Good God, it was the pirate. Rebecca stared at the broad figure beside her father. Every impression she had received when looking down at him in the street was magnified dose up. He looked powerful and dangerous, a wolf among the Mayfair lambs. "This man, a secretary? Surely you're joking."
Her father's brows arched. "I had thought you would be pleased that the position has been filled."
Realizing how rude she had sounded, Rebecca said, "Excuse me, Captain… Wilder, was it? It's simply that you don't look like any secretary I've ever seen."
"Wilding, Miss Seaton. At your service." He bowed courteously. "I fear I can do nothing about the fact that I look more like a pugilist than a gentleman."
His voice was distractingly deep, but his accent was well-bred. So why did she distrust him? Perhaps it was the coolness of his ice-gray eyes. Or perhaps it was because a man of action seemed so out of place in a house devoted to art and ideas. His mere presence was disruptive. She gave her father a troubled glance.
"Don't worry, Captain Wilding is quite qualified. He'll start right away. Show him the house and explain his domestic duties. Captain, meet me in the office at four o'clock and I will explain my business papers." Sir Anthony turned back to his easel. "Send Lavinia up so I can resume work."
If the pirate weren't present, Rebecca would have argued with her father, but apparently it was too late to prevent the hiring. Damn Sir Anthony's impulsiveness. She guessed that his patriotic desire to employ a veteran of the wars had overcome his sense. With ill grace, she said, "Very well. Come with me, Captain Wilding. I'll show you your room first."
He silently followed her from the studio. As she led the way upstairs, she said, "You were in the army, Captain?"
"Yes, the Rifle Brigade."
She glanced back over her shoulder. "Did my father explain that a large portion of your work will be domestic? Very different from the military. You may not find it to your taste."
"Not so different. Both jobs involve commanding men."
"Commanding women may prove more difficult," she said dryly.
"I'll manage."
He did look like a man who had had his share of experience with women. The knowledge did not raise her opinion of him. She thought wistfully of her father's previous secretaries. All had been pleasant young men of good family. Civilized. Easy to have around the house. Not a pirate in the lot.
The captain said, "While I don't mind acting as a general factotum, I'm curious about why I'm needed for such work when you are so obviously competent."
"I don't choose to spend my time as a housekeeper," she said in a clipped voice.
Responding to her tone rather than her words, he remarked, "You don't like me very much, do you, Miss Seaton?"
Good God, had the man no discretion? Well, if he preferred bluntness, she would oblige. She halted on the landing and turned to face him. He stopped a step below her, putting their eyes almost level. For some reason, that made her even more aware of his physical power. She repressed the urge to back away. "We've only just met, so how can I either like or dislike you?"
"Since when is it necessary to know someone to dislike him? It's clear that you wish your father hadn't engaged me."
"You look more like a marauder than a secretary," she said tartly. "And knowing my father, he didn't bother to ask for references. How did you learn about the position?"
His gaze became opaque. "A friend of your father's told me."
"Who?"
"The gentleman preferred to remain anonymous."
It was undeniably the sort of thing one of Sir Anthony's eccentric friends might do. "Do you have any letters of reference?" she asked. "Anything to suggest that you're not a fraud or a thief?"
There was a faint tightening at the corner of his eyes. After a moment, he said, "No, though if you don't mind waiting, I suppose I could get one from the Duke of Wellington. He's known me for years, and I' think he considers me respectable."
The matter-of-fact answer was quite convincing. Tacitly conceding the point, she said, "God forbid we should bother the duke over something so trivial."
It was hard to concentrate this close to his face, which was even more fascinating than it had seemed at a distance. Piercing, charcoal-edged eyes that had seen sights she couldn't imagine. Skin tanned by a crueler sun than that of England. Lines of sternness and possibly humor. Once there must have been youthful softness over the hard planes of bone, but that had long since been scourged away. He made her think of a volcano: calm on the surface, but with unknowable depths of hidden fire.
The captain said, "Am I missing any of the usual features?"
"Faces interest me, especially those that have been well lived in." Her gaze went to the scar that curved from his cheek into the thick, dark hair at his temple. There was no puckering, only a pale, slightly raised line. She wanted to touch it, to find if it felt as smooth as it looked. Restraining herself, she asked, "Was that scar made by a saber?"
It was not a tactful question, but he took it in stride, saying, "Yes, at Waterloo."
So he had fought in that ghastly carnage. She had a vague recollection that the Rifle Brigade had been in the thick of the battle. "You were lucky not to lose your eye."
"Very true," he agreed. "Since I wasn't handsome to begin with, I lost nothing of value."
She wondered if he was trying to disconcert her. That was not easily done to a woman who had grown up in an artist's unconventional household. "Quite the contrary," she said thoughtfully. "The scar adds interest and emphasis to your face, like a highlight on a painting. Quite artistic, really. The Frenchman did a good job of cutting."
She turned and resumed her ascent of the stairs. At the top, she led the way along the corridor. "The family bedrooms are on this floor. My father's is behind us, mine is to the left, and yours is here, overlooking the garden." His room shared a wall with her own chamber. That seemed far too close.
She swung the door to his room open, then winced when she saw its state. "Sorry. This should have been cleaned after Tom Morley left." She should have known that one of the housemaids never did a lick of work if she could avoid it. The other, Betsy, was willing, but couldn't do everything. Rebecca
had
known, actually, but hadn't cared. She had an almost infinite capacity to overlook subjects that didn't interest her.
Unperturbed, Wilding said, "Introduce me to the staff, and I'll arrange for the work to be done."
"I'll take you down to the servants' hall in a few minutes." She drew a finger along the edge of the wainscoting and frowned at the thick dust that accumulated on the tip. The housekeeping really was disgraceful. "I look forward to seeing you turn them into models of hard work and efficiency."
"If any of your present servants are irredeemable, I presume I have the right to discharge them and hire new ones."
"Of course." Rebecca turned and headed to the stairs. "No need for you to see the attics. The servants' quarters are there, and my private workroom. If you wish to speak with me, pull on one of the red bell cords. They ring into my workroom."
"So that is how your father summoned you," he murmured as he followed her. "Will you respond to me as quickly?"
For some reason, her face heated. "No," she said brusquely, "so I hope you're resourceful at solving problems on your own."
Gloomily she led the way downstairs. The captain was going to be every bit as disruptive as she had feared. She hoped he would soon decide that the life of a secretary was not for him.
Kenneth found it hard to keep his attention on the house tour and Rebecca Seaton's crisp description of his duties. The lady was quite a distraction in herself, with her tart tongue and her penetrating gaze. Equally distracting was the art that was everywhere—paintings, watercolors, etchings, even sculpture. The visual richness left him as dazed as he would be after a daylong French cannonade. Works by Sir Anthony were intermixed with paintings by other masters. No wonder Rebecca had wanted proof that he wasn't a thief. Luckily, she seemed to have accepted his honesty, even if she liked nothing else about him.
The next stop was on the first floor. She opened the door of a small chamber at the rear of the house. "This is my father's office, though you'll spend more time here than he does. The desk in the corner is yours. As you can see, business has accumulated since Tom Morley left."
An understatement; the secretary's desk was completely covered with untidy piles of paper. "I see why your father was eager to hire the first available candidate."
"Actually, Papa turned down the replacement Tom suggested. Said he was an ignorant young puppy."
"I'm glad to know that Sir Anthony rates me more highly than that," Kenneth said gravely.
She gave him a sharp glance. Mentally he kicked himself. His job was to be an efficient, unobtrusive secretary. If he didn't learn to hold his tongue, he'd end up on the street and Sutterton would be lost.
She continued, "Father's solicitor handles major financial affairs, but you will be responsible for correspondence and the household accounts. Ledgers and writing supplies are kept in this cabinet." She took a key from the secretarial desk and opened the cabinet. Kenneth glanced at a ledger. It was similar to an army captain's company accounts. He'd manage well enough.
Rebecca handed him the key and turned to go. He locked the cabinet and started to follow, then stopped when he saw the portrait above Sir Anthony's desk. A striking woman of mature years was posed in front of a misty landscape, her gaze mischievous and her red hair tumbling over her shoulders.
He glanced at his guide, then back to the painting. The woman looked like a wanton, sensual Rebecca Seaton. It had to be the late Lady Seaton, and Kenneth was willing to swear that Sir Anthony had painted the picture with love. Could the caring visible in every stroke really have turned to murderous hatred?
Rebecca looked back to see why he wasn't following. Thinking it was time to start gathering information, he said quietly, "Surely this must be your mother."
Her fingers whitened on the doorknob as she nodded. "It was done at Ravensbeck, our house in the Lake District."
Even more quietly, he said, "I've heard no mention of Lady Seaton. I gather she is dead."
Rebecca looked away and said tightly, "Last August."
"I'm sorry." He studied the painting. "What happened—some sudden disease? She seems so vital. So alive."
"It was an accident," Rebecca said harshly. "A horrible, stupid accident." She pivoted and went out the door. "I'll take you down to meet the servants now."
He followed, wondering if her response was straightforward grief, or if she had secret doubts about the circumstances of the death. If her father had really murdered her mother, it would be a horror almost beyond imagining.
He took a last glance at the portrait. Seeing it made him recognize the latent sensuality in Rebecca Seaton. Unlike her mother, she rigidly suppressed that aspect of her nature. He wondered what she would look like with her glossy auburn hair cascading lushly around her piquant face and slim body…
Damnation! He yanked the door dosed behind him. He could not afford an attraction to the prickly daughter of the man he had come to destroy. Luckily, she wasn't the flirtatious sort. Quite the contrary. Nonetheless, there was something very appealing about her.
On the way to the back stairs that led to the kitchen and servants' hall, they passed through the main dining room. Rebecca said with delicate sarcasm, "Since secretaries are gentlemen, naturally you will share meals with my father and myself."
It was blazingly dear that the lady thought Kenneth fit only for mucking out stables. What had Lord Bow-den said about her elopement? The fellow had been a self-proclaimed poet. Presumably that meant Miss Seaton preferred men who were weedy and wordy—if indeed the experience hadn't put her off men entirely, which seemed quite possible from her behavior.
The painting above the sideboard interrupted his musings and brought him to an abrupt halt. Catching Rebecca's impatient glance, he said apologetically, "I'm sorry. It's hard not to become diverted. I feel as I did the first time I went to the Louvre. How can anyone eat when there is this to look at?"
Apparently the idea that he might appreciate art surprised her, but her tone was milder when she said, "You're right—for the first week after the picture was hung, I didn't notice a single bite I ate. It's called
Charge of the Union Brigade
and it's part of a four-painting Waterloo series Father has been working on for the last year and a half. He hopes to exhibit all four pictures at the Royal Academy this year."
The enormous canvas depicted half a dozen cavalry horses and riders racing directly toward the viewer. The lethal hooves and glittering sabers seemed ready to explode from the canvas. Kenneth suppressed a shiver. "Magnificent. Though it's not quite realistic, it certainly brings back memories of having the French cavalry thundering down on me."
She frowned. "What do you mean, not realistic? Father arranged for troopers of the Household Cavalry to charge right at him again and again so he could get accurate sketches. A miracle he wasn't crushed beneath their hooves."