Clandestine Passion (The Lovelocks of London Book 2)

James’ open appreciation of Isabella DuMornay had not escaped Catherine’s notice. Devil it. Catherine laughed at something Sir Francis said. He had said nothing amusing, but she laughed anyway.

Sir Francis smiled and leaned closer. “How lovely you are tonight. I am profoundly pleased that you decided to join me this week. Your acquaintance, nay, your friendship has been one of the things that has sustained me over the six months.”

Catherine touched the back of Sir Francis’ hand lightly. “The loss of a spouse, Sir Francis, can be very difficult indeed.”

Was it her imagination or did Sir Francis almost look shocked by her comment? Or by the touch of her hand?

“Yes, yes, indeed. Of course. And I must tell you, my dear, that I have a little surprise planned for you. Later this evening.”

Might it be that he would press his suit to her this evening, her first evening here? Good, let’s settle this troubling thing. Let’s be done with it. Let my darkest fallibilities be vanquished by matrimony.

She took Sir Francis’ arm and went into dinner, knowing she would soon be the mistress in this house. Marriage to Edward Lovelock had saved her, years ago. Marriage to Sir Francis would do the same.

After a rather rich and substantial meal, Catherine laid her spoon down next to her empty syllabub glass, and Sir Francis Ffoulkes stood and nodded at the butler Rowley, who left the room.

“Normally, of course, at this time, we would segregate ourselves and the ladies would withdraw to a parlor and we gentlemen would partake in some port. However, before the rest of the evening commences, I hope that I could prevail on all of you to join me in the gallery.”

The party, of course, could be prevailed upon to do so. The gallery was upstairs. Catherine started gamely up the stairs she had descended two hours earlier, Sir Francis taking her right arm. He had not noticed that the injured ankle was the left one and it was that side that needed support. Catherine did not like to bring it to his attention. Soon the rest of the party had passed them on the wide staircase.

“Upsidaisy.” James was at her left elbow. “How jolly. Nothing like a little walk after dinner, even if it’s indoors, what?” He did not take her arm or touch her but as she put all her weight on her left ankle to take the next step, she clutched at his rigid arm that had been bent and locked in just the right position for her.

“Thank you,” she said to James.

“You are most welcome, my dear,” Sir Francis said. “And I think you will thank me even more when you see what is in store.”

“How amusing,” James said and tittered. “A surprise for Mrs. Lovelock, what? I can only hope for a surprise for myself at the card table tonight. All the trumps!”

On the next step, Catherine gave up and securely linked her arm with James’. As Sir Francis and James spoke over her head about the cards planned for later, she could not help but lean into James and test the unyielding muscle and bone and sinew she found there. More muscle for me and Wright to appreciate. And no matter how hard she pressed, how much weight she put on his arm, it held at ninety degrees, and his voice flowed over her head uninterrupted, without strain. He was so . . . surprisingly solid.

Sir Francis and James were discussing the dogs for the hunt tomorrow.

That was it.

James looked like a whippet, acted like a Maltese, but had the strength of a mastiff.

He was a breed all his own.

She forgot herself for a moment and looked up at James, at his clean jaw, the brown-gold lashes around his gray eyes. And she smiled.

He looked down at her and although he kept speaking to Sir Francis in the same light tenor voice, she saw something else in his eyes. Something inscrutable.

He must know how he destroys me.

The rest of the party waited in the gallery, laughing and talking pleasantly, relaxed after the meal of good food and wine. Perhaps a little excited about the cards to come. The gallery itself was well lit, almost blazing, with candelabras all around. Clearly, there was something that demanded viewing in good light. A large area of one wall was covered by a red velvet curtain. Sir Francis walked ahead of Catherine and James to stand in front of the curtain.

“My guests! Your attention, please.” Sir Francis clapped his hands. The rest of the guests quieted and gathered in front of the curtain. James helped Catherine to a chair at the front of the group, and then he stepped to one side.

She missed his arm, his close presence, immediately.

Her mastiff.

“As you may know,” Sir Francis began, “I am an admirer of beauty of all kinds. Including, of course, the present company.” Here he bowed to Catherine. “Long have I admired the painting under this drape. Mr. Roger Siddons, the artist, has agreed to loan the painting to me temporarily. But he has promised me that when a certain happy event occurs, he will sell it to me. I will say no more but will let you feast your eyes.”

With that, Sir Francis pulled on a cord and the red velvet curtain fell away.

Catherine sucked in her breath.

The rest of the party made appreciative murmurs. “Lovely” and “Quite real-looking.”

Roger Siddons folded his arms across his chest and stared at Catherine. She forced herself to stare back. With no expression that betrayed her dismay, she hoped.

The Marquess of Painswick began to clap. “Very good,” he called out. “Very good.” He walked closer to the painting and leaned in as if to examine the brushstrokes.

“Not too close, Lord Painswick,” Sir Francis said.

“No, Sir Francis.” The Marquess of Painswick licked his lips and stepped away. “Not too close. Just close enough.”

Catherine felt certain she would vomit. She stood up.

“Please excuse me,” she said. She blindly walked out of the gallery to the hall that would lead to her bedchamber. She sensed someone on her left, just behind her, keeping pace with her as she limped as quickly as she could down the hall. The someone did not speak, did not touch her, but stayed just behind her until she reached her room, opened the door, and closed it behind her.

She did not turn as she closed the door. She knew it had been James who had followed her. She did not think she could face anyone right now. But particularly not him.

James did not understand Catherine’s distress but felt it coming off her in waves. He waited at the closed door, unsure what to do next. He was surprised to feel Isabella brush past him and enter Catherine’s room. Isabella turned as she closed the door, and he saw her frowning face and the shoo of her hand.

He returned to the gallery and the rest of the guests.

“Ha! I believe Mrs. Lovelock had rather too much of that syllabub, Sir Francis. Just some dyspepsia, she said. Mamselle DuMornay has her well in hand, what?” James hoped that last sentence was true.

“Hmm, very good, very good, Lord Daventry,” Sir Francis replied. He gestured at the wall. “But what do you think of the painting?”

To James, standing a good twenty feet away, it was a pretty picture. A golden-haired and half-naked youth in old-fashioned ballooning breeches and hose stood in a lush green forest, a pool of water at his feet. The boy’s bare back was to the viewer, and he had been caught just after removing his shirt, which he still held in his hands. A blue velvet doublet and a sheathed rapier lay on the grassy ground. Some strips of linen—bandages, maybe?—were strewn about. It looked like the youth was about to bathe in the pool. His golden head was turned over his shoulder and he was looking directly at the viewer. Or the artist?

But the rest of the group was murmuring, walking up to the painting and then pulling back to look again at it from a distance. James walked closer.

Oh.

He knew those blue eyes. He had seen those creamy white shoulders and back, that spine, at Madame Beauchamp’s. They were Catherine’s. But the picture was not of her, was it? It was someone else. He couldn’t recall who but it was someone . . . of significance. To him.

And now he saw that despite the youth’s arms being fairly close to his—or her—sides and the youth’s body being turned away from the viewer, the very slightest curve of a breast could be seen under the left arm as the youth looked over his—or her—left shoulder.

Oh, the barest hint of that breast. He knew that breast was Catherine’s.

The back was not completely flawless. James spied red horizontal marks on the skin, just under the youth’s armpit and farther down, below where the curve of the underside of the breast started. The marks were not the lashings from a whip. They were too fine for that and why would they be only on the upper flank and not the back? Of course, a woman’s flesh was soft in that place under the armpit and might take an impression more easily than a man’s flesh in the same place.

James didn’t understand the painting. But closer up, there was something sickening about it. Some horror in those blue eyes.

One could imagine a monster, a dragon just outside the frame, threatening the innocence and the beauty.

Siddons came up to James.

“It’s good to get the thing finally framed. I remember when Cath sat for it, Lord Daventry. She was dressed for most of the sittings, of course, but agreed to show her back and shoulders. Why not? After all, the whole West End had seen her shoulders and more. And, of course, eventually, I convinced her to show me everything.”

The man was unbelievably disgusting. James gritted his teeth and forced himself to relax. “Doesn’t look a thing like her, what?”

Sir Francis stepped forward and grasped his arm. “You don’t think so?”

“No.” James laughed. “It’s some boy, isn’t it?”

With a disdainful smile, Siddons said, “It’s Catherine as Cesario.”

“Cesario? An Italian?”

Dubois stepped forward. “Shakespeare, Lord Daventry. Shakespeare. Twelfth Night.”

James shook his head, continuing to play the fool, while his mind raced, his heart thumped, and suddenly so much made sense.

Of course. No wonder he had been drawn to and devastated by Catherine. Cesario was Viola’s boy disguise in Twelfth Night. Perhaps he had even seen Catherine play the role once upon a time. Viola, his cherished ideal woman. The brave adventurer who covered her passion with wit.

But this painting bore no relation to the Twelfth Night that James remembered. Twelfth Night was a comedy. With those very funny clowns and some sweet misunderstandings and disguises, some mild anguish over unreciprocated love. But one knew it would all come right in the end. Viola would get her man Orsino, the Duke of Illyria. Olivia would fall in love with Viola’s twin brother Sebastian. A double wedding in the fifth act.

This painting had naught to do with that. It induced dread in the viewer. Revulsion. The longer James looked at it, the more he felt the horror of Catherine in the picture.

Finally, he had to turn away.