Ruined By The Reckless Viscount

‘I should like to draw him, this Lord Winterton. If he is as beautiful as they all say he would be the ideal subject for a sitting. It also sounds as though he could afford to pay. Well.’

Maria’s mouth dropped wide open.

‘You would draw him while you are dressed as a youth? Winterton is no milksop lord who would be easily duped, Florentia.’

‘If he is so very beautiful, I am sure that he would be flattered by the chance to sit for the first and only portrait I am ever likely to do in person. There is also the added advantage that if I complete this commission Mr Ward may leave me alone for a while. Perhaps this portrait is the answer we have been looking for.’

‘You sound strange, Flora, unlike yourself. You have never drawn anyone before in this way, right in front of you—’

Florentia interrupted her. ‘Then perhaps it is well past time that I did, Maria. A new direction, so to speak, a different turning.’

‘And the Herons?’

‘I shall leave London for good after completing the portrait of Viscount Winterton. After that it will all be finished. I can do other paintings to augment our income, but the requirements of Mr Ward will no longer concern me. I will be free of it and you won’t need to worry about anything at all going wrong.’

When her sister had left Flora stood at the window and looked out. There had been so many times in the past six years when she had thought to try to find out about her kidnapper’s family, the cousin Thomas and the woman Acacia Kensington that he had mentioned. But where did she even start to look without attracting attention? Quietly she had trawled through the books of the peerage at Lackington’s because the man she had met was obviously from the aristocracy, but she had never managed to identify anybody, the small information she had more frustrating than none at all. Besides, if she had managed to find out his name what could she have truly gained from it?

Catching her eye in the glass she saw her lips move in the reflection.

‘Please God, just let me understand him.’

* * *

James upended the brandy Roy Warrenden had handed him at Whites and called to the waiter to bring them another.

The night was warm for this time of the year and the windows along the whole east side were open. It had been three days since the Allans’ ball and the most surprising of correspondences had come to his home in St James’s Square yesterday morning.

‘The artist Mr Frederick Rutherford has sent word that he wants to draw me. His agent, a Mr Ward, came to see me late yesterday afternoon.’

For a moment James saw complicity on Roy’s face but dismissed the idea as ludicrous. Maria Warrenden had said they barely knew the fellow and Winter could not see what an ailing reclusive country artist might have in common with a wealthy baron and his wife.

‘The agent intimated this commission would be the first and the last painting done in this manner, the fellow being a very private soul.’

‘I see.’ Roy watched him carefully. ‘And you are agreeable, Winter?’

‘I am not altogether certain, though the fact that he has sought me out personally does interest me.’

‘Perhaps he is intrigued by the way society flocks to your side in admiration, particularly the women?’

James shook his head. ‘I think there is more to it than the fleeting consideration of appearance. Your wife said she knew him slightly. How slightly is that?’

‘Mr Frederick Rutherford made our acquaintance most recently so I should not like to give you any advice as to his sincerity or otherwise based on my knowing his character well.’

‘Your wife has a sister, does she not, a Lady Florentia Hale-Burton if I am not mistaken?’

Horror crossed Roy’s face as he asked it, giving James the impression of something being awfully wrong with the girl. His heartbeat quickened because he did not want to be told her shortcomings were his fault or that her abduction on Mount Street had led to some sort of a mind disorder that had never been resolved.

‘Why do you mention her in conjunction with Frederick Rutherford, Winter?’

‘Pardon?’ The conversation had seemed to have got away from him and he waited for the other to explain the query.

‘Florentia, my sister-in-law, is somewhat timid. She does not enjoy London at all but prefers the quiet of her parents’ home of Albany Manor in Kent. But as to the other matter of the portrait—perhaps it is not to me that you should be addressing your queries. The agent you spoke of would hold a far better understanding of these things.’

With care James swallowed his brandy, liking the way it brought warmth into the coldness.

Secrets and lies. His own and Roy Warrenden’s. There was a sense of wrongness here that he could not quite put his finger on, something held back and concealed and the mystery had to do with the artist Frederick Rutherford, he thought.

‘I think I shall agree to the commission of the portrait, though the price is extremely high.’

‘Well, look at it as a painting for posterity, Winter. A foothold into history.’

‘But I won’t take up the offer of using the agent’s gallery in South London as the place of sitting. I want it done at my place in St James’s.’

‘The lad may find it difficult to get there with all the accoutrements needed for such a task. I doubt any artist is all that flush.’

‘Then I shall send a carriage to pick him up. Where does he reside in London? No one I ask seems to know.’

‘Here, there and everywhere, I expect. Rutherford is like a gypsy in his constant changing of addresses. My wife accompanied him on the first visit to see Alfred Ward, actually, so he spent the night at our town house.’

‘Yes, I had heard of that.’

Warrenden smiled. ‘I thought perhaps that you might have. Rutherford is a chameleon, Winter. You might be wise to get the sittings completed as quickly as you are able and without asking the fellow too many questions.’

‘You think he might abscond otherwise.’

‘I sincerely hope not for I’d like to see him settle,’ Roy replied, ‘and you could be just the one to do it.’

‘You think it might be the beginning of a more lucrative career for him? Already he is a painter with many admirers. Does he wish for more?’

Roy’s laugh was harsh as he stood. ‘I leave you to make your own assessment of his ambition, Winter, when you meet him, but for now I’m off home. I am, however, more than interested in seeing exactly how this romp of yours turns out.’ He stopped for a second as if debating if he should say more. ‘Frank Reading intimated you had returned to England to try and understand something of your father’s untimely demise.’

‘He’s right. I never believed William committed suicide and am looking for the truth of it.’ The words came out with a strained anger that he could no longer bother hiding. He liked Roy Warrenden as he was not a man inclined to gossip.

‘Reading also said he had word you were asking around in the more unsavoury parts of town. Sometimes there are consequences in uncovering secrets, Winter.’

‘And I should welcome them if they allow me to understand more about the nature of my father’s death.’

Roy nodded. ‘Well then, I hope you find some answers that might make more sense to you. If you need any help...?’

James was quick to shake his head. ‘I am better alone, but thank you.’

He watched as Warrenden threaded his way through the last of the patrons of White’s and lifted the bottle of brandy up to pour himself another glass when he could no longer see him.

Roy was not quite telling him the truth about Rutherford, that much was certain. There was some faulty connection, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

He knew the Warrendens were better acquainted with the artist than they let on. The lad had returned to their town house on Grosvenor Square for all the nights he’d been in London and once passing by late on an afternoon in his carriage James had noted Maria Warrenden holding the fellow’s hand with more than a little delight.

God, was the sister cuckolding her husband right under his nose? And where the hell did the reclusive Lady Florentia Hale-Burton fit into any of this picture?

* * *

The blow came from behind as he was walking to the corner to hail a hackney cab, a sharp blinding pain that had him on his knees and clambering for consciousness, and all James could think of was that the danger Roy had spoken of had suddenly come to pass.

A boot came next to his face, the edge of the tread connecting with his lip, but the shock was kicking in now and with it came the strength.

Grabbing his assailant by the leg, James brought him down and within a moment he was on top of him, a punch to the side of the head having the effect of keeping the other still.

‘Who the hell are you and what do you want of me?’

‘Perkins sent me, from the Red Fox Inn at the docks. You have been prying around and he don’t like it. It’s him who sends us on to see who is asking too many questions.’

James realised this man was only a messenger boy, all brawn and muscle and no idea at all as to what this was all about. Letting him go, he stood back, watching the fellow collect his hat and move away.

‘Can I speak with Mr Perkins? I’d pay well for a few moments of his time.’

The other nodded. ‘If he wants to talk, you will hear from us.’

With that the stranger turned and disappeared into the night, leaving James to wipe the blood from his lip and find his own hat spilled into the gutter by the unexpected retribution.

His father’s death had rocked him and he had been trying to track down some of William’s gambling partners to get some answers. Suicide was a shameful thing and he could not believe that his father had killed himself. Two parents lost to suicide painted a worrying family weakness, though in his mother the failing was almost to be expected.

He swore again and looked up into the sky. A small rising moon tonight. It had been much the same sort of moon when he had kidnapped Florentia Hale-Burton. Clenching his fists, he lent back against a stone wall and felt in his pocket for both light and a cigar in order to steady himself. He wanted to see her again, to tell her that it had all been a mistake and that he was sorry for it. He wanted to take her hand in his own and let her know that he had not thought her abduction a small thing and that it had changed his life as much as it had ruined her own.

Like a pack of cards, one fell and then the next and the next until finally in the remains of what was left was the realisation that there was nothing at all of value or of honour.

His neck ached and he drew on the cigar, liking the way the red end of it flared in the night and his heartbeat slowed.

Florentia Hale-Burton had had asthma. He wondered if she still had it. She’d had a suitor, too, and a bag full of books. He’d heard her name mentioned in the card room at some ball. It was said that she had always been odd, but that if the Earl of Albany’s girls had made a bit of effort with their appearances they would probably have outshone every other woman in the room.

Perhaps it might be true, though the girl in the carriage had been either unconscious, furious or sick so he had no honest picture by which to measure this.

He did remember her face after her father’s gun had gone off, though, for she had reached out for him, her hands around his neck, trying to contain the damage, his blood between her fingers and her blue eyes sharp with pain.

They had both fallen then, out of the door on to the road, her body wound about his own, like a blanket or a cushion. He had felt the softness of her and the honesty, her hair falling around them in shelter until she had been torn away.

‘God.’ He spoke that out loud. ‘God, help me,’ he added as if in that second and under the darkness of a spring London night he had understood exactly what he should have always known.

Florentia Hale-Burton had tried to help him even after everything he had done to her. After all the hurt and the dogs and the chill and the fear. She had reached out and tried to stem the damage of the shot, placing her own body between him and his assailants and the promise of another assault.

The realisation was staggering.

Roy Warrenden had said she was timid and seldom left Kent so how could he meet her? To thank her. To make certain that she was...recovered?

His life seemed to be going into a vortex swirling around truth. The artist. Roy’s wariness. His wife’s fear. The sister banished to Kent after he had ruined her by his own stupidity.

But first he had to deal with Perkins from the inn at St Katharine Dock, for the ghost of his dead father demanded at least some attention.

Spitting out the pooling blood in his mouth, he stood, waiting for a moment as the dizziness lessened. He was on the right track at least if he was being threatened.

It was a start.

Chapter Four

Winterton had agreed to everything Florentia had stipulated save the place to meet.

His note was in her hand, the letter stamped in wax and delivered that very afternoon.

His writing looked as beautiful as he himself was purported to be—a long slanted hand with an air of arrogance in the words alongside a tinge of question.

Dear Mr Rutherford,

I was pleased to receive your letter and would be most interested in your offer. I hope that my visage will indeed do your style a justice.

I would, however, prefer to have the painting completed here at the town house I am renting for the Season in St James’s Square. The light is good and I should enjoy it more than sitting for hours in the gallery of a stranger.

If you could give me by return post the time and day you would like to commence I shall have my carriage sent for you. Warrenden intimated you have been staying with his family on and off. Is this the location you would want to be met?

I look forward to our association on this matter.

Yours sincerely,

James Waverley

He had used neither his title nor his crest. The wax was of a plain sort one could buy for a smaller coin than the scented kind in any of the market places of London.

Not a man inclined to waste, then? Not a man who might lay his cards on the table either, for all to admire.

You should be careful of Winterton, Florentia. Her sister’s words came back. He is not a milksop lord who would be easily duped.

She swallowed. Well, she was not a milksop lady either. The shrieking sharpness inside her had been honed in anger for years and years and her kidnapper was a great part of that. To be thrown off into a netherworld and away from society made one more independent, more resourceful.

The commission of a portrait was a medium to understand Winterton, to weigh up her options, to evaluate which way her dice would roll and what pathway her vengeance might take.

Vengeance?

She had never imagined herself as a vengeful person, even the word made her slightly horrified, but if Lord Winterton was indeed her kidnapper then he had to understand the ramifications of what he had done to her, to her family, to her father in particular who had withdrawn to Albany Manor much changed after his flight north to save her.

Ruination came in a series of degrees, it came in sickness and sleeplessness and in fright. It came in the nights when she would wake in a sweat and wonder what else she could have done to make it different. It came in the mornings when she looked in the mirror to see the fear there lurking in her eyes and the dark sleep-deprived circles beneath them.

Maria had married and was talking of having children, but she herself had faltered, trapped in the horror of her history and hiding from all that it had exposed. She needed to see Winterton privately in order to understand what she might do from now on, what pathway to a better life she would follow.

Forgiveness might bring around absolution. She only hoped she could find such mercy within herself.

* * *

She’d dressed this morning carefully, in Frederick Rutherford’s clothes. She had jammed cloth down into the edges of her cheeks and practised breathing through her mouth so that her voice was more hollow and stuffed up. When she looked at her reflection she could barely remember the frightened woman she had been when she had first donned her disguise before coming to London. She seemed to have grown into the role in every way that mattered and was heartened by such a fact.

Lord Winterton had not seen her for six years and even then in the brevity and tenseness of the whole situation he probably had not observed her closely. These clothes would maintain her anonymity, she was sure of it.

As an added insurance she had placed a small paper knife in her left pocket wrapped in leather and within easy reach.

She knew she would not use it on him, but it was a protection to keep him at bay if all else failed. She would avoid confrontation if she could, but if it was impossible she at least wanted to have a weapon in order to escape.

Her sister knocked on the door and came in, her face set in an expression that told Florentia she was not pleased.

‘I think you should reconsider this whole mad scheme of yours, Flora. This may be the last chance for you to do so for once you are in that carriage—’

Florentia interrupted her. ‘I shall be fine. Winterton is hardly going to jump on a young and sickly artist. He is from society, for goodness sake, and a product of years of manners and propriety.’

This observation did not seem to alleviate her sister’s worries whatsoever, nor her own, in fact, given what had already transpired between them.

‘Manners and propriety are not words that come easily to my mind when I think of Winterton, Flora. I could come with you?’

‘No.’ They had had this conversation a number of times. ‘I do not need you there and from what I have read of the workings of a private commission it would be very odd to take an onlooker.’

‘But the whole thing is odd and you should not be risking the chance of discovery. There might be others there.’

‘He has said there would not be.’

‘He might be able to see through your disguise.’

‘Can you?’

‘Well, no. If I did not know any of this, I would barely recognise you myself.’

‘The painting shall take at the most four mornings. Twelve hours. After that I’ll have a good amount of money for Papa and Mama and me to live on. My reputation with Mr Ward will stay wholly intact as well and so hopefully more sales of work will follow.’

And I will know exactly what I am facing, for better or for worse.

‘I have already said to Papa that I can help, but he won’t accept it.’

‘Because it would be Roy’s money, Maria, and Papa is too proud a man to take it.’

‘Proud and foolish and if any of this leads to a problem for you I shall berate him for ever. I do hope you are not late back and if you need me at any time...’

‘I won’t.’

‘Roy said if Winterton hurts even one hair on your body he will kill him.’

Privately Flora wondered if her sister truly believed in this absurdity. Roy was slight and short whereas everything she remembered of the Viscount was the exact opposite. ‘I will bear that in mind.’

There were tears in her sister’s eyes.

‘Trust me, Maria. Please.’

The brown curls jolted up and down as she nodded and then the butler was there with Florentia’s coat and hat and she simply followed him out.

* * *

Winterton’s town house on St James’s Square was far grander than any she had ever seen before. Certainly the Viscount must be somewhere at the very top of the social tree and climbing higher by the moment if the tales Maria told were anything at all to go by.

Suddenly Flora felt less certain, the clothes she wore that had seemed like a shield at home were now only thin layers over the heart of her deceit. But it was too late to back out and when the man waiting at the bottom of the wide steps leading up to the house asked her to follow him in she did so.

Once at the front door a different and even sterner-looking servant indicated a chair just inside the reception hall and, taking her prepared canvas and the small satchel filled with paint and charcoal, Flora sat down to wait.

* * *

Thirty minutes later she was still there and the bravery garnered over years of hurt had dissipated into a much lesser force beneath the heavy ticking of a clock in the corner.

The same servant finally returned, his face as dismissive as before. A mere artist was not to be bothered with or coddled, she supposed. She was surprised she had not been dispatched around to the back door when first she had come, reasoning it would be the carriage, no doubt. Anyone who arrived in his lordship’s own conveyance was probably to be treated with some amount of care.

The room she was now taken to was darkened, the curtains pulled and a single candle glowing on the desk behind which a figure sat quite still.

‘Thank you for coming, Mr Rutherford.’ A hand gestured to the seat in front of him but he did not come to his feet.

Florentia sat as carefully as she could and as her eyes became accustomed to the dimness she saw exactly what she had hoped...and feared.

James Waverley, Lord Winterton, was indeed her kidnapper.

Still undeniably beautiful, but dishevelled somewhat, one pale and clear green eye wholly shot with red and his bottom lip split at the corner.

Her heart began to thump rapidly and she hoped the movement did not show through her clothing. The cloth at her neck felt as if it might rob her of all breath with its tightness. Please God let the asthma stay at bay, she found herself thinking, the catch in her throat worrying.

‘I have been indisposed, Mr Rutherford, and I apologise for keeping you waiting.’ The Viscount said this quietly and the voice was nothing like the one she remembered. It was hoarse and scratchy and deep.

Tipping her head by way of response, Florentia sniffed without decorum. The lump in her throat was so large she thought suddenly that she might just begin to cry. In deliverance? In shock? In the solace of seeing that he was alive and that her father had not killed him after all.

Years of guilt and anger melded into this one moment of utter relief. She swallowed a number of times to try to find a balance, uncaring as to what the Viscount might think of her and glad for the dimness in the room.

Another clock above the mantel beat out the seconds. This house was full of clocks, she thought, the sound of time passing, life disappearing by the second. Or rediscovered, she mused, the stoppage of life between them now running on again with a different rhythm, another truth?

The hand nearest to her lying on the table held deep bruising, the fight echoed on his face. The violence of such lacerations made the room seem smaller. Last time she had met him there’d been blood, too. And force.

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