His At Night

Chapter Sixteen

One of the first things Vere did when he came of age was to break entail on the marquessate’s country seat. He had caused a minor scandal when he’d put the manor up for sale. But the world was changing. A grand house in the country, with land more and more ineffectual as a generator of wealth, had become an albatross around the necks of too many.

It was not the life he wanted, his destiny and choices chained to a pile of stones, however glorious and historical. Nor was it the life he wanted for Freddie and Freddie’s heirs, since there was a good chance Vere would remain unwed and the title someday pass to Freddie.

But he did have a house in the country. Most of his long walks had been along the coast of the Bristol Channel. In the spring of ’ninety-four, however, he had hiked for two weeks around Lyme Bay. On the last day of his excursion, coming back from an inland jaunt to visit the ruins of the Berry Pomeroy Castle, he had stumbled upon the modest house and its immodestly gorgeous rose garden.

PIERCE HOUSE, the plaque on the low gate had said. He had gazed at it with a covetousness he did not know he could feel for a mere piece of property: the house, with its white walls and red trim; the garden, as fragrant and lovely as a long-lost memory. When he returned to London, he had instructed his solicitors to find out whether the house was for sale. It had been and he’d bought it.

On the day he brought his wife to Pierce House, she stood a long time before it, before the garden that still bloomed indefatigably, even though the peak months for roses had already come and gone.

“It’s a wonderful place,” she said. “So peaceful and…”

“And what?” he asked.

“Ordinary.” She glanced up at him. “And I mean it as the highest compliment.”

He understood her; of course he did. It was why the house and the garden had so enraptured him, why his heart always ached as he gazed upon it: the embodiment of all the sweet normalcy of which he had been robbed.

But he didn’t want to understand her. He didn’t want to find common ground.

He knew how to manage the life he had chosen. He had the perfect companion: one who would never hurt, anger, or disappoint him. He did not know how to cope with the pitfalls—or the possibilities—of a different life.

“Well, enjoy it,” he said. “It’s your home.”

For now.

Elissande found Devonshire beautiful, its climate warmer and sunnier than anything she’d ever known. And the sea, which had always fascinated her in her landlocked imprisonment, enchanted her utterly, even though she did not gaze upon it from the high, rocky cliffs of Capri, but only from the hills surrounding that stretch of coast known as the English Riviera.

But she would have found a barren rock in the middle of a desert beautiful, for it was freedom itself that truly intoxicated. Sometimes she had herself driven to the nearest village for no reason at all, simply because she could. Sometimes she rose early and walked until she reached the coast, and brought back a shell or a piece of driftwood for Aunt Rachel. Sometimes she took thirty books to her room, knowing that no one would take them away from her.

After the brief stutter of fear the day of Edmund Douglas’s arrest, Aunt Rachel flourished too. Her consumption of laudanum had decreased by a quarter. Her appetite, still birdlike, was nevertheless ferocious for her. And when Elissande surprised her with a drive to Dartmouth, she had taken in everything with childlike amazement, as if discovering a world she never knew existed.

In short, they were as happy as they had ever been in Elissande’s life.

If only she could be sure her husband shared their contentment.

He appeared much as he always had: cheerful, long-winded, and dense. She’d come to marvel at his ability to furnish lecture-length dissertations that were fantastically, almost deliciously misinformed, which he did every night at dinner, with just the two of them at the table. She tried it herself a few times and found that such speechifying required a surprisingly deep and wide knowledge of what was right and a remarkable nimbleness of mind to turn most everything on its head, with just enough content that was not wrong to drive a listener batty.

On her third attempt, she chose for her subject the art and science of jam making, on which she’d read extensively just that afternoon as it was the season for bottling the produce of the garden—and Pierce House had a walled garden with fruit trees espaliered all along the interior. She must have done rather well in mimicking his intricately unenlightening monologues, because at the end of her discourse, she caught him turning his face aside to hide a smile.

Her heart had lurched wildly.

But beyond that one instance, he never deviated from his role. And except for dinner, he was rarely to be found. Every time she would ask a servant for his whereabouts, the answer was invariably, “His lordship is out walking.”

It seemed to be the norm. According to Mrs. Dilwyn, it was not unusual for his lordship to walk fifteen, twenty miles a day in the country.

Twenty miles of solitude.

For some reason, all Elissande could think of was the loneliness in his eyes when they’d last made love.

She did not expect to run into him on her walk.

Her walks were much shorter than his. From the house, she went two miles northwest, to the ridge of the Dart Valley, where she usually needed a good long rest before trudging back.

She’d once thought nothing of a seven-mile trek. But her stamina had diminished during her years of near house arrest, and it would take months of regular exercise before she’d be strong enough to walk with him in the decidedly undulating countryside surrounding Pierce House.

That was what she wanted: to walk with him. They didn’t need to speak much, but she would enjoy the pleasure of his nearness. And perhaps given time, he too might find something to like in her company.

She reached the top of the valley, breathing hard from her climb. And then her heart was racing from more than just the exercise. Halfway down the green slope toward the River Dart, he stood with one hand in his pocket, the other holding his hat, his height and breadth unmistakable.

As if she were stalking a wild Arabian that might bolt any moment, she stepped quietly and carefully. Still he turned around and saw her much too soon, when she was a good sixty feet away. She stopped. He gazed at her a moment, looked away briefly toward the hills, glanced at her again, and then turned back to the river.

No acknowledgment. But then again, no pretenses either.

She went to him, her heart full of a strange tenderness.

“Long walk?” she asked, when she stood next to him.

“Hmm,” he said.

The sun went behind a cloud. The air stirred. A breeze ruffled his hair, the tips of which had become a great deal blonder from his long hours outdoors.

“You don’t become fatigued?”

“I’m used to it.”

“You always walk alone.”

His response was a half grimace. She suddenly realized how tired he looked—not a purely physical exhaustion, but a weariness for which a good night’s sleep would do nothing.

“Do you…do you ever wish for some company?”

“No,” he said.

“No, of course,” she mumbled, chastised.

They were silent for some time, he seemingly absorbed by the panorama of the gentle, verdant river valley, she wholly engrossed in the leather patches at the elbows of his brown country tweeds. She had a rather strong desire to touch those patches, to rest her hand where she could feel both the coarse warmth of the wool and the smooth coolness of the leather.

“I’ll be off now,” he said abruptly.

She gave in to her fascination for the leather patches and laid one hand on his sleeve. “Don’t be too long. It might rain.”

He stared at her, his look harsh, and then his gaze dropped to where she touched him.

She withdrew her hand hastily. “I just wanted to feel the patch.”

He placed his hat on his head, nodded at her, and left without another word.

It did not rain, but he did take too long: For the first time since their arrival in Devon, he did not appear at dinner.

Much later that night, she became aware that he’d returned to his room. She’d been listening, but she had heard nothing—for such a big man, when he wanted to, he moved with the silence of a ghost. She deduced his presence only by the light that had not been there before, under the connecting door between their rooms.

When she opened the door he was in his shirtsleeves, the tails of his shirt already pulled loose from his trousers.

He tossed aside his collar. “My lady.”

She remained on her side of the door. “Have you had anything to eat?”

“I stopped by a pub.”

“I missed you at dinner,” she said softly.

She had. It hadn’t been the same at all.

He glanced sharply at her but said nothing, instead picking up his already discarded tweed jacket and checking its pockets.

“Why do you do this?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“I smiled because my uncle demanded it. Why do you act in a way calculated for people not to take you seriously?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said flatly.

She hadn’t thought he would address her question, but still his outright refusal disappointed her. “When Needham came to see my aunt at your town house, I asked him what he knew of your accident. He said he’d been your aunt’s guest at the time of your fall and knew everything about it.”

“There you go. It’s not just my own word.”

But Needham had also been the one he specifically named when he hadn’t wanted news of his bullet wound to spread. Even to this day, none of the servants had any idea he had been injured. The bandaging had either been burned or smuggled out of the house.

“How’s your arm, by the way?”

The last time he allowed her to change his dressing had been the night before her uncle’s arrest.

“My arm is fine, thank you.”

He crossed the room, opened the window, and lit a cigarette.

“My uncle never smoked,” she murmured. “We had a smoking room but he never smoked.”

He took a long drag. “Maybe he should have.”

“You never say anything about your family.”

And she had not felt comfortable asking Mrs. Dilwyn. She didn’t want the housekeeper to wonder why she knew so little of her own husband, and yet she knew next to nothing besides the fact that he was no idiot.

“Freddie is my only family; you’ve met him already.”

The cool air from the window was pungent with the smell of cigarette fume. “What about your parents?”

He blew out a thin stream of smoke. “They both died a long time ago.”

“You said you came into your title at sixteen, so I suppose that was when your father passed away. What about your mother?”

“She died when I was eight.” He took another long pull on his cigarette. “Any other question I can answer for you? It’s late. I need to go to London early in the morning.”

Her hand closed around the doorjamb. She did have another question, she supposed.

“Can you take me to bed?”

He went very still. “No, sorry. I’m too tired.”

“Last time you had a river of rum in you and a bullet wound.”

“Men do stupid things when they’ve had that much to drink.”

He threw the remainder of his cigarette outside, walked to the connecting door, and closed it, gently but firmly, in her face.

Angelica had to read Freddie’s note three times.

He was inviting her to see the finished portrait. The finished portrait. Freddie was a slow and meticulous painter. She’d expected that he needed at least another four to six weeks.

When she arrived at his house, he clasped her hands briefly and greeted her with his usual warm smile. But she could tell he was nervous. Or were those her own nerves making themselves felt?

“How are you, Angelica?” he asked as they climbed up toward the studio.

They hadn’t seen each other since he took the nude photographs to help with his painting: He hadn’t called and she had been determined not to contact him until she’d heard something.

She’d already pushed herself at him plenty—too much—since her return.

“I’ve been well. Cipriani replied to my letter, by the way. He said we are welcome to call on him Wednesdays and Fridays in the afternoon.”

“Then we can call on him tomorrow—tomorrow is Wednesday, isn’t it?”

“No, Freddie, that would be today.”

“Ah, excuse me. I’ve been working day and night,” he said. “I thought today was Tuesday.”

Freddie did not usually paint day and night. “I never knew you could work so fast.”

He stopped two steps above her and turned around. “Perhaps I’ve just never been so inspired.”

He said it very softly, but very properly, as if they were discussing something quite removed from her nakedness.

She rubbed her thumb against the banister. “Well, now I really can’t wait to see it.”

The bed was still in the studio, artfully rumpled, the canvas that was her nude portrait draped behind a large white cloth.

Freddie took a deep breath, then gripped the cloth and yanked it off.

She gasped. A goddess lay before her. She had dark hair that glimmered gold and bronze, warm-hued, flawless skin, and the figure of a courtesan—a very, very successful courtesan.

But as beautiful as her body was, what riveted Angelica was her unsmiling expression: She gazed directly at the viewer, her dark eyes burning with a desire that would not be suppressed, her parted lips full of agitated need.

Was this how she had appeared to Freddie?

She stole a glance at him. He was studying the floor rather attentively. She tried to look at the painting again and could not meet herself in the eyes.

“Well, what do you think?” Freddie asked at last.

“It’s…it’s rough around the edges.” The edges being all she could manage to look at. The brushstrokes were not as fine as she was accustomed to seeing in a painting from Freddie. But there was such an intensity to the image, such a sexual charge, that if he questioned further, she would have to concede that the less polished style suited the raw, frustrated hunger the woman in the painting emanated.

He covered the painting again. “You don’t like it?”

She smoothed her hair, hoping she was the very picture of decorum and propriety. “Did I really look like that?”

“You did to me.”

“Perhaps you could repaint it and turn my face away.”

“Why?”

“Because I look as if…as if…”

“As if you’d like me to make love to you?”

A surge of fearful anticipation nearly strangled her. They stared at each other. His throat worked. In the next heartbeat he had her in his arms, his kiss sweet yet forceful.

It was everything she had ever imagined—and more. They fell into the conveniently located bed. He pulled off her hat. She yanked loose his necktie.

“Just one moment,” he whispered against her lips. “Let me lock the door.”

He hurried to the door, but before he could turn the key in the lock, it was opened from the other side and in stepped Penny.

“Oh, hullo, Freddie. Hullo, Angelica. Two of my favorite people in the same place—excellent. Say, Freddie, your necktie is undone. What happened, a frenzy of artistic ecstasy?”

Freddie stood speechless as Penny reknotted his tie for him.

“And what’s the matter, Angelica? You had to lie down? Do you need me to find some smelling salts for you?”

She scrambled off the bed, where she’d sat frozen. “Ah, no, Penny, I’m much better already.”

“Oh, look, Angelica, your hat is on the floor.” He picked up her hat and handed it to her.

“My,” she said. “I wonder how that happened.”

Penny winked at her. “You are lucky it wasn’t some nasty old gossip who walked in when you had to lie down for a spell, Angelica. Lady Avery would be marching the two of you to the altar already, like she did me!”

Freddie, flushed scarlet, cleared his throat. “What—what brought you to London, Penny?”

“Oh, the usual. Then I remembered I still had the key to your house and thought I’d come by and see you.”

“It’s always good to see you, Penny,” said Freddie, belatedly embracing his brother. “I’ve hardly left the studio for days. But this morning my housekeeper told me some ghastly rumors. She said Lady Vere’s uncle is awaiting trial for some terrible crimes. I already wrote you a letter. Is it true?”

Penny’s face fell. “I’m afraid so.”

“How are Lady Vere and her aunt taking the news?”

“As well as could be expected, I suppose. Although I suspect I’ve been a true bulwark to them in this awful time. But there’s nothing any of us can do, so we might as well talk about happier things.”

He looked about the studio, his gaze landing, to Angelica’s dismay, on the covered canvas. “Did you just say you’ve been spending a lot of time in the studio, Freddie? Is it for the commission you accepted right around the time of my wedding?”

“Yes, but I’m not quite finished yet.”

“Is that it?” Penny walked toward the draped painting.

“Penny!” she cried, remembering that Penny was one of the few people Freddie allowed to see his works in progress.

He turned around. “Yes, Angelica?”

“Freddie and I were just about to leave to call on the art dealer Signor Cipriani,” she said. “You want to come along?”

“That’s right, Penny. Come along with us,” Freddie echoed fervently.

“Why are you calling on him?”

“You remember the painting at Highgate Court, the one of which I took photographs?” Freddie rushed, his words stumbling over themselves. “Angelica has been helping me track down the painting’s provenance. We think a painting by the same artist passed through Cipriani’s hands—and Cipriani never forgets anything.”

Penny looked briefly astonished. “There was a painting at Highgate Court? But sure, I will come. I love meeting interesting people.”

They ushered Penny out. Angelica placed her hand over her heart in relief: She would have never been able to look at herself in the mirror again if Penny had seen her the way Freddie had.

Penny descended the stairs first. Freddie pulled her into a blind corner and quickly kissed her once more.

“Come back to my house later?” she murmured. Her servants had the afternoon off.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Douglas had not talked while awaiting trial—set for five days hence—but progress had nevertheless been made on the case.

Based on information they had uncovered from the coded dossier, Lady Kingsley had tracked down a safety-deposit box in London that contained a thick stack of letters addressed to a Mr. Frampton. The letters were from the diamond dealers, each agreeing to look at Frampton’s artificial diamonds.

“You see,” Lady Kingsley had said excitedly at their meeting in the morning, “that’s how he got the diamond dealers to cough up the money. I think in the beginning he might not have been thinking about extortion, but merely wanted to see if the synthesized diamonds were truly indistinguishable from the real thing. And then, once the synthesis process proved a failure, he looked at the few replies he’d received, and some of them were sloppily written and could be interpreted to mean the diamond dealer was willing to deal in artificial diamonds. Our man, ever the criminal mind, decided to contact even more diamond dealers. The letters were separated into two groups, and the ones who were not careful about how they responded became his targets.”

For Vere, however, the most crucial piece of the puzzle still remained missing: the true identity of the man now known as Edmund Douglas. Until Freddie and Angelica mentioned their own investigation, he’d never thought to pursue that particular line of inquiry. Now he could have slapped himself for overlooking such obvious and important clues.

Sometimes it was better to be lucky than to be good.

Cipriani was about seventy-five years of age and lived in a large flat in Kensington. Vere had expected a place overflowing with art, but Cipriani was a ruthless curator of his own collection. The parlor where he received them had a Greuze and a Brueghel and nothing else.

Angelica described the painting she and Freddie had seen in the vicarage at Lyndhurst Hall—Vere had not paid any attention to it, apparently. Cipriani listened with his hands tented together.

“I do remember. I bought it from a young man in the spring of ’seventy.”

Twenty-seven years ago.

“Was he the artist?” asked Angelica.

“He claimed that it had been a gift. But judging by his nervousness while I assessed his painting, I would say he was the artist. Of course, there was also the coincidence that the artist’s initials were the same as his.”

Vere hoped his best vapid expression was enough to hide his excitement. He further hoped either Freddie or Angelica would inquire after the young man’s name.

“What was his name?” Freddie asked.

“George Carruthers.”

George Carruthers. It might be a pseudonym, but at least it was a place to start.

“Have you ever come across him or his works again?” asked Angelica.

Cipriani shook his head. “I do not believe so. A shame, rather, as he had more than a modicum of talent. With proper instruction and dedication, he could have made some interesting art.”

The subject of George Carruthers exhausted, Angelica and Freddie talked with the old man on the latest developments in art. Vere did not fail to notice the way they glanced at each other—he could only hope that he hadn’t interrupted their very first instance of lovemaking.

He smiled inwardly. He had always wished fervently for Freddie’s happiness: not only for Freddie’s sake, but for his own, so that he could one day live vicariously through Freddie’s domestic bliss.

Presupposing that he himself must always be on the outside looking in. That his own life would remain barren of the kind of contentment he so easily imagined for Freddie.

He remembered the way his wife had looked at him the day before, above the banks of the River Dourt: as if he were full of possibilities. As if they were full of possibilities.

But his mind was already made up. It was time she understood.

When they rose to bid Cipriani good-bye, Vere suddenly remembered that there was something more he wished to know, a question that no one else had asked.

So he did the asking himself. “Mr. Carruthers, did he say why he was selling his painting?”

“Yes, he did,” replied Cipriani. “He mentioned he was raising funds for a venture to South Africa.”