River of Fire Page 6

  Chapter 6

  As they had agreed beforehand, Kenneth visited Lord Bowden to make a report after his first week at Seaton House. He was promptly shown into Bowden's study. At Kenneth's entrance, Bowden set his newspaper aside and gestured for the visitor to take a seat. "Good day, Lord Kimball. What have you to report?"

  Kenneth studied the older man's face. Having met Sir Anthony, he could see how strong the physical resemblance between the two men was. The same spare figure, the same medium height, the same chiseled facial bones. But Sir Anthony's vitality, his flashes of charm and occasional petulance, made him seem much younger than the two years that actually separated the brothers. "I've not made as much progress as I would like," he said as he took a seat. "This will be a slow investigation."

  Briefly he explained about the lack of long-term servants, and how much of his time had been taken in dealing with Sir Anthony's accumulated work. Then he described how he intended to proceed. He ended by saying, "Sir Anthony keeps detailed daybooks that could reveal a great deal about the critical time period. Unfortunately, I've learned that the relevant volume was left at his country house in the confusion after Lady Seaton's death. I won't get to see it unless I'm still part of the household this summer, when Sir Anthony retires to the country again. Given the difficulties of this investigation, it may come to that."

  Bowden listened with a frown. "I had hoped you would have results before then."

  "A certain amount of progress is being made, though it isn't of an obvious sort. I'm becoming familiar to Sir Anthony's friends. Soon I can start to question them about the past. Also, I want to speak with the previous secretary, Morley."

  "That will be simple." Bowden reached into his desk for a pen and wrote down a name and address. "He is now secretary to a member of Parliament, a friend of mine."

  Kenneth gave a nod as he accepted the paper. "You arranged that? I suspected it was no accident that the position in Sir Anthony's house became available when it did."

  "I learned that Morley has political ambitions. It was simple to see that he was offered a situation that would further them." Bowden leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "Granted you haven't had the time to find real evidence, but what are your impressions so far?"

  Kenneth spent a moment marshaling his thoughts. "Lady Seaton's death is like an open wound that is felt but never acknowledged. Sir Anthony hasn't once mentioned his wife, yet sometimes he stares at the portrait of her that hangs in his study. His daughter can barely endure talking about her mother's death. I wish I could read their thoughts, but I can't." Kenneth gave Bowden a quizzical glance. "Is Lady Claxton the mistress whom he was rumored to want to marry? Certainly they are involved, but the affair seems casual."

  "Lavinia Claxton?" Bowden snorted. "I suppose that was to be expected. She spreads her favors rather widely. It was for someone else's sake that Anthony murdered Helen, but I was unable to learn the woman's identity. In his way, he is discreet."

  Kenneth frowned as he thought about that. If Sir Anthony loved another woman enough to kill for her, it seemed odd that he would be carrying on with Lavinia rather than his prior mistress. He wondered what had ended the earlier affair.

  That is, if there really was a significant earlier affair. He felt as if he were chasing shadows.

  Bowden said unexpectedly, "What is my niece like?"

  Kenneth found himself reluctant to discuss Rebecca. "I scarcely see Miss Seaton except at dinner. She's rather quiet and spends all her time in her studio. Did you know she's a gifted painter?"

  The other man's brows arched. "I had no idea. Perhaps that explains her immorality. Artists seem to feel that the laws of God and man don't apply to them."

  Kenneth found that he had to clamp down on his temper. "Miss Seaton may have made a foolish mistake when she was young, but I've heard no rumors about misbehavior since."

  "Try harder," Bowden said coolly. "I'm sure the rumors will be there. I hope the next time you will have more to report."

  Disliking the pressure, Kenneth said, "It's a mistake to insist on weekly reports. You will become frustrated at the apparent lack of progress, and it does me no good to feel that you are looking over my shoulder."

  Bowden's face clouded. After a long silence he said reluctantly, "Perhaps you are right, but I must insist that we meet at least once a month."

  "Very well, but future meetings shouldn't be held here. We're less than a mile from Sir Anthony. If he hears I've been seen entering your house, I'd be out on the street five minutes later. For the same reason, don't write me at Seaton House unless it's an emergency." Kenneth handed Bowden a piece of paper with an address scribbled on it. "I'm using this postal receiving station for personal correspondence. I'll stop and check for messages every day or two."

  Bowden put the address in a desk drawer. "Now that you are established, I trust matters will proceed more quickly."

  "Perhaps, but I suspect this investigation will take longer than either of us wishes." Kenneth got to his feet. "I'll see myself out. Good day to you, Lord Bowden."

  He left the study, then paused, hidden in the shadowed hall, as the butler admitted a small, graceful woman with silvery hair. From the way the butler greeted her, it was clear that she was the lady of the house. So Bowden had married, if only to keep the title out of his despised brother's hands.

  As Lady Bowden went to the stairs, she noticed Kenneth and gave an absent nod. Kenneth wondered what kind of marriage had been possible when Bowden was obsessed with his former fiancée.

  On the walk back to Seaton House, he thought about how his secretarial position was turning out to be rather enjoyable. Both Sir Anthony and Rebecca were so involved in their painting that they didn't question his activities as long as his work got done. Sir Anthony's friends had accepted the new secretary with careless good humor and talked freely in front of him. He had already learned some useful facts that way.

  It had taken longer to establish his authority over the servants, but they'd settled down nicely after he discharged the laziest maid and hired a butler, an efficient man called Minton. Soon the household would be running with silken smoothness.

  In Kenneth's rare free moments, there were marvelous works of art to admire. His chief regret was that he saw so little of Rebecca. After the talk they'd had his first day, he'd thought it would be easy to win her confidence and learn more about her mother's death, but as he'd told Lord Bowden, he scarcely ever saw her. Guests were usually present at dinner, which made serious conversation impossible. She would eat quietly, then excuse herself from joining the company in the drawing room.

  He had wondered once or twice if she was deliberately avoiding him, but that seemed unlikely. It was merely that her interests were elsewhere. Having accepted Kenneth as part of the household, she paid no more attention to him than she would a piece of furniture. He must find excuses to talk with her.

  The devil of it was that his interest in seeing more of Rebecca was not solely because of his mission. He wanted to know more about her talent and her sharp edges and her hidden sensuality. The fact that she intrigued him increased his distaste for his deception. If Sir Anthony was eventually charged with murder, Rebecca would surely learn that Kenneth had entered the house under false pretenses. He didn't like to think what her reaction would be.

  His route took him by the postal receiving station he was using. It was part of a stationer's shop, which meant it would be easy to find excuses to visit. He stopped and found that a letter from his sister had arrived. Beth must have written back as soon as she received his note. He broke the wafer and read the single, closely written sheet.

  Dear Kenneth,

  I'm glad your work is going well. Matters are in surprisingly good heart here, largely because of the arrival of your friend Lieutenant Davidson. As you implied, he was rather subdued at first, but his mood has improved markedly. His sense of humor is really quite droll. Cousin Olivia and I are both very fond of him.

  Because
of Lieutenant Davidson's crippled left arm, I find that with him I am not self-conscious about my clubfoot the way I am with most strangers. Each morning we ride together about the estate. He has a number of ideas for improving crop yields without having to invest much money. The tenants and laborers are impressed with his good sense. Sutterton seems a different place from when it was run by the old bailiff.

  Beth went on to describe Davidson's suggestions. All were clear proof that his friend knew more about agriculture than Kenneth. If Sutterton was saved, he hoped Jack would stay on as steward permanently.

  He refolded the letter and tucked it into his coat. Beth's buoyant tone assuaged his guilt over leaving her so soon after returning to England. But his good mood faded when he left the shop. Even the knowledge that he was working to save Beth and Sutterton could not mitigate his distaste for what he was doing.

  * * *

  As soon as Rebecca entered her father's studio, she saw that he was on the verge of a major explosion. Society knew Sir Anthony as one of its own, an aristocrat of impeccable wit and dress who happened to have a gift for painting. Only his closest associates saw the fiercely disciplined, intense artist that existed beneath the surface.

  As a girl Rebecca had once sketched her father as a smoldering volcano on the verge of boiling over. He'd laughed in rueful acknowledgment when she showed it to him. When Sir Anthony encountered problems with a project he cared about deeply, the volcano erupted. Rebecca always tried to avoid him during such episodes.

  The state of his dress was a good indicator of his mood. Usually he was as elegant as if he had just stepped out of a St. James club, but today his coat was tossed on the floor, his sleeves rolled up, and his graying hair disordered. All were clear signs that she should leave before he noticed her.

  But it was too late. He set down his palette and brush and snapped, "Where the devil is Wilding?"

  Resigned, she entered the studio. "I believe he went out this morning." Not that she had seen the captain go, but she'd noticed that the house felt different when he was home. More charged with energy.

  Her father went back to glaring at the large canvas propped on his easel. "What's wrong with this damned picture?"

  Though she'd watched the painting develop from sketches to nearly finished oil, Rebecca dutifully approached and studied it again. The last of her father's Waterloo series, it showed the Duke of Wellington on horseback, standing in his stirrups and waving his cocked hat forward in the signal for his army to advance against the French. The heroic figure of the duke dominated the canvas, with battered regiments in the background.

  It was a good painting. Nonetheless, she understood her father's dissatisfaction. In some indefinable way, the picture lacked soul. But she knew no way to remedy such a failing.

  Since an answer was expected, she said hesitantly, "There is nothing really wrong. It's a fine likeness of Wellington, and the battlefield looks very convincing. The forward sweep of his arm is very dynamic."

  "Of course the composition and likeness are good—mine always are," her father said with exasperation. "But it's not a great painting—merely a good one." He frowned at the canvas again. "Maybe Wilding can tell me what is lacking. After all, he was there." His voice turned querulous. "Why isn't he here?"

  "I'm sure he'll be back soon." Seizing the excuse to leave, she continued, "I'll tell the footman to send the captain up as soon as he comes in."

  Before she could start for the door, it swung open and Captain Wilding entered. His blue coat and buff breeches were subdued, yet he drew the eye as surely as if he were dressed in a scarlet uniform. He nodded to Rebecca and set a parcel on the table. "Here are the pigments you ordered, Sir Anthony. Since I was near the colorman's shop today, I picked them up myself."

  Instead of taking the opportunity to leave, Rebecca stepped back and scrutinized the newcomer, trying to analyze what gave him that air of command. His aura of physical strength was part of it, but only a small part. Intelligence was also there, and a hint of flinty integrity, yet none of those qualities fully defined his essence.

  Instead of being gratified by the captain's presence, Sir Anthony growled, "Where have you been?"

  "Interviewing wine merchants," Wilding said mildly. "You may recall that we discussed yesterday how your present supplier is inadequate. I believe I've found a better one."

  "So I suppose you've been sampling and are now three sheets to the wind," Sir Anthony said sarcastically.

  "Naturally I tasted some wine, but I'm certainly not drunk," the captain said, refusing to be baited. "I'm sorry if my absence was a problem. I didn't know you would need me here."

  Furiously Sir Anthony picked up a bladder of white lead paint and flung it at his secretary. "You should have been here when I wanted you!"

  "What the devil?" Wilding swiftly sidestepped the missile. The bladder hit the door with a soggy sound and splashed white paint in an arc across the oak panels.

  All vestiges of control gone, Sir Anthony began hurling other objects around the room. The white lead was followed by bladders of Naples yellow and Prussian blue paint. A handful of his special long-handled brushes separated in midair and flew in all directions before clattering to the floor. With a sweep of his arm, he knocked everything from the table beside him before flinging his palette knife wildly. It whizzed by Rebecca, just missing her shoulder before bouncing off the wall.

  Shaking inside, she prepared to take shelter behind the sofa. Then Captain Wilding bounded across the room and caught Sir Anthony's wrist in one powerful hand. "You may destroy your whole studio if you wish," he said in a dangerously soft voice, "but don't throw things at a lady."

  Her father tried to wrench free. "That's not a lady, that's my daughter!"

  The captain's fingers locked harder around her father's wrist. "All the more reason to control yourself."

  For a moment the men were silhouetted motionless against the windows. The slighter figure of Sir Anthony crackled with furious emotion, but he was helpless against the captain's implacable strength. Rebecca had a swift mental image of lightning fruitlessly striking a mountain.

  Her father's left arm jerked, and for a sickening moment she thought he was going to strike the captain. Then, in one of his swift mood changes, Sir Anthony's arm dropped.

  "You're right, damn you." He glanced at Rebecca. "I've never once hit you, have I?"

  She unclenched her fists. "Only with splashing paint," she said, trying to sound light. "Your aim is terrible."

  The captain released her father, but his face was set and his gray eyes looked like flint. "You make a habit of such tantrums, Sir Anthony?"

  "Not precisely a habit, but they're not unknown." Her father rubbed his right wrist where the captain had held it. "These furnishings have been chosen because they clean easily and are forgiving of minor stains."

  "Very amusing," Wilding said dryly. "Nonetheless, you owe your daughter an apology."

  Sir Anthony's face tightened at the implied rebuke from an employee. "Rebecca doesn't take my moods seriously."

  "No? Then why does she look as pale as if she's just risen from a sickbed?"

  Both men's heads swung toward her. She froze, knowing that her distress was visible to anyone who looked closely.

  With his artist's perception, her father saw her state clearly. "It bothers you so much when I get angry, Rebecca?" he said with surprise.

  She almost lied to ease his conscience, but she couldn't, not with Captain Wilding's probing gaze on her. "Your explosions always upset me," she admitted uncomfortably. "When I was little, they made me fear that the world was about to end."

  Her father drew a sharp breath. "I'm sorry, Rebecca. I didn't know. Your mother—" He stopped speaking abruptly.

  Her mother had never minded the explosions; she was capable of being equally explosive. It was Rebecca who had run and hid under the bed when her parents roared, singly or at each other.

  She filled the awkward silence by saying quickly, "My father
has been having trouble with this picture, Captain Wilding. He thought you might have some useful insights. It's the last of his Waterloo series. Wellington posed for it himself."

  Wilding turned to look at the painting. Because she was watching him closely, she saw the skin over his cheekbones tauten. Though she'd initially thought him cool and passionless, she was learning to recognize subtle signs of emotion.

  "Wellington ordering the general advance," the captain murmured. "Rather unnerving to see it again."

  "You saw him give the signal to attack?" she asked.

  "Yes, though I was much farther away, of course." He studied the canvas. "Sir Anthony, do you want this to be a classical, idealized portrait of a hero, or a realistic rendition of the actual battle?"

  Her father opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. "Wellington is a great man, and I want viewers to see that greatness," he said finally. "I want this picture to live in their minds forever. Two hundred years from now, I want people to speak of Seaton's Wellington."

  "Perhaps your rendition is too classical and restrained to create that sort of power," the captain said slowly. "The duke and his horse look as neat as if they were trotting across a parade ground. Waterloo wasn't like that. After a day of fierce fighting, soldiers and their mounts were exhausted and filthy with mud and sweat and black powder. Even as far away as I was, I could see lines of strain and fatigue in the duke's face."

  "What was his expression like?" Sir Anthony asked.

  Wilding thought before answering. "The sun was low in the sky and a ray of light struck his face as he swept his hat forward. His expression can't really be described—but remember how many years he had been fighting to reach this point. In Spain, he faced overwhelming odds for years on end. Inadequate supplies, a much smaller army than the enemy. Unbreakable will has put victory within his grasp—yet he has seen many of his dearest friends die. The steel inside the man should be visible."