Ruined By The Reckless Viscount

The higgledy-piggledy of it all whirled in her brain around and around until finally one perfect solution presented itself. She turned to her sister and her voice was certain.

‘I should like to draw him, this Lord Winterton. If he is as beautiful as they all say he would be the ideal subject for a sitting. It also sounds as though he could afford to pay. Well.’

Maria’s mouth dropped wide open.

‘You would draw him while you are dressed as a youth? Winterton is no milksop lord who would be easily duped, Florentia.’

‘If he is so very beautiful, I am sure that he would be flattered by the chance to sit for the first and only portrait I am ever likely to do in person. There is also the added advantage that if I complete this commission Mr Ward may leave me alone for a while. Perhaps this portrait is the answer we have been looking for.’

‘You sound strange, Flora, unlike yourself. You have never drawn anyone before in this way, right in front of you—’

Florentia interrupted her. ‘Then perhaps it is well past time that I did, Maria. A new direction, so to speak, a different turning.’

‘And the Herons?’

‘I shall leave London for good after completing the portrait of Viscount Winterton. After that it will all be finished. I can do other paintings to augment our income, but the requirements of Mr Ward will no longer concern me. I will be free of it and you won’t need to worry about anything at all going wrong.’

When her sister had left Flora stood at the window and looked out. There had been so many times in the past six years when she had thought to try to find out about her kidnapper’s family, the cousin Thomas and the woman Acacia Kensington that he had mentioned. But where did she even start to look without attracting attention? Quietly she had trawled through the books of the peerage at Lackington’s because the man she had met was obviously from the aristocracy, but she had never managed to identify anybody, the small information she had more frustrating than none at all. Besides, if she had managed to find out his name what could she have truly gained from it?

Catching her eye in the glass she saw her lips move in the reflection.

‘Please God, just let me understand him.’

* * *

James upended the brandy Roy Warrenden had handed him at Whites and called to the waiter to bring them another.

The night was warm for this time of the year and the windows along the whole east side were open. It had been three days since the Allans’ ball and the most surprising of correspondences had come to his home in St James’s Square yesterday morning.

‘The artist Mr Frederick Rutherford has sent word that he wants to draw me. His agent, a Mr Ward, came to see me late yesterday afternoon.’

For a moment James saw complicity on Roy’s face but dismissed the idea as ludicrous. Maria Warrenden had said they barely knew the fellow and Winter could not see what an ailing reclusive country artist might have in common with a wealthy baron and his wife.

‘The agent intimated this commission would be the first and the last painting done in this manner, the fellow being a very private soul.’

‘I see.’ Roy watched him carefully. ‘And you are agreeable, Winter?’

‘I am not altogether certain, though the fact that he has sought me out personally does interest me.’

‘Perhaps he is intrigued by the way society flocks to your side in admiration, particularly the women?’

James shook his head. ‘I think there is more to it than the fleeting consideration of appearance. Your wife said she knew him slightly. How slightly is that?’

‘Mr Frederick Rutherford made our acquaintance most recently so I should not like to give you any advice as to his sincerity or otherwise based on my knowing his character well.’

‘Your wife has a sister, does she not, a Lady Florentia Hale-Burton if I am not mistaken?’

Horror crossed Roy’s face as he asked it, giving James the impression of something being awfully wrong with the girl. His heartbeat quickened because he did not want to be told her shortcomings were his fault or that her abduction on Mount Street had led to some sort of a mind disorder that had never been resolved.

‘Why do you mention her in conjunction with Frederick Rutherford, Winter?’

‘Pardon?’ The conversation had seemed to have got away from him and he waited for the other to explain the query.

‘Florentia, my sister-in-law, is somewhat timid. She does not enjoy London at all but prefers the quiet of her parents’ home of Albany Manor in Kent. But as to the other matter of the portrait—perhaps it is not to me that you should be addressing your queries. The agent you spoke of would hold a far better understanding of these things.’

With care James swallowed his brandy, liking the way it brought warmth into the coldness.

Secrets and lies. His own and Roy Warrenden’s. There was a sense of wrongness here that he could not quite put his finger on, something held back and concealed and the mystery had to do with the artist Frederick Rutherford, he thought.

‘I think I shall agree to the commission of the portrait, though the price is extremely high.’

‘Well, look at it as a painting for posterity, Winter. A foothold into history.’

‘But I won’t take up the offer of using the agent’s gallery in South London as the place of sitting. I want it done at my place in St James’s.’

‘The lad may find it difficult to get there with all the accoutrements needed for such a task. I doubt any artist is all that flush.’

‘Then I shall send a carriage to pick him up. Where does he reside in London? No one I ask seems to know.’

‘Here, there and everywhere, I expect. Rutherford is like a gypsy in his constant changing of addresses. My wife accompanied him on the first visit to see Alfred Ward, actually, so he spent the night at our town house.’

‘Yes, I had heard of that.’

Warrenden smiled. ‘I thought perhaps that you might have. Rutherford is a chameleon, Winter. You might be wise to get the sittings completed as quickly as you are able and without asking the fellow too many questions.’

‘You think he might abscond otherwise.’

‘I sincerely hope not for I’d like to see him settle,’ Roy replied, ‘and you could be just the one to do it.’

‘You think it might be the beginning of a more lucrative career for him? Already he is a painter with many admirers. Does he wish for more?’

Roy’s laugh was harsh as he stood. ‘I leave you to make your own assessment of his ambition, Winter, when you meet him, but for now I’m off home. I am, however, more than interested in seeing exactly how this romp of yours turns out.’ He stopped for a second as if debating if he should say more. ‘Frank Reading intimated you had returned to England to try and understand something of your father’s untimely demise.’

‘He’s right. I never believed William committed suicide and am looking for the truth of it.’ The words came out with a strained anger that he could no longer bother hiding. He liked Roy Warrenden as he was not a man inclined to gossip.

‘Reading also said he had word you were asking around in the more unsavoury parts of town. Sometimes there are consequences in uncovering secrets, Winter.’

‘And I should welcome them if they allow me to understand more about the nature of my father’s death.’

Roy nodded. ‘Well then, I hope you find some answers that might make more sense to you. If you need any help...?’

James was quick to shake his head. ‘I am better alone, but thank you.’

He watched as Warrenden threaded his way through the last of the patrons of White’s and lifted the bottle of brandy up to pour himself another glass when he could no longer see him.

Roy was not quite telling him the truth about Rutherford, that much was certain. There was some faulty connection, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

He knew the Warrendens were better acquainted with the artist than they let on. The lad had returned to their town house on Grosvenor Square for all the nights he’d been in London and once passing by late on an afternoon in his carriage James had noted Maria Warrenden holding the fellow’s hand with more than a little delight.