The Art of Duke Hunting (24 page)

How could he have formed them when his parents had rarely been in evidence? While his father had insisted he and his wife travel extensively, he had sent Vincent, Roman, and eventually even his sister to school at a young age. Roman had been sent away to six different schools from the age of six to twenty. And he had not been allowed to attend the same schools and universities as his elder brother.

Roman glanced down at the ledgers in front of him, but did not open any of them. For the first time he wondered why his father had separated his children.

His father had had a plan for each of his offspring and Roman’s had been clear. He was to focus solely on mathematics and science—even if it had not been his first choice.

He turned his attention to the magnificent white marble bust of da Vinci, a gift his mother had given him last year on the fifth anniversary of his father’s death. It was the only piece of art in his study.

He was still staring at it a half hour later when his steward joined him.

Chapter 16

E
sme did not have it in her to go to the Vidingtons no matter how much her mother insisted. Then again, her mother had not pushed as hard as she might have.

In fact, as Esme fiddled with the lovely food on the tray that the cook had prepared and sent up to her apartments, she decided that her mother had actually stooped to reverse ideology.

No matter. She would not have gone no matter what. It was one of the few times that she could not muster her usual optimism.

Esme finally placed the heavy, ornate silverware side by side on the plate, and left the chair in front of the small table in the room. She went to the canvases in the corner and again counted them. She had saved space by not stretching them. She would do as William had suggested and only mount them as she used them. The paints were already packed as well as the new brushes she had found in Town. Just the idea of them made her itch to paint.

She was restless. Oh, she knew why. He was somewhere in this great townhouse too. They were the only two occupants at the moment except for twenty-odd servants, who were probably wondering why they had not departed with the others. She shook her head in frustration and finally gave in to the urge by opening the new set of charcoals and opening her sketchbook to a new page.

She sat by the window, and became lost to the power of the image that took shape. It was a portrait of her father. She had drawn so many portraits of him, her first teacher. But each time she attempted a new one it gave her great comfort. It was as if she were having a conversation with him. Her questions to him were always answered by the expression of his face that took shape on the page. She liked how he was smiling in this—

A knock sounded at the door, and she immediately returned to the moment.

“Yes?”

“May I?”

It was his voice, but she had not a moment to think. “Of course.”

As he entered she stood up too quickly and placed too much weight on the ankle that was almost but not fully healed. She dropped her sketchbook and caught the edge of her chair with her hand to prevent more pain.

He rushed toward her. “Are you all right?”

“Of course. Really. It’s just that sometimes I forget to take a bit of care.”

“How is your ankle?”

“I swear to you that it is almost perfect. I just made an awkward movement. That is all.”

He gave her a long look and then bent to retrieve her sketchbook and the pages that had fallen out.

Of course the one that she had drawn of him while at Derby Manor was in full evidence along with more than a dozen others. Would the embarrassment never end?

He glanced at it and did not say a word. He picked up another one, a landscape and studied it before replacing it in her book. And then he studied each and every drawing as he carefully gathered them together.

The last one was the one of her father, nearly complete. He examined it for a long while, his eyes squinting.

She handed him her spectacles she had hastily removed, just like she did whenever he was in her presence.

He accepted them without comment and put them on the end of his broad nose. “Your father?”

“Yes,” she replied quietly.

“You are very like him, except for your eyes.”

“I know. I liked his eyes best of all.”

“You have your mother’s eyes.”

“Yes. And you must have your father’s eyes.”

“No one has ever suggested that,” he replied, ill at ease.

“There are no portraits of your father here. But you must take after him.”

He stiffened. “Not as much as my brother did.” He paused. “March . . . it is good to see you.”

“Thank you,” she replied. She wasn’t sure when she had felt this shy in her entire life.

He placed the book in her hands. “Tell me, how are you?”

“I am good. Excellent, really.” She stopped then rushed on. “I am so sorry you returned to find me and my mother installed here without any advance warning. It is just that my mother wrote to yours without informing me. It seems they were acquainted long ago and your mother insisted we stay here when we decided to come to Town.”

“It’s perfectly correct, March. You should always stay here when you are in London.”

“I would not have agreed had I thought you were coming back so soon. I only came to purchase goods before I leave. We are to sail very shortly.”

“I am so glad,” he replied. “March, you have a very great talent. Especially with portraits. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And I am certain this trip will be everything you hoped it could be and perhaps more.”

“Your mother is very excited about it too. We are going for part of the time to a place where she apparently spent some time one summer many years ago.”

“My mother?” He appeared stunned.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I guess she did not have time to relay it to you, but she asked if she could accompany me. I’ve never seen my mother so relieved. She was originally supposed to journey with me, but her heart wasn’t in it. She accompanied my father to so many museums in his lifetime that I think it secretly bores her to pieces. She was delighted to switch roles with your mother and chaperone your beautiful sister, during the social whirl of the upcoming Season.”

He did not respond and so she filled the void, as she was always wont to do.

“I should warn you that I do believe they have formed a wager. Your sister’s future husband is about to be found come hell or high water.” Esme could not think of another thing to say to fill the silence and so she stopped.

“My mother is going with you?”

He obviously hadn’t understood. “Yes. She is quite enchanted with the yacht you so very kindly purchased. Your sister tells me that she has never seen her mother this excited about anything. She even went so far as to interview the captain and every last potential member of the crew, along with your steward.”

He closed his eyes and sagged against the wall.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” she whispered. “Are you worried about the idea of her sailing?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

He exhaled and heaved himself upright. “I’ve just realized I’ve made a grave mistake.”

She waited.

“I’d forgotten how much my mother loved to travel. My brother did too. She was forever sending me letters to my school or university from points across Europe and beyond. But it has been a long time since she went anywhere beyond England. I should have arranged this for her long ago.”

“Well then, this will be lovely for her. I am so glad.” And Esme was. She had adored his mother nearly on sight.

She would not tell Roman, but they had visited every last museum in Town during the time since she had been here. And at every entertainment, they had sought out and studied each privately owned piece of art.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” She retrieved an unsealed missive from a drawer in the bedside table and handed it to him. “This was delivered yesterday by a footman from Carleton House. It was directed to both of us so I took the liberty of opening it. I hope you do not mind. I was worried it was something important from Prinny.”

He opened the missive and quickly read it. “So we are still not to announce our wedding.”

“Correct. One can hope that news from people and servants who know the truth in Derbyshire will be slow traveling from the north.”

He smiled. “And Prinny is gone south toward Cornwall in secret?”

“It appears so.”

“Well, since Candover has gone with him, at least it appears an answer to my wager with Abshire will be forthcoming.”

“What wager?”

“The one in which I wagered that my poor, dear friend, the Duke of Kress will be soon wed, very likely against his will.”

A coldness invaded her veins. “It appears the same unhappy fate awaits all of you, then.” She turned and walked toward her bed, refusing to limp in his presence. “I wonder who will be next. Abshire’s goose will be cooked, don’t you think?” She hoped there was no trace of bitterness in her voice.

“March?”

“Yes?” She would not turn around. Instead she rearranged the bedcover.

“I’ve done it again, haven’t I?”

She turned to look at him across the chamber. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m no good at this. I told you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve trampled on your sensibilities again, haven’t I?”

“No,” she said. “I just don’t know the rules for a marriage of convenience.”

He walked over to her and took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Neither do I.”

She took a deep breath. “Then we shall just have to decide on them together.”

“All right. What do you propose?”

“Well, I would like as I mentioned before, that we treat each other with respect and kindness above all else. The way we would treat our best friends in the world. What would you propose?”

“It is rather what you said only more. That we only think of what will bring the other the most happiness.”

“That is very important,” she breathed, “especially for best friends.”

He stepped a bit closer. “Can you think of any other ideas?”

“Yes.” This was going to be difficult to say aloud.

“What is it?” he asked gently, tilting her chin up to gaze steadily into her eyes.

His eyes were so very blue, even in this low light. She would always drown in his eyes.

“We shall always have to take care not to do two things.”

“Yes?”

“We must never have relations again as you do not want an heir, or let any level of intimacy hamper our independence.”

He removed his hand from her chin and bowed his head. “You are, of course, right. As always, March. I suppose I shall bid you good night, then.”

He walked to the door of her room and departed, gently closing the door behind him.

“Good night, you,” she whispered.

R
oman made good on his promise and attended dinner the following evening, and the theatre after that. He took care to pay more attention to his mother and sister.

But during the day, he had a breakthrough in his plans for the waterworks. All the hours of computations, all the many days studying water wheels after the first one that had inspired him in Derbyshire, came to fruition. He tilted back his chair in his study and looked at the long scroll of paper completely unfurled across his desk.

It would work.

He had not a single doubt.

It would take years to build, of course. And it would first have to be examined by any number of other experts, and debated in the House of Lords, and monies appropriated by Prinny, and so on, and so forth.

But it would one day revolutionize basic, everyday life in London.

God. He could not believe he had actually done it.

He had a sudden desire to tell someone. But there was not a single one of his friends in town. Kress was in Cornwall, Candover on his way south with Prinny, and Abshire languishing in Derbyshire. He really was not all that close to any of the other members of the entourage.

He dropped the chair back to all four legs and shook his head. He knew that none of the gentlemen he had thought to have a word with were really the one person he most wanted to tell.

It was March.

Of course it was she. She had said it all last night. They were, and always would be, the best of friends.

But he was too shy to go to her. He could not understand why. He had no reason to be reticent with her.

Instead, he did what he knew best. He said not a word. Better he spend a few days planning the political steps it would take to see this plan implemented in the fastest, most efficient way possible.

Yes, it was better to keep his excellent news to himself. He didn’t want anyone to feel obligated to celebrate.

T
he afternoon before they were all to go to Vauxhall began with the arrival of an unexpected guest. A man whom Roman had never hoped to have to lay eyes on again.

William Topher arrived at the Norwich townhouse in Wyndam Square with a gleam in his eye and a letter in his hand.

All the residents of the townhouse were gathered in the large walled garden in the rear, where a light repast had been laid out under the dappled sunlight of a small stand of white-trunked birch trees. March had wanted to paint a portrait of his mother in the afternoon sun. His mother wore an expression of such serene happiness that Roman could not stop looking at her. The last time he had seen such an expression had been when Vincent was still alive, and they had all been sailing for the day. He stopped the remembrance abruptly and focused on the servant who approached.

“Your Grace?” A footman came forward. “There is a visitor asking for Her Grace, but if you will pardon me for saying so, I do not think he is referring to your mother.”

Roman nodded. “I shall see to—” He stopped short at the sight of William Topher walking toward them. The man had had the gall not to wait for the footman to return to invite him to the garden. He was the most insufferable man alive.

“William!” Lady Gilchrist suddenly exclaimed with a warm laugh. “What has brought you to Town?”