Читать книгу If His Kiss Is Wicked - Jo Goodman - Страница 9

“Your uncle wishes to see you.”

Emma looked up from the book in her lap. The interruption was not unwelcome. She had been reading from the same page for some time and still had no comprehension of what had passed before her eyes. She closed the book and held up her hand, forestalling the maid who was already backing out of the room. “Wait, Miller, you have not told me where I can find him. Is he in his studio?”

“No, miss. In the library.” She bobbed a curtsy and made a full retreat.

Emma raised one hand to her cheek, palming her jaw first, then gently exploring the bridge of her nose. There was no longer any swelling that she could detect, but Miller’s hasty exit reminded her that the bruising had not entirely faded. This morning, when she had examined her face in the mirror, she had entertained the notion that she might take a turn in the park with Marisol and not be the object of stares, whispers, or worse, pity. The maid’s discomfort in her presence served as a warning that this would not yet be the case.

Placing the book aside, Emma rose and smoothed the front of her white muslin day dress. Her pale green shawl had slipped to her waist, and she raised it to the level of her shoulders, knotting the fringed ends just below her bodice. Emma tried to make out her reflection in the window, but the late morning sun thwarted her efforts. Her attention was caught instead by the splintering of light at the corners of the beveled panes. She stepped closer and examined the rainbow that appeared in the glass. Following the angle of the light’s entry, she looked down at herself and saw the ephemeral colors were spread across her bodice. She raised her hand so the light interlaced her fingers like a web of delicate silk threads.

“What are you doing, Emmalyn?”

The intrusion was so unexpected that Emma nearly lost her balance as she spun around. “Marisol. You startled me.”

“That is obvious. You look as if you cannot quite catch your breath. What were you doing?” Marisol untied the ribbons of her bonnet as she stepped into the salon. She removed the straw bonnet with a flourish and gave her head a toss. Ebon curls fluttered first one way, then the other, and came to rest in a manner that made a perfect frame for her heart-shaped face. Her regard was not so much curious as it was demanding.

“I was studying the light,” Emma said.

“Studying the—” Marisol waved one hand dismissively. “Oh, never mind. It cannot be important. Did I misunderstand? When I came in I thought I heard that Father desires to see you.”

“He does. I just learned of it.”

“You know he does not like to be kept waiting.”

“No,” Emmalyn said. “That is you who has no tolerance for waiting. In any event, I am going now.”

Marisol stepped aside to permit Emmalyn to pass. “Do you know who he has with him?”

Emma wished she might have reacted less visibly to this intelligence. Was it not punishment enough that her stomach roiled and a weight settled on her chest? Why did she have to show her fear by faltering in her steps? “There is someone with him?”

“Are you all right?” Marisol asked, at once solicitous. “Why, you are ashen, Emmalyn. Except where you are still a bit jaundiced, of course.”

Emma brushed aside the hand Marisol put out for her. “It’s nothing.”

“It does not appear that is the case.”

“I’m fine,” Emma said stoutly. “Really. It’s nothing.”

“You didn’t know that Father has a guest.”

“No, but that is neither here nor there.”

“Shall I make some excuse for you?”

“No. I’ll go. If Uncle is not embarrassed by my appearance, then I shan’t be.”

“You are very brave, Emmalyn.” Marisol sighed. “I could not do it.” She brightened suddenly. “I will allow you to use my rice powder,” she said, seizing Emma’s hand. “Come. Let me apply it to your face. You will be astonished at the result.”

Emma shook her head and carefully disengaged herself from Marisol’s hold. “You are kind to suggest it, but it is not necessary. I would not keep your father waiting so long as that. He is patient but not infinitely so.”

“As you wish.” She regarded Emmalyn critically. “I believe if you present a three-quarter profile Father’s guest may not notice anything is amiss. It is only your left side that reveals the vestiges of your injuries.”

“Stop,” Emma said sharply. Marisol’s head snapped back, but Emma could not regret her sting in her delivery. She did, however, draw a calming breath and offer in a less pointed tone, “Just stop. I’m certain that Uncle’s visitor will not be so rude as to inquire about my disfigurement, therefore I am not in the least concerned that I will have to answer questions that might cause discomfort to any of us.”

“That is a very good point,” Marisol said. “I should have thought of it.”

“You didn’t think of it because you would ask the questions.”

“I would not, and you are impolite to say so. And further, you are not disfigured, merely discolored. You cannot make me feel worse than I already do by making more of what was done to you than was actually done to you.”

Emma blinked. Had there been a chair at the ready she would have sat. “Do you think that’s my intent? To make you feel guilty?”

“Guiltier,” Marisol said. “I already feel guilty. Worse than that, really, except I do not know what word describes such a lowering emotion. I am heartily sorry for what happened to you, Emmalyn, and I will always regret that you went to Madame Chabrier’s in my stead. But that is an example of your generous nature, is it not? I cannot accept all the responsibility. It would crush me. You know I am not as strong as you.”

“That is what you say, Marisol, but I submit that it’s never been put to a test.”

Marisol’s lambent blue eyes widened. Tears threatened at the corners. “I think you have grown wicked, Emmalyn, and that is the true, tragic consequence of the assault and abduction. There is no evidence of your fine sensibilities, nor any inkling that they ever existed. You say whatever comes to your mind with no regard for another’s feelings. Have you not upbraided me for the very same? Now the shoe is on the other foot, and I must needs reproach you. I can only hope that gives you pause, for I assure you that I will be uncompromising in the application of the standard of conduct you used to set.”

Emma closed her eyes briefly while she massaged her temple. The seeds of a headache had been firmly planted. “Marisol,” she said softly, exasperation mingling with respect, “you quite take my breath away.”

“Then it was an adequate setdown?”

“Better than adequate. I shall give consideration to all you’ve said, but just now—”

“Oh, yes. Father is waiting.”

“Yes.” Emma leaned forward and kissed her cousin lightly on the cheek. Her action surprised Marisol, but Emma turned and hurried from the room before she was delayed yet again.

Sir Arthur Vega’s library was on the ground floor toward the back of the house. When he wasn’t painting in his studio with its windows that opened onto a rooftop balcony, he favored the quiet that was only possible away from the street. Out of respect for his preference for peace, Emma tread lightly on the stairs and down the hallway. The butler was waiting at the door to usher her in. Her entry was accomplished so quietly that neither her uncle nor his guest immediately turned.

It was only when the door clicked into place behind her that her presence became known. Sir Arthur came about first, smiling warmly and waving her over.

“Ah, here you are. Come in, come in. You will like this news, I think.” Arthur Vega was not a large man, but the arm he flung around Emmalyn’s shoulders held surprising strength as he brought her closer. “Mr. Gardner, this is my niece, Miss Emmalyn Hathaway, of whom I have spoke with such affection. Emmalyn, you will be pleased to make the acquaintance of Mr. Gardner. It is his stepmother who recently purchased that piece I did of the fishing village.”

Restell Gardner inclined his head politely. “Miss Hathaway. It is a pleasure.”

“Mr. Gardner.” Emma was only aware she had spoken after the fact. She further surprised herself by lifting her face to her uncle and announcing, “Mr. Gardner and I are already acquainted.”

Sir Arthur’s dark eyebrows lifted in tandem, the left one in a slightly higher arch than the right. “You are? That is unexpected.” He cast a look at Restell. “Did you mention that? I don’t recall you mentioning it.”

“I did not,” Restell said. He did not expound upon his answer.

“Do you know my daughter, then?” asked Sir Arthur. “I only raise the question because Emmalyn so rarely knows anyone I do not, while my daughter Marisol seems to be acquainted with the entire ton. I suppose some would consider that an accomplishment as she’s only had one Season, but I have my reservations.”

Restell smiled politely. “Fathers often do.”

Emma noticed that Mr. Gardner had not answered the question, but it seemed her uncle was oblivious to this fact. Further, it did not appear Sir Arthur was going to inquire as to how she’d made their visitor’s acquaintance. She had no idea how Mr. Gardner had presented himself to her uncle, but she was not going to be an accomplice to intrigue and subterfuge. Before she could offer any explanation, her uncle began to speak.

“Mr. Gardner has inquired about commissioning a painting similar to the one his mother purchased. I’ve explained to him that there is no other like it in the studio, but that there are the sketches and an early rendering in oil that I judged to lack the animation I was hoping to achieve. He is expressing an interest in seeing them.”

“That presents no difficulty.”

Sir Arthur gave Emma’s shoulders another squeeze while he addressed Restell. “Did I not say that she was everything accommodating?”

“Yes,” Restell said. “You did.” He caught Emma’s eyes. “Sir Arthur explained that you arrange many of his sittings and keep his schedule. He would have me believe that he no longer knows how he managed without your assistance.”

“He is very kind,” Emma said. “But for many years before I came to live here, he had an extremely competent secretary who did exactly what I do.”

Sir Arthur cleared his throat. “Yes, well, Mr. Gardner does not wish to hear about Johnston, and neither do I. Will you show our guest to the studio, Emmalyn? Forgive me, Mr. Gardner, but as I told you, my knees are throbbing with distressing vigor today. It’s the rheumatism.”

“I understand. Do not give it another thought.”

“It will not surprise me if there is a change in the weather, probably by nightfall.”

“My grandmother made similar predictions. I do not recall that she was ever wrong.”

Sir Arthur let his arm fall so that it rested lightly at the small of Emma’s back. He gave her an encouraging nudge when she remained rooted to the floor. “Show Mr. Gardner every courtesy, Emmalyn. His mother is a singular woman, a force, I believe, to be reckoned with, and I am glad to have secured her patronage. Her presence at Lady Greenaway’s sittings is enormously helpful. The children, remember? I told you about them.”

“You did, but recall I did not arrange that commission.” Still, she offered a commiserating smile because she had heard a great deal about Lady Greenaway’s young heathens. What Sir Arthur had failed to mention was Lady Gardner’s presence at any of the sittings. That would have raised her interest as tales of the children had not. “This way, Mr. Gardner. My uncle’s studio is on the uppermost floor. Once you have made the climb you will appreciate his desire to remain behind.”

Emma turned on him as soon as they were on the other side of the door. Through clenched teeth, she asked, “What are you doing here?”

Restell answered with considerably more warmth. “You receive full marks, Miss Hathaway, for waiting until we were in the hallway to put that question to me. I wasn’t sure that you would. You did not make much effort to hold your tongue or wait to follow my lead.”

“Can you not imagine that I was in shock? It has been some ten days since I saw you.”

“Eleven.”

“What?”

“It’s been eleven days. When you visited my home you said it had been nineteen days since you were attacked. By my reckoning it’s now been a month.” He paused in his steps and held her up, taking her by the elbow so that he might examine her face critically. “The bruising has all but faded, except for that spot on your chin, and my recollection is that it is a remnant of a carpet burn.” He released her immediately upon sensing her discomfort with both his touch and his study of her features. “The healing for the sake of appearances seems almost complete, but I wonder about the wounds that are not visible. How do you fare, Miss Hathaway?”

“I can’t think why it concerns you, but I am well enough.”

“Of course it concerns me. There is the matter of our agreement.” He turned with her to mount the main staircase. It was wide enough for them to climb side by side. He noticed she did not merely run her hand along the length of the banister. Her fingers curled over the polished curve with a grip that was firm enough to suggest she was not as steady as she pretended. “You thought I reneged on our agreement, didn’t you?”

“I believe I mentioned I have not seen you in ten, no, eleven days.”

“You would have had to leave your home, Miss Hathaway. Take a turn in the park, for instance. Go shopping. Attend the theatre. Call upon a friend for tea. Join the revelers at Vauxhall Gardens. Dance at Almack’s. Present yourself at a ball. In short, participating in any or all of the entertainments that have amused your cousin these last eleven days would have had us crossing paths. Miss Vega, by the way, is an inveterate flirt whether she is attended by her fiancé or not.”

Emma was glad of the banister’s support. She managed to go on without faltering. “You met Marisol?”

Restell shook his head. “No. Not formally. I think it is unlikely that she noticed me, surrounded as she was by her confidantes and admirers. That suited me, for my intent was only to observe her and make certain no harm befell her. That is what you requested of me, is it not?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “Yes, it is.” She darted him a sideways glance as they reached the first landing. “You observed nothing untoward?”

“I observed a great deal that was untoward, but you will understand that I am in no position to cast stones. She is a lovely young woman, heady with the success of her connections and conquests, and she appears to be enjoying herself enormously. There is no finding fault there. Such comments as society is wont to make about her are generally favorable. I hasten to add that remarks of a critical nature must be interpreted cautiously, as they often seem to be taking root in jealous waters.”

Emma frowned. “I do not like it that she is the subject of talk, no matter the nature.”

“One cannot go about in society without occasioning talk. Many times it is simply a consequence of being seen. There are even those people who seek it out, if you can credit it.”

“And my cousin is one of those people?”

Restell could not help but smile. She might have easily made a statement. That she offered it as a question indicated she retained some small hope that it was not so. “Miss Vega is yet an amateur, but yes, it is my sense that she would rather be the subject of conversation than a contributor to it. To the extent that her behavior remains above reproach, she will not be harmed by the wags and may even cultivate a circle of influence.”

“Yet you said you observed things that were untoward.” She led him around the landing, and they began climbing again. “What did you mean by that?”

“In spite of her following, she is able to escape the crush to find time alone with Mr. Charters.”

“But he is her fiancé. It is my experience that society makes allowances in this regard. There is a certain amount of indulgence for engaged couples.”

“There is, but she is not engaged to Mr. Glover. Nor Mr. Collier. Nor Mr. Truss.”

Emma’s shoulders sagged. “She was alone with those gentlemen?”

“To the extent that she did not know I was watching her, yes, she was alone with each one of them. They merely talked. I believe Mr. Collier was hopeful that he might take her hand, but she did not permit it.”

“I don’t understand. Was she encouraging them or not?”

“I cannot say. Mr. Charters happened upon your cousin and Mr. Truss and did not appear to take exception to what he observed.”

“That does not surprise. He is ever charitable in his regard of Marisol.”

“It begs the question of whether he knew about Miss Vega’s assignation with Mr. Kincaid.”

Emma’s nod was reluctantly offered. “It occurred to me also, but I cannot make sense of what it might mean.”

“It might simply mean that he is so intoxicated with her that he will forgive her everything.”

“Intoxicated?” she asked. “That is a peculiar characterization. Do you not suppose that he is in love with her?”

“I imagine he thinks he is.”

She stopped on the next landing and regarded him with interest. His features did not reveal the bent of his mind, making it difficult to know how serious he was about his remark. He had mastered an air of casual indifference that challenged her powers of observation. “You are not a romantic, then.”

“Oh, but I am.” He smiled down at her. “Very much so. It is why I can speak of intoxication with some authority. Do you know the feeling, Miss Hathaway?”

She was uncomfortable with the intrusive nature of the question, but she recognized that she was in some way responsible for it. “Only in passing,” she said. She pivoted, giving him her back, and proceeded quickly to the end of the hall. “Through here,” she said, opening a narrow door and stepping into an equally narrow stairwell. She started up after cautioning him to be mindful of his step.

“It seems an inconvenient location,” Restell said. “You must encounter a certain amount of difficulty getting the paintings down.”

“The larger ones, yes, but Sir Arthur designed the means to lower them to the street from the balcony. You will see. The complication is nothing compared to the advantages of the light.”

Restell had been aware that the stairwell, while not lighted by any lamps, was nevertheless awash in light. Glancing up, he saw three skylights had been set into the roof. On a cloudless day such as London was enjoying, they funneled clear, golden sunbeams into Sir Arthur’s studio. Canvases in a variety of dimensions were either covered or had their painted surfaces turned toward the walls to protect them from the direct and damaging effects of the sun. A window large enough to serve as a door opened onto a small balcony that overlooked the street side of the house.

Emma was not terribly surprised when Mr. Gardner did not wait for an invitation to explore the garret room that served as her uncle’s retreat and began to go about on his own. She noticed that he touched nothing save with his eyes, lingering over the scarred pine table, which Sir Arthur used to mix his own oils, as if he could imagine the industry of the artist involved in grinding the ingredients, measuring the oil, and finally mixing the whole of it to create the exact color that had been in his mind’s eye all along.

Restell stepped around half a dozen canvases stacked against the north wall without giving in to his urge to examine them. The studio had few amenities, most of them placed there, it seemed, for the relative comfort of those who came to sit for Sir Arthur. A loveseat was situated on a small platform under one of the skylights. The upholstered back of the piece gave up the original color, its golden damask covering having long since faded to a pale, nearly translucent, flaxen yellow. There was a winged chair turned toward the black iron stove and a footstool placed at comfortable distance from it, set there, perhaps, to raise the artist’s legs and relieve the pain of his throbbing knees. A much higher stool—the artist’s perch—rested in front of one of the covered easels; another of middling height rested in front of the balcony window. Used palettes were scattered on the tabletop; one lay on the floor by the easel.

The studio held the faint odors of linseed oil and turpentine, of musty fabrics and canvas. Open shelves were crowded with jars, bottles, and brushes. Muslin aprons, flecked and streaked with hundreds of stray brushstrokes in every conceivable hue from vermillion to violet, hung on a series of wooden pegs set into the shelves. A trunk and a narrow chest of drawers had been set side by side under the shelving.

Restell stepped toward the window and looked out past the balcony, past the rooftops of the houses across the street, and allowed his eyes to grasp the grand vista presented by even this small corner of London. “It is a view such as I have rarely seen,” he said.

“Few people have unless they frequent the quarters usually given to the servants.”

Restell glanced over his shoulder and regarded her quizzically.

Emma flushed. She spoke quickly to disabuse him of the construction he seemed to have put upon her words. “I didn’t mean that you…that is, I never intended…I think you have mistaken my—” She cut off her inadequate explanation when she was finally able to divine that he was much amused by it. Irritation made her mouth flatten, which only seemed to amuse him more. Determined to ignore him by not making further comment, she took deliberate strides to the window where he stood and pushed it open, propping it in place with an iron rod made specifically for that purpose. Raising her hem a few modest inches, she stepped over the sill, ducked under the open glass, and came to stand on the balcony. “Would you care to view from here?” she asked.

Restell followed her example, though with less ease than she had shown. He also refrained from going to the edge of the wooden balustrade. “Does your uncle paint out here?”

“He has,” she said, “but not in recent years. In fact, I do not believe I’ve ever seen him stand on the balcony.”

“And you’ve lived with your uncle and cousin for three years, I think you told me.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Restell noted the stippling of paint on the balcony’s floor, most of it concentrated in one particular area. He could make out the L-shaped corners where the easel legs had been resting. Paint dappled the balustrade, the colors still as rich and deep as they were on the floor. “Your cousin paints, Miss Hathaway?”

“Marisol?” she asked in incredulous accents.

“You have another cousin, mayhap?”

“Pardon? Oh, no. No, I don’t.” She tried to recover, realizing her reaction was hardly complimentary to Marisol. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I have never heard Marisol express the least interest in painting. It is difficult for me to imagine that she would find any pleasure in it. I’ve heard her remark that she finds it a messy, malodorous business. Her talents are the pianoforte and dramatic readings.”

“Then you are the family’s other artist.”

“Me? Hardly. Why do you suggest it?”

He pointed to the balcony’s floor and balustrade. “Someone has been painting out here recently. You say it hasn’t been your uncle, and you’ve acquitted Miss Vega of the same. I think I can safely eliminate any of the servants, so I submit that it is you.”

“You are not wrong with your facts, Mr. Gardner, but your conclusion is still incorrect.”

A lock of pale, sun-gilt hair fell across his forehead as he leaned forward to regard her more intently. “Is it?”

Emma’s own gaze did not falter. “It is. My uncle accepts students from time to time.”

“So it is a student who paints out here.”

“Yes. Is it important?”

“I doubt it, but you are gracious to indulge my curiosity.”

“What is it precisely that you are curious about?”

“Why, you, of course.” He retreated into the studio before she managed a reply, but not before he glimpsed her openmouthed astonishment.

Emma followed Restell; this time exercising more caution as she crossed the sill. It was all in aid of giving her a moment to recover.

Restell considered offering his hand to assist her but thought better of it. She would not likely spurn his help; neither was she likely to be made comfortable by it. He waited beside the easel until she had crossed the sill and composed herself before he inquired about the painting he’d asked to see.

“I believe it’s over here,” Emma said. She moved to the loveseat where three canvases were leaning against the left side. She examined them quickly and found what she was looking for at the bottom. “This is it. I fear you will be disappointed. Uncle Arthur did point out to you that this is a first, and wholly unsatisfactory, early work.”

Restell accepted the painting and studied it without comment for several minutes. It was an incomplete work. The canvas measured some eighteen by twenty-four inches, a little over half the size of the painting his mother had purchased. The right side of the painting was largely finished, though without the small details and richness of color and character that were so remarkable in the final work. The brushstrokes faded toward the middle of the painting and the left side was devoid of color. The rest of the scene was still visible because of the pencil drawing that remained.

“There are sketches also,” Emma told him. “Would you like to see those?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I would.”

Emma went to the chest and began rifling the contents of the bottom two drawers. She removed several sheets and carefully laid them on the table. “You will observe that none of them is like the finished work, yet elements from all of them are in the painting. When seen like this, end to end, one has the sense of the breadth of his vision.”

To Restell’s eye it seemed that Sir Arthur’s initial vision had been far more ambitious than what he had finally put to his canvas. The sketches suggested a view of the village that allowed one’s eye to travel a full three hundred sixty degrees, as if one were standing at the epicenter of all the activity. Nevertheless, these pencil drawings of the village were astonishing in their attention to detail and portrayed the villagers in such an intimate way that they seemed familiar. “The painting that hangs in my mother’s salon,” Restell said, “am I correct to assume it is but the first piece in a series?”

Emma stacked the sketches and made to return them to the chest. Restell reached across the table and lightly touched her forearm, halting her.

“You have not answered my question,” Restell said. He straightened and allowed his hand to fall away.

“I have the intention to do so,” she said. “You are not patient after all.”

“And you are not the first to remark upon it.”

It was not an admission, she realized, but did point to an awareness that others saw him in the same light. “Allow me to put these away.”

“That is precisely what I meant to prevent. I am interested in purchasing the sketches.”

“These? But they are—”

“Ambitious,” he interjected. “And intriguing. It is why I wondered if there indeed would be a series of paintings. If these are of so little value to Sir Arthur that they are relegated to a drawer, then I should very much like to own them.”

“I don’t know what my uncle’s intentions are regarding a second and third painting. You are correct that he considered a different project at the outset, but he was never quite satisfied with what could be accomplished and frankly could not wait to be rid of it. He was taken aback, I believe, when it aroused interest. Mr. Charters was helpful in that regard. He spoke most effusively about it to his acquaintances who value his opinion in matters of art and literature. He encouraged inquiries.”

“I was not aware that my mother knew Mr. Charters.”

“She may not. It may be only that she is familiar with his reputation. He has one of some consequence.”

“The Brummel of artistic enlightenment,” Restell said wryly. “I was right to avoid an introduction, then.”

Emma’s blue-green eyes flashed her disapproval. “He does not have the plague, you know.”

“He was holding court at Lady Claremont’s ball while his fiancé was slipping out to the gazebo with Mr. Glover. Miss Vega aside, his audience appeared to be enthralled with his discourse.”

“Perhaps Marisol was desirous of his attention.”

“That also occurred to me.” He watched relief sweep through Emmalyn’s expression. He could not fault her for wanting to see her cousin in the best light. She seemed to have a sound sense of Miss Vega’s shortcomings of character and behavior, but she was perhaps too willing to view those foibles as a consequence of her cousin’s age. Restell was reserving judgment in that regard. He accepted immaturity as a contributing factor, but was uncertain that it explained the whole of Miss Vega’s precipitous disposition.

“Marisol is not quite all of a piece when she is not at the center of things,” Emma said. “I have known her to embrace an uncharitable mood. She cannot seem to help herself.”

“I’m sure she can’t,” Restell said neutrally. “I am given to understand Mr. Charters proposed some three months ago.”

“Yes, in March. How did you learn that?”

He shrugged. “That sort of information is freely offered in the course of a general inquiry about Mr. Charters. Did Miss Vega immediately accept?”

“She gave him her answer after Mr. Charters spoke to Sir Arthur. I believe that was the following day.”

“She did not seek your counsel?”

“No. She told me about the proposal, of course, but she did not ask me to offer an opinion as to the suitability of the match.”

“What is your opinion? He is considerably older than she.”

“My opinion is of no consequence. They are affianced. And he is eleven years her senior, not yet thirty himself, so it is hardly a chasm that separates them.”

“Tell me about Johnston.”

The abrupt shift in the tenor of his questions gave Emma a start. Her head came up a fraction and she frowned at him. “Johnston?”

“You mentioned him earlier in your uncle’s presence. Do you recall?”

“I do, now that you have reminded me, but I fail to comprehend why he is a point of inquiry.” She set down the sketches and held up one hand, forestalling his explanation. He would likely ask her to simply indulge him without offering any hint as to what provoked his curiosity. “Mr. Johnston was my uncle’s secretary for almost a score of years. Do not depend on my recollection regarding the length of his service. You would have to inquire of Sir Arthur.”

“It seemed to me that your uncle desired not to speak of the man. He was quick to put a period to that conversation.”

“You do not permit me to move you from your purpose so easily.”

Her faintly accusing tone raised his smile. “That is because you approached me, Miss Hathaway, and asked for my help. It would not be in your best interest if I allowed you to dictate what questions are important enough to answer and what should be dismissed as mere fancy.”

Emma could not find the flaw in his reasoning. Sighing almost inaudibly, she offered the information he sought. “Mr. Johnston was still in the employ of my uncle when I came to live here. It seemed to me that he worked tirelessly in the best interests of Sir Arthur, arranging viewings of my uncle’s work, placating patrons, attending to all the pecuniary details, and occasionally accepting the brunt of my uncle’s temper, regardless of what or who provoked it.”

“A paragon, then.”

“I would hesitate to name him as such, but he certainly impressed me as a capable and honorable gentleman. When I expressed interest in what he did for Sir Arthur, he made time for me and patiently answered my questions. I could not have assumed the responsibilities of his position if not for his tutelage.”

“Did he realize he was preparing his successor?”

“It was not like that,” Emma said. “There was no design that I would be appropriating his position.”

“Yet he is no longer in the service of Sir Arthur and you are.”

“My uncle believes that Mr. Johnston was stealing from him.”

“What do you believe?”

“I am not as certain as Sir Arthur. There is compelling evidence to suggest that he is guilty of such a deed, and no other suspects, so one can comprehend my uncle’s decision to release him, yet Mr. Johnston’s protestations of innocence rang true to me. That he should betray my uncle’s trust after years of exemplary service did not make sense.”

“Perhaps he was embezzling from the beginning and only became careless late in his tenure.”

Emma shook her head. “No, that is not it. I went through the accounts with every attention to detail. Mr. Johnston kept meticulous records and had ledgers going back to the beginning of his employment. There is simply nothing to suggest that he was appropriating moneys for his own use.”

“You cited compelling evidence.”

“Oh, yes. There were discrepancies between commissions that were entered in the account book and the actual amounts that were paid for paintings. Mr. Charters is the one who stumbled upon the inconsistency.”

Restell’s clear blue eyes became vaguely distant in their focus as he considered this. He rubbed the underside of his chin with his knuckles. “How did that come about?”

“Mr. Charters overheard a friend remark that one must be prepared to pay a king’s ransom for a portrait by an artist of some renown. I believe Mr. Charters pursued a line of inquiry until he learned the exact figure his friend was lamenting. In the course of conversation with my uncle, Mr. Charters realized that the commission Sir Arthur was expecting was much less than what the friend had agreed to pay. As Mr. Johnston acted as the agent for the sale, and as he had recorded the smaller figure in his ledger, it pointed to a clear incongruity. Mr. Charters’s friend confirmed that he had indeed paid Mr. Johnston a larger commission than my uncle received. Mr. Johnston swore he was being wronged, but his protestations came to nothing. More evidence was uncovered in a similar vein, going back six months, I think. It was too much for my uncle to overlook. He dismissed Mr. Johnston without a character.”

“That is when you assumed his responsibilities.”

“Yes.”

“You are compensated for your services?” Restell did not miss her surprise at this notion. Clearly she had not considered such an arrangement and apparently her uncle had not suggested it. “Mother says it is beyond vulgar when I broach the subject of money, so I beg your forgiveness if I have offended you, but clearly you are engaged in the same enterprise that put coin in Mr. Johnston’s pocket. It cannot be outside all expectation that you might be reimbursed for your efforts.”

“I should very much like to make the acquaintance of your mother, Mr. Gardner. She seems an infinitely sensible woman.”

“She certainly takes pains to remind me.”

Emma could not help but smile at his wry tone. She went on to explain, “I am not compensated for what assistance I lend my uncle. I do it gladly, and I am given food and shelter and an allowance sufficient for my needs. I am in no way neglected.”

“You are the poor relation, then.”

Unoffended by this characterization, Emma’s slight smile deepened. Hadn’t she said the same to him upon their initial meeting? She could hardly take exception. “Like you, Mr. Gardner. It is a position we share in our respective families.”

Restell nodded slowly as he considered the import of her observation. He felt no obligation to correct her. “So it would appear, Miss Hathaway. Have you a need to marry for money?”

Emma’s dark eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. “Do you never temper your tongue, Mr. Gardner?”

“To what purpose?”

“Civility.”

What Restell did not try to do was temper his amusement. His grin was deep and hinted at the wickedness of his thoughts. In contrast, the dimples that appeared on either side of his mouth made him seem wholly innocent. His laughter was short and sharp, entirely robust and unrestrained.

“You have no use for observing proprieties?” Emma asked rather more sharply than she intended. “Or are you laughing at me?”

Restell reined himself in. “I have the greatest respect for you.”

Emma supposed that answered her question. It was his regard for socially correct behavior that was suspect.

“You have not answered my question,” he said. “I am noticing that you have a talent for turning me from the end I have in mind.”

“It is a talent apparently in need of refinement. You are like a dog with a bone.”

“You flatter me.”

Emma sighed. He was perfectly intractable. “I have no need to marry at all, Mr. Gardner. My uncle is content to have me under his roof. I am given to understand that upon his death he will settle his fortune upon his daughter, but l expect to have a comfortable living.”

“But not so much that you will become the target of fortune hunters.”

“Goodness, no.” She chuckled at the thought of it. “There is nothing about that prospect that is appealing.”

“There is something to be said for being the poor relation,” Restell told her. “At least I have always thought so.”

“That view does seem to explain why you choose to accept favors for your services rather than expect remuneration.”

Restell’s small smile saluted her perspicacity. “Do you have occasion to see Mr. Johnston?”

Emma wondered what sort of partner Mr. Gardner would be in the waltz. She credited herself with being an accomplished dancer but in this particular milieu she was incapable of following his lead. More than once she felt as if she’d trod upon her own toes in an effort to keep up. “Mr. Johnston was able to secure a position as a clerk with the firm of Napier and Walpole. They underwrite business ventures, similar to Lloyd’s.”

“I am familiar. The firm is almost as revered as Lloyd’s. It is somewhat surprising that Mr. Johnston was able to find employment there, given the fact that Sir Arthur supplied no character.”

“My uncle is not vindictive, Mr. Gardner. He did not oppose Mr. Johnston’s efforts to seek another position. He expressed some concerns when he learned that Mr. Johnston would be working for the insurers, but he believed, rightly I think, that there would be such an examination of his work that there would be no opportunity for embezzlement.”

“So no one, in fact, informed Napier and Walpole that they were employing a thief.”

“No.” She regarded him with sudden alarm. “You would not take it upon yourself to—”

Restell shook his head. “I would not. It is most assuredly not my place.” He saw that her relief was palpable. “I imagine his current wages are not what they were in your uncle’s employ.”

“I don’t know,” Emma said. “It is likely you’re right.”

“Does he have a family?”

“His wife and his father.”

“Can you conceive that he might be the sort of man to be moved to an act of vengeance?”

“Vengeance? Mr. Johnston? No, it is not possible.” She considered why he was posing the question. “Are you suggesting that he might be responsible for abducting me?”

“I do not recall suggesting anything. Did it seem that way? I believe I asked if you could conceive of spiteful behavior in the man.”

“Mr. Gardner, I can hardly conceive that he is guilty of theft. That he would act on a plan of revenge, or even entertain the notion, is quite outside my comprehension.”

“That is all I wondered, Miss Hathaway. You might have simply said so.”

Emma felt a measure of heat rise in her cheeks. She drew herself up, holding the sketches in front of her, and refused to look away from his implacable stare as if she’d committed a transgression. “Do you intend to pursue these same questions with my uncle and cousin?”

“With your uncle, your cousin, Mr. Charters, and most likely, with Mr. Johnston. I have many more questions for them. Didn’t I say there would have to be a full accounting?”

Emma sat down abruptly on the stool behind her. “I never thought…” Her voice trailed off.

“It is frequently thus,” Restell said sympathetically. “People rarely can comprehend the full consequences of applying for protection.”

“Are you persuaded that what happened to me was not a random act?”

His voice was gentle. “I think you know it was not.”

Emma’s shoulders sagged. She expelled a puff of air between her lips that completed her deflation. “Was I the intended victim, Mr. Gardner? Or mistaken for Marisol?”

“I have not yet been able to determine that. There is still much to be answered, but it seems—” He stopped because he heard the creak of the door at the bottom of the stairwell. He had been careful to close it before he followed Emma to the studio, and now it was being opened.

“Emmalyn? Are you up there?”

Emma came to her feet. “It’s Marisol,” she told him. More loudly, she announced herself to her cousin. “I’m still here. I am discussing Sir Arthur’s paintings with our guest.” She heard Marisol’s quiet tread on the steps before she’d finished speaking.

Restell turned in Marisol’s direction just as she reached the top of the stairs. He made a slight bow and awaited the inevitable introduction. Marisol, he noted, appeared to be trying to recall where she might have encountered him. As he had not tried to avoid being seen at Lady Claremont’s affair, he was not troubled that he had attracted her notice. In truth, he was more surprised that it might be so. It was his judgment that Marisol Vega saw little that was beyond the length of her own nose.

“Mr. Gardner, allow me to introduce my cousin, Miss Marisol Vega. Marisol, this is Mr. Gardner, your father’s visitor. He has come to inquire about one of Sir Arthur’s recent paintings.”

Restell did not correct Emma’s explanation of his purpose. It was true enough, but did not encompass the whole. “A pleasure, Miss Vega.”

“Mr. Gardner.” She glanced at Emma. “Father sent me to find you.”

Emma doubted that. It was much more likely that Sir Arthur had instructed a servant to do that task, and Marisol had offered her services instead. What her intention might be, Emma could not divine.

“I fear I have kept you overlong, Miss Hathaway. Are we settled on the sketches?”

“You truly want them?”

“I do.”

Marisol walked over to the table and held out her hand to Emma. “Those sketches?” she asked. “Allow me to see.”

Restell did not miss Emma’s infinitesimal hesitation. He understood her reluctance as caution when he observed how Marisol held the drawings without regard for the placement of her fingertips. She seemed to have no awareness that she might smudge the sketches or curl the paper. He was tempted to take them from her hands himself but feared she would shred the paper with her nails, so tight was her grip.

“I do not understand, Mr. Gardner,” Marisol said. She flicked her thumbnail across the upper corners of the papers to separate them. “These are singularly dull. Pencil renderings only. Do they not beg for the application of watercolor?”

Restell picked up the sketches the moment Marisol let them slip out of her fingers and drift to the tabletop. “I could not say whether watercolor would improve the look of them. I have no expertise in matters of art, so I purchase such pieces that interest me. These interest me, Miss Vega.”

She sighed so deeply that a wayward strand of curling, ebony hair fluttered at her forehead. “As you wish, but I think it would benefit you to speak to my betrothed before you are seized by another impulse. Mr. Charters is completely agreeable to sharing his views on the essence of art. He is accounted to be an expert, you know.”

“While your father merely creates it.” He offered this with no trace of the irony it suggested.

“Well, of course there is that,” Marisol said blithely. Her gaze swiveled sideways to Emma. “What is your opinion of the sketches?”

“I don’t believe I’ve formed one.”

“No, you would not, would you? You must needs sell everything my father has done, even when such a sale might cast a shadow on the whole of his work. Neven advises the exercise of prudence when putting new pieces before the public.”

“Marisol,” Emma said, her tone gently chiding. “Your father directed me to show Mr. Gardner these sketches as well as an early, and only partially complete, painting of the fishing village. It is possible that he is willing to part with them.”

“He is the artist,” Marisol said. “Not the expert. Did you not hear Mr. Gardner agree with me on that very point? Naturally Father wants his work to be seen, but you cannot always indulge him. It does not serve, Emmalyn.”

Diverted, and in anticipation of blood sport, Restell’s eyes darted between the combatants. Knowing he was of two minds, he wondered if he could trust his own judgment. While throttling Marisol Vega had a certain appeal, he believed it would ultimately be less satisfying than kissing her cousin.