Thunder and Roses (13 page)

Williams led her through a forest of shadowy shapes into a smaller attic. “I would return these pieces to the drawing room, where they used to be. The furniture is old, from the middle of the last century, but beautifully made, and there’s a natural elegance in the designs.” He pulled a dustcover from a small sofa. “Exiled by the whims of fashion. Lady
Tregar
was the one who installed the crocodile-legged sofas.” He gave a faint sniff. “Clear proof
 
that good breeding and good taste don’t necessarily go together.”

Clare smiled. She had the best of both worlds; not only was Williams willing to accept her orders, but he still treated her with the frankness of a fellow
Penreithian
. Knowing she shouldn’t gossip, but unable to resist the opportunity to learn more, she said, “What was Lady
Tregar
like?”

The butler’s expression became impassive. “I really can’t say, Miss Morgan. I was the
underbutler
then and very seldom saw her ladyship. She was very beautiful, of course.” After a pause, he said, “Would you like to see her portrait?”

“Why, yes. I didn’t know there was one.”

“The old earl had it commissioned at the time of his grandson’s marriage.” Williams led Clare from the main attic into a smaller one. A large wooden rack divided into slots ran the length of one wall, with fabric-draped rectangles occupying most of the spaces. “I had the carpenter build this so the paintings could be stored safely.”

He pulled one out and removed the sheet that covered it, then raised his lantern to light the portrait. It was a superb rendition of a young woman in the costume of a Greek nymph. She stood in a flower-strewn meadow with the wind blowing her golden hair and
molding
the white draperies to her lush figure.

Clare studied the flawless face, the cool green eyes and the faint smile that hinted at hidden mysteries. This was the woman who had married Nicholas and shared his bed, and now haunted his nights with grief and guilt. “I saw Lady
Tregar
once in the distance, but she is even lovelier than I realized.”

“I have never seen her equal,” Williams said simply.

“Why is the portrait here rather than downstairs?”

“I believe that the dowager countess sent the painting up here just before she closed the house and moved to London.”

That would have been Emily Davies, the old earl’s second wife. Had she loved her husband’s unruly grandson and been jealous of Nicholas’s exquisite wife? That would account for banishing the portrait to this hidden corner.

Clare’s expression hardened. This house had known too many dark emotions; perhaps it was time to expose some of them to the light of day. “This portrait would look good over one of the drawing room fireplaces. Have it taken downstairs.”

Williams started to protest, but changed his mind. “Very well, Miss Morgan.” After a moment’s thought, he suggested, “Do you want to put this one over the other fireplace? It used to hang in the drawing room. The dowager countess had it stored at the same time as the portrait of Lady
Tregar
.”

He drew out another picture and uncovered a full-length likeness of the old earl. Though the white hair showed that it had been painted toward the end of his life, his posture had lost none of its
vigor
and his face was as arrogant as ever. An impressive man, but Clare knew that Nicholas wouldn’t want to look at him every day. “Leave this one up here. I’ll see if there’s something suitable among the other paintings.”

She found two charming landscapes that deserved to be hung downstairs. The last picture was another portrait, and this time the face looking out from the canvas belonged to Nicholas himself. He was posed holding the reins of a horse and with hounds lying at his feet. Clare caught her breath, unable to resist the carefree charm of that handsome, laughing youth. This was the Nicholas who had fascinated her when she was a child.

Then she frowned, perplexed. The clothing was wrong, too old-fashioned, and the coloring wasn’t dark enough. “Could this be his lordship’s father?”

Williams squatted and peered at the small plaque set in the frame. “`The Honorable Kenrick Davies.`” The butler straightened. “He left home before I started here. The one time I looked at this painting, I assumed it was of Master Nicholas.”

“Hang it over the fireplace that is nearer the hall, and put Lady
Tregar
over the other one.” Clare dusted her hands against her skirt. “With luck, we might have the drawing room completed by the time Lord Aberdare returns from Swansea.”

And when he came back, she wanted to be there to see his reaction to the portrait of his long-dead wife.

7
             

 
Late afternoon sun was slanting in the windows as they finished rearranging the drawing room. Clare t
hank
ed everyone who had taken part, then dismissed them for the day.

Before going upstairs to bathe, she made a last survey of the drawing room. A critic might point out that the walls needed repainting and the upholstery fabrics were past their prime, but the overall effect was very attractive. Hoping Nicholas would be pleased, she stepped into the hall and inhaled happily. The new cook, Mrs. Howell, had been busy all day, and tantalizing scents of roasting meat and baking bread drifted through the house.

To her dismay, the earl chose that moment to walk in the door, hatless, wind-tousled, and coiled whip in hand. “Hello, Clare,” he said with a smile. “Did you have a productive day?”

Crossly she wondered why mud spattered on his boots and driving coat made him seem dashing, while smudges on her dress made her dowdy. Life was not fair. Wishing that he had been delayed another half hour, she replied,

“V. And you?”

“I located the engineer who built most of the tramways in Merthyr Tydfil, and I found a good site for the coastal quay. I’ll tell you more over dinner.” He sniffed. “Something smells delicious. You were successful at luring a cook up here?”

“Yes, and that’s not the only success.” She beckoned him into the drawing room, trying not to look as nervous as she felt.

He stepped inside, then halted and gave a soft whistle of amazement. “Good Lord, the place is so bright and appealing that it’s hard to believe this is Aberdare. How did you accomplish so much in such a short time?”

“I can’t take the credit. The ideas came from Williams, and the hard work from the servants I engaged this morning.” Wanting reassurance, she went on, “You approve of the results?”

“Very much.” Nicholas gave her a devastating smile, then began to investigate his surroundings. Touching a blossom in a vase full of spicy-scented carnations, he said, “Where did you find flowers this early in the spring?”

“Believe it or not, they’re from the Aberdare greenhouse. For the last four years, the gardener has continued to raise flowers and vegetables because no one told him to stop.”

The earl looked startled. “Old
Iolo
, with the peg leg?” When Clare nodded, he said, “It’s sobering to think how much power I had over Aberdare when I wasn’t even thinking about the place.
Iolo
, Williams, the rest of the skeleton staff of servants who have performed their jobs through the years—I don’t deserve that kind of loyalty.”

“No, you don’t,” Clare agreed with a hint of tartness. “If it’s any comfort, the loyalty was more to their wages than to you personally. Though I believe that
Iolo
has been selling the unused flowers and produce at the Penreith market, so he hasn’t done badly out of your absence.”

“Still …” Nicholas’s voice drifted off as he looked up and saw the portrait of Kenrick Davies. After a long silence, he said quietly, “My father?”

“So the plaque says. The painting was in the attic. You’ve never seen it before?”

“Never. My grandfather probably had it moved upstairs when he disinherited my father.” He studied the picture intently. “I see why my parentage was never disputed.”

“Do you remember your father at all?”

“A little. He laughed a great deal. I suspect that living as a Gypsy was a game to him. He enjoyed the life, but if he hadn’t died of a fever, I think that eventually he would have returned to the Gorgio world.”

He turned and began strolling down the room. “I like the way you arranged the furniture in conversational groupings. It gives the room a greater sense of intimacy.”

Clare was pleased; that had been one of her own ideas. She drifted along the wall, watching his expression and reactions to learn what he liked best and least. He evaluated the changes tactilely, lightly skimming his palm over the shining surface of a satinwood table, prodding the deep cushions of a chair with his coiled whip, using the toe of his boot to test the depth of a magnificent Persian carpet that had been rolled in the attic.

Glancing over at Clare, he opened his mouth to speak, then froze. “Where the bloody hell did that come from?”

His explosive rage was so unexpected that Clare was momentarily paralyzed. Then she remembered that she was standing below the portrait of Lady
Tregar
. She swallowed, then said, “From the attic.”

Nicholas raised his driving whip and lashed out at her with a furious snap of his wrist. Clare gasped and instinctively threw up her arm to protect her face.

There was a faint whistling sound, followed by a vicious crack. Clare felt nothing, and for a confused moment she wondered if she had been hit and numbed by the impact.

Only when Nicholas drew the whip back and struck again did she realize that she had not been the target. The thong slashed savagely across the painted face of his dead wife.

He snarled, “Get rid of it. Now!”

He spun around and stalked from the room, slamming the door with a force that rattled the glass chimneys of the lamps.

Stunned, Clare sank into a chair. She had expected that he would react to the portrait with surprise, perhaps grief, and she had mentally prepared a little speech about coming to terms with his loss and getting on with his life. But his fury left her previous assumptions in tatters. It was possible that his fury was a result of a husband’s grief and guilt—but the expression on his face had been far more akin to hate than love.

Hands shaking, she rang for Williams. He appeared promptly, expression wary. “His lordship didn’t like the redecoration?”

“He loved the way the drawing room looks. It was the portrait that he hated.” She indicated the painting. “It needs to be removed. Immediately.”

The butler’s eyes widened when he saw that the portrait had a neat X slashed across Lady
Tregar’s
beautiful face. His gaze slanted over to Clare, but he asked no questions. “I’ll take it down right now. Do you want the space left blank?”

Clare made an effort to think clearly. “Hang that painting of the old castle against a sunset. It’s about the same size.”

Then she went upstairs and ordered a bath. This time Dilys had help in bringing up the hot water, and both girls were talking cheerfully. The house was coming alive.

The steaming water eased her anxiety as well as her sore muscles. She decided to proceed with the evening as if the flare-up hadn’t happened. That meant dressing and making herself available as a dinner companion—always assuming that Nicholas was talking to her after what had happened.

After drying herself, she dressed her hair more severely than the night before. She had to wear the same blue gown, since she owned nothing else that was suitable. Braced for trouble, she went down to dinner.

The morning room was empty when she reached it, but Nicholas appeared as the clock began striking six. He was dressed as impeccably as the night before. “Shall we go into dinner directly? I’m anxious to test the cook’s skill.”

She felt cowardly gratitude that he seemed willing to pretend that the scene in the drawing room hadn’t taken place. But when she took his arm, she became aware of the tenseness of the muscles beneath his elegant black sleeve. His anger had not abated, but at least it wasn’t directed at her.