The Cursed Canvases, page 7
“I think she would.”
“Philippe?”
His brow furrowed, but after a moment he sighed. “Oh, very well. I don’t care for it, though.”
Annabel guessed his reluctance to speak to Lady Hebbly had something to do with how they’d done such unpleasant things to her image. “It will be all right,” she said gently. “Now, I shall write her a note right here, so that you can see what it says, and ask her if we can meet tomorrow. Does that suit you? And Philippe can deliver it if he wishes, so that you know she has received it and that I haven’t altered it.”
He blushed. “I wouldn’t accuse you of such a thing.”
“I didn’t expect you would. But I want you to be able to be certain that all is being done as it should. Might I have use of paper and ink?”
“I’ll get them.” Angelique jumped up from her sofa and ran from the room.
Annabel took advantage of her absence. “I would not suggest we call on Lady Hebbly if I didn’t think it was the best way to resolve this,” she said, going to Philippe and touching his arm. “She really is the best and most charitable of women.” She’d had a lot to be charitable about, but Philippe did not need to hear about that.
He hunched his shoulders. “I just feel bad that we…did what we did to her.”
“She’ll understand. Ah, thank you, Angelique,” she said as the girl galloped into the room. She sat down at the table that Philippe led her to (after he shamefacedly dusted it off with his handkerchief) and wrote the note. “I believe she is usually at home on Friday afternoons, fortunately for us. Is two o’clock agreeable?”
“Two o’clock can be agreeable in summer, but in winter the light is not in the least so,” said a voice from the doorway. “However, September is probably the best time of year for two o’clock. Early September, mind you.”
“Papa!” Angelique straightened from where she’d been hanging over Annabel’s chair.
Annabel looked up. A man in shirt and waistcoat liberally daubed with streaks of paint stood vaguely peering at them. He had a kindly face and mild blue eyes, just now enhanced by a blob of blue paint on his forehead. “I always know what time it is, by the light,” he said conversationally. “It’s just what happens in my line of employment. Do I know you?”
Philippe stepped forward. “Lady Fellbridge, this is our father, John Ronderley. Lady Fellbridge is, er, helping us with something,” he added to his father.
“That is very kind of her.” Mr. Ronderley bowed, then looked at her consideringly. “I should like to paint you someday. In autumn, I think. Your colors would be good for early autumn. At two o’clock, even.” He smiled.
“Thank you, Mr. Ronderley. Someday I hope you will.” It was too bad she didn’t have the money to commission a picture; her mother would love to have one, and it would help this family at least a little.
Angelique went to him and took his arm. “Did you need me, Papa?” she asked, leading him away from the door and back into the passage.
“Did you get that madder lake for me yet? I need it to finish the landscape,” Annabel heard him say, a little peevishly, before a closing door somewhere in the back of the house put a period to their conversation.
Next to her, Philippe sighed. “He doesn’t always seem to remember that we can’t aff—” He flushed. “Angelique sits with him sometimes and adjusts his colors when he’s done for the day, so that in the morning he decides that the picture is all right after all and he doesn’t need a more expensive pigment.”
Annabel finished writing, blew on the paper to dry the ink, folded it and wrote the Hebblys’ address on it. “It must be very difficult for her.” She handed him the note. “Will you deliver this for me?”
He took the note reluctantly. “You don’t have to give it to me. I trust you.”
“Yes, but you will be doing me a favor if you bring it round to her.” This would be a busy afternoon; she still had to call at Frances’s and Georgiana’s today. She rose and drew on her gloves, which she’d removed to write. “Two o’clock tomorrow, then? You won’t forget?”
He grinned. “Or allow my sister to change her mind and weasel out of it? No ma’am, we’ll be there.”
Bob Carter, the hackney driver, looked relieved when she emerged from the Ronderleys’ house.
“So yer all right and tight, mum? I didn’t care fer the looks o’ that chit who I drove ’ere,” he said, jumping down from his perch to hand Annabel into the hack. “I was thinkin’ she could use to ’ave ’er bottom tanned to remind ’er to keep a civil tongue in ’er ’ead.”
“She’s not as bad as she seems to be, I think. Thank you for your concern, at all events—I’m quite well.” She settled in the seat and gave him Frances’s direction. “Once you’ve brought me there, you may go to Lord Quinceton’s to collect your guinea.”
He frowned. “But that ain’t where you live, mum.”
Annabel raised her brows. How did he know that? “No, but I can walk home from there.”
He shook his head. “Eh, that won’t do. My d’rections was to take you ’ome when you was done, to Chesterfield Street. I don’t dare go to ’is lordship till you’re safe there.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. Whatever highhandedness Lord Quinceton had chosen to perpetrate upon her wasn’t this poor man’s fault. “Very well, Mr. Carter. I’ll try not to take long.”
As they rumbled down the street, she sat back and stared unseeing out the window, reliving in her mind the morning’s activities…and Lord Quinceton’s behavior over its course. He had been almost docile when she had demanded his assistance. His method of dealing with Angelique Ronderley had been unexpected but effective. He had done everything she’d asked of him, had never asked inconvenient questions—until, that is, they had stood on the pavement outside the Ronderleys’ house.
He had been so…so vehement at her mention of helping Frances—and had jumped to the conclusion that Lord Glenrick was somehow involved, which just seemed odd. He knew full well that she and Frances were both Lady Patronesses of Almack’s; why had it not occurred to him that her assistance to Frances might be connected to that? One day, she would make him tell her what lay between him and Lord Glenrick…and smiled at the ludicrous notion of making the Marquis of Quinceton do anything he didn’t choose to do.
The hackney drew up in front of Carrick House a few minutes later. But when she plied the knocker, the footman who answered shook his head when she presented her card and asked for Frances. “She ain’t here, your ladyship. Been gone all day, her and his lordship too.”
“Oh dear.” Annabel wondered if the sickly great-aunt had died, but it would not do to question a servant about a family matter. “Could you ensure when she returns that she knows I called to see her? It’s on a matter of some urgency.”
The footman promised to do so, and she returned thoughtfully to her appointed bodyguard waiting in his hackney.
At a few minutes before two o’clock the next day, Annabel arrived alone at the Hebblys’ house. She’d not heard from Frances—not a word—though Georgiana had sent a note to say that she was shaken and sore, but otherwise unharmed after her brief captivity.
She hesitated on the doorstep. Frances’s absence was troubling: this was supposed to be her investigation, yet here Annabel was. Granted, she knew Lady Hebbly better than any of the other Lady Patronesses, and Sally would not fault her for stepping in to resolve the matter if Frances had been called away. But it still felt as if she were trespassing somehow.
“Lady Fellbridge!” Angelique’s voice called her out of her reverie. The Ronderleys were hurrying up the pavement toward her, looking a little out of breath, and her conscience smote her. Had they walked all the way from their house? She should have picked them up but had wanted to ascertain that they came of their own volition.
“Exactly on time!” she said cheerfully. “Shall we?”
Angelique was unwontedly subdued and merely nodded. Philippe straightened his back and said, “Yes, please.”
Lady Hebbly’s butler knew her and gave her an avuncular smile as he ushered them through the door. “Madam will be pleased to see your ladyship,” he said. “It’s been a good day for visitors for her.”
Annabel hesitated. “Is anyone else here?” She certainly couldn’t talk to Lady Hebbly about Sir Henry’s blackballing of John Ronderley if there were other callers present.
“Just her ladyship’s cousin.” He led them to the main salon’s door and announced, “Lady Fellbridge is here, madam, and her friends.”
Annabel walked into the room, trailed by Philippe and Angelique—and froze. Seated on one of the sofas was Lady Hebbly…and Lord Quinceton.
Behind Annabel, Angelique gasped. “You!” she cried.
“Annabel!” Lady Hebbly rose and held out her hands. “I was so pleased to receive your note. Are these your friends that you wished me to meet?” She smiled at Angelique and Philippe in the friendliest fashion—then paused, a puzzled look dimming her smile. “Have—have we met before?”
Angelique curtsied prettily, but her expression would have frozen the Thames. Philippe bowed. “I don’t believe so, Lady Hebbly.”
Annabel kissed Lady Hebbly’s cheek, then glared at Lord Quinceton over her head. “He’s your cousin?” Yes, she knew that Lady Hebbly was related to half of the noble families of England…but why had he had to be one of them?
“I have that honor, Fellbridge.” He had risen as well and was grinning openly. “You’re just jealous that I have nicer cousins than you do.”
“My cousin Medea has been practically human since—since—” She closed her mouth and glowered at him. Saying anything further about the topic was quite impossible, as he well knew.
“Poor Fellbridge. An unfair riposte, was it not? I offer my apologies.” He did not, however, appear to be in the least contrite.
Lady Hebbly looked from one to another of them. “I see that you two are already acquainted. Won’t you please sit down? Come.” She smiled at Angelique and patted the cushion beside her.
Annabel went to the sofa opposite, still glowering at Lord Quinceton. Phillipe sat beside her. “I had hoped that we could speak to you alone, ma’am,” she said.
Lady Hebbly turned to look at Lord Quinceton, her expression troubled. “I know, my dear. But Geoffrey asked if he could be here as well, if you came to speak with me.”
“I have not yet given up my role as bodyguard, Fellbridge,” Lord Quinceton added.
“You don’t have to guard Lady Fellbridge, you horrible man. She is our friend!” Angelique declared.
Annabel concealed her surprise. Evidently she had won their trust.
“But I might have to guard my cousin,” Lord Quinceton replied smoothly. “Antonia, perhaps we should change places so that you are not seated next to this young lady. Her temper is very uncertain.”
“Geoffrey, don’t tease the child! Annabel, I wish you would tell the purpose of this visit. I know that anything you say will not leave this room,” Lady Hebbly said.
Annabel sighed. Lady Hebbly was probably right—Lord Quinceton had never gossiped about Gilbert Marjoribanks’s demon or her cousin Hartley’s future wife who just happened to be a siren. Still…she turned to Philippe. “I believe that Lady Hebbly is correct in her assumption that this conversation will remain confidential, but it is not up to me to decide. What do you wish?”
“Never!” Angelique declared. “I should rather die on the rack than have That Man hear what we have to disclose!”
“That could doubtless be arranged, given a little time and ingenuity,” That Man murmured. Lady Hebbly frowned at him.
Philippe gave Annabel an agonized look and leaned toward her. “Do you really trust him?” he asked in a low voice.
Annabel was aware of Lord Quinceton’s gaze upon her. “Yes,” she said, firmly if reluctantly. “And not all the…details of the matter have to be discussed here.”
“Fellbridge, you never cease to surprise me,” Lord Quinceton said. “Thank you for that.”
She looked at him quickly—and saw that there was no gleam of mockery in his eyes. He nodded to her; reluctantly, she nodded back.
“No, Philippe!” Angelique cried. “Not in front of him! Do you not recall how this monster nearly broke my wrist?”
Lady Hebbly gasped…but Philippe shook his head. “Ange—shut up!”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Annabel stole a quick glance at Lord Quinceton and saw that he was pressing his lips firmly together…and all at once she too was perilously close to bursting into laughter.
Fortunately, Philippe provided no further reason for her to do so. “Will you explain to Lady Hebbly why we’re here, Lady Fellbridge?” he said, ignoring his outraged sister sputtering on the sofa across from him.
Annabel took a breath, hoping her voice would be steady. “Certainly, Philippe. Lady Hebbly, my friends here are the children of an artist, John Ronderley. It seems that Sir Henry has been blocking his admission to the Royal Academy for many years without ever making clear what his objections are. It has affected Mr. Ronderley’s ability to make a living, and his children wish to know why he has been denied membership when so many prominent Academicians have supported his candidacy.”
Lady Hebbly’s brow furrowed. “Ronderley…that name sounds familiar…” She shook her head, and turning to Angelique, took her hand. “Oh, you poor dears. This is a terrible thing that has happened to you and your papa. Of course you are upset!”
Angelique’s ire seemed to evaporate before Lady Hebbly’s sympathy, and Annabel guessed she was remembering Lowther Castle, Westmoreland: Evening—among others—and not proudly. “We just want to know why,” she said, with a small sob.
“There, there, my child. I should think you would.” Lady Hebbly put an arm around her shoulders. “I’m afraid I have no idea, myself. Sir Henry does not discuss Academy matters with me—but if you say other members have supported your father—”
“Mr. West and Mr. Turner and Mr. Owen all have,” Philippe said earnestly. “And not just them.”
“My goodness.” Lady Hebbly paused. “Does…this have anything to do with what is happening to the pictures at the Exhibition?”
Angelique began to cry in earnest. “We didn’t know you were so kind! We did it because we thought it would make Sir Henry allow our papa into the Academy!”
“We sent him a letter,” Philippe said in reply to Lady Hebbly’s bewildered look. “We said we would stop altering the pictures if he stopped opposing our father’s election. Lady Fellbridge found us out but said she would help us. We promised her we wouldn’t change any more of the pictures till we’d spoken to you.”
Lady Hebbly had grown pale, but her arm stayed firmly around Angelique’s heaving shoulders. “I see. I think that I should perhaps—”
But they never found out what it was that Lady Hebbly perhaps thought because the loud bang! of the front door slamming startled her into silence.
“Antonia!” a loud, angry voice shouted. “Antonia, where the devil are you—oh.”
Sir Henry Hebbly stood in the doorway, his handsome face below his artistically waving gray hair just now an angry shade of puce. He coughed slightly and tried a smile, but it appeared more like a gritting of his teeth. “My apologies—I didn’t know you had company. Is that you, Quinceton? Haven’t seen you about in a while. Please excuse me.” He began to turn away.
“Henry, what is the matter?” Lady Hebbly still kept her arm around Angelique, but now it looked more like a restraint than a comfort.
“Nothing I would discuss just now—good God!” Sir Henry was staring at his wife—no, at the tear-stained girl at Lady Hebbly’s side who had lifted her head and was staring back at him with brimming eyes. The angry color in his cheeks faded to pasty white. “Angelique,” he said hoarsely. “No—it cannot be—”
And he fell to the floor in a faint.
Chapter Five
A short while later, the chaos had calmed. Lord Quinceton and Philippe had lifted Sir Henry’s inert form onto a sofa, and Lady Hebbly had loosened his cravat, called for tea, and produced a vinaigrette, which she now waved under her husband’s nose.
Sir Henry’s head jerked, and he coughed and brought up a hand to push the tiny silver box away from his face. Then he sat up, squinting into Lady Hebbly’s anxious face. “Where is she? Where is Angelique?”
“How do you know my name, you—you—” Angelique had recovered as well, and stood a few paces away, clutching Philippe’s arm.
Sir Henry stared at her, and then at her brother…and his eyes rolled back into their sockets as he collapsed again.
“Oh, heavens—Henry!” Lady Hebbly applied the vinaigrette once more.
“I suspect that the next several minutes might be difficult ones. Especially for Antonia. Watch out for her, will you?” said a voice in Annabel’s ear. She jumped; Lord Quinceton had come up behind her.
She turned to look at him. He was watching Sir Henry and Lady Hebbly, and his eyes were somber. “Why? Do you know what is going on here?” she asked.
“No, but I have a suspicion. We’ll find out shortly.” He went to help Lady Hebbly ease Sir Henry into a sitting position and pile cushions behind his back. Annabel saw the butler, who was hovering anxiously in the doorway with a tray of tea things and a decanter of brandy, and went to take it from him and set it on a side table. Behind her, Lord Quinceton firmly closed the salon’s doors.
“Annabel, will you pour Henry some tea?” Lady Hebbly was still kneeling at her husband’s side.
“Of course.” Annabel poured a cup, added liberal amounts of milk and sugar, and brought it to her, after which she withdrew to the far side of the sofa.
Lady Hebbly smiled her thanks and turned to Sir Henry. “Do you think you can drink some, my dear?” she said tenderly, holding the cup to his lips. “It will help.”
Sir Henry dodged it. “I don’t want any of your damned cat-lap now.” He craned his neck to stare again at the Ronderleys, but Annabel thought his eyes lingered on Philippe, even as he once again murmured, “Angelique.”
