Mortal Arts (A Lady Darby Mystery) (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

H
aving washed the dust of the road from my face and hands, I dressed quickly in a marine blue gown with ivory lace trim, the least rumpled of my evening gown choices, for it lay at the top of my trunk. Its sloped shoulders and slightly puffed sleeves were the latest fashion, or so Alana had told me when she’d ordered it for me six months before. After affixing the matching marine blue belt around my waist, I allowed Lucy, my maid, to fuss over my deflated hair; however, I refused to let her curl the fashionable ringlets that graced the sides of most ladies’ heads. I was impatient to see Michael, and ringlets would take far too long to perfect. A simple knot would have to do.

Ignoring my maid’s petulant expression, I slipped out of my chamber to retrace my steps to the entry hall, when the sound of a shrill voice brought me up short. The sound was emanating from the suite my sister shared with her husband across the hall, and, though I had never heard the ever-proper marchioness speak in such a strident manner, the voice was undoubtedly Lady Hollingsworth’s.

I hesitated, wondering whether I should join the members of Philip’s family gathered in his suite. The shrieks and outrages Lady Hollingsworth uttered penetrated the wood door, as well as the calmer rumble of Philip’s voice, but the words were indistinct. I could not have eavesdropped on their conversation even had I wanted to.

Curious as I was to understand why Lady Hollingsworth had insisted her nephew attend her to sort out whatever problem there was with Michael and Caroline’s engagement, I was none too eager to encounter Philip’s stodgy aunt again, particularly while she was in the midst of a tirade. Shaking my head at her display of theatrics, I turned away from the door to my sister’s suite and marched down the hall. Alana would inform me later of everything I needed to know, and I could avoid falling under the marchioness’s critical gaze for a little while longer.

Trailing my fingers over the smooth oak of the banister, I descended the stairs toward the entry hall. Unbidden, my eyes lifted once again to the vast number of portraits plastering the walls from floor to ceiling. I felt like a honeybee buzzing among the flowers of the garden of Versailles, overwhelmed by the beauty and abundance and uncertain where to alight. My gaze drifted toward the wall on my left as I approached the first landing, falling on the portrait of a Georgian lady. A delicious shiver of excitement ran through me as I leaned closer, certain Gainsborough must have painted this. The knowing look in the young lady’s eyes, the almost poetic positioning of her amid the deep shadows of an arbor—classical techniques of the famous artist—were aspects I had tried to emulate in my own paintings.

So caught up was I in tracing Gainsborough’s brushstrokes with my eyes that I failed to notice the footsteps descending the staircase behind me. In fact, it was not until an all-too-familiar voice spoke just over my shoulder that I realized I was not alone.

“If I did not know you better, I would suspect you were ogling the young lady in that portrait, Lady Darby.”

I stiffened in surprise.

“As it is, I imagine you’re making her quite uncomfortable with so close an examination of her . . . attributes.”

His voice was husky with amusement, and I did not need to turn to look at him to know his pale blue eyes were twinkling wickedly. My gaze lifted anyway, to ensure that the devil behind me was truly there and not conjured by my active imagination. Handsome as ever, Sebastian Gage stood before me, making my heart trip over itself inside my chest.

He looked past me at the portrait and tilted his head in thought. “Although, for all we know, she might be quite the saucy minx and thoroughly enjoy your intimate inspection.”

I scowled as the impish smile curling the corners of his lips stretched even wider. “I was not ogling her breasts,” I protested, feeling my cheeks heat even as I spoke the words.

“I’m sure you weren’t,” he murmured in agreement, though the light in his eyes seemed to belie his words. “Of artistic interest, was it, my lady?”

“It’s a Gainsborough,” I declared. The artist’s name should be explanation enough.

His eyes lifted to the portrait once again before returning to me. “I see.” And clearly he did, for he did not taunt me or request that I elaborate.

We stared at each other, and for the first time the significance of his appearance struck me.

Vivid recollections flooded my mind and tangled my emotions into knots. Memories of Gage verbally sparring with me over the facts of the murder we had solved at my sister’s house party. Of him cradling me in his arms as we floated in the loch after I had been shot, and the kiss he may or may not have pressed on my icy lips. Of the last time I had seen him, when he had tried to sneak away in the predawn light without even saying good-bye.

No one had ever created such conflicting emotions inside me—irritation, fondness, longing, and anger. He challenged and confused me, and the moment I thought I knew who he was and what he wanted he would do something to alter my opinion. One moment he had turned his back on me callously, and the next he was gazing at me with such tenderness that it took everything inside me not to throw myself into his arms. I couldn’t understand him, or my reactions to him, and that made me agitated and wary. And more than a little resentful.

“You look well,” Gage said just as I snapped, “What are you doing here?”

The flush in my cheeks turned fiery at the petulant tone of my voice, but I refused to retract the question. Especially since my annoyance only seemed to amuse him further.

“I was invited,” he replied much too calmly. “Michael Dalmay and I are old friends from our university days.”

I could not dispute his assertion. As my brother-in-law had been friends with both Gage and Michael at Cambridge, it only made sense that the two men were also acquainted. However, I was suspicious of his so-called invitation, particularly when, to my knowledge, all of the other guests were in one way or another related to the betrothed couple.

“I thought you were working an investigation in Edinburgh.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I was. I finished what needed to be done there about a fortnight ago before accepting Dalmay’s
gracious
invitation.”

I narrowed my eyes, uncertain if he was mocking me.

“I suspect
your
invite was at the hands of Lady Hollingsworth. Or should I say, Cromarty’s was.”

I frowned at his subtle dig and lifted my chin. “You suppose right. Although I can, perhaps, claim a longer friendship with the Dalmays than either of you.”

Gage’s gaze turned curious.

“We grew up together, on neighboring estates.”

“But Dalmay must be almost eight years older than you.”

“Aye,” I replied with a small smile. “As are you.”

He scowled.

“I assure you, such an age difference did not stop him from pulling our braids or indulging in rowing races on the River Tweed.” I smiled wider at the memory. “Nor did the seven-year age gap between Michael and his older brother prevent Will from joining in our antics, as well. When he was home,” I added as a saddened afterthought. It had been many years since I had allowed myself to think so much about the older Dalmay boy, and the memory of him tugged at something inside me.

My mention of Will seemed to have a similar effect on Gage, for his gaze turned watchful. “You knew William Dalmay, then?”

I nodded. “He was a good man.” I glanced over my shoulder at the Gainsborough portrait. “And a gifted artist in his own right.” I sighed. “Who knows what he would have become had it not been for the war.”

I turned back to find Gage watching me closely. I furrowed my brow in question, wondering why his gaze was now so concerned. He opened his mouth to speak, and then, as if thinking better of it, shook his head.

“Shall we join the others in the drawing room?” he asked, unclasping his hands from behind his back and offering his arm to me.

I stared up at him, wondering if I could force the information out of him that he had decided not to share. I suspected not. Not when his brow had been wiped so clear of any trace that his thoughts had ever turned dark. I knew from experience that this man would not be driven to answer any questions he did not already want to. And so today’s enigmas would be added to the already long list of unresolved business between us.

I pressed my lips together and reluctantly accepted his escort.

At the bottom of the stairs, Gage drew me across the hall toward a set of double doors fashioned from slats of mahogany. One door stood wide open, allowing the tones of a far warmer conversation than the one being conducted upstairs to drift out into the hall.

Our host was the first to see us, crossing the room to take my hand in greeting. And try as I might to focus solely on Michael’s words, I found my gaze wandering over his shoulder to one of five intricately woven tapestries displayed on the creamy walls. They had obviously been designed and crafted with much skill. My fingers itched to trace the threads.

Fortunately, from Michael’s delighted grin, I could tell he did not feel slighted by my interest. “I’m glad our artwork has met with such satisfaction. Our mother must have done an adequate job of selecting accomplished pieces.”

“Indeed. Who is the designer?” I could not stop myself from asking as my gaze was drawn once again to the tapestries.

“Some fellow named Goya, my sister tells me. Procured from one of the Spanish royal palaces.”

I gasped. “Francisco de Goya?”

“But of course,” Laura Dalmay, now Lady Keswick, replied, joining in her brother’s amusement.

I blushed, realizing how rude I was being to take more interest in the tapestries than in my old friends. “Forgive me. I fear I’ve been away from the city and all of its art exhibits for far too long,” I offered by way of explanation.

Laura brushed my apology aside. “It is no matter. I am only glad to see you looking so well.” She took my hand in hers with a warm smile.

“Likewise,” I replied, taking in the sight of the sprightly young girl I remembered all grown up.

She was now a statuesque woman, though with the same light brown hair and charming sprinkling of freckles across her nose she had sported since the age of three. Being a few years older, I could remember when Laura’s mother had begun to despair at the freckles’ unfashionable appearance, but I found them to be charming. Laura was quite beautiful, but in a warm, approachable way that drew you closer rather than pushing you away to admire from afar. No, indeed, her prettiness was best appreciated up close, while basking in her bright smile. She was very much like her brother Michael in that regard.

She nodded to the man standing beside me. “I see you have already met Mr. Gage.”

I glanced up at Gage, who was observing our conversation attentively. “Lady Darby and I are already acquainted.”

Laura’s gaze turned wary. “Really?”

“Yes,” he replied, still looking down at me. “We met at Lord and Lady Cromarty’s house party several months ago.”

“Oh,” she gasped in relief. “Thank goodness! I thought maybe . . .” Her words trailed away awkwardly, and I suddenly realized why she had appeared so concerned. She worried our acquaintance had been made in London, during the inquiry into the charges my husband’s colleagues had leveled against me after his death. I had been acquitted and released, but that had not put a stop to the scandal surrounding my name or the rumors that still haunted me.

Laura blushed, and I felt an answering heat rush to my cheeks. “I forgot about Lady Cromarty’s party,” she rushed on to say. “I know Michael was sorry to miss it, as were we. Especially knowing as we do now that his lovely fiancée was also in attendance.” She glanced over her shoulder, as if looking for Caroline, but Philip’s cousin had not yet entered the room.

Her gaze alighted on her husband, and she beckoned him forward. “Oh, but allow me to introduce you to my husband.” She laced her arm through his. “This is my Lord Keswick.” She pronounced it in the same way as the name of the town in the Lake District of Cumberland—
KEZ-ik
.

“Lady Darby, my pleasure,” he murmured, bowing over my hand from his very great height like a sapling bending in the breeze. Keswick was quite possibly the tallest man I had ever met—taller even than Mr. Gage—and whippet-thin. At perhaps five and twenty, his wheat-blond hair had already begun to recede from his head, and I suspected by forty he would be bald.

“Dalmay tells me you grew up on the Northumberland side of the Tweed,” Keswick said. “Have you ever had occasion to visit Cumberland?”

“No,” I replied. “Though I hear the hills and lakes there are beautiful. That is where you are from, am I correct?”

His smile deepened. “It is. I believe it the loveliest place in all of England.”

“And deathly dull.”

Lord Keswick stepped back to reveal the deliverer of this pronouncement. A young lady in rose-colored satin sat flipping the pages of a periodical so rapidly it was doubtful she was reading. Her gaze lifted once from the paper to glance at me through the sweep of her lashes before dropping back to the pages before her, but not before I saw the twinkle in her eye.