clarifying his thoughts and feelings.
He did a thumbnail sketch of Sir Anthony's voluptuous Lavinia. She would make a good model for a decadent Venus. With two swift strokes, he crossed her out. Odd that even though he had always loved beauty, he had never fallen in love with a beautiful woman. Catherine Melbourne, an army wife who had followed the drum through Spain and Belgium, was one of the most stunning women on God's earth, and as loving and good as she was beautiful. He would have laid down his life for her and her young daughter, yet his feelings had always been those of friendship, even after she was widowed. It was Maria, a fierce Spanish guerrilla fighter, whom he had loved.
Thinking of Maria made him recognize that there were similarities between her and Rebecca. Neither woman was conventionally beautiful, but each was striking in an uncommon way. Each had blazed with single-minded passion. For Maria, the cause had been Spain. Rebecca Seaton's passion, he guessed, was art. Talent alone could not account for the quality of her painting; she must also be dedicated to the point of obsession.
It was that single-minded fierceness that aroused him. Maria had lived and died for Spain, but when she had the time and inclination, she had made love like a wildcat. Mating had been tempestuous and satisfying. He had been unable to imagine a normal, mundane life with her, though that hadn't kept him from asking her to marry him.
If she had accepted, would it have made a difference? Might she still be alive today?
For an instant, the image of how he had last seen Maria rose in his mind. He shoved it away, his stomach knotting. The past could not be changed. He must think of the present, of Sutterton and Beth and their future.
His investigation would not be easy. The coachman might be helpful, and he would try to locate the previous secretary, Tom Morley. But he was not optimistic. His intelligence work in Spain had taught him that the overall picture was usually painstakingly constructed from numerous tiny pieces contributed by many informants. Here he would have few sources.
He recognized uneasily that Rebecca was probably the best source of information about her mother's death. She would know things no servant could know. He was going to have to cultivate her friendship—and then betray it.
He swore to himself as he prepared to go down to Sir Anthony's office. War was cleaner and more honorable than what he was doing here.
"Send polite dunning letters to everyone in this pile." Sir Anthony tapped a stack of letters. "Most of 'em are aristocrats. Cits are much better at paying their bills." He dug into the mess of the secretary's desk and pulled out a leather-bound notebook. "Another of your tasks is to maintain my daybooks. I jot down what I want recorded on scraps of paper." He opened the volume, revealing a dozen scribbled sheets tucked inside the front cover. "These need to be transcribed."
Kenneth took the daybook and scanned a page. Listed in Tom Morley's neat hand were notations such as "5th February, 10:00-11:00, Duke of Candover & family, first sketches. Hazy sunshine." Two more sittings were listed on the same day, with other entries for visits from friends and a meeting of the Council of the Royal Academy. He felt a stir of excitement; the daybook from the summer of Lady Seaton's death would give invaluable information about Sir Anthony's activities.
Masking his reaction, he remarked, "You have a very full schedule."
"Too full. Last year I had three hundred and six sittings. Didn't leave me enough time for my historical paintings." Seaton sighed elaborately. "But it's hard to turn down a lady when she pleads for a portrait, saying that no one else can possibly paint her as well."
Kenneth was tempted to point out that Seaton had already admitted to enjoying portrait work, and that the income from it maintained this expensive household, but he restrained himself. "Is there anything else you wish to
He did a thumbnail sketch of Sir Anthony's voluptuous Lavinia. She would make a good model for a decadent Venus. With two swift strokes, he crossed her out. Odd that even though he had always loved beauty, he had never fallen in love with a beautiful woman. Catherine Melbourne, an army wife who had followed the drum through Spain and Belgium, was one of the most stunning women on God's earth, and as loving and good as she was beautiful. He would have laid down his life for her and her young daughter, yet his feelings had always been those of friendship, even after she was widowed. It was Maria, a fierce Spanish guerrilla fighter, whom he had loved.
Thinking of Maria made him recognize that there were similarities between her and Rebecca. Neither woman was conventionally beautiful, but each was striking in an uncommon way. Each had blazed with single-minded passion. For Maria, the cause had been Spain. Rebecca Seaton's passion, he guessed, was art. Talent alone could not account for the quality of her painting; she must also be dedicated to the point of obsession.
It was that single-minded fierceness that aroused him. Maria had lived and died for Spain, but when she had the time and inclination, she had made love like a wildcat. Mating had been tempestuous and satisfying. He had been unable to imagine a normal, mundane life with her, though that hadn't kept him from asking her to marry him.
If she had accepted, would it have made a difference? Might she still be alive today?
For an instant, the image of how he had last seen Maria rose in his mind. He shoved it away, his stomach knotting. The past could not be changed. He must think of the present, of Sutterton and Beth and their future.
His investigation would not be easy. The coachman might be helpful, and he would try to locate the previous secretary, Tom Morley. But he was not optimistic. His intelligence work in Spain had taught him that the overall picture was usually painstakingly constructed from numerous tiny pieces contributed by many informants. Here he would have few sources.
He recognized uneasily that Rebecca was probably the best source of information about her mother's death. She would know things no servant could know. He was going to have to cultivate her friendship—and then betray it.
He swore to himself as he prepared to go down to Sir Anthony's office. War was cleaner and more honorable than what he was doing here.
"Send polite dunning letters to everyone in this pile." Sir Anthony tapped a stack of letters. "Most of 'em are aristocrats. Cits are much better at paying their bills." He dug into the mess of the secretary's desk and pulled out a leather-bound notebook. "Another of your tasks is to maintain my daybooks. I jot down what I want recorded on scraps of paper." He opened the volume, revealing a dozen scribbled sheets tucked inside the front cover. "These need to be transcribed."
Kenneth took the daybook and scanned a page. Listed in Tom Morley's neat hand were notations such as "5th February, 10:00-11:00, Duke of Candover & family, first sketches. Hazy sunshine." Two more sittings were listed on the same day, with other entries for visits from friends and a meeting of the Council of the Royal Academy. He felt a stir of excitement; the daybook from the summer of Lady Seaton's death would give invaluable information about Sir Anthony's activities.
Masking his reaction, he remarked, "You have a very full schedule."
"Too full. Last year I had three hundred and six sittings. Didn't leave me enough time for my historical paintings." Seaton sighed elaborately. "But it's hard to turn down a lady when she pleads for a portrait, saying that no one else can possibly paint her as well."
Kenneth was tempted to point out that Seaton had already admitted to enjoying portrait work, and that the income from it maintained this expensive household, but he restrained himself. "Is there anything else you wish to
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