Stroke of Genius (27 page)

“I’ll try to have a good evening,” Grace said. Whatever else the night held, she suspected there would be fireworks of some sort at supper. With Crispin and her mother and Cousin Jasper at the same board, how could there not?

She slipped into the corridor and retraced her steps down the long staircase to the imposing foyer. Surprisingly, she didn’t find anyone at the door from whom she could ask directions to the library. So she set off on her own exploration, books tucked under one arm, a small kerosene lamp lifted from a side table in the other hand. If she failed to arrive at the dining room at the appointed time, someone would launch a search party.

They’ll need one, along with a knowledgeable guide
, she decided after traversing several parlors and a music room, where a butterfly grand piano squatted in one corner and a full-sized harp in another. The rooms rolled into each other as if they were waves, cresting in succession.

And surprisingly, the rooms were illuminated by wall sconces flickering gaily even though no one was in them. Grace felt foolish carrying the lamp, but felt certain that as sure as she set it down, she’d run out of well-lit spaces.

“Someone needs to read
The Thrifty Matron
,” Grace muttered. She wondered if the marquess was merely showing off for his guests by having so many needless lamps burning or if this was his usual wasteful mode.

She decided to assign the most charitable view to the waste. The marquess’s home was so grand he probably expected his guests to explore a bit.

Then she entered a smaller space filled with oddments from exotic places. Chinoiserie screens vied with medieval tapestries. A disgruntled water buffalo head glared down at Grace from above the small fireplace. A Hindu goddess with several spare pairs of arms writhed on a side table, but the ottoman fashioned from what appeared to be an elephant’s foot struck Grace as most unusual. The marquess, or someone in his ancestry, was an intrepid world traveler.  

Then after wandering unimpeded through the grand spaces, she finally came to a closed door.

It wasn’t locked so she pushed it open a crack to find the first dark room she’d encountered.

I knew I’d need the lamp sooner or later.
She eased the door completely open and it protested with a long screech.

Then she realized the room wasn’t completely dark. At the far end—and the end was truly far for the room was enormous, dwarfing all the ones she’d previously visited—there stood a solitary woman with a lamp similar to the one Grace held. She was looking up at a painting on the tall wall, lifting her lamp a bit as she scrutinized different portions of the huge work.

“Come in, if you’re going to or else close the door behind you,” the woman said without a glance in Grace’s direction. “But have the goodness to make up your mind quickly. If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s indecision.”

Grace had to go in then, if for no other reason than to learn who she was. As Grace drew near, threads of gold sparked in the woman’s elegant gown and several jewels winked on her uplifted hand. Her hair was white, but it was swept up in the latest style as if she were a debutante. She held herself perfectly erect, defying time by sheer dint of will.

Based on her age and mode of dress, Grace suspected she was Lord Dorset’s mother, the current Marchioness of Dorset. She’d be the dowager marchioness once her son married, so Grace dropped a curtsey in deference to her rank.

“If you’re going to be in here, at least do me the courtesy of holding your lamp steady. You’re casting the most awful shadows,” the marchioness said without a flick of her eyes in Grace’s direction.

“I ask your pardon, my lady,” Grace said reflexively and lifted her lamp to aid in the marchioness’s perusal of the art.

Grace looked up at the larger-than-life portrait. An ornate monogram was centered at the foot of the work with a large CRS emblazoned amid gilded curlicues and loops. A polished Hessian rested atop the monogram. Grace lifted her lamp higher so she could see the man’s face clearly and gasped.

“Oh, yes, he had that effect on the ladies all his philandering life,” Lady Dorset said coolly. “A handsome devil, what? May I present my husband, Christian Sinclair Royce, seventh Marquess of Dorset, Earl of Umber, Viscount Siddon, and Baron something-or-other—oh, I do find those ancillary titles so tedious! And of no use whatsoever to someone who, if there be a God in heaven, is roasting in hell as we speak.”

Grace flinched in surprise.

The marchioness turned a shrewd eye on her for the first time, peering up at Grace. “And you must be the Makepeace chit. He said you were tall. He failed to mention you were a giantess.”

First Lady Dorset insulted the memory of her husband. Whatever his faults may have been, Grace had been schooled not to speak ill of the dead. Then the marchioness insulted her. Grace straightened her spine.

“I find my height useful when I want to look down on small people.”

The marchioness laughed. “Oh, very good. How I hate it when people fail to say what they are thinking! You just might have a brain.” She eyed the books tucked under Grace’s arm. “And I see you found the reading material I left for you in your chamber.”

So much for Lord Dorset’s supposed tribute to her mind.

“Yes, and as long as we’re saying what we think, I must admit these are not to my taste,” Grace said. “I was trying to find the library to return them and choose something different. I apologize for intruding on your . . . if you don’t like your husband, why are standing in the dark looking at his portrait?”

The question was impertinent, rude actually, but Grace could no more keep the words from spilling out her mouth than she could keep her hair from escaping its pins.

“I never said I didn’t like him.”

“But you said he should be roasting—”

“Oh, that.” The marchioness waved her damning comment away. “Theology was never my strong suit, and besides, if there is a loophole around the payment for sins God exacts from rakes, I’m sure Cris found it.”

“Cris,” Grace repeated. The name that sent Crispin into a fury.

“Yes, Cris. I know it’s not the done thing for a marchioness to speak of her husband so informally, but why should I refer to a man I fought with hammer and tongs for twenty-odd years by something as stuffy as Dorset or—God forbid!—my lord?” Lady Dorset shuddered. “No, whatever else Cris and I were to each other, we were not such strangers.”

The marchioness looked back up at the painting. “He broke my heart a dozen times. Oh, I know it’s bad form for a woman to even acknowledge her husband’s light-o-loves, but I can’t bear falsehood. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t matter to me. Even now.”

Her expression softened as she continued to gaze at painting of the outrageously handsome dead marquess.

“He couldn’t help it, I don’t think. Women were like an opiate to him. I don’t believe he ever meant to hurt me, but the opportunities for dalliance for a man of his power and damnable good looks were legion.” Lady Dorset sighed. “He’s been gone sixteen years and I wish the scoundrel back every single day.”

Then the marchioness gave herself a little shake. “If you’re worried that his son will be just like him, don’t be.”

“Lord Dorset doesn’t favor his father in looks,” Grace said, still eyeing the portrait in superstitious awe. But the dead marquess looked so much like someone else she knew, even down to the unusual pewter-gray eyes, a tickle of apprehension ran down her spine.

“No, but handsome is as handsome does, they do say. Now our son Richard takes after my side of the family. He’s the spitting image of
my
father, the Earl of Templeton,” Lady Dorset said. “Come back in the morning when the light is better and you’ll see Lord Templeton’s portrait on the opposite wall.”

She waved her hand toward the opposite wall of the great hall, but didn’t leave her vigil post at the foot of her dead husband’s portrait to show Grace her dead father’s picture.

“Richard,” Grace repeated. She hadn’t heard the marquess’s name before.

“Yes, Richard Templeton Royce, 8th Marquess of Dorset,
et cetera, et cetera
, the apple of my eye and the paragon of manly virtue his father never was. I greatly fear he’ll never find a young lady who deserves him, but he has the succession to think of, so we have to make allowances, I suppose. Still, one ought to have some standards,” Lady Dorset announced. Then she turned her gimlet gaze back to Grace. “If you don’t like the practical books I chose for you, what sort do you like?”

 Grace mentally reeled with the abrupt change of topic, but she was grateful as well. It was uncomfortable to feel the marchioness’s private pain, and less comfortable to hear her doting praise of her son and veiled references to Grace’s general unworthiness of him.

“I’m a student of history and most especially mythology,” Grace said.

“Rubbish!” Lady Dorset pronounced them both. “Can’t think why you’d bother your head with the past, a young thing like you.” She gave the portrait one last look and snuffed out her lamp. Then she took Grace’s arm, leading her back toward the well-lit areas of the house. “Time enough for that when time is all you have. Now then, let’s go to the library and you can find whatever folderol pleases your little upstart heart.”

“I’m sorry you think I’m an upstart,” Grace said.

“Well, of course I do. What else would you call a colonial and one with only the slimmest connections to aristocracy to boot?”

“William the First was called a bastard before they called him the Conqueror, so I expect he was an upstart, too,” Grace said. “In fact, if you go back far enough in anyone’s lineage, I assure you there will be ‘upstarts’ to be found.”

She knew she shouldn’t speak so to Lord Dorset’s mother, but she was sick to death of being made to feel as if she was somehow inferior by virtue of her commoner birth.

A crooked smile spread over Lady Dorset’s face and a silver brow arched. “Well, Miss Makepeace, I see you’ve put that study of history to good use. That was as nicely a delivered set-down as I’ve had in quite some time.”

Grace dropped a curtsey. “I ask your pardon—”

“Don’t you dare! It was quite refreshing. I like a girl who speaks her mind. Richard might just be right about you.”   

As Lady Dorset chattered away, Grace decided she liked her, too despite her bluntness. Or maybe because of it. There was something comforting about knowing exactly what another person thinks because they don’t hesitate to tell you.

Once they reached the library, Lady Dorset directed Grace to a small section devoted to mythology. To Grace’s delight, she found three titles that were new to her.

“When you are ready,” Lady Dorset said, “the dining room is down the corridor. Take the first right, then the second door to the left.”

“Aren’t you dining with us?” Grace asked.

“Oh, no,” Lady Dorset said. “I make it a point never to dine with less than a viscount at the least. One must maintain certain standards. However, I would welcome you and your mother for tea in two days time in my apartments.”

Grace wasn’t sure whether to be insulted that Lady Dorset wouldn’t deign to eat with her and her parents or pleased that she’d condescended low enough to extend the invitation for tea.  

And as Grace made her way to the dining room, she wondered how she’d find the courage to tell Crispin there was a portrait of a man whose face was the spitting image of his hanging in Lord Dorset’s great hall.

Chapter 29

Galatea had consumed all his energy while he created her. Now that she was slipping from him, she devoured Pygmalion’s heart.

Crispin waited in the anteroom outside the grand dining room but Wyckeham had warned him that every room in
Clairmont
was designed to awe, so he opened one of the double doors to take a quick peek inside.

“Well, Hawke,” the marquess’s voice rustled quietly behind him. “Let us not stand on ceremony. Go on in. Tell me. What do you think of my ceiling?”

Crispin craned his neck and turned an appraising eye upward. Pagan goddesses were interspersed with Christian saints in a mishmash of disjointed scenes separated by the curved spines of the high ceiling’s supporting arches.

“Reminds me of the Sistine Chapel,” he said after a few minutes study of the over-embellished vault. “The artist obviously studied the original. Similar ornamentation, unfortunately dissimilar execution. Whoever your artist was, he charged you too much.”

“My thoughts exactly though you’d never convince my mother of it,” Dorset said gruffly. “How do you find the cottage?”

“It’s comfortable enough for tonight,” Crispin said. The place Dorset called ‘the cottage’ might have been the manor house on a lesser estate. “Tomorrow I’ll see if it’s light enough for my work.”

Lord Dorset eyed Crispin speculatively. “I’m curious, Hawke. Artistic geniuses don’t sprout from the ground like cabbage. From whence do you hail?”

He groaned inwardly. The less said about his past, the better.

“I find the public enjoys a bit of mystery surrounding artistic types. Besides, I believe in looking forward, not back,” Crispin said as the sound of approaching footsteps made his head turn.
Speaking of looking forward . . .