Betrayed (27 page)

“It's a beautiful work.” With his index finger, he touched the canvas, tracing the curve of the model's hip.

Even viewing it upside down, she had to agree. Emulating the lush style of George Lambert, Mary
had posed the languishing Eve on an opulent chaise of tucked white velvet and set her amid a landscape full of ferns and exotic pink blossoms, nymphs and furry forest creatures. The blue sky above perfectly matched Sarah's eyes.

To Mary's credit, she'd given Sarah's waist-length hair a high sheen and richly textured waves. To Sarah's regret, Mary had omitted the simple modesty of a fashioning a sheer drape over the model. Down to the darker flesh on the nipples and lower, to the shadowy tuft of curly hair, Mary had glorified the female form. The size of the breasts, however, was a debatable matter. Sarah couldn't stave off a blush.

He grinned at her dismay.

“Stop gawking! She's made me naked, for God's sake.”

“To be frank, my dear Sarah”—he choked back laughter—“I don't think religion played the smallest part. Mary made you completely naked for me.”

Sarah shivered. “Was that your idea?” Until now, she hadn't considered that he could influence Mary; the notion was absurd. But on second thought, he never failed to engage Sarah's emotions. Perhaps Mary had also been swayed by him.

With the flat of his hand, he caressed the surface, his eyes alight with mischief. His overlong hair tempered the devilish aspect of his dark good looks.

When he spoke his voice was soft, beguiling. “Alas, the commendations are not for me. Mary thought it up. I only watched.”

Mary was perfectly capable of that kind of scandal. They probably discussed body parts as if they were hinges on a door.

“Is that why she sent it to you rather than to the lord provost as she threatened?”

He shrugged. “I only advised her that the lord provost would not show her work the appreciation I would. Sending it with the earl of Wiltshire was her idea. I think she was anxious to be rid of him for a day or two, or at least that's what she said. He returned to London immediately.”

Mary would make her decision about the engaging earl; Sarah had Michael Elliot to worry over.

Eager to put the matter behind them, Sarah feigned indifference. “Mary should paint what is in her heart. I cannot imagine why she is content to copy others.”

As if he understood, he rolled up the painting and put it on the floor beside his chair. “Her talent far surpasses her mentor.”

The compliment struck a soft chord with Sarah. Mary was eccentric, stubborn, and bolder than Agnes. With the stroke of a brush, she could capture a person's soul on canvas. With the scratch of a quill, she could personify the body politic in cartoon. Out of jealousy, her male contemporaries scorned her with names like Contrary Mary. Reynolds and the others of his age embraced her. London society didn't know what to make of Mary Margaret MacKenzie. The earl of Wiltshire did, for he'd vowed before the congregation at Westminster Abbey to make her his wife.

Sarah loved her dearly. Next year, they'd sit before a roaring fire, pop colony corn, and share a merry laugh over both the painting and Sarah's revenge, whatever that turned out to be.

“Would you care to share that joyous thought?”

Melancholy swamped her, but she held it close to her heart. A conversational detour was appropriate; Sarah found that she couldn't voice it. “I was thinking how constant some things are in this life.”

“Namely, your affection for Mary and hers for you.”

He shouldn't be so knowledgeable about Sarah's feelings. “Yes, but Mary will still pay a hefty price, make no mistake about that.”

“I'd like to be a beetle under the chair on that occasion.” He removed his waistcoat and tossed it on the arm of his chair. A broadside fluttered to the floor.

Needing something to do, save watch him disrobe and question her own attraction to him, Sarah picked up the paper. A name caught her eye. Keen to the subject, she read the text. “Where did you get this?”

Consumed with his own comfort, he snuggled down into the chair again. “From my mother. She brought it back from London. Have you heard of this Lucerne?”

The innocent question gave Sarah pause, an opportunity to put aside troubling thoughts of Michael Elliot. Sarah knew well the musician Lucerne; her half sister Agnes traveled as companion and bodyguard to the young composer.

Was Michael fishing for information? His curiously bland expression appeared honest. He'd been in India for 15 years. That would explain a guileless query about Vicktor Lucerne; the virtuoso was only 12 years old, and he did not travel farther by boat than London. But he refused to perform there.

“Have you?” he asked.

“Lucerne is all the rage in Europe. At the age of three, he built a ladder and sat upon it to master the harpsichord. He composed his first opera as a tribute
to himself on his sixth birthday. It's said his violin sonatas are truly inspired, and his minuets the most popular of the day.”

“How do you know so much about him?”

She wouldn't tell him about Agnes yet, not until she'd heard everything he had to say on the subject. “I enjoy learning, no matter the topic. Why do you ask?”

“My mother has arranged for him to give a concert in Edinburgh.”

His mother? If Lady Emily were involved, Henry must be too. That spelled trouble. If Henry dared to use Agnes as a pawn to get Lucerne to Edinburgh, and Agnes found out, Henry would regret it for the rest of his life.

For lack of anything better, Sarah said, “How interesting. How did that come about?”

“Happenstance, actually. A thief cut Mother's purse in London, and a lady friend of this fellow Lucerne recovered it.”

An unholy suspicion gripped Sarah. “Another musician found your mother's property?”

“No. That's the oddity of it. A noblewoman brought it back.”

“A noblewoman?” Drat her warbling voice. “Who was she?”

“Mother could not remember her name—only that it was Scottish. She was also quite taken with the woman's pink jade necklace and her Oriental servant.”

Sarah knew who the woman was, and she also knew how adept Agnes Elizabeth MacKenzie was with her hands; she could snatch a purse with an ease Notch would envy. But even if Agnes hadn't taken the reticule herself, which was entirely possible, she was
clever enough to see it done intentionally to facilitate an introduction to Lady Emily.

Yes, Agnes must have instigated the meeting; the coincidence was too great. The pink jade necklace was too rare. Auntie Loo, the servant from Bangkok, was unforgettable. Since Agnes was in London, she and Mary had probably cooked up the concert scheme together. But to what end, Sarah wondered? And how could she glean more information from Michael without rousing his suspicions?

She smoothed out the doily. “I'm surprised your mother had time for anyone but poor Henry.”

“According to Mother, she and the woman became friends. The woman was quite eager to make the acquaintance of another Scot.”

Agnes could leach a secret from a person before the poor soul realized he, or in this case she, had revealed it. But Henry was involved, and he was Sarah's problem. Did he know about the meeting between Lady Emily and Agnes? “I assume Lady Emily mentioned Henry.”

Michael smiled, but the expression lacked fondness. “As Mother tells it, the good Samaritan couldn't ask enough questions about Henry and the Elliots.”

If Agnes was up to meddling, Sarah would have her head on a pike. But what if this were Agnes's noble way of coming to Sarah's aid? Agnes didn't know the truth about Sarah's parentage, not that it would matter to Agnes. They'd been raised as sisters, and pranks aside, they were fiercely loyal. Lack of a blood tie would not change that. But Sarah wasn't ready yet to face Agnes and tell her the truth.

In any event, Sarah needed to know if Agnes had
truly kept her identity a secret from Lady Emily. “Are you certain your mother doesn't remember the woman's name?”

“She didn't. She mentioned Anne, but tossed it out as faulty recollection. Do you know the woman who travels with Lucerne?”

13

S
arah strove for lightness. “Me? I haven't a dot of musical talent or appreciation, and I assure you, I do not move in the same circles as Vicktor Lucerne. It is an interesting story, though, and I'm delighted that your mother has made a friend.” He couldn't know how false that statement was; befriending Agnes MacKenzie could spell trouble for Lady Emily.

“Then the Elliots can count on you for the price of an admission?”

Removing his outer clothing made him more brazen than ever. Sarah was undaunted. “You'll pardon me if I decline. I'd sooner toss a handful of shillings down the nearest privy.”

“What if the proceeds free my brother?”

That brought up another question. “Does Henry know about the concert?”

“No. It's to be a surprise.”

A comforting bit of information. During his only visit to Rosshaven Castle, Henry was given a lengthy discourse by Lottie on the accomplishments and locations of all of the MacKenzie sisters. Through
Lottie's tales, he knew of Agnes's unusual vocation and the reason behind it. Pray Lady Emily kept her secret; if Henry learned that Agnes was involved, he'd try to foil her plans, whatever they were.

A bright spot in the dark tragedy would come later when Sarah shared with Rose the story of Agnes's friendship with Lady Emily. The maid would laugh herself to tears.

“Sarah? What will you do if Henry is freed?”

“I'll wish him to hell in a hop cart and thank the devil for taking him in.”

“Come now, are you sure you won't attend the concert to benefit poor Henry?”

At his sarcasm, Sarah relaxed a little. She knew the players in the event. Michael did not. “Your brother can rot in King's Bench Prison for all I care.”

“Yes, well . . . I'll make you a trade, Sarah—this painting for the truth. Tell me why you betrothed yourself to hellbound Henry.”

During one of their many discussions on the subject, Michael had said he believed that marriage to Henry was merely the means to an end for Sarah, the end being her desire to come to Edinburgh. He was off the mark, but even if she told him the truth, he wouldn't believe her now.

She snatched up an excuse she thought would pacify him. “Henry agreed to let me build an orphanage in Edinburgh. Many husbands would not have been so generous.”

“Ah, the infamous stipulations, but I'd hardly describe Henry as generous.”

He didn't look convinced. “There's nothing wrong with a woman looking after her own interests. Your mother was so envious of the document, she added
her own conditions to the page, not that they are legally binding, but I suppose you know that.”

“No, but I'm wildly curious.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “What did the countess demand?”

Sarah couldn't stop staring at his arms and admiring the way his muscles strained at the fabric of his shirt. Her gaze moved lower, to his lap and the manly bulge in plain view.

“Care to sit down?”

At his provocative words, she looked at her hands and returned to the moot subject of Lady Emily's stipulations. “Your mother demanded the construction of an entire wing of her own at Glenforth Manor and an allowance of one penny greater than mine. I told you she fears being packed off to Fife, and Henry has sworn to move her there. Her life and her friends are here.”

Michael whistled in mock astonishment. “An inventive excuse, my dear, but not the primary reason you agreed to wed my brother.” He stretched out his long legs, languishing like a dark conqueror among the vanquished.

“Try again,” he murmured. “And get to the heart of it this time.”

Unable to stand still, Sarah marched across the room and stood over him. “Wipe that smug look off your face, Michael Elliot. I did not have to go a-begging for a husband, if that is what you want to hear.”