The Cursed Canvases, page 6
“Certainly.” Annabel turned her attention back to Lord Quinceton and Angelique. She was still upbraiding him, drawing curious looks from passers-by, while he stood by and listened with an unruffled and even slightly appreciative air. “Perhaps we should take separate carriages?” she said to Philippe.
He grimaced and nodded, then tore a leaf from a small notebook and wrote down the address for Annabel. She recognized it as being in a part of London that had seen better days but still clung to the edge of respectability. Hmm.
“Shall we go?” Annabel broke in, when Angelique finally paused for breath.
“Your timing is impeccable as always, Fellbridge. Miss Termagant had just started to repeat herself, which is fatal if one wishes to have the most blighting effect on one’s adversary. It is, I have noticed, a common failing in the young and not very clever.” Lord Quinceton again held his arm out to her and led her to the edge of the pavement, ignoring the small furious shriek behind them.
“Was that quite necessary?” she asked in a low voice, listening to Philippe trying to calm his sister.
“It was the best way to keep her occupied while you spoke to her brother,” he said, still unruffled, flagging down a passing hack and handing her into it. “Where are we going?”
Oh, drat! She hadn’t intended for him to come along as well; Angelique would be far too inclined to quarrel with him rather than talk sensibly. “I have been invited to their house to discuss this matter,” she said, and told him the address.
He raised an eyebrow but said nothing beyond giving the driver their destination. Annabel spent the first few minutes of the drive trying to think of a way to get rid of him once they arrived.
“I—ah—do not think that your presence would be helpful while I speak with them,” she finally said, when no polite fiction presented itself.
“I had no intention of staying for your interview, though I would feel more sanguine if the meeting were elsewhere. I suppose I could remain with the hack until you are through.”
“Why?”
“Was I not engaged to serve as your bodyguard?”
“Oh. Yes, quite.” She hesitated. “I—thank you, but I don’t expect that I am in any danger.”
“As you wish.” He inclined his head.
They rode without speaking for another few minutes until Annabel couldn’t stand it any longer. “Why did you do that?” she asked abruptly.
“Do what, Fellbridge?” There was a definite edge of amusement in his voice.
“The, er—the handkerchief.” She didn’t trust herself to say anything about the handkerchief’s contents.
“Oh, that? Because it seemed important to you that the creature it contained come to no harm.” He shrugged.
Annabel was silent for a while, absorbing that. Creature, he had said, not moth—though he must have seen what was in that handkerchief and had heard Philippe’s comment about it not being just a common moth. Might he suspect it was much, much more than a moth?
She still wasn’t certain what to think when the hackney turned a corner and stopped in front of a red brick house. Someone had once taken good care of it, but now the wrought-iron railings were spotty with rust and the brass knocker dull. Lord Quinceton got out and handed her onto the pavement.
“Thank you,” she said. “I—I appreciate your help today.”
“You’re welcome.” He looked at her for a moment, then said, “By the by, Fellbridge, I thought you said that you weren’t investigating anything?”
Annabel felt herself flush. “I’m not.” When he frowned skeptically, she added, “It isn’t my investigation. I’m just helping Frances.”
His expression didn’t alter, but she almost felt his sudden alertness. “I see,” he murmured. “And her brother? Are you helping him as well?”
“No! Just—just Frances.” She met his eyes, her chin raised not a little defiantly. Though his name had not been uttered, Lord Glenrick suddenly seemed to loom between them.
Lord Quinceton continued to study her face until their hackney driver harrumphed impatiently and the hack containing Philippe and Angelique pulled up. Then he turned away abruptly, went to pay their driver and speak to him briefly, and got back into the hackney that brought them, without another word. Annabel watched as it rumbled down the street and wondered what had just happened.
Chapter Four
“Oh, good,” Angelique said, practically in Annabel’s ear. “You got rid of him. I was afraid we would have to invite him in as well.”
Annabel started. “No. This is between us. Lord Quinceton was only…assisting.”
Angelique frowned and opened her mouth, but Philippe none-too-gently moved her aside. “Please come in, Lady Fellbridge,” he said, moving to open the door, which was in need of a coat of new paint.
Annabel cast one further look at the hackney carrying Lord Quinceton down the street, then sighed and turned to the door. Deciphering Lord Quinceton would have to wait until later.
“Why is that still here?” Angelique jerked her head back toward the other hackney. “Did not your rude friend pay him off?”
“I’m to wait for ’er ladyship,” the driver said, unperturbed. “’Is lordship said I must.” He fixed a stern look on Angelique. “An’ the sooner you stop flapping your gums out ’ere and do wha’ever yer s’posed to do, the sooner I can take ’er ladyship ’ome and go get me other guinea.”
Good lord—the marquis was paying the man two guineas to wait for her? “In that case yes, I shall go in at once. Thank you, er, mister…” Annabel smiled at the driver, who blushed furiously.
“I hain’t no mister, yer ladyship,” he said, removing his hat. “Jes’ plain Bob Carter.”
“Well, thank you for waiting for me, Mr. Carter. We’ll try not to keep you waiting long.”
“Take yer time, mum.” He accompanied this about-face with an airy wave. “I’ll jest catch me forty winks while I wait.” He wrapped the horse’s reins around his wrist, settled himself more comfortably in his seat, and tipped his hat over his eyes.
Angelique gave a sniff and swept through the door that her brother held open. “Ma’am?” Philippe said quietly to Annabel.
“Thank you.” Annabel followed after her.
As had the outside of the house, the inside had seen better days, or at least had once known a caring hand. Philippe cast an embarrassed glance at the entrance hall’s spotted mirror and dusty table cluttered with scraps of paper, bits of discarded clothing, and not a few dirty dishes and muttered, “This way, please.”
He led the way into a salon, where Angelique had already thrown herself down on a faded blue sofa, one arm flung dramatically across her eyes. “He is rather handsome, I suppose,” she said as Philippe led Annabel to a chair.
“Who is?” Annabel asked when Philippe did not seem inclined to respond but went to stand by the empty hearth, frowning.
“That hateful marquis.” Angelique shifted her arm slightly and surveyed Annabel with one eye. “Are you going to marry him?”
Annabel felt herself blush a fiery red. “Good heavens, no!”
“Is he rich?”
“Quite, from what I understand.”
“Hmm. If you’re not going to, then maybe I’ll marry him.”
Philippe sighed. “Go right ahead. Who cares if you haven’t actually made your come-out yet?”
Angelique propped herself up on her elbows to scowl at her brother. “That’s only two years from now. Why shouldn’t I plan ahead?”
“I beg your pardon—you’re only sixteen?” Annabel was surprised into asking. No wonder she’d felt as though she were dealing with a naughty child.
Angelique’s scowl deepened, but she wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Well, I will be soon enough.”
“While we’re waiting for you to grow up, can we talk to Lady Fellbridge about helping us?” Philippe asked in a long-suffering tone.
His sister sat up. “Ooh—will you tell us who that moth really was?”
Annabel was beginning to comprehend the reason for Philippe’s long-suffering air. “Yes, please do tell me why you need my help. You said that Sir Henry Hebbly has done you some injury?”
“Not us, precisely,” Philippe said conscientiously. “It’s our—”
“Yes, it is too us, because if he weren’t being so horrid and keeping Papa out of the Academy, then Papa could sell his pictures for lots of money, and we could have things comfortable again the way they were when Maman was alive,” Angelique interrupted. Her eyes practically flashed blue sparks.
“Will you please be quiet and allow me to tell this my way?”
“Not if you’re going to be all prosy and boring about it!”
“Your father is a painter?” Annabel asked loudly, before the argument could escalate. If she were not careful, the temptation to smack this child would get the better of her. “But not a member of the Royal Academy?”
“You do not know our Papa’s work?” Angelique demanded. “But he is a genius! How can you not know him?”
“As you haven’t yet told me his name, I scarcely find it surprising that I don’t know him.”
Angelique closed her mouth. Philippe rolled his eyes at her and said to Annabel, “His name is John Ronderley, and while he isn’t a member of the Academy, he’s every bit as good as any artist there. Mr. West says his portraits are most admirable, and Mr. Turner and Mr. Owen have been trying for years to get him voted in. If he were an Academician, he would receive more commissions. When our mother was alive, she was good at bringing in work for him. But with her gone—” He looked away, obviously fighting back strong emotion. “That’s her,” he added, gesturing at the wall above him.
Annabel rose and went to examine the masterfully painted portrait hanging over the chimney piece. The woman it depicted looked so much like the pair behind her that there was no mistaking her identity; she could almost have been Philippe’s older sister, or Angelique in a few years’ time. “She was a beautiful woman,” she said gently. “How long has she been gone?”
“Two years.” Philippe took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “She was French—that’s why we have our names. I’m called after her father, who died in the Terror.”
“How did your parents meet?”
“Maman’s family sent her to England early in ‘92 when the food riots began in Paris—her father was a wealthy merchant and could read the writing on the wall. But her parents never made it here, and she had to take work as an artist’s model when her money was stolen. Our father met her and fell in love with her at first sight.”
“It was extremely romantic,” Angelique added. “I shall have a romantic marriage too. Perhaps I’ll pretend to be a page and go work in the marquis’ house, until he sees through my disguise and kneels at my feet, pledging his eternal devotion.”
Philippe snorted. Annabel was glad she was still facing the picture, so that Angelique could not see her expression. “And you think that Sir Henry is somehow keeping your father out of the Academy?”
“We know he is!” Angelique burst out. “Papa’s friend Mr. Thomson told us so—that whenever Papa’s name is presented, Sir Henry ensures that he is voted down. And so we don’t have enough money because Papa isn’t any good at finding people to paint pictures for, so he just stays in his rooms and paints what he wants and forgets about us, and we’re—” she gestured around her.
“We can’t get him commissions,” Philippe took up her thread. “And I’m—” He swallowed. “I’m not old enough to get more than an apprentice’s position somewhere. Papa’s sister’s husband is taking me to work for him next month—he’s a grain merchant—but I can’t support us on an apprentice’s salary. And he’ll be wanting me to travel with him, which means there won’t be anyone to look after Ange any more—”
“I told you that I can take care of myself!”
“Yes, just as much as a newborn kitten can!” he retorted. “We need a respectable housekeeper to take care of both you and Papa, but we can’t afford one. We can barely afford food and fuel, much less any servants.” He met Annabel’s eyes straight on, but it was obviously an effort to do so. “I know it won’t fix things right away, but getting Papa into the Royal Academy will be a start. Between that and my working for Uncle Barker, we can maybe manage. Eventually.”
These poor children—at fifteen and—what, eighteen for Philippe?—trying to work with the hand an unkind fate had dealt them. “So how is changing the pictures at the Exhibition meant to accomplish getting your father voted into the Academy?”
“Well, isn’t it obvious?” Angelique’s voice made it clear she thought Annabel a little dim. “I shall make Sir Henry’s pictures hideous until he stops being such a beast and permits Papa to enter the Academy.”
“Oh. So, in short, you’re blackmailing him.”
Philippe looked a little shame-faced but nodded. “It was the only thing we could think of.”
“He deserves it! And after all, we warned him first. We thought it only fair,” Angelique said, the picture of righteous virtue.
“You warned him?”
“We sent him a note. We said that unless he allowed Papa into the Academy at once—only we didn’t say it was our Papa, of course—then he’d regret it.”
“I see. Was there a membership vote taking place?”
Philippe’s brow furrowed. “Er—”
“Who cares?” Angelique interrupted. “I’ll bet Sir Henry could have got him in if he really wanted to, but he didn’t. And we waited a whole week, too—”
“Because I made you. You only wanted to give him two days—”
Angelique ignored him. “—so I started changing the pictures! Just a little at first, but more and more each time.”
“Yes, I should like to talk about that.” Annabel went back to her chair and sat down. “How do you change the pictures?”
The girl shrugged. “I don’t know. I just do.”
“She’s always been able to change how things look,” Philippe put in. “She can make her dresses different colors—”
“Here.” Angelique rose, an impish look on her face. “Give me your handkerchief.”
Annabel removed it from her reticule and gave it to her. Angelique held it up and examined it for a moment—and suddenly it was no longer her cambric handkerchief, but a square of black velvet. She handed it back to Annabel. “There. Feel it.”
Annabel did—and raised her eyebrows. “It looks like velvet, but it still feels like my handkerchief. So you are changing its appearance, but not its substance. Do you have to touch it to do this?”
“It’s easier if I can, but no.” Angelique looked at her, suddenly suspicious. “Why aren’t you shrieking and fainting, the way most people would if I’d just done that to them?”
“Because she’s obviously not like other people, you goose, or she wouldn’t be here talking to us about this.” Philippe turned to her eagerly. “Can you turn into a moth too, like whoever it was did in the Exhibition?”
“No, I can’t. Have any other members of your family had this ability as well?” she asked quickly before they tried to question her further. “Your mother or father?”
“No, just me. And no one in Papa’s family. My aunt nearly had hysterics when I changed the ribbons in her new hat from pale pink to scarlet once when I was little.” Angelique smiled reminiscently.
“We don’t know about Maman’s family, of course,” Philippe added. “Maybe someday we can look for them if the war ever ends. Maman talked about going to look for her brothers and cousins when the Peace of Amiens happened, but then it fell apart and we couldn’t go.”
“I see.” The Lady Patronesses would be interested to hear about Angelique’s ability…once this matter was taken care of. “What happened when you sent Sir Henry the note demanding that your father be admitted to the Academy? Did you tell him what the consequence would be if he did not?”
“Certainly not!” The girl tossed her head. “We told him he’d regret not listening to us. Wasn’t that enough?”
“It doesn’t seem to have been, since according to Lady Hebbly, he doesn’t visit the Exhibition once it has been installed.” Annabel ignored Angelique’s gasp of indignation. “So unless someone’s told him about the pictures, he doesn’t know what you’ve done and probably just assumes the note was from a crank.”
“He’ll pay attention to the note we’re sending in a day or two.” Angelique’s smugness had returned. “I’m going to turn all his canvases black if he doesn’t admit Papa to the Academy. I thought one each day, till it’s done.”
“Oh, no!” Annabel exclaimed. “You don’t know that he alone can arrange for a new member to be admitted.” She sent a look of appeal to Philippe, but he shrugged.
“To be honest, I don’t care. We don’t have any other choice,” he said.
“But why is Sir Henry doing this? Does anyone know?”
Philippe shook his head. “Mr. Thomson said he tried to ask Hebbly about it, but he wouldn’t say—only looked angry and walked away.”
“We’re tired of waiting, Lady Fellbridge.” Angelique had dropped all her affectations and suddenly looked old and tired. “There’s nothing else we can do.”
Annabel looked from her to Philippe. Strictly speaking, this was Frances’s investigation—she should be the one making decisions. But something had to be decided now; there was no time to bring Frances in to discuss the matter or to convince these two that she could be trusted to help—she still wasn’t certain that they fully trusted her. It was perfectly acceptable for a Lady Patroness to act on her own when events required it, but doing so made Annabel uncomfortable. Well, it appeared that she would have to live with that discomfort.
“Yes, there is something we can do,” she said firmly. “We can talk to Lady Hebbly. If anyone can find out why Sir Henry is blocking your father’s acceptance as an Academy member, she can. And she is the kindest person in London; I expect she’ll be eager to help you.”
Philippe was the one who, to her surprise, looked dubious. It was Angelique who said, “Truly? She would help us?” There was an unexpectedly wistful note in her voice.
