The Cursed Canvases, page 8
The girl scowled at him. “You still have not said how you know that is my name!”
“It was also our mother’s name,” Philippe said slowly. “And my sister resembles her greatly.”
“As do you, young man,” Sir Henry said. A little color had returned to his face, but there was now a queer gleam in his eyes.
Lady Hebbly drew in a sharp breath. Annabel looked over at her and saw that her eyes had widened.
“If you know who we are, then you know my father, John Ronderley. How can you live with yourself, after what you’ve done to him? He is as worthy as anyone—worthier than you—to be a member of the Academy!” Angelique came closer, dragging her brother with her, till she stood almost over Sir Henry. “My papa is more worthy to be a member than you because he would never blackball another artist for no good reason.” She turned and buried her face in her brother’s shoulder.
Philippe held her, patting her back as she sobbed, and met Sir Henry’s gaze steadily. “My sister is right. I don’t know why you’ve done this, but—” he lifted his chin. “It was not the act of a gentleman. Perhaps that is the difference between you and our father.”
Sir Henry stared at him for the space of a few breaths, then closed his eyes, his forehead creasing as if the sight of Philippe pained him.
“Oh, Henry.” Lady Hebbly’s voice was sad. “Have you really done that to this poor girl’s father?”
“I had my reasons,” he muttered, eyes still shut…until they flew open. He looked up at his wife, and Annabel wondered if he would not faint again. “Antonia?” he whispered. “You…know?”
Annabel looked from one of them to the other—Sir Henry’s face guilt-stricken, Lady Hebbly’s deeply sorrowful—and all at once understood why Lady Hebbly had phrased her question to him in that way. She stole a glance to see if Philippe had understood it as well.
Lady Hebbly sighed. “I guessed. I should have done so as soon as these children walked through the door—they’re the very image of the portrait in your study that you keep behind a curtain, but I could not place the resemblance till just now. That poor young woman—and her poor child!”
Sir Henry grabbed for her hand. “You don’t understand—it was less than a week till our wedding when Angelique told me she was breeding. What could I possibly do? What if it had come out that I’d seduced some French émigrée and got a bastard on her? Your family was unhappy enough about allowing you to marry an artist.”
“So you just…abandoned her?”
“No! I left her a note!”
Annabel winced. But she could not do as Lord Quinceton had asked and go to support Lady Hebbly just now; all of them in the room were frozen in place, watching the tableau being enacted before them between husband and wife. Lord Quinceton looked serious and more than a little sad; Angelique confused; and Philippe—Annabel looked away.
Lady Hebbly’s face was almost as devastated as his. “Why did you not help her once we were married and you had the money? I would not have minded.”
“I couldn’t. She’d already gone to Ronderley. He’d married her, for God’s sake.” Sir Henry’s hands clenched on his wife’s.
She stifled a grimace, but her voice was calm when she said, “What else could she do? She was in a far worse position than you were. John Ronderley was a gentleman to marry her and give her unborn child his name—no, he was more than that. He was a good man—unlike you.” She extracted her hands from his and tried to struggle to her feet. Lord Quinceton stepped in quickly and helped her up, then led her to the other sofa.
“Thank you, Geoffrey.” She sat for a moment, trying to master her breath, then looked up at Angelique and Philippe. “Come sit with me, my dears,” she said gently, patting the cushion next to her.
“Would you truly have helped our mother?” Angelique took a step toward her. “Even though your husband had—had—”
“Yes, I would,” Lady Hebbly said. “The poor girl—she must have been terrified.”
“Oh,” Angelique said softly. She crossed the rest of the distance to Lady Hebbly and sat down, leaning against her as if she were a weary child.
Lady Hebbly put an arm around her shoulders. “Philippe?” she said.
He shook his head, his face pinched and white.
“Brandy?” Lord Quinceton went to the table and poured some out. “I find it helpful when one has had a shock.”
“Thank you, Quinceton.” Sir Henry, who had collapsed back against the cushions, held out his hand.
Smiling faintly, Lord Quinceton walked past him and handed the glass to Philippe. “Toss it back. It’ll help.” He went to stand by Annabel. To her surprise, she found his presence reassuring.
Philippe hesitated, then swallowed the brandy—and promptly went into a coughing fit. But when he’d caught his breath once more, the suffering in his eyes was a little less obvious. With a visible effort, he raised them to look at Sir Henry. “Lady Hebbly’s right. My fath—” He stumbled over the word, then shook his head. “No, he is still my Papa, no matter what, and he is the best of men. He never allowed me to know by word or deed that I wasn’t truly his son.” He took the other seat by Lady Hebbly.
“Henry.” Lady Hebbly’s voice was as gentle and modulated as always, but under it was a thread of steel. “I believe you owe these children an explanation.”
“Here? Now?” Sir Henry’s eyes shifted from her to Annabel and Lord Quinceton.
“Yes, now.” She took Philippe’s hand. “I assume that their mother posed for you and that you seduced her.”
“I loved her!” he retorted. “She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and still is. I worshiped her!”
“But not enough to marry her and acknowledge the child she carried—your child!”
“It was impossible! I told you…” He trailed into silence as she shook her head.
“So she went to Mr. Ronderley, who did what you would not and gave her a home and the protection of his name and raised your son as his own…and you thank him by obstructing his membership in the Academy. For the love of God, why?”
Sir Henry’s face had gone a mottled red. “Because he had Angelique, and I did not! If he could take from me what I’d wanted, then by God, I could keep from him what he’d wanted!”
Lady Hebbly stared at him, and for the first time, Annabel saw that there were tears in her eyes. “Henry, are you truly so—so broken? Have I ever known who you are?” A tremor ran through her. “It almost makes me glad that Richard died at Corunna, so he would never have discovered what I have learned today about his father.”
“Your son is dead?” Philippe covered her hand with his.
She nodded. “He was an aide-de-camp to Sir John Moore—and—and your half-brother.”
“My half-brother.” Philippe swallowed and bowed his head.
“By God,” Sir Henry whispered. He sat forward and swung his feet to the ground. “I still have a son, don’t I?”
“No, Henry.” The tears overflowed and ran unheeded down Lady Hebbly’s plump cheeks. “You do not. You gave him up a long time ago.”
“But—”
“Enough!” she barked.
Sir Henry recoiled as if he’d been struck. Lady Hebbly waited a moment to ascertain his silence, then continued. “If Philippe chooses to acknowledge you in private, that is his decision. But he is John Ronderley’s son, both by affection and by law, and there is nothing you can do about that. There is one thing, however, that you will do.” She leaned forward and caught his eye. “I have never asked you for anything, Henry. Never. But I am going to ask you now for something, and you will give it to me.” Her voice was now calm and assured—and relentless. “You will see that John Ronderley is made a member of the Royal Academy as soon as possible.”
He stared at her, unable to look away. “Antonia, I cannot simply—”
“You can, and you will. It is the least—the least—you can do for this young man.”
Sir Henry stared from her to him, and his handsome face suddenly looked old. “Philippe—my boy—”
“No.” Philippe leapt to his feet. “I am not your boy. You decided that before I was born.” He stalked from the room. A moment later, they heard the front door slam.
The room was silent after his abrupt departure. Then Angelique straightened, though she did not leave Lady Hebbly’s side. “Are you going to stop persecuting my Papa and make him a member of the Academy?” she demanded.
Sir Henry was staring at the carpet between his feet. “Yes,” he said dully.
“Good. And are you going to be kinder to Lady Hebbly?”
“Angelique!” Lady Hebbly started.
“I’ll bet he’s perfectly horrid to you. La, he puts me in mind of a spoiled child half the time when he opens his mouth.”
Annabel felt rather than heard Lord Quinceton’s chuckle.
“And if he isn’t kinder to you, then I won’t pose for him,” Angelique finished triumphantly.
“I do not recall asking you to do so!” Sir Henry said, all injured dignity.
She lifted her chin and looked down her nose at him. “Don’t be silly. I know you want to paint me, but I won’t permit you to do so until you promise to be kinder to Lady Hebbly. She’s my friend, and she’s worth a—a million of you. If I were her, I certainly wouldn’t forgive you for being such a horrid, mercenary scoundrel who married her for her money instead of facing your responsibilities.”
Sir Henry’s brow had darkened and an explosion seemed imminent. But when he looked at the pair on the sofa opposite him—Angelique magnificently indignant next to his pale, sorrowful wife— something seemed to shift inside him. “I—she’s right,” he said heavily. “I don’t deserve you, Antonia.”
Lady Hebbly sighed. “I know you don’t. But you could begin to try to.”
That evening found Annabel at a rout-party. She’d almost sent her regrets; the afternoon’s events at the Hebblys’ had been exhausting and depressing. But she needed the distraction—though on seeing the Marquis of Quinceton purposefully approaching her, she had at first quailed.
“Fellbridge,” he greeted her. “I’m glad to see the events of the afternoon didn’t get to you.”
“They nearly did,” she confessed, rather to her surprise. But there was no one else with whom she could talk about what had happened today. “I cannot stop thinking of poor Lady Hebbly and Sir Henry.”
He took her arm and steered her toward an unoccupied corner. “What about them troubles you?”
“Sir Henry, mostly. Do you think most marriages are made in such—such bad faith?”
He looked at her, and for a moment she feared he would ask her whether her own had been…but no, he very likely already knew the answer to that. After all, he’d been one of Freddy’s great friends.
“A great many are, I think,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “But not all of them. I believe it quite possible to have a marriage in which the principals share strong affection and respect. I do not intend to have mine be any other way.”
Annabel blinked. “I did not know you were contemplating matrimony. Do I know the lady in question, or is it a secret?”
“Don’t you?” There was a strange edge to his smile. “Why, Fellbridge—and I had always admired your powers of observation.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he intended to propose to Frances…but no, she would not. Still, the idea of him marrying only seemed to exacerbate her low mood, which made no sense. “I beg your pardon for disappointing you, Lord Quinceton. I shan’t tease you for her name, then, but wait for the general announcement.”
That strange smile widened, then was gone. “Did you see young Philippe when you brought the redoubtable Miss Ronderley home?”
Ah, this was a safer topic—she hoped. “No. I expect he still had several miles to walk before he could contemplate talking to anyone.”
He nodded. “It was prodigious difficult for him. Hebbly could not have been more cow-handed, could he? But I expect Antonia will find him somewhat humbled from now on.”
“I hope she does.” She would have to write to Mother to encourage her to invite Lady Hebbly to visit Belsever Magna later this summer, the poor dear. A few weeks away from Sir Henry would probably do her good—
“I hope to do myself the honor of taking you driving on Sunday if you are not already engaged,” Lord Quinceton said suddenly, interrupting her thoughts.
“I’m afraid I am. Sunday is the Fourth of June.” The twins would expect to see her at Eton for the school’s unofficial annual celebration of the King’s birthday, with its boat parade, picnics, and fireworks.
“Ah, the Fourth of June. I had almost forgotten.” He hesitated, then said, “Tomorrow, then? Unless you’re already engaged with Glenrick.”
“I have no engagements.” Funny that he should bring Lord Glenrick up; she hadn’t thought about him at all over the last day…and then remembered that she had. Perhaps it was because she was tired and still a little frazzled by the day’s revelations that she found herself saying, “If I ask you a question, will you answer it?”
He smiled, but there was a hint of wariness about it. “It depends on the question.”
“Yesterday, when we were at the Ronderleys’ house—why did you take exception to the thought of me helping Lord Glenrick with anything?”
To her surprise, he threw back his head and began to laugh—actually laugh out loud.
“I don’t see what is so amusing about my question,” she said coldly. People nearby were regarding them with raised eyebrows. “Your behavior was most peculiar. I wish to know why.”
He subsided into chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh, Fellbridge, my incomparable Fellbridge—”
“I am no such thing!”
“Ah, but you are. And you relieve my mind infinitely. If you have to ask why I take exception to your helping Lord Glenrick with anything, then you don’t need—or want—to know why I do.”
“That makes no sense!”
“It makes a great deal of sense. I shall come for you at three tomorrow if that will suit.” And to her astonishment, he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. Though he still smiled, the expression in his eyes utterly transfixed her. He released her hand, then left the room.
Annabel tottered to a nearby chair and sat down. She’d been thoroughly shaken, not by Lord Quinceton’s laughter or his cryptic reply, but by herself—and her reaction to the warmth of his lips on her gloved hand.
To her surprise, Lord Quinceton arrived for her the next day in a hackney, driven by none other than Bob Carter, who greeted her cheerfully. “Afternoon, yer ladyship!” His horse had been brushed till it gleamed, and the doors of the carriage blacked and polished.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Carter,” she replied, then in a lower tone said to Lord Quinceton, “A new fancy of yours? Hackneys instead of curricles for driving? The ton will be aping you yet.”
He smiled. “You overestimate my credentials as a leader of fashion. We’re not going driving. We’re going to the Exhibition.”
“Hence Mr. Carter. Must we, really? If I have to look at another art exhibition for the rest of the year, I may have the vapors.”
“You? I didn’t think you knew the meaning of the word ‘vapors.’ And yes, we must. I want to see if that hideous child has kept her promise and returned the pictures to a semblance of their original selves.”
“She’s not hideous—well, not really,” Annabel protested, but within she was alert. Angelique had indeed promised that she would set the Exhibition pictures right as they were leaving the Hebblys’ house…and Lord Quinceton had scarcely blinked. Perhaps after brushes with literary demons and Sirens, a girl who could change paintings was nothing startling. But his calm acceptance of these things was unnerving. It might be necessary to inform the Lady Patronesses that because of her, he had learned about Titivillus and been drawn into catching the Siren who was robbing the ton at concerts as well as this. Would they blame her?
She was also very, very aware of Lord Quinceton as he handed her into the hackney and climbed in beside her. Despite her weariness she had tossed and turned for a good portion of the night after returning from the rout-party. Good heavens, the man had merely brushed his lips across her gloved hand, and she’d been ready to swoon. Yet when Lord Glenrick had kissed her—quite thoroughly, too—she’d barely felt a thing. It was disconcerting, to say the least.
And yet…and yet, it was also exciting. Perhaps she wasn’t the cold, passionless woman she’d feared she was. But the fact that had it been Lord Quinceton, of all men, who’d had such an effect on her…
She turned her head to examine his profile. Emily had once called him a fallen angel, which wasn’t an inapt description; from the side he did rather resemble a piece of handsome but especially fierce Renaissance sculpture—St. Michael with his sword, perhaps? What would she do if he kissed her the way Lord Glenrick had at Hampton Court? The thought made her shiver.
“Chilly, Fellbridge?”
“Not a bit.” She hesitated, then blurted, “Who is she?”
He turned to look at her. “Who is who?”
“Your intended bride.”
“My—ah, yes.” His lips twitched. “I thought you said you would not tease me to reveal her name?”
“I’m not teasing! I’m just…curious.”
“Why, Fellbridge. I did not think you took any interest in my affairs.”
“As you seem to take an interest in mine, I do not see why the reverse should not be permitted.”
“Permitted? On the contrary, I positively encourage it. I am not at present affianced to any lady, if you wish to know the truth. I am merely contemplating it. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”
“You make me sound as if I were a dreadful busybody,” Annabel said, trying to sound miffed instead of relieved.
“Not at all.”
They arrived at Somerset House, which Annabel was pleased to be able to enter not wrapped in a shadow, and ascended the Great Staircase...and there, emerging from the Anteroom, were Angelique and Philippe.
