The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife (64 page)

She couldn’t believe
it! Her first sales! Somehow, his genuine appreciation for her work
made it easier for her to resign herself to using a male pseudonym.
One day, though, she hoped to be able to reveal that she was the
woman behind the paintings.

At first, after her
rescue from Melton Abbey, time had seemed to be rushing past. The
Spares hadn’t caught Victor Dubuc on the road, but he had been
taken into custody by the men that were stationed outside his rooms
when, unaware his plans had been foiled, he’d returned there to
pack. Because all parties were intent on keeping the matter quiet to
protect Tally’s reputation and his uncle’s solid business name,
it was reluctantly decided — after much debate with Monsieur —
that Victor be shipped off to France to join his natural father,
under strict conditions that he never set foot in England again.
Should he do so, he would immediately be handed over to the
authorities and charged with robbery, arson, kidnapping and attempted
murder.

His real punishment was
that Monsieur Beauclaire and two of the Spares were escorting him
across the Channel and the aging agent was busy making sure that the
French art world knew of Victor’s dishonesty so he’d never be
able to dupe them or, hopefully, anyone else again.

Tally thought Victor
had gotten off too easily. After almost killing his uncle, the
consequences should have been much more serious. Why he was lucky not
to be hanged! But once all had agreed to keep it quiet, they knew
Moreau had to be able to live with the decision on his nephew’s
fate.

She might have known
her mentor would go easy on him. Monsieur didn’t want to stir up a
scandal, but he also blamed himself for leaving most of Victor’s
upbringing to his mother. He should have spent more time guiding
the
boy
, as he called him. So, although he refused to see his
nephew before the chastened Dubuc departed from England, Monsieur
pleaded with them to let it go at that. And, much to her and his
agent’s dismay, he even set up a small but steady stipend for
Victor, so
the boy
would have a chance to start anew in France.

She fervently hoped the
nephew had learned from his crime and that he never again caused such
pain to anyone. She would feel terribly guilty for not insisting he
pay for his crimes, if she ever learned he had harmed someone else

At the moment, her
mentor was recuperating at Gaston Beauclaire’s, while his friend
was in France. Although they’d prepared him for it, Monsieur had
been shaken to see his studio reduced to nothing but a pile of ashes.
But thanks to Mr. Mason and a group of Reed’s brothers and friends,
going by the unusual name of “The Brotherhood of Spares”, the
studio was being rebuilt and Monsieur was improving daily. He’d
never forget what had happened, nor would the deep sorrow now etched
in his heart ever disappear, of course, but time was a great healer
and he was surrounded by friends.

Except for one thing,
life for Tally was good. She, Grandma Lawton and Foster were getting
along well in their new abode. Grandma had brought along what she
called
proper
help
from her home, so the house was running smoothly now and Tally was
grateful she was freed from many of her domestic duties. It allowed
her to paint from dawn until noon, just in time to put her brushes
away and greet her grandparent when she emerged from her bed chamber
around one o’clock.

She was a little —
no,
very
—
surprised Grandma wasn’t pushing her to attend social events.
Maybe, she was giving Tally time to recover from her kidnapping, and
the nagging would begin soon enough.

Tally was glad not have
to watch over her shoulder anymore. Mr. Mason had been called home to
Scotland, so it was just as well that all the chaos in her life had
been resolved.

The one dark cloud in
her sky was Reed.
Viscount
Selwich. She hadn’t seen him since he brought her home after
rescuing them. She couldn’t talk to anyone about it but, inside,
her heart was weeping.

Was that it? Would he
never come back, even if only to bid her goodbye?

She tugged to loosen
the cord holding another group of her paintings together. He’d been
greeted with an urgent message when they’d arrived back home from
Melton Abbey. He’d crumpled the note in his hand, said he had
important business to take care of, that after he’d finished it
they would have a much-needed talk, and hurried off. That was days
ago and she hadn’t heard a word since. His business must have taken
him out of London because he hadn’t come home that night or any
night since.

Was he just being
polite when he said they’d talk? Maybe that was his way of
disappearing without having to deal with explanations. Or perhaps
he’d left because he’d changed his mind about wanting to marry
her and since she was right on his doorstep, he wanted to avoid
embarrassment. Or, if he hadn’t revised his opinion then; now, if
he was back amid his family and peers, he’d had time to reflect on
it and might have altered his opinion.

She was no longer sure
exactly what he wanted…
had
wanted to discuss. She supposed they‘d have discussed her shooting
him and his amnesia. His thinking she was his wife. Certainly
reviewing her kidnapping and rescue would make for interesting talk.
Or did he want them merely to become friendly neighbors? Her breath
caught at the thought. Surely he couldn’t expect her to be that
kind of friendly? He must know she wasn’t that sort of woman.

Not that she didn’t
wish they had…

Oh, she was so
confused!
What did she want?
Did she sincerely mean to live her entire life without a man? When
she’d thought she might end her life in a dungeon, she’d
regretted her no-marriage stance. Living with Reed, even for that
brief a time, had changed her view. She hadn’t known what a man’s
touch felt like! How one could ache to be held in a man’s...

Slamming shut that door
in her mind, she skirted it by thinking about what she did know. He’d
seemed to like her enough as a wife. He clearly desired her! But had
he truly forgiven her? Would a Viscount offer marriage to a simple
miss? Or, now that she could be considered soiled goods, did he
intend to offer her
carte
blanche
?

She’d never agree to
that, of course. She wasn’t even certain she’d agree to wed him.
She’d never thought to marry, but then she’d never understood how
a man got under your skin so that you ached for him when he wasn’t
there. She longed to feel his arms around her, his soft lips nibbling
on hers, his hard body held close against hers. A wild shiver raced
up her spine at the mere thought.

So much for trying not
to think about him! She couldn’t seem to stop!

One boon was that Reed
knew all about her art and how important it was to her, and he didn’t
seem to mind. Indeed, he’d gone hunting for her missing pieces.

Heavens, how had these
sketches ended up among the paintings? She was lucky they weren’t
ruined. She carefully lifted the sheaf of papers that had been wedged
between canvases. She never treated her sketches so carelessly! She
straightened them and turned over the top one to glance at it.

But... this wasn’t
her sketch! How had it gotten mixed in with...

Goodness. It was
of
her!

She stared in
stupefaction at the image of her bending to smell a rose in the small
back garden. Although the sketch wasn’t in color, she knew she’d
been wearing her favorite sage-green dress that day. Her hair was
loose, blowing gently in the spring breeze. It was so vivid, she felt
like reaching to hold her hair back against the wind.

Who had seen her like
this? She’d assumed she was safe from view in the back garden or
she’d never have worn her hair so casually.

She turned to the next
picture. Another one of her! In this one, she was talking to Joseph,
a fond smile on her face. She leafed through the next few drawings.
Most were of her, doing various tasks around the house. Who was
capable of this quality of drawing? And why were they here, among her
paintings?

Had Mr. Dubuc–? No.
This group of paintings had never left the house and he hadn’t had
access to her studio. Besides, with this kind of talent, he wouldn’t
have needed her to fund his life in Paris. He could have done it
himself. Amply! These were exceptionally good.

The only people who had
the opportunity to do these, other than Foster, Joseph, and Mrs. P —
who she knew hadn’t done them because they were in some of the
sketches with her — were Mr. Mason or Reed. But neither had
mentioned being an artist. Not that Mr. Mason ever said much of a
personal nature and Reed wouldn’t have known until he’d recovered
his memory.

This one of Foster and
her together was so detailed she could see the pain of his aching
joints etched on his face. She was being selfish keeping him here
with her. If she hadn’t already known it, this picture made it very
clear. He was ready for a well-earned rest. It was time for him to
begin enjoying his long-delayed retirement.

She turned to the next
drawing. Her, again, but with such a vulnerable, yearning look on her
face...

So. Not Mr. Mason. This
one told her with absolute certainty who had drawn these pictures.
Reed. The only one able to elicit such a look from her!

But... these were
extraordinary! No wonder he thought he’d recognized her father’s
name at the Art Exhibit, she wouldn’t be surprised if his work was
up there alongside her sire’s. That was why the smell of turpentine
and paint didn’t bother him. Why he appreciated, even admired, her
talent.

She sank down onto the
window seat that was a twin to the one in his studio.
He
was an artist!

She should have
guessed. That was why he had a studio in his home!

No, not
his
home! An investment, Reed had said, but they weren’t
his
investments, they were the Earl’s. The clerk at Hornings and Crosby
had told her so. The attached townhouses belonged to the man who,
according to all accounts, had disowned his eldest son.

Likely, Reed had very
little of his own. In the short run, he was certainly not a good
risk, especially if he was a painter. Like her father and brothers.
Wonderfully talented, but impractical, selfish, and often unable to
take care of the basic necessities of life. Certainly not to be
depended on, physically or emotionally.

She could almost hear
the crash of her hopes as they tumbled down around her. She bent
forward and covered her face with both hands. She hadn’t realized
how much she’d been starting to imagine a future with Reed. But
now... To live in the same precarious way she’d lived her childhood
was impossible. With someone who might spend all her money, leaving
their children hungry until the next period of plenty. It wouldn’t
matter that she’d have enough to care for them because, once wed,
what was hers became his.

Tears leaked out to
slide silently down her cheeks. She searched for something favorable
in this
volte-face
.
After all, she’d never planned on being married or even having a
relationship with a man. So nothing had changed. She was just back to
where she had started. That was not so bad.

But right now, it hurt.
She suspected that, like Pandora’s box once opened, these powerful
feelings would be impossible to shut off.

Lowering her hands, she
sat up and wiped her wet eyes. She could do it! Forget about him...
forsake marriage and children. She’d have more time to devote to
her painting. She’d heard you had to suffer to become good at your
art. Well, she was going to be a master at it! That would be her
consolation prize for not having Reed in her life.

Glumly she stood and
wandered over to the easel. To think, she’d been so optimistic.
She’d started a new painting this morning, one of her Grandma,
sitting on the sofa, doing her embroidery.

Perhaps it
was
time to go home. Foster could begin his retirement and she had her
painting. After all, her brothers weren’t there, they were still in
Italy. Why not live in Evesham until her finances were settled? She’d
send her work to Monsieur here in London to sell for her. She didn’t
have to live here.

She
simply couldn’t stay right next door to Reed!
It pained
her just to think of being that close to what could have been.

He
did come from a well-to-do family.
The thought slid into
her consciousness. Surely an Earl’s family would never allow their
heir’s children to go hungry or shoeless. Restless, she put her
hands behind her back and wandered back to the window.

He certainly didn’t
appear to be an irresponsible type of man. He’d organized her
rescue in a remarkably efficient and speedy manner. Her family could
never have done that. Would never have even thought of doing it!

She lay her cheek
against the cold glass, hoping to shock some sense into herself.
Should she give him the chance to prove he was different, that he
could be a talented artist and a stable, loving husband and father?

She
wanted to!

Turning back toward the
room again, she wondered, didn’t she owe it to herself, and to him,
to at least talk to him about it? At the Abbey, she had vowed to stop
letting the past influence her present. Reed was nothing like the men
in her family so why should she believe he’d fail her like they
always had?

Nervous, but giddy with
sudden excitement and hope, she decided she would wait for him to
return before making her final decision.

* * *