She smiled wanly as if recalling the memory. “It wasn’t bad. Although it was terribly cold during the winter months. Sometimes I’d shiver and Thomas would remind me to relax my shoulders and drape my arm just so.”
He didn’t care for the way “Thomas” just tripped off her tongue. The more Ben learned about the artist, the less he liked him, and he hadn’t liked the bastard to begin with. Making a young lady sit in her nightgown in a freezing, rat-infested factory was inexcusable—no matter the circumstances. Lucky for Thomas that the English Channel currently separated them.
Ben stood and paced slowly in front of a tranquil fountain, stretching his leg and thinking. “Might Thomas’s mother know who his patron is?”
“Perhaps. I can ask, although if I inquire out of the blue, it might raise some suspicion. She and my mother are still quite close, so I’d need to handle the matter very delicately. If Mama learned what I did, she’d be so disappointed. Worse, she’d feel like she’d failed to raise me properly. She mustn’t find out about the portraits.”
“Let me begin by looking through Robert’s papers. I don’t think he had the painting for long, so maybe I can find a record or receipt of some sort.” And now, the question he’d been dreading. The one he really needed to know. “Did you know him? That is, were the two of you acquainted?”
“If our paths ever crossed, I’m not aware of it. I’m sure we weren’t in the same circles.”
He let out a breath and began to pace again, but his damned leg buckled and he just barely caught himself from falling to the ground. Daphne sprang to her feet and wrapped an arm about his waist like he was some sort of invalid. “I’m fine,” he snapped.
She stepped back quickly and held up her palms. “Yes, I can see that.”
God, he was an ass. “I have learned to deal with my injury in my own ways.”
“Ah, that’s right. I believe you alluded to one of your methods—alcohol—in the coach the other day. What other methods do you employ?”
“Cursing sometimes provides relief.”
“Well, then, you should be halfway to cured.”
“Unless you have a better suggestion,” he said dryly, “I shall do what works for me. Or at least gets me through the day.”
“Getting through the day is no way to live.” She walked up to the fountain and traced the edge of the round stone base with her gloved fingertip. Then, before he knew it, she was tugging off her glove. He opened his mouth to ask her what the devil she was doing, but his tongue wouldn’t cooperate.
She leaned over the pool of water and thrust her bare hand into the gurgling stream spouting from the center. The column chopped in half before regenerating itself. Droplets ran down her arm, toward her elbow. He stared, mesmerized.
“Water has many healing properties,” she announced.
Good God. “If you think I’m going to drink that, you are sorely mistaken.”
She laughed, a sound that made him feel about two
stone lighter. “I wasn’t suggesting that you drink it. But I do think that you might explore other treatments.”
“Like taking the waters in Bath? No, thank you.”
“You shouldn’t dismiss the possibilities so summarily. However, I had something else in mind. When Mama was ill, I went to the lending library and got every medical journal I could find. I wasn’t able to help her, but I learned a great deal about the human body.”
“Did you now?” He raised an eyebrow suggestively. “Please, tell me more.”
“Shall I tell you about the effects of the croup or diphtheria? Yellow fever, perhaps?”
“I was hoping for something more titillating. And I fear I’m missing your point.”
She turned her attention once again to the water and trailed her fingers back and forth across the bubbling surface. “A medicinal bath might ease the pain.”
He held back a laugh. “Splashing a little water on my leg isn’t going to fix it.”
“Maybe not. But in combination with some other remedies… I’ll need to do some research.”
The last thing he wanted was for her to think of him as she read about horrid diseases. “You needn’t trouble yourself.”
“It’s the least I can do, since you’ll be helping me find the other portrait.”
“Suit yourself.” If she needed something to busy herself with and keep her mind off the fact that her reputation could be smashed to bits at any given moment, he saw no harm in it.
She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms, one of which was still delectably bare. “You don’t believe I’ll be able to help you.”
He snorted. “No.”
“Have you so little faith in me?”
“I admire your enthusiasm for the task of healing me. However, I’m in worse shape than you know. Surgeons and doctors alike have advised me.” And they’d all come to the same conclusion—he’d be better off without his leg. Hang them all.
“Surgeons and doctors may have extensive education and professional training, but in spite of their eagerness to cure their patients, they often overlook the healing power of the mind.”
“You think the pain is in my head,” he accused. He managed to control his voice, but fury, hot and seething, coursed through his veins. “It’s not.”
She closed the short distance between them and placed her hand on his arm. “Of course it isn’t. I wasn’t suggesting that. Just give me a chance, please, and promise me that you’ll keep an open mind.”
She looked up at him, her beautiful face imploring. In the light of the lanterns, the skin above her fashionably low neckline glistened, and he imagined what it would be like to hold her and cover her mouth with his, to lose himself in her warm, seductive glow. He longed to trace the lace edge of her pretty gown with his fingertip. Or, better yet, his tongue. The anger that he’d felt only seconds before turned to ash and a different kind of fire ignited in his chest. In that moment, he knew he’d do anything she asked of him, no matter how silly or hopeless. “Why should I?”
“Because you have nothing to lose.”
“That is true.” He took her bare hand from his arm, raised it between them, and pressed his lips to the back of it.
“What was that for?”
“I was simply sealing the deal. I shall search for the owner of the second portrait. You shall search for a miracle cure.”
She smiled as though he’d given her a precious gift. Or a puppy. “Perfect,” she said.
Before he knew what he was saying, he blurted, “I’ll even sweeten the pot.”
Her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement.
“If you find a way to ease my pain, I shall give you the portrait of you that hangs in my study.”
“It’s still hanging in your study?” Her voice held a note of alarm.
“Relax. No one has seen it. No one will.”
“I
would
feel better if it were destroyed.”
Destroy
it? He hadn’t considered the idea that she might want to get rid of the portrait altogether. It would be sacrilege. He understood her logic, of course. For as long as the painting existed, her reputation was in a state of danger. He just knew that he’d never be able to bring himself to torch or shred it. The very idea made his stomach clench.
“Let’s take one step at a time,” he said. “I’ll visit Hugh tomorrow and concoct an excuse to look through Robert’s papers.”
Her face fell. “I feel awful for putting you in a position where you need to lie.”
He laughed. “You’re hardly responsible for corrupting me. I thought we’d already established that I’m quite without scruples—a lost cause, if you will.”
“I’m not so sure about that… Benjamin.”
The sound of his name on her lips unleashed a fresh wave of desire. He wondered how she’d react if he leaned in and kissed her tenderly—just a brief kiss so that he
could test his theory that she’d taste like honey, pure and golden.
But before he could act, she withdrew her hand from his and slipped it into her elbow-length glove. “The rest of our party is probably wondering where we are. Shall we rejoin them?”
“Yes,” he said, stifling a sigh. “I suppose we should.” He offered her his arm once again, and as they made their way back toward the rotunda where the orchestra played, they saw Hugh, Averill, and the Sherbourne sisters walking toward them.
Lady Olivia waved with her typical exuberance. “The fireworks shall begin shortly. Let’s secure a good spot from which to watch the show.” She was on Averill’s arm and yet, somehow, was two steps ahead of him.
“The advantage of shooting fireworks into the sky,” Ben said dryly, “is that one has only to tilt one’s head back in order to view them.”
“I think Olivia is right. We should walk to the crest of that hill,” Daphne said, pointing to a slight ridge. “It should give us an excellent vantage point.”
“Quite right,” exclaimed Hugh. “But will the terrain be too rough for you, Foxburn?”
Damn Hugh and his concern. Even if he meant well, it was beyond irritating. “Promise me that on the day a little grassy slope such as that one proves insurmountable, you will put a pistol to my head and end my misery.”
The Sherbourne sisters gasped but Daphne merely clucked her tongue. “My, but we are dramatic this evening. How were the artificial ruins, Mr. Averill?”
As she made polite conversation with the others, Ben mentally calculated the distance from their current
location to the crest of the hill. The hell of it was, he wasn’t at all sure he could make it to the top without falling flat on his face. He would find out soon.
After he’d walked about a hundred yards, a sweat broke out on his face. His leg had gone mostly numb, which meant pain was close behind. Daphne flicked her gaze to him and sympathy registered on her face before she quickly looked away. “Oh, look at the minstrels!”
The merry band of five had drawn a small crowd, and each of the performers appeared to be playing some sort of pipe in addition to a second instrument. The brightly colored plumes on their hats seemed to jig in time to the music.
He might have enjoyed the number they were playing if he weren’t about to keel over in pain.
Daphne drifted to a short stone wall where he could sit. “I’d love to watch them for a while. Would you mind waiting for a few minutes?”
“Good heavens, no,” Hugh said gallantly. “We have all the time in the world.”
Averill waved Daphne and her friends on, and the women wasted no time in joining the circle of observers, laughing and exclaiming over every banal trick the minstrels performed.
Ben had barely lowered himself onto the wall when pain seared through his thigh muscles. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from howling like some sort of wild animal and within seconds tasted blood. As usual, the world around him blurred and faded. He dug his fingers into the stone ledge, trying to control the quivering of his entire body.
One, two, three
… Somewhere around eighty-two, the pain began to recede. Ever so slowly, his vision cleared and the shaking stopped.
Averill was sitting on his right, looking rather dumbfounded. “I had no idea.”
Ben groped his jacket pocket for a handkerchief. “Damned inconvenient,” he said wryly. “But at least I have both my legs.” He mopped his face, relieved to see that Daphne and the Sherbourne sisters were still occupied with the minstrel show. Suddenly he was parched and craned his neck in search of a passing waiter.
“What can I get you, Foxburn?” offered Hugh, who probably looked even paler than he himself did.
“Something to drink. I don’t care what.” His protégé hurried off, his thin frame full of dogged determination.
“How often?” Averill asked.
“I don’t know,” Ben said, running a hand through his hair. “A few times a week, sometimes less, usually more. Exercise can bring it on, but sometimes, it just comes out of nowhere.”
“You should get some rest. Why don’t we call it a night and take the ladies home?”
“No,” Ben said quickly. “I’ll be fine. They want to see the fireworks, and they shall.”
A few moments later, Hugh returned, holding a huge carafe in one hand and a stack of glasses in the other. “It’s arrack punch,” he explained. “It smells quite strong.”
“Perfect.” Ben took a glass and impatiently held it out while Hugh poured. When at last he drank, the liquid burned his throat and made his nostrils flare. While it did little to quench his thirst, he could already feel the numbing warmth spreading to his limbs. He raised his glass for a refill and Hugh obliged.
Shortly after, the ladies returned, and Averill convinced them all that they, too, must sample the punch.
“It’s very potent,” Rose warned after a sip. “Not too much, Olivia.”
Daphne approached, and every step that she took seemed to magnify the punch’s intoxicating effects on Ben. “I was thinking,” she said to no one in particular, “that it’s a rather cloudy night for fireworks. I wonder if we should forgo them and return on a more ideal evening.” Her gaze swept over Ben, her expression suggesting that she was quite surprised to find him still upright.
“Oh, but we’re here already, and it won’t be long before they start.” Olivia gave a practiced pout that he’d wager was for Averill’s benefit. The solicitor took no notice.
“What do you think, Lord Foxburn?” inquired Daphne.
“Lady Olivia wants to see the fireworks,” he said. “Don’t you?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t have to be this evening,” she said meaningfully. Concern was etched in her otherwise smooth brow.
He pretended to miss her meaning. “A few clouds will not spoil the show. But we’d better continue on if we want to get a good spot.” If Hannibal could march across the Pyrenees, by God, he could make it up a sorry hill.
He heaved himself to his feet, both surprised and gratified that he could stand without leaning too heavily on his cane. Daphne watched him closely, as though she feared he might topple over at any minute. After he managed a few steps, however, she seemed to relax and even sampled the punch. After which, she made a face.
“A little stronger than ratafia,” he said with a chuckle.
She smiled and lifted the glass to her lips for another taste. His blood thrummed in response.
They continued strolling, with Daphne making an
effort to slow their pace whenever possible. At last, they reached their destination, and even if the view wasn’t quite worth the excruciating pain it had taken to get there, it was rather… nice. As the night enveloped them, distant lanterns swayed in the breeze like fireflies. Clouds skittered across the moon, lending a hint of drama to the evening. They all stood quietly, catching their breath, taking in the scenery, and enjoying the relative tranquility.