And while he was greatly relieved on both accounts, he didn’t care to examine why.
His coach drew up to Robert’s town house, although he supposed it was actually Hugh’s house now. Strange to think of it that way.
Getting out of the coach was something of a struggle, but Richard, the footman, knew better than to offer assistance. Any helping hand he extended was likely to feel the smack of Ben’s cane. He clambered out, wondering how the hell he’d been reduced to a caricature of a dowager viscountess.
He walked to the front door and was immediately admitted by Hugh’s butler, who’d known Ben since he was a lad. “Good afternoon, my lord. I assume you’re here to see Lord Biltmore?”
Actually, he’d prefer it if Hugh happened to be on an errand. He wasn’t much in the mood for a social visit. Come to think of it, he never was. “No need to disturb him if he’s occupied, Randalls. I actually only need to look for a few documents in Robert’s study.”
The butler took his hat and hung it on a hook near the door. “The study is just where the master happens to be.
I’ll let him know you’re here.” He dipped another bow before heading down the hall.
Ben tried to wrap his mind around the fact that Hugh was in Robert’s study. In the months since Robert’s death, Hugh had avoided it. Ben had taken care of all pressing estate issues and closed the door behind him when he left, assuming that all would remain as it was.
But nothing was the same as before.
A minute later, Hugh ambled down the hall. He walked like his older brother had, except that he lacked Robert’s confidence and bravado. But maybe that, too, would change with time. “Foxburn! An unexpected treat, this—seeing you so soon after the wonderful evening at Vauxhall. Randalls said you’re searching for some papers? I’ve been slowly familiarizing myself with the various accounting books and a few contracts. Is there something I can help you find?”
“No.” He hadn’t expected Hugh to be interested. In the past he’d been all too happy to give Ben free rein of the study, rummaging to his heart’s content. “It’s… something of a personal nature. Nothing you need to worry yourself about, but I wonder if I could see his receipts from earlier this year.”
“Of course, of course,” Hugh replied, all solicitousness. “Come this way. Can I get you a drink, some refreshments?”
“I’ll pour myself a brandy from the sideboard in Robert’s… er… your study.”
Hugh looked at him strangely but ushered him into the room and waved him to the chair behind the desk. “I’ve filed most of the receipts in the top right drawer. Letters and other correspondence are in the small wooden box on
the shelf behind you. I didn’t feel right reading Robert’s personal letters, but I couldn’t bring myself to destroy them either.”
Ben turned and stared at the little chest. “The box was a fine idea.”
Hugh beamed as if the offhand compliment was the highest praise. “If you’re sure you don’t need any assistance—”
“No.”
His face fell a little. “Very good, then. I’ll leave you to your task. Take as much time as you need. I shall be in the drawing room if you need me.” He swept a stack of papers off the desk as he left and quietly closed the door behind him.
Ben shook off his melancholy. He was here for a reason, and Daphne was counting on him.
But still, first things first.
He lumbered to the sideboard and poured himself a healthy splash of brandy, relieved to see the familiar decanter and glasses. He’d shared many a drink with Robert in this room, from this tray.
The receipts were stacked in the drawer, just as Hugh had said, in neatly bound bundles. Robert certainly hadn’t done that. And neither had Ben. Perhaps Hugh was more competent than either Robert or he had given him credit for.
He untied the first bundle and rifled through the receipts. The papers itemized groceries from Fortnum & Mason, books from Hatchards, and boots from Hoby’s, and dozens of other purchases. All were dated the previous month, and a quick check of the next bundle revealed they were separated by month.
Ben counted backward and reached for the twelfth bundle from the top. Christ, had it really been almost a year since Robert died? And if so, why was he still so miserable?
The stack contained nothing of interest, just more incidental expenditures—hats, fabric, snuff, and the like. He pressed his fingertips to his forehead. Robert obviously didn’t buy the painting of Daphne on Oxford Street, so how had he come to possess it?
Ben stood and wandered back to the sideboard where he poured another drink. As he swirled the amber liquid in his glass, he scanned the shelves before him. Miniature portraits of Robert’s mother and father, both of whom had died when their carriage overturned five years ago, stared back at him, seemingly pleading that he take care of their only living son. A portrait of Robert’s older brother who’d died two years ago after falling off his horse. The accident was the reason that a few short months after purchasing his commission, Robert had unexpectedly become a viscount.
Ben, on the other hand, was already an earl when he’d purchased his commission—a fact that had sparked endless speculation about his sanity among his friends and acquaintances. His decision had earned him censure among most of the
ton
. The only person who looked favorably upon his choice was the distant cousin who stood to inherit if Ben died fighting for his country. But Ben and Robert had always done everything together; Ben saw no good reason why his title should prevent him from standing by his friend.
Small statuettes of Egyptian gods stood guard over another shelf. And as Ben marveled over the complete lack of dust, he wondered, how well had he really known Robert?
During their time on the battlefield, Ben thought they’d covered every conceivable subject: philosophy, politics, religion, and death. They’d discussed strategies for avoiding marriage as long as possible. And they’d almost killed each other in an argument over who had the better left hook. Turned out Robert did, and Ben had a black, swollen eye for the better part of a week. All that history together, and yet, Robert had never mentioned the portrait now in Ben’s study or the beautiful woman in it.
On the shelf to the right of the statuettes was a neat row of leather-bound books, ledgers if he wasn’t mistaken. He set his glass on the desk behind him, took one of the ledgers, and opened it to a random page. November, 1814. A year and a half ago.
The timing seemed about right.
Unfortunately, there were few notations about the nature of the purchases. Each entry had a name—or, more often, initials—and the amount paid or owed.
After he’d scanned a mere three pages, the numbers seemed to move before his eyes like ants swarming a picnic. He rubbed his eyelids. There had to be a better way to track the source of the painting. The artist himself couldn’t be too difficult to find, even if he was touring the Continent. At least Ben had a name to work with.
He slammed the ledger shut and went to return it, but a paper that had been tucked between the pages floated to the floor. His stiff leg made reaching for it awkward, and he was grateful no one was there to witness his epic struggle to pick up a damned piece of parchment.
The scrawling handwriting read simply, “English Beauty Portrait.”
And was signed “Charlton.”
Charlton.
He knew that name. And he knew where to find him.
After heaving himself to his feet, Ben shoved the slip of paper into his pocket and left the study.
The glass of brandy remained on the desk, forgotten.
Undertone: (1) The hue of paint when it is spread quite thinly, especially when brushed onto a white canvas. (2) The underlying suggestion in one’s words or actions, as in
The hastily scrawled note held an urgent undertone.
B
en wrote Daphne a note that morning, advising her that he would be at Hyde Park between four and five o’clock that afternoon. If she could arrange to be there, perhaps they could take a stroll together.
And so, he sat on a park bench in the shade of a fig tree, ignoring the pain in his leg and desperately searching the meandering pathways for a glimpse of sunlight.
He only had to wait a quarter of an hour. Flanked by the Sherbourne sisters, she strolled toward him, the picture of propriety in a white dress and a cloak of yellow and blue silk, topped with a fetching bonnet. The almost imperceptible sway of her hips and the graceful way she moved her hands as she conversed with her friends made his pulse speed up. It seemed impossible that someone like her should be oblivious to her own beauty, and yet, he’d swear she was.
For a split second, he considered tossing his cane behind a bush. Most of the men milling about the park carried them; the difference was they didn’t
need
them. Ben preferred not to use it in front of Daphne, but since walking for any distance without it was nigh impossible, he swallowed his pride and used the blasted cane to hoist himself off the stone bench.
“Good afternoon, ladies.”
“Lord Foxburn, what a pleasure,” declared Lady Olivia. The brunette was pretty and good-humored but lacked an element essential for survival in the
ton
—disingenuousness. She couldn’t hide an emotion if her Almack’s vouchers depended on it. At the moment she exuded breathless excitement. Her sister, the quiet redhead, was the insightful sort. He doubted much escaped her notice, a fact that made her slightly frightening.
“The pleasure is mine.” Surprisingly, he meant it.
“Thank you for suggesting a walk in the park,” Daphne said. Even her voice seemed tinged with sunshine. “It’s the perfect day to escape the confines of the drawing room.”
“Agreed,” Lady Olivia chimed in. “I spent so many hours embroidering napkins this morning that my fingertips are tender and my eyes are crossed. If I so much as see another skein of thread, I believe I shall cast myself into the Serpentine.”
“Shall we stroll in that direction?” he suggested with a wave of his cane toward the river. “I don’t recommend a swim, but perhaps we might gawk at the swans?”
“That sounds perfect!” exclaimed Lady Olivia, and immediately linked arms with her sister. She set off
toward the river at a good clip, leaving him and Daphne to trail several yards behind.
Since he held his cane in his right hand, he offered Daphne his left arm. The slight pressure of her hand on his sleeve almost made him want to grin, which was not at all his custom.
Dappled light played upon her cheeks as she gazed up at him. “How is your leg feeling today?”
He stiffened. “I didn’t ask you here to discuss my blasted leg.”
“I was just making small talk,” she said gently. “That’s what polite people do.”
“By now you should know that etiquette lessons are wasted on me.”
“I am a hopeless optimist,” Daphne confessed with a shrug. “People can change, you know.”
“Some people don’t want to,” he said. But he was thinking that if anyone in the world
could
change him, she might be the one.
“We shall see. Have you learned something about the painting?”
“I have the name of the person from whom Robert obtained it.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Who?”
“Lord Charlton.”
“I don’t know the name. Are you acquainted with him?”
“He’s a baron with an estate in Gloucestershire, not far from Robert’s—er, Hugh’s—country house. We hunted with him once or twice.”
“Is he… in town?”
“I spoke with a few people at White’s last evening. Charlton’s at his estate—apparently, he rarely leaves it.”
“That fits with what Thomas said about his patron.” Her face turned pale, and Ben wondered if she realized that she had a death grip on his arm.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I suppose so. It’s just that until now, all I knew was that my portrait was out in the world somewhere. To learn that it could be in the possession of a specific person at a particular location is disconcerting.”
“Yes, but it’s also progress.”
A governess chasing her young charge darted across the path in front of them; Ben drew up short and pulled Daphne back. Her side bumped innocently into his, stirring all sorts of not-so-innocent feelings in him.
She quickly put a respectable distance between them and asked, “Do you suppose Lord Charlton still has the other portrait?”
“It’s possible. If not, I hope he’ll be able to tell me who does.”
“Did you find a receipt?”
“Not exactly, just a slip of paper with the name on it and a general description of the painting.”
“What shall we do next?” she asked.
He turned and gave her what he hoped was a stern look. “
We
will not do anything.
I
will attempt to discover the whereabouts of the second portrait.”
“How?”
“By paying the baron a visit.”
She blinked as though she had not heard him correctly. “You cannot just knock on his front door and inquire whether he possesses a scandalous painting.”
He smirked at that. “It may surprise you to know I can employ subtlety when circumstances require it.”
“Can you at least tell me what you plan to do?”
“I suggested to Hugh that we visit his country house and address any matters that need to be resolved. He hasn’t been there since Robert—He hasn’t been there in several months. Once I’m there, I can invite Lord Charlton to dinner and probe for information.”
“Thank you. It could work.”
“
Could
work? Your confidence in me is awe-inspiring.”
She stared down at the pebbled path for several moments, apparently deep in thought. At last, she said, “I’ve done some research on remedies for limb pain.”
“I see. And do these remedies involve satanic rituals? Virginal sacrifice?”
Color rushed into her cheeks. “No, I thought perhaps you should try something
new
.”
“There is nothing new, trust me. Hugh and I leave for Biltmore Manor at the end of the week. I don’t intend to stay for more than four or five days. I’ll have news for you when I return.”
Daphne stopped walking and faced him. “I wish there was something
I
could do.”