. “He would much rather be running through the trees behind them there and chasing his dog.”

“His dog?” Miles had never seen one in this picture. He leaned closer to the portrait and squinted. Miss Masters laughed.

“Don't strain your eyes, Lord Revere, the dog is not in the picture. But there must certainly be one somewhere close by. A faithful companion like a dog is a staple of boyhood, I believe.”

It had been. Miles and Wesley had driven their mother to insanity by bringing home all the stray dogs they could find. And they had dearly loved to run through the woods with them. Miles remembered the joyful freedom of those afternoons.

Miss Masters continued. “Yes, the younger would run freely about if he could. But he sits as still as he can because his brother is there. And he wants to be just like his brother.” Miles’ face twisted with emotion. He was grateful she was so engaged in the art because he was having a hard time composing his features into their normal, bored look. The memories of his own lost younger brother were wreaking havoc on his normally inscrutable expression.

“And the older?” He asked the question almost in a whisper.

“Ah, the older,” she sighed. “He feels the same way as his brother. He would also be happier running and playing with the dogs. Only he has learned better than his younger brother how to hide this feeling away. Because, of course, being the older brother, he will bear the responsibility for the family. And that means he must lead a sober life.”

Miles felt as if Miss Masters was speaking directly about him. She'd invented a story about a painting and it had held all the truth of his life. Miles was too full of emotion to speak.

“But he is not completely lost.” Miss Masters turned her face to Miles. A beam of sunlight from the high windows had shifted just to where they were standing, so when she turned, her eyes caught the light.

Blue. Her eyes are blue.

He stared, trying to decide if the blue was more calming or more animating. His pulse quickened with a new awareness of the woman in front of him. He could not remember seeing eyes like hers before. Gradually, he realized she had spoken.

“What?” He spoke quietly.

“The older brother. He may still be redeemed.” She tilted her head away and the physical effect of the sunlight was gone, though his heart still beat hard in his chest. He tried to swallow the emotion.

“How?”

“If only we might convince him — just this once — to forget that he bears so much responsibility and run off into the trees with his brother and their dogs.”

She gave a satisfied smile as if the happy ending she had invented for the two boys.

“Remarkable, Miss Masters,” he said, as they walked further down the hall.

“What?”

“The story you have just invented for those two. I have seen that painting a dozen times over and never thought anything like that.”

“It is most likely a sad by-product of reading too many novels,” she laughed. “I see stories everywhere.”

They continued to stroll through the gallery, stopping now and again as Miss Masters exclaimed over this painting or that sculpture. Miles found himself constantly delighted with her responses and happy to see the art he loved through new eyes. She had a story for everything and for the first time that he could remember, he wanted to listen.

They had just started to turn back toward the entrance when Miss Masters gasped. Miles turned swiftly toward her, alarmed. She clapped her hands together and rushed toward a large painting a few alcoves away.

“The Corsair!”

She stopped and turned to Miles, as if she was waiting expectantly for an answer to some question she had not asked aloud. The painting was taller than he was. In it, a solitary man stared straight out of the frame at them. The man wore the exotic garb of someone from the East. His face was tanned with exposure and, though he looked rough, there appeared an irresistible smile on his lips. His long, dark hair was tangled into knots that blew around his face.

“A pirate!” Miss Masters said the word breathlessly, as if delighted with what she saw before her.

“Do you like pirates, Miss Masters?” Miles could not help the burble of laughter that bubbled up in his throat.

“Oh yes! Another product of too much reading.” She looked up at him. “In my practical mind, I know that to meet one would not be pleasant. But in my romantic mind, I think it would be exciting.”

“Yes, he is a dashing creature, isn't he?” Miles teased.

“I know you are laughing at me, Lord Revere. But I do think that he is... In fact,” Miss Masters looked back and forth from the portrait to Miles a few times. “In fact, he somewhat resembles you, Lord Revere. Or perhaps it is the other way 'round. Longer hair and some exotic garb and the picture would be complete!”