Well, he could cease being rude about it. Celia started down the stairs, determined to find another servant to fetch this haughty drawing master. If he lay in bed in a drunken stupor, it would be his own fault when the footman burst in to roust him.
A faint cry made Celia pause. The sound had come from somewhere within the house, behind one of the doors on the very floor she’d left.
Another whimper came to her, muffled but unmistakable. Somewhere down the hall, a baby was crying.
A baby in this refined house was as out of place as a weed that dared show itself in her mother’s garden. Celia couldn’t imagine Lady Flora letting any of her servants do anything so human as have children, nor allowing a friend’s child to visit. Lady Flora’s acquaintances kept their children well hidden from the world, in any case, not bringing them to London until they were old enough to be out in society.
Celia rustled back up the stairs and to the nearest door, opened it, found that room empty, and went to the next one. She tried a few more doors, seeing only elegant furnishings in the chambers behind them, all the while the fretful cry continued.
The chamber three down from the studio held the warmth of a bright fire and was filled with sunlight, a beam slanting from the window to touch the deep auburn hair of a man lying on a chair with his head back, fast asleep. A blue and white quilt covered his body, and in the clasp of one big arm was a tiny child with bright red hair. The babe snuggled into him, restless.
The man’s face was slack with sleep, but it was strong, square and hard, the nose sharp, once broken. A brush of red whiskers covered his jaw, a brighter color than the hair that straggled across his cheek, and his mouth was a flat, grim line. He was large-boned, his body taking up the entire delicate-legged chair, the quilt drooping to reveal a wide spread of shoulders in a loose nightshirt. One bare foot protruded from the bottom end of the quilt.
Celia’s gaze slid to the foot in fascination. She’d never seen a man unshod before. Even her brother, older by three years, hadn’t gone barefoot when they’d played together in the grasslands of Kent.
This foot was broad but well-shaped, the toes curled slightly in his sleep. The strength displayed in that appendage alone suggested that the rest of him would be as powerful. The blunt-fingered hand that cradled the child bore out Celia’s observation.
He transfixed her. Celia had never encountered a man as basic, as natural, as this sleeping giant. He splayed formidably on the chair, like a lion at rest, not hunting at the moment, saving his strength for later.
Celia’s gaze returned to his foot. Her too-vivid imagination pictured him opening his eyes, reaching out his hand to draw her near, sliding his strong foot up under her skirts along her calf. She could feel the warmth of the rough sole through her finely knit stocking, his leg twining hers as he pulled her closer. She’d tumble into his lap, and he’d stroke her hair with the same gentleness as he held the babe, and then he’d smile.
Fire seared Celia’s chest. Her breath, which seemed to have left her, came rushing back with sudden sharpness.
She took a quick step back, but something about the man would not let her flee. His presence held her in place as unswervingly as Lady Flora’s stares.
If he was the drawing master, he didn’t look French at all, but Scottish, like those great Highlanders who’d invaded England this past winter. Celia saw no claymore or dirk lying about or any evidence of a tartan to confirm this theory, only a man in a nightshirt under a quilt, holding a tiny child.
Celia could fathom no reason for a Highlander to be here, unless Lady Flora had given him leave. Lady Flora was eccentric enough to do so—she gave sanction to all sorts of scandalous people, like poets and artists, actors and musicians. Lady Flora’s lady’s companion, Mrs. Reynolds, it was whispered, had once been a courtesan.
Not all Highlanders had tried to rebel, Celia’s brother had told her. Half of them had fought for King George and Britain.
Even so, being in the presence of such a man was unnerving. And, Celia made herself be honest, a little bit exciting. Celia was never allowed to come anywhere near men who might be considered the least bit dangerous.
Celia could, of course, run back downstairs and ask Lady Flora who the man was and why he was here, but she didn’t have the nerve to face the reptile in her den again. The lion in this one was less frightening.
She went to the man’s side, disconcerted at how warm the air was next to him. The baby opened its eyes, looked up at Celia with complete trust, and said, “Blurp.”
“Sir.” Celia bent down as close as she dared, ready to dart back as she did when she woke her cat too quickly. “Sir.”
The Highlander slept on, his lips parting to let out a snore. The snore wasn’t loud, but it was deep and low-pitched, a sound only a man could make.
“Sir.” Celia poked her finger into his shoulder.
Nothing. He was a lump of quilt-covered rock. His shoulder was hard as granite, her fingers not making a dent.
The baby gurgled at her encouragingly, but if the father would not wake up when his child moved, Celia doubted he’d respond to her soft taps.
Unfortunately for the Highlander, Celia had been raised by a mother who had no patience for anyone in her house, from the scullery maid to the duke himself, being a lie-abed. The Duchess of Crenshaw had all sorts of tricks to drag a person out of sweet slumber.
Celia moved around the bed to the washstand, lifted the delicate porcelain pitcher, brought it back to the chair, upended the pitcher, and poured a cascade of water over the exposed foot.
Chapter 2
The foot kicked. The child let out a cry, and the sleeping lion woke, opening eyes of dark gold as he roared.
“Bloody hell, woman!”
He surged from the chair, a giant in nothing but a nightshirt that gaped open at the neck. The thin fabric let sunshine through it, silhouetting a body that was large, taut, and very bare. “What the devil do ye think you’re doing?”
The burning in Celia’s chest rose to fevered heat. The nightshirt showed her the outline of male legs, hard with muscle, a tight barrel of a waist, and a hard chest. She could see where his legs met his waist, the transition hidden but tantalizingly near.
The man clasped the child securely but glared with eyes that told Celia he was indeed a fierce Highland warrior, come to finish what Bonnie Prince Charlie had begun.
Celia realized her mouth was open. A gaping mouth only lets in flies. She shut it with a click of teeth.
“What am I doing?” she asked crisply, hiding the fact that she quavered like the aspic her mother insisted she have for breakfast. “Waking you, sir. We have an appointment.”
Alec stared down at a woman he’d never seen before in his life. She gazed back at him, her face flushed, the pitcher of torture in her hand.
Her eyes were hazel, a green-brown mix like sunlight dappling water. Her hair was dark, almost black, the crown of her head covered by a modest cap, the kind unmarried misses wore.
The cap matched the embroidered fichu that lined her bodice and kept male eyes like Alec’s from viewing her bosom. It was a fine bosom, the sort a man would like to cup while he drew her close for a taste of her lips. Her gown was a tan and yellow striped cotton without adornment. The dress was drab, very different from the colorful silks dripping with lace and ribbons that Lady Flora draped herself in.
This woman was young, barely into her twenties, with an unworldly air of a person who’d never traveled much beyond her own home. Innocent, yes, but her eyes held the stubbornness of one who would do what she must, damn all censure. Why else would a slip of an English miss dump an ice-cold deluge on him?
“Are you, indeed, the drawing master, sir?” she asked in that clear, clean voice. “You are to give me lessons this morning.”
Her words were punctuated by the clock on the tapered-legged writing table striking the half hour past eight. “Damn and blast,” he muttered.
Alec realized he faced Lady Celia Fothe
ringhay, daughter of the Duke of Crenshaw, the man who would be key in finding his brother.
His waking brain kicked him to life. Lady Celia had been brought here by Flora so they could ease into the duke’s head and discover all he knew. This charade was for Will’s life.
Alec banished his scowl and brought up the Mackenzie charm. Mal, it was agreed, was the most charming of all of them, but Alec came close to his wee brother’s skill. He tried a half smile and forced his voice to be light, suppressing his Scottish tones as much as he could.
“My daughter—she was restless all night.” Alec lifted Jenny close and kissed the top of her head. Jenny, right on cue, closed her eyes, her small fists clutching his nightshirt in a fetching way.
The young woman simply stared at him, her lips parting. The pitcher was in danger of falling from her hand, so Alec took it from her.
Lady Celia blinked. She jerked once and clamped her mouth closed.
“Go on into the studio, lass,” Alec said. “I’ll be there after I put her to bed. Promise.”
He let his right eye close in the hint of a wink as he set the pitcher on a table and moved past Lady Celia to the chamber door. Lady Celia pivoted as he went by, and her skirts over a modestly round hoop swiveled with her.
She was not what he expected. Alec had pictured a spoiled, pinch-faced harpy, raised to be the privileged daughter of the most prominent duke in Britain. Her father doted on her, and he’d likely know whether Alec’s brother Will had been captured and where he’d be held if so.
Will’s last contact before he’d disappeared had been the Dowager Marchioness of Ellesmere, a grand hostess in London, known to her intimates as Lady Flora.
Lady Flora, as alarmed at Will’s disappearance as the Mackenzies, agreed to help. She’d brought Alec to London, given him a new identity and a history, and informed him that the Duke of Crenshaw was the most likely man to have the power over Will’s life or death. Lady Flora’s plan was to pump Celia for all kinds of information, resorting to blackmail or whatever trickery she could come up with to get it.
If things became desperate, Flora said, Lady Celia could become a bargaining piece. Alec did not want to resort to such measures, but he knew damn well the courts would not spare Will’s life when it was discovered exactly who he was and the things he’d done. And Will had done so many things.
Having met Celia now, Alec was certain Lady Flora was too eager to use her. This young woman did not look as though she knew the secrets of the kingdom. She likely had no idea what had gone on during the battles in the far north and the Uprising’s horrible culmination at Culloden. She’d probably cheered when it was known that Cumberland had won and sent Charles running. It would have been a cheer of ignorance—the horror of it all would have been kept from her.
Lady Celia studied him, her eyes full of curiosity. No fear at all. This was a woman who’d never faced danger in her life.
Jenny opened her eyes, her whimpers building toward a wail. Alec gathered her close, rocking her in his big arms.
“Hush now, sweet.” He turned from Lady Celia and walked with Jenny to the stairs. He began to sing in a soft voice, a song in Erse his mum had whispered to him so very long ago.
Jenny’s cries eased into sniffles as Alec climbed higher in the house to return her to her chamber. He was very aware of Lady Celia watching him from the doorway, her gaze fixed on him until he turned the corner of the stairs, and she was lost to sight.
Celia had recovered some but not all of her wits by the time the drawing master reappeared.
He didn’t simply walk into the room. He burst into it like a bright comet, stealing the light and forcing all attention to him. At the moment, the attention was Celia’s and that of yet another footman who set a pitcher of scented water and glasses on a low table.
The drawing master eyed the pitcher as the footman vanished. He brushed past Celia with a waft of fresh air, lifted the pitcher, and carried it to the other side of the room.
“Don’t want to tempt ye,” he said. “You have a fondness for throwing water around. Now then, lass.”
He looked about the room as though he’d never seen it before, spied her portfolio, and made for it.
He’d changed from nightshirt to knee breeches that looked a bit worn, stockings that had been mended, black shoes he shifted uncomfortably in, a linen shirt, a dark brown frock coat with one patched elbow, and no waistcoat or cravat.
Celia’s irritation turned to pity. He was poor, as she’d suspected, a man scraping a living teaching drawing to daughters and sons of aristocrats. Likely he’d left Scotland after the war was lost, looking for work, too proud perhaps, to take a post in the factories and mills. Why he’d left France if he was so famous there, Celia couldn’t guess. No doubt he was putting up with Lady Flora now because she could bring him paying clients.
Any idea that Lady Flora was having a scandalous affair with this man Celia did not bother to consider. Everyone knew about Lady Flora. The great surprise was that she’d married at all, but her much-celebrated nuptials—the daughter of a notable earl wedded to a marquess—had made her a powerful woman.
The drawing master reached a broad-fingered hand to Celia’s portfolio. Of course he’d be curious about her work, but Celia pictured him finding her pathetic efforts and laughing out loud. He’d have a booming laugh, and she’d die of mortification. Celia had brought the drawings only because Lady Flora insisted.
She hurried to the table and pressed her hand to the portfolio’s cover. “What is your name?” she asked. “Lady Flora did not tell me.”
The man’s eyes opened and closed a few times, his lashes fair and thick. “Mr. Finn. Ansel Finn.”
He spoke the name slowly and carefully as though as uncomfortable with it as with his heavy shoes. It didn’t fit him, that name. It was tight and simple, and Celia already believed him much more complicated than that.
Not his fault. He was impoverished, he couldn’t help what he was named, and he was under Lady Flora’s power. Celia wondered what he’d done to put himself into such a terrible position, but she felt sympathy for him.
He unfastened the portfolio’s catch with strong fingers. Celia leaned to press her hand more firmly to the leather top.
“What was that language?” she asked, groping for questions. “That you were singing to your daughter? What was the song?”
Mr. Finn flushed brilliant red, the color blending with the russet hair at his forehead. Then he beamed a wide smile, like sunshine blasting through smoke.
“’Tis very old. Greek, I think.”
Celia lifted her hand from the portfolio. “Absolute nonsense. I understand Greek perfectly, and that is nothing like it.”
“Ah. Well then.” Mr. Finn rubbed his nose. “It’s that embarrassed I am, lass. It’s Irish. Me mother tongue.”
Celia supposed it sounded a bit like what the Irish maids gabbled at each other below stairs. Never in Celia’s mother’s hearing, of course. In the duchess’s opinion, all servants should speak perfect, unaccented English or not speak at all.
“I see,” Celia said. “Well, you’d better not speak Irish while you’re teaching me, Mr. Finn. Lest my mother, who believes English is the language of God, gets wind of it.”
Mr. Finn slanted her a startled look before amusement danced in to cover it. “I will try to remember. What am I supposed to be teaching you?”
“To be an artist, of course.” Humiliation bit her. “If I become an eccentric and paint day and night, I will be forgiven all my sins.”
Mr. Finn looked her up and down, blatantly so, no politeness. His eyes were the color of gold, or amber, like the whisky her father drank when her mother wasn’t home. “What kind of sins can a wee thing like yourself have committed? I’ve done them all, lass.”
A lump lodged in Celia’s throat, and her breath didn’t work quite right. “Apparently, embarrassing my mother is the most grievous sin of all.”
Mr. Finn gave her another look of surprise
, then he began to laugh. It was a deep, true laugh, crinkling up his face and smoothing its hard lines into something handsome.
“Poor little lass.” He shook his head. “You’re a charmer, you are. I meant what specifically am I teaching you? Drawing, painting? Landscapes? Portraits? Let’s see what ye’ve done.”
He turned swiftly to the portfolio and had it open before Celia could stop him.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said, her face hot. “They’re not good. It’s only what I’ve done on my own. I sat in on my brother’s drawing lessons, but that was a long time ago …”
Mr. Finn ignored her as he spread out the drawings—the small sketch of her mother’s face that hadn’t quite captured her sharpness, the many different pictures of the cat, the buildings of London seen from the garret window, and watercolors of the lands around her family’s estate in Kent.
Mr. Finn paused over a careful drawing Celia had done of her father’s head and shoulders. She thought she’d caught well his round, affable face, friendly eyes, plump chin, and the wig he liked with two careful curls on either side of his face.
Her father was not a handsome man and preferred the company of his mistress, the boisterous Mrs. Barnett, whom he’d known all his life. All the family was aware of Mrs. Barnett—Celia’s mother said it was a relief that Mrs. B. kept her father out from underfoot. The duke was kind to Celia and had taken her side, to her surprise, during the Disaster.
Celia’s brother had not. Edward was furious and hadn’t spoken to Celia since. That hurt. She and her brother had always been great friends, but she hadn’t heard from him since he’d been posted off to France after Culloden to fight in the ongoing war against King Louis.
Mr. Finn studied the drawing of the duke for a long time. His smile had gone and something harsh entered the set of his mouth.
“As I say, I’m not very skilled,” Celia said into the silence. “I couldn’t get my father to sit for long. He’s very busy.”