* * *
With half an hour to spare before meeting with Sir Anthony, Kenneth went to his room. The maids had cleaned the place until it sparkled, and the footman had retrieved his baggage from the inn where he had spent the previous night. He; guessed that most of the servants would prove to be satisfactory; they merely needed a firm hand.
It took only a few minutes to unpack his belongings. For some obscure reason, he had brought a portfolio of his drawings. He tucked it in the back of the wardrobe, safe from the eyes of servants. Then he drifted across the room, feeling as tired as if he had marched thirty miles. Deceit took energy.
He halted at the window and looked out at the small garden. Beyond were the houses and rooftops of Mayfair, the most fashionable neighborhood in the city that was the heartbeat of Britain. Though he had gone to school at Harrow, only a dozen miles away, he had never spent more than a few days at a time in London proper. At the age when he might have started to know the city's delights, he had left the country.
He wondered what this visit would bring. Somewhere nearby, Hermione, the widowed Lady Kimball, was living in comfort on the money plundered from her late husband. Kenneth hoped to God that their paths would not cross. Even after fifteen years, he would have trouble being civil to his stepmother.
Lord Bowden was also living nearby, and he wanted regular reports from his investigator. With a sigh, Kenneth settled down in the armchair to define his first impressions of Sir Anthony's household. This investigation was going to be an even uglier business than he had guessed. Though Sir Anthony might be volatile and sometimes arrogant, he was not unlikable. It was going be difficult to work daily with the man while trying to find evidence to destroy his life.
He reminded himself that if Seaton had murdered his wife, he deserved whatever happened to him. But was Sir Anthony capable of murder? Perhaps. He was an intense, forceful man, used to getting his own way. In a moment of rage, he might turn violent. A single angry shove when he and his wife were walking near a cliff could have had lethal consequences. That would send him to prison even if murder had not been his intent.
But how could such a crime be proved without witnesses? Kenneth must learn exactly what had been going on in the Seaton household at the time of Helen's death—not only the events, but the emotions.
He thought back to Rebecca Seaton's behavior when she had said her mother had died in a "horrible, stupid accident." Her reaction had seemed like more than simple sorrow. It implied that Bowden's suspicions might be justified. He wondered what she had meant when she said her father had not "been himself" since the death. Grief—or guilt?
Thinking of Rebecca Seaton made Kenneth wince. He never should have made that idiotic remark about kissing her. She had stalked away like an angry cat. But damn the woman, something about her attracted him intensely. It certainly wasn't love at first sight; he wasn't sure he even liked her. Nonetheless, her sharp edges and individuality were intriguing, which was why he'd spoken so imprudently. He had been away from civilized society too long. He must relearn manners.
Even though a couple of hours in the Seaton household had underlined the fact that his artistic skills were strictly amateur, he lifted a pencil and began idly sketching on a tablet. He'd always found drawing relaxing. Often it was useful for clarifying his thoughts and feelings.
He did a thumbnail sketch of Sir Anthony's voluptuous Lavinia. She would make a good model for a decadent Venus. With two swift strokes, he crossed her out. Odd that even though he had always loved beauty, he had never fallen in love with a beautiful woman. Catherine Melbourne, an army wife who had followed the drum through Spain and Belgium, was one of the most stunning women on God's earth, and as loving and good as she was beautiful. He would have laid down his life for her and her young daughter, yet his feelings had always been those of friendship, even after she was widowed. It was Maria, a fierce Spanish guerrilla fighter, whom he had loved.
Thinking of Maria made him recognize that there were similarities between her and Rebecca. Neither woman was conventionally beautiful, but each was striking in an uncommon way. Each had blazed with single-minded passion. For Maria, the cause had been Spain. Rebecca Seaton's passion, he guessed, was art. Talent alone could not account for the quality of her painting; she must also be dedicated to the point of obsession.
It was that single-minded fierceness that aroused him. Maria had lived and died for Spain, but when she had the time and inclination, she had made love like a wildcat. Mating had been tempestuous and satisfying. He had been unable to imagine a normal, mundane life with her, though that hadn't kept him from asking her to marry him.
If she had accepted, would it have made a difference? Might she still be alive today?
For an instant, the image of how he had last seen Maria rose in his mind. He shoved it away, his stomach knotting. The past could not be changed. He must think of the present, of Sutterton and Beth and their future.
His investigation would not be easy. The coachman might be helpful, and he would try to locate the previous secretary, Tom Morley. But he was not optimistic. His intelligence work in Spain had taught him that the overall picture was usually painstakingly constructed from numerous tiny pieces contributed by many informants. Here he would have few sources.
He recognized uneasily that Rebecca was probably the best source of information about her mother's death. She would know things no servant could know. He was going to have to cultivate her friendship—and then betray it.
He swore to himself as he prepared to go down to Sir Anthony's office. War was cleaner and more honorable than what he was doing here.
* * *
"Send polite dunning letters to everyone in this pile." Sir Anthony tapped a stack of letters. "Most of 'em are aristocrats. Cits are much better at paying their bills." He dug into the mess of the secretary's desk and pulled out a leather-bound notebook. "Another of your tasks is to maintain my daybooks. I jot down what I want recorded on scraps of paper." He opened the volume, revealing a dozen scribbled sheets tucked inside the front cover. "These need to be transcribed."
Kenneth took the daybook and scanned a page. Listed in Tom Morley's neat hand were notations such as "5th February, 10:00-11:00, Duke of Candover & family, first sketches. Hazy sunshine." Two more sittings were listed on the same day, with other entries for visits from friends and a meeting of the Council of the Royal Academy. He felt a stir of excitement; the daybook from the summer of Lady Seaton's death would give invaluable information about Sir Anthony's activities.
Masking his reaction, he remarked, "You have a very full schedule."
"Too full. Last year I had three hundred and six sittings. Didn't leave me enough time for my historical paintings." Seaton sighed elaborately. "But it's hard to turn down a lady when she pleads for a portrait, saying that no one else can possibly paint her as well."
Kenneth was tempted to point out that Seaton had already admitted to enjoying portrait work, and that the income from it maintained this expensive household, but he restrained himself. "Is there anything else you wish to explain, sir?"
"That's enough for today." Sir Anthony got to his feet. "I'll save dictation of letters for tomorrow morning. You have enough to keep you busy."
An understatement; it would take Kenneth days to catch up on the accumulated work. He was about to ask what Sir Anthony wanted done first when footsteps sounded in the hall. After a perfunctory knock, the door opened to reveal three fashionably clad people. The taller of the two men, a handsome fellow about Seaton's age, said, "What, not at your easel, Anthony?"
"I'm training the new secretary who has providentially appeared." Seaton gestured toward Kenneth. "Captain Wilding was sent by a nameless friend who knew I was in dire need of a secretary. Are you the one I should thank, Malcolm?"
Malcolm gave Kenneth a sharp, curious glance. "Surely I wouldn't admit it if I wish for anonymity."
Sir Anthony gave an amused nod, as if the answer were confirmation. "Captain Wilding, the
se are some of my scapegrace friends, who like to use my studio as a salon."
"But only in the late afternoons," said the woman standing slightly behind Malcolm. To his surprise, it was the voluptuous Lavinia, now dressed in the height of flamboyant fashion.
"If a man can't be a tyrant under his own roof, where can he be?" Sir Anthony said before making the introductions.
Kenneth stood and murmured greetings to the visitors. The elegant Malcolm turned out to be Lord Frazier, a fairly well-known gentleman painter. The second man, a short, stocky fellow with an easy smile, was George Hampton, an engraver and owner of the best-known print shop in Britain. Lavinia was introduced as Lady Claxton. Kenneth spoke little but studied everyone closely. These people must have known Helen Seaton.
After several minutes of general talk, Malcolm Frazier said, "I was hoping to see how your new Waterloo picture is progressing. May we have a view?"
Sir Anthony shrugged. "I've had little time to work on it since your last visit, but you can see it if you wish." He offered his arm to Lavinia.
Before the group could leave, Rebecca Seaton appeared in the doorway, her hair even untidier than it had been earlier. She paused at the sight of the visitors. Lord Frazier drawled, "How is the best-looking artist in London?"
"I have no idea," she replied. "How are you feeling?"
He laughed, unaffected by her implication of vanity. "You're the only woman I know who refuses to accept compliments."
"If you didn't give them to so many, I might be more willing to keep one for myself," Rebecca said sweetly as she greeted Lavinia and George Hampton.
After the visitors left to see Sir Anthony's painting, Rebecca closed the door and said to Kenneth, "I see you've met your first members of Seaton's Salon."
His brows rose. "Sir Anthony said people use the house as a gathering place, but I thought he was joking."
"Father won't admit casual visitors early in the day, but in the late afternoon he rather enjoys having people drop in to see his work and chat with his sitters. Sometimes it's a nuisance." Her searching gaze went around the office. "Have you seen a cat?"
"A cat?"
"A small animal with four feet, whiskers, and a tail." She peered behind her father's desk. "This room is one of my cat's preferred hiding places."
Kenneth thought back. Though most of his attention had been on Sir Anthony, he seemed to recall seeing a small shadow from the corner of his eye. He went to the stationery cabinet and peered beneath. A pair of large yellow eyes opened and regarded him unblinkingly. "I assume this is your feline friend."
Rebecca dropped to her knees beside Kenneth. "Come out, Ghostie. It's almost dinnertime."
The cat oozed from beneath the cabinet and stretched languorously. It was a lean, rangy gray tom with battle scars on its ears and an unnaturally shortened tail. Rebecca made cooing noises and scooped the cat onto her shoulder. Kenneth was interested to see that her usual tart expression had become doting. He asked, "Is the correct name Ghost or Ghostie?"
"He's the Gray Ghost." She stroked her palm down the cat's spine and was rewarded with a deep, rumbling purr. "He was a starving ally cat who used to beg at the kitchen door. I started feeding him, but it was months before he would let himself be touched. Now he's turned into a proper house puss."
Kenneth found her care for a wild, hungry creature unexpected but endearing. Wanting to take advantage of her relaxed mood to further their relationship, he scratched the Gray Ghost between the ears. "He's a fine fellow. Well behaved, too. He slept through the invasion of the fashionables."
"He's used to such onslaughts. There are dozens who call regularly, but the three who were just here are the most frequent visitors. Father and George and Malcolm have been friends since they were students at the academy school. George is my godfather. He does the engravings of Father's pictures."
"The prints are marvelous, and they've contributed greatly to your father's fame." Kenneth stroked the cat again, his fingertips almost touching Rebecca's cheek. He wondered if the delicate skin was as flawlessly smooth as it appeared. He withdrew his hand before he was tempted to find out. "I met Lavinia earlier and thought she was a professional model. It was a surprise to learn she is Lady Claxton."
Rebecca moved to a chair and settled down with the cat still draped over her shoulder. "Did you have any trouble recognizing her with her clothes on?"
He suppressed a smile. "I did have to look twice to be sure it was the same woman."
"Lavinia was a minor actress and artist's model who married an elderly baronet. Now she's a wealthy widow who delights in being outrageous. She isn't received in the best society, but she's very popular among the artistic set." Rebecca rubbed her cheek against the cat's soft fur. In a voice that was too casual, she added, "She is Father's current mistress, I believe."
Kenneth came instantly alert. Seeing his expression, Rebecca said coolly, "Have I shocked you, Captain?"
He collected himself. "Perhaps I've been out of England for too long. When I left, it would have been considered improper for a young lady to speak of illicit affairs."
She smiled with self-mockery. "But I am not young, nor am I a lady. I've been officially ruined for years. The art world is unconventional enough to accept me, if only because I'm Sir Anthony Seaton's daughter, but I would never be allowed into a respectable drawing room."
Knowing his response would have a critical effect on how well she accepted him, he said, "Are you stronger or weaker for having been ruined?"
She looked startled by the question, then thoughtful. "Stronger, I suppose. I had not realized how much I valued my reputation until I lost it, but in some ways, I've found the situation rather liberating."
He nodded as he took his seat again. "It is not our triumphs that define us, but our failures."
Her stroking hand stilled on the cat's back as she studied his expression. "You have an interesting mind."
"I've been told that before," he said dryly. "It wasn't usually intended as a compliment."
She gave a smile that lit her face to vivid prettiness. "From me, it's a compliment, Captain." She rose, the cat twining around her neck like a scarf. "I'll see you at dinner. An unbreakable law of the house is that everyone dines together." Her gaze went to the portrait of Lady Seaton. "My mother knew that Father and I often become lost in our work, so she insisted that we behave as civilized people for one meal a day."
"You look very like her," he observed.
"Not really. We have the same coloring, but she was much taller, almost Father's height." Rebecca turned from the portrait, cradling the cat against her. "And of course Mother was beautiful."
Kenneth considered saying that Rebecca was also beautiful, but refrained because she would surely think him a flatterer. Yet as he watched the setting sun turn her hair to silky fire, he saw that there was true beauty there for anyone with the eye to see it. Reminding himself to keep his mind on business, he said, "Was Lady Seaton as charming as she appears in the portrait?"
"When she was happy, the whole house glowed. And when she was sad..." Rebecca hesitated. "We all knew it."
"She was moody?"
Rebecca's face froze and she began moving toward the door. "Who isn't sometimes?"
He had touched some kind of nerve. He thought for a moment, wondering how to recover from his slip. Reluctantly he recognized that if he was to win Rebecca's trust, he would have to reveal something of himself. Quietly he said, "My mother died when I was sixteen. Nothing else has ever hurt as much."
Rebecca paused and swallowed hard. "It... it leaves an unfillable hole in one's life." She closed her anguished eyes for a moment. "How did your mother die?"
"Slowly and painfully, of a wasting disease." A sharp memory of that terrible year struck him. He began straightening papers on his desk. Gruffly he said, "I've seen great courage in battle, but none greater than hers as she faced death."
While Kenneth resembled his father physically, in temperament he was very much Elizab
eth Wilding's son. One of his first memories was of his mother's long, graceful fingers clasping his chubby hand as she guided him in writing his own name. It was from her that he had learned drawing and how to truly see the world around him.
Though her bluff husband had loved her in his way, he had been unable to deal with Elizabeth's slow dying. It was to her son that she had turned for comfort and support. Kenneth had been forced into adulthood that year. He and his small sister had drawn together in their grief, and the bond had never really been broken during his long years away.
The Gray Ghost gave a soft meow, which pulled Kenneth from his reverie. He realized that his unmoving hands rested on the piled papers in front of him. Uneasily he looked up and saw that Rebecca was regarding him with compassionate eyes.
His intention had been to show sympathy, not weakness. "Your father explained about the daybook. Are the earlier ones kept here in the study? I thought it might help me understand the business better if I glanced through the last several years' worth."
"You'll have to ask Father. I'm not sure where he keeps them. Until dinner, Captain." She turned and left the study.
He watched her go, knowing that his first instinct had been correct. She was trouble.
* * *
Rebecca petted the Gray Ghost for comfort as she went downstairs to the kitchen. It had been upsetting to discuss her mother, and Captain Wilding's sorrow when he talked of his mother's death had triggered her own grief. Still, his sensitivity had shown an unexpected side of his character. For a moment, the stern army officer had revealed the boy he had been.
He was an intriguing puzzle. Her first impressions of him had included both harshness and intelligence. Those qualities were certainly part of him, but he was also tolerant and surprisingly philosophical. She had deliberately revealed her ruined reputation to see his reaction. To his credit, he had shown neither shock nor lewd speculation.
After feeding her cat, she headed purposefully up to her studio again. She had half an hour before she must dress for dinner. Time enough to try another sketch or two of the captain.