Ben hadn’t thought the baron capable of stringing together several coherent sentences, but clearly he was having a lucid moment. How to steer the conversation in the direction of the portraits? “Did you see much of Robert, in the months before he went off to war?”
The older man bit his dry, cracked lip, and Ben could almost see him searching for the memories, like someone rifling through the contents of a full trunk. “I don’t think so. Though, there was the one night we played cards.”
“Will you tell us about it?”
“We were at The Thorny Rose, one of the village taverns—Robert, Hawkins, Ludwig, and I. Had a few pints in us, we did, and Robert suggested we play a few rounds of cards. Just a friendly game of vingt-et-un. We weren’t playing deep. At first. Then Hawkins—he’s a squire who lives a couple miles south of here—he said he wanted me to wager my English Beauty paintings.”
The hairs on the back of Ben’s neck stood on end. “What English Beauty paintings?”
“That’s what I call them,” Charlton explained. “I had a
pair of portraits. Painted by a London artist, of a golden young woman.”
“Who is she?” Hugh asked, mesmerized.
Charlton smiled wistfully. “I don’t think the woman really exists, if you want to know the truth. Probably a figment of the artist’s imagination. Only a goddess could radiate light like that. Old Hawkins, he wanted those portraits in the worst way. I said no, of course. I wasn’t going to wager them. But then I started drinking more, and losing more, and before I knew it, I’d bet
English Beauty on a Chaise Lounge
.”
Was the old man completely lacking imagination? “That’s what you call it?”
“Seems obvious, I know, but it’s an apt description.”
“Did Hawkins win the painting?” Hugh had sat in a chair close to the bed and was perched on the edge of it, clinging to every word.
“No.” The old man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Robert did. A bet is a bet, and although Robert probably wouldn’t have held me to it, I sent the portrait over the next day. One of the hardest things I ever did besides burying my dear wife, God rest her soul.”
“I don’t recall seeing it at Biltmore Manor. I’ll have to search the storage rooms,” Hugh said.
“It’s not in a storage room.” The baron smiled knowingly. “Robert was half in love with the woman in the portrait. Foolish—like a mortal falling in love with Aphrodite. Anyway, he told me he’d taken it to town. Said I was welcome to visit her anytime.” The balding man laughed at the memory.
Ben wanted to laugh, too. This was almost too easy. “Where is the other portrait of the English Beauty?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The man’s face turned red as a beet.
“You said you had a pair of portraits. What became of the other one? Do you still have it?”
“Aye,” he confessed. “I keep it hidden.” He craned his wrinkled neck from side to side, as though a French spy might swoop in at any moment. “Things have been disappearing around here. I cannot take any chances with the English Beauty.”
“What sorts of things have disappeared?” Hugh asked, his eyes round as saucers.
“Small heirlooms. Cuff links. My pocket watch.”
“That sounds serious, Charlton,” Hugh said. “Have you informed the magistrate?”
“No, and I won’t either. Rowland says I’ve just misplaced a few things and that they’re bound to turn up. The magistrate would say my brain is addled, and I suppose he’d be right. But I couldn’t bear it if anything were to happen to the portrait, so I’m keeping it safe.”
“It wouldn’t be easy to sneak a portrait of any substantial size out of the house,” Ben mused, “but it doesn’t hurt to keep it tucked away. Very wise, if you ask me. It
is
still here, isn’t it?”
Much to Ben’s relief, Charlton nodded enthusiastically. Thank God. Assuming the baron wasn’t entirely out of his mind, Daphne’s reputation was safe for now.
“Hawkins would probably love to get his hands on it,” Ben said conversationally. He needed to know who else might be able to identify Daphne. “Who else has seen the paintings?”
“No one I can recall. Well, the staff obviously. The painting’s not fit for public rooms. Not that I’d characterize it as indecent, you understand, but the woman is not
fully dressed and I couldn’t offend the sensibilities of the parson’s wife if she stopped in for tea, now, could I?”
“I should say not,” Hugh exclaimed.
Ben found the entire exchange fascinating. In the five minutes since they’d begun discussing the portrait, the baron seemed to have an increase in energy and mental acuity. It was as if Daphne had managed to reach out of the portrait and heal him.
Ben was absurdly jealous. And curious. But he couldn’t just come out and ask how she was posed in the second portrait. Or, maybe he could.
“What’s the title of the portrait you still have?”
“Ah,” Charlton said fondly, “it’s
English Beauty beside the Looking Glass
.”
“And is it your favorite of the two?” Ben had to know.
The old man focused on a spot in the distance as though he were conjuring up the portrait from the recesses of his mind. “Indeed. There’s something deeper about this one. More vulnerable, yet sophisticated.”
Ben swallowed past the knot in his throat. It was worse than he’d feared. Charlton was not going to let the portrait go easily. But if he truly had it hidden away, perhaps it was for the best. Daphne could proceed with her season and find a decent, respectable husband without fear that the painting would surface at an inopportune time.
And if it was someday found, in the back of a wardrobe or in a dusty attic, she’d be a couple of decades older and no one would recognize her. If she, or anyone close to her, did, maybe they’d laugh at the memory of the scandal the portraits had nearly caused. She probably wouldn’t even recall the name of the cynical, arrogant bastard who’d volunteered to help her locate it.
Turned out she didn’t need him after all.
At least he’d get to tell her the good news. And he’d have a few more days with her at the house party before she returned to the glittering world to which she belonged.
He, on the other hand, would slink into a nice dark cave. Somewhere he wouldn’t have to witness some other man living the life
he
might have had with Daphne.
If he were whole.
T
here it is,” cried Rose, thrusting her arm outside the coach’s window. “Biltmore Manor.”
“Why, it looks like a palace,” Mama said. She gave Daphne a hopeful look, as if to say,
One day, this could all be yours
.
Obviously, Mama had not given up entirely on the idea of Daphne making a match with Lord Biltmore. She took advantage of even the smallest opportunity to praise him. “His penmanship is flawless,” she said, examining the invitation for the third time that morning. As if letter formation were a telling indicator of a man’s character.
“It
is
beautiful,” Daphne agreed. “But judging by the curls at the end of each word, my guess that his housekeeper penned the invitation.”
“Do you think so?” Mama looked stricken.
“I must concur with Daphne,” Rose said. “However, he did take the time to initial the bottom there. His
H
is exceedingly well formed.”
Mama seemed appeased by the observation.
Daphne couldn’t deny that Lord Biltmore was a gentleman. His manners were impeccable, his good nature was genuine, and she couldn’t imagine him attempting something as improper as kissing her on the stairs of an orphanage.
And therein lay the problem.
Since kissing Benjamin—Ben—she’d been able to think of little else. The firm pressure of his lips, the taste of his tongue, the heat of his body against hers.
In spite of the hasty good-bye he’d said that afternoon—or maybe because of it—she’d hoped that he’d call on her or send a brief note.
Something
to show he was thinking of her. She’d sent the treatment plan to him and in response she’d heard… nothing.
She shouldn’t have been surprised or hurt, but it stung that an event that had been so noteworthy in her life—her first real kiss—should seem so insignificant to him.
As the coach pulled up the long, winding drive to Lord Biltmore’s estate, Daphne itched to be free of the confines of the cab. Spacious though it was, it seemed considerably less so with five women and all their accompanying hats, reticules, fans, and parasols. Mama, Olivia, and Rose rode on the bench across from Daphne and Hildy—the lady’s maid whom Anabelle had insisted they take. Hildy did not tolerate the rocking of the coach very well and was queasy for most of the ride. Only sleeping seemed to ease her misery, so the rest of the women tried to be as quiet as possible, reading books and staring at the countryside outside their windows.
Which had left Daphne with plenty of time to think.
She was desperate to know whether Ben had been able
to talk to Lord Charlton and discover the whereabouts of the second portrait. Each time she glanced across the cab at Rose and Olivia, she
knew
she could not let her indiscretion ruin them. Just as she could not let it devastate Mama and Anabelle. Daphne’s stomach clenched at the thought, leaving her as clammy and queasy as poor Hildy.
Knowing she’d soon see Ben only added to Daphne’s anxiety. Would he acknowledge what had transpired between them or act as though they were mere acquaintances, at the same house party because of mutual friends? She never knew what to expect with him.
When at last the coach halted and the footman opened the door, Olivia crawled over her sister’s lap and bounded out. “What a glorious setting!” She twirled as though she were in a ballroom but almost lost her footing on the gravel drive and bumped into the backside of the footman who was helping Mama step down from the coach.
“Do be careful, Olivia,” Mama cried. “We can’t have you turning your ankle on the first day of the house party. Such an injury would drastically curtail your participation in the festivities.”
Olivia touched her gloved fingertips to her cheeks as though she’d had a sudden epiphany. “James would have to carry me everywhere. Oh,
why
couldn’t I have turned my ankle? I have the most horrific luck.” She spun again but executed a perfect turn. “Drat!”
Rose and Daphne helped Hildy exit the coach, and the maid seemed vastly relieved to be standing on terra firma. Daphne stretched her legs and squinted into the afternoon sun.
“Welcome!” Lord Biltmore emerged from the shade of a stately portico and descended the front steps with
his hands extended. “I am so honored that you’ve come. While I’m sure you’re exhausted from your travels, you don’t look wilted in the slightest.”
“We’re so pleased to be here, Lord Biltmore,” Mama said.
“Lord Biltmore sounds too formal to my ears now that we are here in the country. You may call me Hugh if you like.”
“We couldn’t possibly.” Mama was just a hair shy of horrified.
“No?” He looked crestfallen. “Perhaps just Biltmore, then.”
“I don’t know,” said Mama. She looked at Rose and Olivia for guidance. These sorts of social nuances did not come naturally to someone who hadn’t spent much time with the elite members of polite society. And they made Mama terribly nervous. She preferred to avoid any possibility of impropriety by adhering strictly to every rule.
Rules Daphne had flagrantly disregarded in posing for the portraits. Her queasiness returned.
Rose stepped forward and, in her usual serene manner, graciously agreed to Biltmore’s suggestion.
“Excellent,” he replied. “Please, come in, and my housekeeper, Mrs. Norris, will show you to your rooms.”
Daphne found the house—which was, as Mama had said, more akin to a palace—both impressive and charming. The black and white tile in the foyer shone like the surface of a lake. A colorful coat of arms hung on the wall beside a richly detailed tapestry depicting some sort of battle scene. But the most striking feature of the foyer was a wide, curved staircase.
Mrs. Norris descended the stairs so gracefully she
might have been a spirit floating down to greet them. “Welcome, ladies. It is a pleasure to have you. Forgive me for not being here when you arrived—I was inspecting your rooms one last time to be certain everything was in order. You are the first guests we’ve had in some time. We’re just delighted you’re here.”
“Lord Foxburn is here,” Biltmore pointed out. “He’s a guest.”
“Yes,” the housekeeper said with a dismissive wave, “but he’s more like family. I’ve known him since he was a lad.”
Interesting. Ben must have been closer to Robert than Daphne realized. It seemed they had been more like brothers than friends.
“Foxburn is in the library, where he’s been counseling me on some business matters. Don’t know what I’d do without his guidance. There’s no one more dedicated than he. When he puts his mind to something, it gets done—and heaven help anyone in the way.” Biltmore smiled.
The young viscount’s confidence in Ben soothed Daphne’s frayed nerves.
“Would you like some tea and refreshments before I take you upstairs?” Mrs. Norris offered.
“No, thank you,” Mama said. “I’d like to wash up and rest a bit.”
“Of course,” the housekeeper said. “Please, follow me, ladies. I’ll have the footmen bring your things as soon as I get you settled.”
She led the way up the grand staircase, pausing once to point out the gilded moldings on the Rococo ceiling and again to name a humorless-looking former Lord Biltmore depicted in a portrait that hung above the handrail. The
house was beautiful and furnished almost as exquisitely as Owen’s town house in London. For once, even Olivia was speechless.
On the first floor, a large square hall had eight doorways that seemed to lead to various reception rooms and suites. “We’ve readied rooms for you in the east wing,” Mrs. Norris said, gliding through one of the doorways. “You shall each have your own bedchamber. Mrs. Honeycote,” she said, opening the door to one room, “you are in the Gold Room.” A four-poster bed draped in lush shades of amber velvet dominated the room, and the wooden furniture—which included a wardrobe, a dresser, and a feminine dressing table—shone with a thin layer of polish. A muted gold and blue rug warmed up the gleaming wood floor. The air smelled faintly of lemon wax and the freshly cut flowers that crowned a small round table beneath the window.