Laurie's Painter (sweet Regency romance) (3 page)

He swung his cane, smiled,
and left the room before Harrison could raise a voice to reply, or do more than
nod in a dazed manner. He was far too used to Joysey's odd habits and strange
charities to be surprised—and yet he still clearly was.

Next, Laurie took
his curricle and drove purposefully to the street where he had last left Jenny
and Henry. He alighted and knocked with the head of his cane, then crossed one
leg and leaned one arm against the side wall. He straightened quickly when he
noticed the sheen of grime on the wall, and was brushing his arm off, wearing a
peeved expression, when the door opened.

"Hullo! You're back."
Jenny smiled up at him without the least bit of simpering missishness. "I
wondered if you meant it. He's going to take the job if it kills him. I do hope
you won't make it too strenuous or hurried."

"No, indeed I won't."
His gaze settled fondly on her for a moment, taking in her morning appearance:
sensible gingham, hair combed neatly and pinned up with only a few strands
escaping so early in the day, though more appeared to be trying. Her face was small,
heart-shaped, and rosy of countenance, her expression friendly and free of
guile.

All these things must be
in a hundred—a thousand—women, and he had thought himself immune. But something
about this young woman touched his heart. Well, it would do him no harm to feel
some springtime in his blood, and he could help the siblings whilst he was feeling
generous.

From the little he
remembered of gossip about the family from his father's day, Mr. Wilkenson had
wasted his wealth in drunken debauchery and gambling. The gambling, at least,
had been no rumour, for Laurie recalled his father mentioning seeing Wilkenson
leaving some gaming hell or other, and saying with a disapproving look that
some men ought not to gamble until they got their own house in order. "I
trust I shall never see you partaking overmuch of the gaming tables, Laurence,"
he'd said. "Especially if you have debts to cover."

Laurie's evil genius for
witticisms had prompted him to reply, "I don't see why I would ever want
to gamble unless I already had more debts than I could cover, Father. I'd
either win and be able to cover them, or be no worse in the hole."

At this, his father's lips
had compressed, and he'd delivered a little speech about a man's duties. Laurie
had tried not to let his eyes glaze over whilst his mind travelled different
roads.

For all their differences,
and as much as his father and he had annoyed one another at times, Laurie had
felt a great respect for the man and been shocked at how grief-stricken he'd felt
when his father passed away. The mourning months had passed in a haze, and when
he came to himself, head of the household, going through the motions but
neglecting friends and acquaintances alike and keeping to himself, he had been equally
amazed and alarmed.

It had taken time to get
back his jovial ways, his light-hearted manners that were so well known to his
friends and detractors. Laurie had always liked to handle things with a joke
and a laugh, but he'd found himself unable to do so when real, deep, terrible
grief struck. It had shaken him to his core.

The death of his sister
the next year had been an added blow, compounding the pain.

Though Laurie spoke little
of such things, both losses deeply affected him. For all his light-hearted
ways, Laurie took good care of his family's holdings. He was certain it
would've pleased his father. If he occasionally wasted money, it was not as a
gambling roué, but to host a party, to play a trick, or to secretly give a
charitable contribution to those in need. This latter especially gave Laurie
more pleasure than the roll of bone dice ever could.

And that,
he thought, standing on
the doorstep smiling fondly down at the young woman named Jenny,
is all I am
doing now. Finding pleasure in helping people.

If he did not quite
believe himself, at least he felt less in danger as he took off his hat and
bowed deeply. The faintly-smiling Jenny showed him in. She seemed to be amused
by his manners, and neither impressed nor indignant. If she minded his teasing,
he certainly couldn't see it. If she was flattered or hopeful for his
attentions, she gave no sign of it.

She seemed like a distant
observer finding amusement in humankind whilst she could, and approaching him
with the open, unselfconscious expression of someone who would be willing to
consider him a friend. Perhaps that touched him most of all, though he was unsure
why it should.

He looked around the
small, bare room she led him into, taking in his surroundings more closely than
he had yesterday. It was just as shabby as it had been at a glance in the near darkness.
Obviously poverty pinched them tightly, not just in the street they lived on,
but in their furnishings and lack of even one servant. "Is your brother
here?"

"Oh yes, of course,
or it would be improper for you to visit." She smiled. "He's in the
other room changing. If you have something to say, please do so quickly before
he comes!"

"I haven't. Except
that you look lovely this morning."

He was rewarded with a
faint pink blush in her cheeks, but she simply smiled at him and waved him
away. "No more than you, my lord," she said in a silly voice and
laughed.

"Oh, no, indeed—!"
he protested, trying to school his grin. She meant to playfully cross swords
with him? Wonderful!

"You are quite a
tulip of fashion, I'm sure!" Her green eyes sparkled naughtily up at him
from an oh-so-innocent face. "I've never seen the like!"

"Jenny!" Henry's
voice intruded, aghast.

Jenny and Laurie turned as
one to face the elder Wilkenson. He looked particularly pale and weak this
morning, and stood leaning on the back of a chair to support himself. "Please,
pardon my sister," he said, his face gone rigid. "She is used to the free
and easy company of equals."

"Don't be
absurd," said Jenny. "He was teasing me, so I teased him back. I'm
sure there was no harm done. But I'll leave you now to discuss business." She
curtsied and went into the tiny kitchen. Laurie watched her go with a faint
smile playing around his mouth. He attempted to school it.

Meanwhile Henry was
glaring at him. "I trust you have some reason other than shameless
flirting with my sister to come here?"

"Oh yes!" said
Laurie, keeping back any of a dozen flippant replies; he oughtn't to bait the
young man. Anyone could see Henry was feeling poorly. "The painting. I've
decided I want to hire you to paint my manor. And me, and perhaps my prize
horse as well. I'm addicted to your artistic style, you know." He smiled.

Henry's gaze narrowed. "That's
nonsense. You could afford any painter you liked."

"Why, keeping track
of me, Henry? I'm honoured! The old school ties mean so much to you!"

Henry blushed, a faint
reddish hue starting up his cheeks. He did not drop his gaze, though, or
shuffle his feet or do any of a dozen other things to try to hide his discomfort.
Laurie found himself admiring the young man for that.

When Henry spoke, it was
in a low, even voice. "You must be well aware, sir, that no particular
investigation is needed to mark you out as one of the wealthy and influential
set. And I and my sister live simple—dare I say, poverty-stricken—lives. I am
at best an average painter..."

"No, hardly!"
protested Laurie.

Henry held up a hand imperially.
"I am at best an average painter, and I can think of no reason for your
sudden interest in my family, unless you are playing one of the games you are
so well-known for. Or unless you have less than honourable designs on my
sister."

Laurie felt his shoulders
stiffen. His smile was no longer difficult to conceal, for he didn't have one. "I
assure you, I do not," he said in a more serious tone than he had yet used
with Henry.

Henry stared at him,
searching his face with a cold gaze it would have been uncomfortable to meet if
one were concealing something. Instead Laurie met it openly, letting some of
his indignation show.

At last, Henry nodded. "Good.
I want to believe you, so I shall—for now." He seated himself suddenly,
the stiffness going out of him, and gave a great sigh as he seemed to collapse,
enfolded in the chair's arms. Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a couple
of deep breaths and coughed.

Then he opened his eyes
and looked up again at Laurie. His expression was bleak. "But know this,
Joysey. If you or anyone else hurts my sister, he shall answer to me. I may be
nothing but a poor painter, but I am an excellent shot. My sister has been
everything to me for some time now. I venture to say I wouldn't be alive even
this long without her tender care, and if anyone hurts her, I'll see him dead at
dawn for it."

Instead of feeling
indignant as he supposed he ought to at these fighting words, Laurie found
himself strangely touched by the quiet strength in them, spoken as they were by
such a weak man. He could picture it, too: Henry standing up with fire in his
eyes, aiming at an opponent (some world-weary, sneering roué), and firing. He
would aim for the heart. There would be no deloupment in the air, no aiming for
a scratch on the arm. Not from Henry.

"I can see that you
care for her very much," said Laurie in a gentler tone, taking a seat unasked
opposite the painter. "I am glad of it. Everyone should have someone they
feel that way about."

The painter nodded wearily.
His head fell back against the chair. "I'm sorry to have been so brusque,
but our life has not taught me to trust easily, and I thought I had best get it
out of the way before you waste any time, or Jenny returns."

"Oh, you think she
didn't hear?" He glanced up at the sound of Jenny in the kitchen, and the
tell-tale rattle of cups on a tray, nearly ready for them.

"I hope not. She
hates if I talk about duelling." Henry gave a rare, rueful grin. It
transformed his face from grumpy and ill to youthful and winsome. "She
says it's no good for someone to have the attitudes of their class if they can't
afford to live like their class. We're too poor for any of our relatives to own
us, and our neighbours think we're putting on airs whether we say a word or
not. If we don't, we're impossibly high-minded and snubbing them. If we do, we're
flouting our upper class speech."

Laurie tsk'd in sympathy,
shaking his head. "Really, you can't win!"

Henry's gaze narrowed
slightly, as if he suspected he was being laughed at. But then he gave the
faintest of smiles. "Indeed." He still looked exhausted, and his face
lacked colour, but he no longer seemed to be on the lookout for an insult.

"My apologies for the
delay." Jenny entered the room holding a tray of tea things. She gave no
excuse and spoke brightly, but she gave her brother a speaking look. Catching
and interpreting it, Laurie was obliged to still the smile that wanted to rise
on his face. They were so very comfortable together, he could not help but
enjoy it.

His own sister had
sometimes taken to prosing at him about his levity and his light attitude toward
life, but in truth he could always make her laugh with some well-timed
witticism as no one else could, and before he had been home from school for a
day, she would be returning them. "I believe you'd be a shocking bore if
not for me," he'd quizzed her one day, swinging round to peer at her from
beneath a low-hanging tree limb. "Pity for all your suitors!" he'd
added.

She'd laughed at him and
informed him many suitors respected a sober turn of mind and preferred as well
a fashionably pale face, and she would get most horribly brown if they
continued to take their walks. Of course, they'd continued to take their walks,
and she hadn't grown brown, for she always wore a hat.

Those had been good days,
before she became ill. How he would have longed to see her so healthy, later...

Here, in the present, Henry
and Jenny looked at his face, theirs united in common heritage, a certain look
of their faces, and also in wearing an enquiring, concerned expression.

"Excuse me." Laurie
reached for the teacup that Jenny held toward him. "I was gathering
cobwebs."

Jenny smiled at him
kindly, and he looked down into his cup, where he saw delicately hand-painted pink
flowers. She had given him the good cup, he noticed. The others were cracked.

He wished this young woman
did not read him so easily. But she made conversation on unexceptional topics,
speaking about her brother's work, the shocking price of tea, and how lovely it
must be at Joysey's estate in the country. "I can't wait to hear of my
brother's portrait of it," she said.

At this both men stared at
her.

"But Jen," said Henry,
"you must come."

"What?" said
Laurie at the same time. "You must accompany—"

The men looked at one
another. Jenny blinked, a bloom rising in her cheeks—not an unpleasant look, Laurie
decided. "I—I beg your pardon. I was not in the least trying to hint..."
She looked mortified.

He reached automatically
for her hand to comfort her, but was stopped by the distance between them, and
could only hope they'd not noticed his impetuous, forward impulse.