A Most Novel Revenge (21 page)

“An idea has just come to me. We may not need your evening gown after all.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, you see, since you said that you did not wish to be painted in the nude, I thought that perhaps I should paint you in a scene with a horse, perhaps in riding clothes? Would you come and look at the horses? There is one in the stable that would suit your coloring perfectly.”

This was very bizarre, but he seemed entirely in earnest. And surely the stables would not be completely deserted at this hour of the morning.

“Very well. Lead the way.”

He smiled and turned without further comment. I followed him into the stables and toward a stall at the end. It housed a sleek, pale gray gelding which was, admittedly, a very beautiful animal. I supposed if one was to hear that an animal complemented them, at least it was a fine specimen.

“Stand here, will you?” he asked, grasping me by the shoulders and moving me to one side to stand before the stall. His eyes raked over me, from head to toe and back again. Somehow I felt as though I had ceased to be a woman and had become simply an object to be painted.

The horse, however, seemed unimpressed by Mr. Winters and his artistic visions. With a mouthful of hay, the horse came up behind me and sniffed at my hair.

I turned, laughing, spoiling, I am sure, the artistic mood of the moment.

“Hello there,” I said, patting the horse's nose. “What a beauty you are.”

“It seems that horse would not be a good poser,” Mr. Winters said.

I turned to look at him over my shoulder. “You don't think so?”

Mr. Winters shook his head. “No, I don't think it would work. I should love to paint you on horseback, but the horse won't do. Besides, it's too cold, and the lighting wouldn't be right in here. I don't suppose we could bring the horse into the conservatory.”

“No, I don't suppose we could.”

He shrugged. “Well, I suppose evening dress will have to do.”

He came up beside me then, very close, and reached out to pat the horse's nose. He stood so near me that his arm brushed mine, and I wondered again how aware he was of social niceties. Was he making advances as Milo had suggested, or was he simply friendly and somewhat oblivious to the way in which he might be perceived?

There was a clearing of the throat, and we turned to see a gentleman standing behind us. Based on his dress, I assumed he must be the groom.

“Oh, good morning,” I said.

“Good morning, madam. Sir.” He was watching us with a vaguely suspicious expression on his face, as though we were intruders in his domain, which, in a way, we were.

“We were just admiring the horse,” I said.

It seemed that speaking of horses was the right thing to do, for he came a bit closer, his troubled expression easing.

“That's Miss Lucinda's horse, Romeo.”

“He's very beautiful.”

He nodded. “He's a fine animal, if a bit skittish.”

“He seems quite calm to me,” Mr. Winters observed.

The groom frowned. “He may seem that way now, sir, but you've yet to see him when he sees a rat. Miss Lucinda said there was one ran across his stall the other day, and he was likely to kick his way out. She was worried that he might hurt himself. Miss Lucinda would never forgive me if that happened.”

“Well, I'm sure you take very good care of him,” I said.

The groom smiled proudly. “I certainly do my best, madam.”

“My husband told me that you keep an excellent stable.” He hadn't, of course, said it exactly in those words, but a light compliment from Milo was a strong compliment indeed where horses were concerned.

The groom's expression brightened. “Is your husband Mr. Ames?”

“Yes.”

“He's a fine horseman, madam. A very fine horseman. And a good judge of horseflesh.”

“Yes, he is very fond of horses.”

“He said that you might like to ride, madam. Come out any time, and I'd be happy to saddle a horse for you.”

“Thank you. I shall.”

Having wished the groom a good day, Mr. Winters and I went back into the house. He talked animatedly of his plans for our session that afternoon and seemed much more interested in preparing the tools of his trade than in eating breakfast. We parted ways in the entrance hall, and I went into the breakfast room after discarding my outdoor attire. I was surprised to see Milo sitting at the table. In an extremely unlikely turn of events, he appeared to have beaten all the others to breakfast.

“Good morning, darling,” he said, rising as I came into the room.

“Good morning,” I replied. “You're up rather early.”

“The bed was much too cold without you. The temperature dropped at least twenty degrees when you left.”

“I couldn't sleep,” I said, as I went to the sideboard to fill my plate. I had not had much of an appetite as of late, but the fresh air and exercise seemed to have done the trick, and I was suddenly famished.

“You've been out in the stables this morning, have you?” Milo asked. I wondered if he had wandered outside and seen me. I certainly hadn't seen him.

“Yes, Mr. Winters and I have been discussing my portrait.”

“Indeed. Have you agreed to pose for him?”

“Yes.” I took a seat beside him at the table, not bothering to inform my husband that I would be posing in an evening gown rather than in nothing at all.

“Should I be jealous?”

“That won't be necessary,” I said, spreading blackberry jam across my toast. “Mr. Winters behaves with perfect propriety.”

“Yes, I'm sure he does. By the by, you have straw in your hair,” Milo observed.

I turned to him, flushing at the implication.

He leaned toward me, and reached up to pluck a piece of it from my hair. It must have lodged there when the horse had sniffed at me.

“Rolling in the hay with the handsome artist? Really, darling, how cliché of you.”

I was about to retort, but it was just then that Beatrice Kline came into the breakfast room. I was certain she had overheard Milo's remark, but she was too polite to act as though she had. What was worse, there had been nothing in Milo's tone to indicate that he was joking.

I shot daggers at Milo for his ill-timed bon mot, and turned to Beatrice.

“Good morning, Mrs. Kline.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Ames. Mr. Ames.” She went to the sideboard without further comment and began to fill her plate.

“It's a lovely morning,” I said. “Cold, but lovely.”

“Yes, the weather has continued much the same the past month,” she said, taking a seat at the opposite side of the table. “Has my brother been down yet?”

“I saw him when I was out walking this morning. I suppose he may come in soon.”

“Perhaps. Reggie walks for hours at times.”

“Well, if you ladies will excuse me,” Milo said, rising from his seat. “I feel as though I could do with some fresh air of my own. It seems to have worked wonders on you, darling.”

I frowned at him, still annoyed that his teasing should have been overheard by Beatrice, and was further annoyed when he winked at me as he left the room.

At last, however, I had found myself alone with Beatrice Kline. She was engrossed in buttering her toast in an extremely methodical manner, which gave me the opportunity to study her.

She really was a very striking woman. Her short, dark hair complemented the smooth lines of her face, and her eyes were large and dark, framed with thick lashes. Perhaps it was not entirely surprising that men might lose their heads over her. I wondered, however, if she had always been so cool and forbidding. Was it this trait that had drawn men to her, eager to break through the ice of her reserve? Or was it, perhaps, that the coldness had come after everything else?

I was not entirely sure how to approach the subject of Edwin Green's death with Beatrice. After all, how did one go about questioning a near stranger about past love affairs? I was certain she was bound to be reticent. It was, after all, common knowledge that she had been at the center of the dispute between Edwin Green and Bradford Glenn. With one dead and other publicly accused, she had married a third gentleman not long afterward.

It was all rather muddled, and I somehow thought it was not something she would like to revisit. I wondered how much of it was true and how much had been embellished for the sake of good fiction. There was, I supposed, only one way to find out.

She appeared indifferent to my presence, but I suspected the indifference would not last once I began asking impertinent questions.

I hesitated a moment, trying to determine what might be the best approach. Beatrice Kline did not seem one to mince words. Therefore, I decided to go with the most direct approach and hope it worked in my favor.

“I've been reading
The Dead of Winter
,” I said.

This caught her attention. She looked up from her plate, her face suddenly an expressionless mask. Even her eyes seemed veiled and distant.

This was, I realized, the instinctual response whenever I mentioned the book to one of the people who had been entangled in its pages. It was as though they steeled themselves to what might be coming.

It must have been a dreadful thing to have had always to remain on one's guard, waiting for the moment when someone might mention it. I could understand why they had all hated Isobel Van Allen. She had, in essence, changed their lives forever. The stigma would fade in time, perhaps, but it would never be completely gone.

Beatrice did not respond to my statement, but waited for me to continue. It was a strategic move on her part, holding her defense until she knew what the attack might be.

I felt suddenly a bit guilty for approaching her this way. No one liked to be reminded of past incidents they had worked hard to forget. It was too late now, however. There was nothing to be done but to plunge ahead.

“I don't believe half of it to be true,” I told her lightly.

“Most of it is true,” she replied, watching me very steadily. Her answer surprised me. I had given her the opportunity to dismiss it as rumor and blatant falsehood, but she had not taken it.

If she was going to be straightforward, then so should I. “Do you believe that Bradford Glenn was involved in the death of Mr. Green?”

It seemed as though she paled slightly, but her expression did not change. “At the time, it seemed as though it might be possible. They had always hated one another. He said in his suicide note that he was innocent, but he might have been lying.”

“Or perhaps it was just an unfortunate accident, after all.”

A small, humorless smile tipped up the corner of her mouth. “I don't think you believe that any more than I do, Mrs. Ames.”

“Were they both in love with you?” I asked suddenly. It was a terribly bold thing to ask, and yet I felt somehow that the answer was important.

She seemed to consider the question. When at last she spoke, there was a note of sadness in her voice.

“I don't know what we were, Mrs. Ames. We were all very young and reckless. I was, for a time, fond of both of them, but it was never more than that. I wasn't thinking serious thoughts about the future. Perhaps I played them against one another when I could. Girls that age are often cruel, and I'm afraid I was no exception. It was all a game to me. Life was such a grand game.”

“Did Bradford Glenn really try to strangle you?” As soon as the words had passed my lips, I was shocked at my boldness. Beatrice, however, did not seem surprised that I had been audacious enough to bring up the events of that shocking chapter of Isobel's book.

Her eyes met mine steadily. “Yes. In a moment of passion, he forgot himself. But that doesn't mean he killed Edwin.”

“No, of course not.”

“It was a great shock to me when Edwin died.”

“I imagine it is painful to relive it.”

She looked past me, her eyes looking out the window and into the past. “People usually assume that one would want to forget something like that. But that isn't the case. I only wish that I could remember. I've thought about it again and again, and I just don't know what happened that night. I remember Bradford and Edwin fought in the summerhouse. They had never much cared for one another. After that, I have only a hazy memory of walking back to the house.”

“I see.”

She looked up at me then, her cool eyes brimming with some sudden emotion.

“So you see, living with the memory of a tragedy is not the worst thing, Mrs. Ames. It's far worse to live with only the vague outline of one, with a hazy memory of something that should be imprinted on one's brain. It feels like a betrayal, somehow, not knowing what happened that night. Edwin didn't deserve to die the way he did. Someone should have been with him. I might have prevented it.”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

She blinked, as though she was surprised to realize what all she had just told me, and the veil dropped back over her eyes.

“But we all have our tragedies, I suppose. At least I was lucky enough to find my husband. He understands me,” she said with a soft smile, and for just a moment some of the sadness faded from her face. “I think true understanding is better than a fierce passion. I know that, no matter what happens, he will be by my side. It's comforting, knowing that.”

I could sympathize with the sentiment. There had been many times during the course of my marriage when I would have much preferred steadiness to the uncertainty of passion. Now that my marriage had begun to settle into something resembling normalcy, I was very much relieved.

“I hope you will be very happy, Mrs. Kline,” I said, and I meant it. I did not feel as Miss Van Allen did, that everyone must suffer forever for what had happened in the past. I hoped that everyone here at Lyonsgate would be able to move forward, to live the lives they had always imagined.

Even as I thought this, however, I realized that it could not be that way. At least one person here would not live happily ever after, not if justice was served.