It had been three days since her seduction of Toussaint—or rather, Richard—and Gillian hadn’t heard a word from either of them. The first day she’d expected Richard to storm into her home raving over her scandalous behavior. She’d rather looked forward to that.
The second day she’d thought he might appear as if nothing had happened at all. That too would have been extremely interesting. Now, she wondered if perhaps he was too overwrought by what had passed between them to do anything at all. She certainly hoped so.
She smiled with satisfaction and finished the note on the desk before her. He’d had his opportunity. Now their future was in her hands. Besides, she had a legitimate reason for requesting his presence. She sealed the note and scribbled an address on a slip of paper.
Feminine laughter rang in the foyer outside the closed doors. A bark sounded in response, followed at once by an indignant voice. Any minute Wilkins would no doubt burst through the doors demanding a return to the calm and serene atmosphere he was accustomed to presiding over. Her house certainly wasn’t conducive to this many guests, and since their arrival it had seemed as if the very building would burst from the strain. Still, she was enjoying herself, even if Wilkins wasn’t.
Her grandmother was to blame for it all, or, perhaps, to thank. Regardless of her often stated belief that her offspring were well equipped to run their own lives, the dowager duchess was not above a bit of meddling if she deemed it necessary. And apparently, in this case, she had.
As if on cue, the doors flew open, and Wilkins stalked into the room with a vigor he hadn’t shown in years. “My lady, I must insist you do something at once or I shall have to take matters into my own hands.”
She suppressed a grin. “Whatever it is, Wilkins, it can wait. Right now I need you to bring this note for Lord Shelbrooke to his solicitor and insist it be delivered at once. This morning, if at all possible, but by midday at the latest.”
Wilkins’s bushy brows drew together. “But what about—”
“I shall take care of it.” She stood, picked up the note and the paper, and handed it to the butler. “I’ve written the address here. Now, tell Lord Shelbrooke’s solicitor if this is delivered with due speed he shall be considered favorably by the Dowager Duchess of Roxborough—no—the Duke of Roxborough when it comes to any future endeavor.”
“My lady!” Wilkins’s eyes widened with shock. “Your father knows nothing about this!”
“No, but he could.” She ignored a tiny twinge of guilt. She’d never before used her family’s influence, but she’d never before been in a situation where she’d needed it. “And I’m certain he wouldn’t mind.” She waved toward the door. “Now then, off with you.”
He drew himself up in the best manner of a put-upon family retainer and sniffed. “As you wish.” Wilkins turned and marched toward the door, muttering all the way. “Blasted business. House full of women.” He yanked the door open. “Damnable dog,” he muttered and snapped it closed behind him.
She shook her head and grinned. It wouldn’t be easy for him, but Wilkins was going to have to accept that if all went as she hoped, nothing in her life would ever be the same. With luck, Richard would be here in a few hours, and she had a great deal to do before then.
Odd how there wasn’t a doubt in her mind, or perhaps her heart, that Richard loved her. He hadn’t said it aloud, and there was a possibility he never would, but she knew it as surely as she’d ever known anything in her life.
She pulled open the top drawer in the desk and drew out the miniature he’d painted. She should have known it the moment she’d looked at this very personal keepsake, even though she doubted he realized it himself.
It wasn’t her soul he had captured in the tiny painting. It was his own.
Richard pulled back the knocker on Gillian’s front door and rapped as gently as possible. Even so, the sound reverberated through the house and through his head. He shuddered and clenched his teeth against the pain. He deserved it, had, in fact, well earned it by his concentrated effort to consume every drop of liquor that had come within reach. Still, the knowledge made it no easier to bear.
It had been three long days since the night with Gillian in his studio. He’d wanted to come before now, but he’d had no idea what he’d say to her and wasn’t certain he wished to hear what she had to say to him. However, her note today had requested a meeting, had insisted on it actually, and he could no longer delay the inevitable. No doubt she wished to break it off with him in favor of Toussaint.
The door opened with a faint squeal that probably went unnoticed most of the time, but at the moment it sliced through his head like a cold, pitiless blade.
Wilkins stood in the doorway and eyed him with disdain, as if he were to blame for the troubles of the world. “Good day, milord.”
“Wilkins.” Richard nodded.
With an obvious air of disapproval, the butler stepped aside to allow him to enter.
The light in the foyer wasn’t nearly as bright as the afternoon sun, and he was damned grateful for the respite. He blinked and noticed a familiar figure halfway up the stairs, with an open book balanced in one hand and an apple in the other.
He shook his head, winced, then peered at the vision. “Marianne?”
“Oh hello, Richard,” she said absently. Marianne cast a last reluctant glance at the book in her hand, then snapped it shut and turned toward him. “We were wondering when you would get here.”
“We?” His voice rose. What was going on?
“Um-hum.” She smiled pleasantly. “Becky and Jocelyn and Emma are around somewhere. And of course Henry—”
“Henry?” This made no sense whatsoever. Perhaps he was still foxed and this was nothing more than a drink-induced dream.
“Becky refused to come without him. And Aunt Louella couldn’t possibly leave Becky—”
“Aunt Louella?” He groaned. Even in his dreams the last thing he needed was his termagant of an aunt in London. Or any of the rest of them. “What is she doing here? What are any of you doing here?”
“I’d like to tell you,” she shrugged, “but I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I really don’t know. But I suspect it’s quite interesting.” She grinned and headed up the stairs.
He stared after her. What was going on here?
The parlor doors opened. Gillian stepped into the foyer holding a snifter of brandy in one hand. He glanced at it longingly. “Richard, what a lovely surprise.” She beamed at him. “I wasn’t at all sure when I’d see you again.”
He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “You sent for me.”
She laughed lightly. “That’s right. How could it have slipped my mind?”
“You insisted I come,” he said, his words measured. “Your note said it was a matter of some urgency.”
“It did, didn’t it?” She studied him carefully. “You look terrible, Richard. Are you ill?”
“Something like that,” he muttered.
“I’m sure you’ll feel better in no time.” She took a sip of the brandy, then handed it to him. “This will help.”
“It certainly couldn’t hurt,” he mumbled.
“Excellent.” A wicked gleam flickered in her eye. “Because we do need to talk.”
A heavy weight settled in his stomach. No doubt his heart. “Of course.”
“But first, you have visitors.” She waved him into the parlor. “They came here because they had no idea where to find you. It’s the oddest thing. I hadn’t realized until now that I had no idea where to find you either. We should probably discuss that as well, although I suppose it scarcely matters now. Besides, there is nothing quite as exciting as a man with secrets.” He stepped past her, and she smiled innocently. “Don’t you agree?” Too innocently.
“Good day, Richard.” His aunt’s forbidding tone grated on his already raw nerves. She sat on the settee and gazed at him in a manner distinctly reminiscent of Gillian’s butler.
“Aunt Louella.” He nodded a greeting, then dismissed all pretense at polite behavior. He simply didn’t have the patience necessary to deal with what was obviously a conspiracy of all the women in his life. “What are you doing in London? And why are my sisters here as well?”
“As always, Richard, it is good to see you.” She glared at him, and for a moment he toyed with the idea of trapping her gaze until she was forced to turn her eyes away. But he was in no mood for a test of wills. Given his current state of infirmity, she would probably win and hold it over him for the rest of his life—much as she had everything else he’d ever done.
He downed the brandy in one long swallow and noted the fact that if it hadn’t been for Gillian’s annoying habit of sharing his drinks, there would have been a great deal more. Although she was right: it did help. He set the glass on a table and forced a smile to his lips.
“Forgive my bluntness. I have not felt quite up to snuff recently, and seeing you and Marianne a moment ago has come as something of a shock.” He stepped to her and kissed her lightly on a papery cheek. “However, it is, as always, a pleasure to see you.”
She snorted. “Don’t bam me, boy. I know you’d just as soon we’d stayed put in the country. Well, it’s been years since I’ve been to London and now that we’re here, we’re going to stay for a good, long visit. And do sit down. I can’t abide you towering over me,”
Relief surged through him. He sank down on the opposite end of the sofa and shook his head with a show of regret. “Oh dear, that may prove awkward. I am sorry, but I have the meanest of rooms and you can’t possibly—”
“They’re most welcome to stay with me as long as they wish,” Gillian said from somewhere behind him. He hadn’t realized she was still in the room, and he turned to find her leaning against the closed parlor doors. She favored him with that annoyingly brilliant smile of hers.
“Excellent.” He cast her the closest thing to a smile he could muster, then turned back to his aunt. “And do forgive me for asking
again
, but exactly why are you here?”
“It wasn’t my idea.” Louella opened a large fabric satchel wedged on the sofa beside her and rummaged inside. “Where is it?” She pulled out a wrinkled sheet of folded velum and waved it at him. “This is why we came.”
“What is it?” What could be so important that it would bring his entire family to town?
“A request of sorts, although it carries more the feel of a command,” she muttered.
“A command?”
“Indeed.” She craned her neck to see past him to Gillian and leveled her a suspicious glare. “From the Dowager Duchess of Roxborough.”
Richard looked at Gillian over his shoulder. “Your grandmother?”
“So it would seem,” she said lightly. There was definitely some kind of conspiracy here. Who played which role was still in question, but there was no doubt in his mind there was a plot afoot.
“As I was saying ...” Louella’s voice rang in the room, and he jerked his attention back to her. “I received this letter from the dowager duchess suggesting there were some ...”—she pursed her lips in obvious reluctance—“aspects of your family’s history that you should be made aware of.”
He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “What aspects in particular?”
“Would you prefer that I leave?” Gillian said quietly.
“No.” If Gillian’s grandmother thought there was information he should have, Gillian should probably have it as well. Richard studied his aunt. “Go on.”
“It appears the dowager was acquainted with your grandmother. She now seems to think you need to know about your father and—”
“I know all I need to know,” he said harshly and stood. “If that’s what this is all—”
“Sit down, boy,” Louella snapped. “You don’t know anything,”
“Very well.” He lowered himself stiffly back onto the settee, tried, and failed to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “What, precisely, does the dowager think I need to know?”
Louella’s lips thinned in censure. “Her note suggests you should be told about your father’s sister.”
“My father’s sister?” He drew his brows together. “What sister?”
“I didn’t know you hadn’t heard of her, although there’s no reason why you should, I suppose. She was never really spoken of.” Her tone softened slightly. “I had no idea until now you were unaware of it all.”
“Unaware of what?” Impatience sounded in his voice.
She paused as if to pull her thoughts together, then drew a deep breath. “It was quite a scandal at the time, although it faded soon enough, as scandals do. She was ... well, she ...”
“She what?”
“She painted.” Louella heaved a sigh of exasperation. “Not the kind of pleasant, meaningless paintings well-bred young women are supposed to do, but the kinds of works that hang in museums and galleries. I know it sounds ridiculous and I know as well your opinion when Emma has raised the very same issue. Her aunt’s blood no doubt.”
She sniffed in disdain. “I must admit I agree with you on that score. A woman trying to make her own way, alone, without so much as a husband to help her along, in a world that does not take kindly to such women and doing the work of men to boot, artists no less, will come to no good.”
“What happened to her?” An odd, strained note sounded in Gillian’s voice.
Richard stared at his aunt. His every muscle tensed. He wasn’t sure why, exactly, but somehow he knew this was important. “Go on.”
“Your mother told me all this, mind you, I never knew your father’s sister.” Louella paused. “I don’t really know much more than that. She ran off. Lived with some Frenchman for a time, I believe, and painted as she’d wished. I understand it wasn’t long before she became ill and died. By then, of course, she was well, quite forgotten.
“But, as I said, it was something of a scandal in the beginning. Your grandfather disowned her. As for your father,” she shrugged, “he wasn’t a very strong man.”
Richard couldn’t hold back a short, humorless laugh. “That I knew.”
Louella looked at him for a long time. “But you are.”
“Am I?”
“Your father loved his sister yet he did nothing to help her. I believe he even sided with your grandfather. He loved your mother as well, yet he couldn’t prevent her death. And he couldn’t bear life without her.”
“And what of his children?” A bitter note rang in Richard’s voice, but he didn’t care. “Did he love his children as well?”
“I don’t know.” For the first time he could remember, there was sympathy in her eyes. For him.
“It’s of no significance now, I suppose,” he muttered.
“Richard.” Louella reached forward and placed her hand on his. “Your father was weak, and I cannot condone his behavior after your mother’s death. I may be able to understand it, but I cannot excuse it.
“As for his son,” her gaze met his firmly, “I have not been entirely fair to him through the years. Even after you took on the task of setting to right the family’s affairs, I did not quite believe you would not end up exactly like your father. I will admit now that I was wrong.”
“You? Admit you were wrong?” He raised a brow. “I thought surely it would be the end of the world itself before words of that nature crossed your lips.”
“Perhaps, boy,” she said as she narrowed her eyes, where a twinkle lingered nonetheless, “it is.”
“Pardon me.” Gillian joined them, and Richard rose to his feet. “As much as it suits my own purposes, I’m afraid I don’t understand why my grandmother wanted Richard to know this? It’s a family tragedy, long forgotten. Why bring it up now?”
Louella’s brows drew together in irritation. “I don’t know, child, ask your grandmother. It doesn’t make any sense to me. The dowager is getting on in years, isn’t she? Probably dotty in the head.”
“She is not,” Gillian huffed.
“No?” Louella’s eyes narrowed. “Then explain this.” She waved the note at her. “Right here it says Richard should know that the true legacy of the Earl of Shelbrooke—his true heritage, in fact— comes not from any man but from a woman. Whatever that means.”
Richard glanced at Gillian. “I assume the dowager knows about your preposterous plans.
Gillian smiled smugly. “So it appears.”
“Now, I’ve had quite enough of this.” Louella got to her feet. “Unless things have changed, it’s getting on to that time of day when everyone who is anyone in London drives through the park. And I would rather enjoy that myself.”
“Before you go.” Gillian crossed the room. He hadn’t noticed until now, but three easels were arranged before the windows, each displaying a painting. All were landscapes, although the settings varied from piece to piece. “I had no idea what your aunt wished to say to you, Richard. I had set these up to make another point altogether.”
Gillian gestured at the canvases. “I purchased two of these several years ago. There’s another pair upstairs. They were apparently painted by a woman of noble birth who later died.” She glanced at Richard. “Poor and alone.”
Louella’s gaze slid from Gillian to Richard and back.
“There are initials in the corner, bottom right side, but I’ve never been able to make them out. Lady Louella, do you think ...”