Читать книгу Nothing But Deception - Allegra Gray - Страница 8

England

April 1815

“This is the place, monsieur.”

Philippe stared up at No. 6 Charles Street. “It looks abandoned.” The home stood on an enviable lot on a street that was clearly home to some of England’s nobility, but the windows were all darkened, with no discernable signs of life.

The hack driver scratched his head. “Lord Henry Owen, you said?”

“Yes.”

“I been driving in this town for many a year, monsieur, and if I may venture to say, I don’t believe Lord Owen spends a great deal of his time in London.”

Philippe didn’t know whether to feel angry or disappointed. After all, he hadn’t written ahead to announce his visit. Given the way Lord Owen had dispatched his mother, along with any parental duties, he hadn’t known whether his visit would be well received.

Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely certain of anything about this mad scheme. It was unthinkable that he would ignore his mother’s wish. But what had she hoped to accomplish by sending him here? For that matter, what sort of man was Lord Owen that he avoided London at the height of the Season?

“A recluse?” Philippe asked.

The driver shrugged uncomfortably. “Not my place to say, monsieur.”

“Of course. My apologies.” He shouldn’t have been surprised. From the moment he’d first spied a Gaudet on display in the home of one of his mother’s Parisian friends, he’d been enthralled. Tracking down the artist’s other works had quickly become an obsession, but the artist himself had remained elusive. If Gaudet and Owen were indeed one and the same, the man clearly had an aversion to Society.

But stranger, and more painful, was the realization that if Owen were actually his father, then his mother, the person with whom Philippe had always been closest, with whom he’d shared everything…she had kept from him the nature of his very birth, let alone a past with a man she must once have loved—leaving Philippe to wonder if he’d ever really known her at all.

“Will ye be wantin’ me to take ye elsewhere, now?”

The driver’s question pulled Philippe back to the present.

“Yes.” Philippe gave him the address of the hotel where he was staying, then climbed back into the coach. As long as he had to come to England, he’d planned to make the trip worthwhile, to build his artistic reputation here as he had at home and in Italy. Painting was his passion, and he thrived on the communities of fellow artists and patrons inspired by love of art. The work itself involved many solitary hours, but Philippe, unlike the artist who’d first inspired him, was far from a recluse.

Arriving at the hotel, Philippe paid the driver and went to his room to dress for dinner. A respectable establishment, the hotel afforded him greater privacy than staying with any of his London acquaintances. The only downside was the lighting and lack of space. Should he decide to begin a new painting, he’d be hard-pressed to set up a studio at the inn.

Ah, well. The point was moot.

As yet, nothing about dreary London had inspired him to pick up a brush.

Lady Beatrice Pullington smiled as her longtime friend, Elizabeth Bainbridge, entered the comfortable “family” salon of Bea’s London town house. “You’re looking exceptionally well. It’s a wonder Alex doesn’t insist on escorting you everywhere,” she teased.

Elizabeth, the newly married Duchess of Beaufort, laughed. “He does. He only makes an exception for you.” She settled herself further into the comfortable chaise.

“What a relief. Having him glower at me would certainly put a damper on our gossip sessions.” Bea poured a cup of tea and passed it to Elizabeth.

“Come now,” Elizabeth scoffed, a twitch of her lips betraying her merriment. “He hasn’t glowered in months.”

“Of course not. He’s too enamored of you,” Bea told her sincerely. She might be envious of her friend’s newfound happiness, but that didn’t mean she would see a single ounce of it stripped away, especially knowing all Elizabeth and Alex had endured before learning to love and trust one another. They hadn’t had an easy time of it.

A happy flush spread over her friend’s complexion. “Actually, Bea, I’ve come to ask a favor.”

“Anything.”

“You’ve heard of the painter, Jean Philippe Durand? There is to be a salon tonight held in his honor. The artiste himself is supposed to be present.”

“Yes, I’d heard.”

“I promised Charity I would act as her chaperone to the event. She has declared herself madly in love with the Frenchman.”

It was Bea’s turn to laugh. Charity was Elizabeth’s younger sister, a beautiful blonde who, at eighteen, retained much of the impishness that had marked her childhood. In the midst of her first Season, she had suitors lined up for miles—not that any of them held her attention for long.

Honestly, the Medford sisters, though two of Bea’s closest friends, always made her feel plain. Charity sparkled with golden beauty, while Elizabeth, less traditional but no less lovely, was a redheaded enchantress—just look how thoroughly she’d bewitched the Duke of Beaufort. In comparison, Bea was just…Bea.

“Would you attend in my stead, please? I’m simply exhausted these days.” Elizabeth’s hand moved, almost unconsciously, to her lower abdomen.

Bea felt her eyes grow wide as a giddy rush pushed her to her feet. “E., never tell me you’re expecting!”

Elizabeth smiled.

“Oh, how absolutely wonderful!” Bea skipped to the chaise to embrace her friend. “You and Alex must be beside yourselves with joy.”

Elizabeth’s smile grew into a grin.

“Of course, I’ll attend the salon with Charity. You mustn’t worry about a thing. You need your rest. And I don’t mind the opportunity to lay eyes on Monsieur Durand, either. He has quite the reputation.” It was true. Women across France and Italy had swooned before the popular artist, and now the females of England were lining up to do the same. Bea winked. “Honestly. Don’t worry. I’ll keep Charity out of trouble.”

As Bea waved good-bye to Elizabeth later that afternoon, she couldn’t help the pang of jealousy that made her momentarily pause and lean her head against the doorframe before wistfully closing it.

Marriage, and a baby. Well, Bea had experienced the first. At twenty-two, she’d already been a widow for over two years. For most of that time, she’d been grateful for her circumstance. Lord Pullington had never been cruel, but theirs was hardly a love match. When the old man had cocked up his toes a mere six months into their marriage, leaving her an independent woman, she’d felt nothing so much as relief. Only lately had she begun to wonder, especially watching her dearest friend Elizabeth, if life might hold more for her, too.

Between her mother, sisters, and Elizabeth and Charity, Bea never lacked for female companionship. Invitations to teas, soirees, even balls arrived with regularity. She danced when asked, and had been complimented on her conversational skills as a dinner partner. But none of that could erase the fact that Bea was—had always been, even during her brief marriage—alone.

When she’d first been widowed, her spinster cousin Ernesta had come to live with her for some months. The arrangement had been tolerable, though the two women had little in common. The presence of a companion allowed Bea to maintain the aura of propriety her parents and husband had drilled into her.

But last year, Ernesta had surprised them all by answering an advertisement for a teaching position in America. She’d heard that not only teachers, but women as a whole, were in short supply over there, so after thirty-five years of dull but respectable life in England, she’d decided to try her luck in the New World. Bea wished her the best.

When her mother had brought up the topic of a new companion, Bea had argued that the proximity of her parents, scarcely a block away, ought to be sufficient. It wasn’t as though she was receiving callers of a questionable nature; not once since widowhood had she engaged in anything more questionable than offering her best friend, Elizabeth, a place to stay when she’d experienced some turmoil with her family. Which, come to think of it, was rather depressing.

She had her independence, but what good had it done her?

Of course, if she wanted to meet the right sort of man—the sort she could love and marry—she needed to attend the right sort of events, not the usual teas and musicales she was too polite to turn down.

Chaperoning Charity at Monsieur Durand’s salon seemed like a good place to start. Still, years spent attending ton events left her skeptical. The only appropriate topics of conversation were meaningless—fashion, weather, and such. They left one with scarcely more than a surface-level acquaintance. This time, Bea wanted more. A second marriage to someone who didn’t truly know her, and value her at that deeper level, might leave her feeling even emptier than she did now.