The Duke of Shadows (24 page)

"No, from one of your petitioners. Lockwood had them sent over. If you do not agree to paint a portrait for one of these people, London's gardens are going to be denuded. Where shall I put them?"

"The sofa will do for now. And have the Duke—"

"I was very tempted to send him away."

Emma laid down her brush. "But you quite rightly realized it was not your place to do so."

"Emma, the man is—"

"I know what he is." Or at least she had known, once upon a time. Increasingly she entertained the startling idea that time might have altered him as much as it had her. She set down her brush and untied her apron, aware of Delphinia's nose wrinkling.

"You're in no state to receive him anyway. You look a mess! Your hair is coming undone and you've got paint on your nose and—"

Emma laughed; Delphinia was patting her own chignon as though the disorder might be contagious. "Nevertheless, he is coming up."

"Here! To your studio!"

"Yes. He knows I am Miss Ashdown. He's here to see some of my earlier work."

Her cousin gasped. "The ones you would not show me? Emma!"

"I will show you as well, if you like. But afterward, I need to speak with him alone."

"No." Delphinia drew herself to her full height. "It is not proper, you being closeted up here with him—"

"Delphinia, don't be absurd. I am so firmly on the shelf that the maids are tempted to dust me."

"Nevertheless, as the matron of the house, and your hostess—"

Emma spoke calmly. "I have offered to open my parents' house, if my presence here discommodes you."

Delphinia's jaw squared. "Hmmph. You are very managing, Emma."

"It comes from my mother's side, I believe."

On a speaking silence, her cousin shut the door.

Emma tossed the apron aside. All morning, on and off, she had fought butterflies. To have him up here—but his interests were purely impersonal. The Urdu, that was all. Nevertheless, the canvas on the easel manifested her distraction. The interplay between burnt umber and ultramarine blue, so crucial to every layer that would come after it, currently looked like a child had done it—with a trowel, not a brush.

She was still studying the pathetic grisaille when he appeared at the door. "Come in," she said, not lifting her eyes from the canvas. "The paintings are stacked against the wall by the armoire."

He came to her side instead. "What is this?"

"A new painting. Or it will be." For some reason, she could not bring herself to look at him. To have him in here, looking at her work… There was something gratifying in it, and that alarmed her. "This is the grisaille, the first layer."

"Interesting. It looks nothing like a painting."

"No, it would not yet, even if it were better. But the grisaille is the foundation for the light and dark of the whole. Without it, the work would lack luminosity and depth. It would have no … dimensionality, I suppose."

"Important, then."

"Yes. And difficult. Perhaps the most difficult part of the piece." He was very close; she could hear the rise and fall of his breathing. She wondered if this might be the right time to experiment with the
impasto
style the Parisians were using. The critics labeled it a crude and regressive trend, but she suspected it might prove more accommodating of the constant distractions she faced here.

"Shall you make one of these for me, then? Or will you leave me sadly flat?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, when I pose for you."

She stepped around the easel to adjust one of the brass supports. "Your offer was serious?"

"Wasn't yours?"

She raised her head. He was looking down at her, from very far up, and his lips wore a faint smile.
His lips would take more time.
She had thought that once, when contemplating how she would draw his face. She had been thinking in terms of charcoal then, but it would hold true for oils also. She remembered laboring over them in the other painting. How to communicate their softness? But also the way they could turn so very firm? The way they could shape one's own lips, guide and direct them…

Stop it.
She straightened, unnerved and irritated. "It is kind of you to offer. But I think not. Painting you would be—"

"Too frightening?" he asked sympathetically. "I've noticed my presence unsettles you. I am doing my best to put you at ease, but you must meet me halfway, Emma."

His manner was infuriating, perhaps because he did not bother to hide the condescension that underpinned it. "Indeed? How charitable. But really, Julian, I fear I couldn't do you justice. After all, I have but a small talent, and you are so very …
pretty."

"Hmm. But perhaps I could rely on your reputation to carry the work. Why, I could paint you as Lucifer tempting Eve. Just think! Your face could be on the walls of the RoyalAcademy, representative of original sin and all the troubles of the world."

He threw back his head and laughed. "Absolutely perfect! And shall you be my Eve?"

She squared him with a look. "Of course not. It must be someone who is open to that sort of temptation."

"Touché," he said, and bent down to retrieve something. "Perhaps you may use Mrs. Mayhew, then." He held up her sketchbook, which was opened to a hastily drawn portrait. "I see you have mastered her features."

"Give me that!" She lunged around the easel to snatch the pad away. She sensed his eyes on hers as she crossed to the desk and locked the sketchbook into a drawer.

"Is this how you spend your days, then?"

She glanced back. "How do you mean?"

His head tipped to the side as he considered her. "Locked in here, committing the world to the page?"

She took a step and nearly tripped over Poppet. The dog was forever nosing about. She bent down to scoop him up, chucking him under the chin as he squirmed. "I would not word it that way. But that is the nature of painting, yes."

"So that would be your excuse, then."

"My excuse?"

"For remaining at a distance. For the sake of your art, you must remain the observer."

"Don't be absurd."

"Did you even exchange two words with Mrs. Mayhew last night?"

"I believe I spoke to her; I am not sure she responded."

"And that was enough for you? Enough to know how to draw her."

"Observation does not require intimacy," she said.

"Of course." He shrugged. "Only—it seems very lonely, Emma."

Poppet whimpered beneath her tightening grip. She murmured an apology and let the dog jump out of her arms. "I imagine it would seem so to you. But you must keep in mind, I am not so isolated when in Durringham. I have a wider circle there; the village is most hospitable."

"I'm sure. The residents must be very gratified, that the lady of the manor condescends to be received by them."

"It is not like that!"

"Oh? How is it? Does the vicar's wife turn to you when she needs an extra hand? Do you drop by the milliner's for gossip in the morning?"

She rolled her eyes. "I would not like such a closeness. It would distract me. I have other things to do."

"Yes," he said. "Painting, of course. And—?"

"It's very amusing, your concern. I didn't think a rake would be so invested in the interests of community. Or perhaps—" She raised her brows. "Perhaps that is what drives
your
wayward tendencies. Are
you
lonely, your grace?"

He smiled. "No, I think you have rakes figured wrongly, Emma. The art lies in omitting the emotion. No connection other than the physical."

"A shame I am not a man, then. I should enjoy being a rake. Perhaps I would excel at it."

"Do you think so?" he asked softly.

"Look, you are here to see the paintings, aren't you? Then come look at them and leave me be."

To her relief, he followed her to the corner without argument. But with her hand on the sheet draping the paintings, she hesitated. "You have seen my other work."

"Yes, as I'd said."

She kept her eyes on the muslin. "You were not—surprised by it? That
I
should have painted it?"

She could feel his keen regard, like a tangible touch moving over her face. A few paces separated them. He still seemed too close for comfort. "It is very powerful stuff," he said slowly. "Masterful, even. But no, I was not entirely surprised that you should have that sort of skill."

It was very flattering answer, but it did not satisfy her. She wondered what she had hoped to hear instead. With a sigh, she pulled off the sheet and stepped back.

She had arranged the paintings deliberately; the first was the hardest for her to look upon. It was unfinished, the sides of the man's face fading into the grisaille. An eerie effect, but fitting. If he were indeed a ghost, then she had made him so.

"Here he is," Julian said quietly. "The other one from Chandni Chowk."

"Yes. You have a very good memory."

"Why did you choose to place them both in officers' tents?"

She shrugged. "Abuse of authority in the place of authority."

"He looks more bloodthirsty than I remember."

Her mouth twisted out of her control. "Then you don't remember him correctly."

"And you do." He eyed her strangely before refocusing on the canvas. "Curious. You only ran into them that once, correct?"

She waved off the question. "What does the Urdu say?"

"Oh, it's very entertaining. It reads—if I can make it out correctly; your handwriting is abominable—'Ten
crore
for troop movements in the following areas.'"

"Crore? What is that?"

"It's a bloody lot of money."

"Oh." She reached out to finger the canvas. How aggressive her brushstrokes had been. She remembered how her wrist had ached each night in bed. "Did the army pay its spies, then?"

"Not so well as that."

"So it must have been a joke."

"One doesn't joke about things like that. You can't read what you paint on there," he mused. "Emma, did someone write out this Urdu for you?"

"No. I found it."

"Where did you find it?" He pulled the painting back to look at the one behind it. He swore under his breath, and then read the Urdu aloud. "'If women and children are killed, all the better.'"

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "What a peculiar thing for an English soldier to say."

"A soldier?
Christ.
Emma, where did you find this?"

"In Kurnaul."

"How? From whom?"

She stared unseeing at the painting. "Why would our army want women and children to be killed?"

He gave a strange little laugh. "To have a bloody good time retaliating for it. Heroes were made at Cawnpore, you know."

"My God. I might be sick. I—oh, God, what is wrong with Poppet?" She pushed past Julian, dashing around the easel to the patch of carpet where the little dog lay twitching. There was foam at his mouth, and he was whimpering, so softly she had to lean down to catch the noise. "I
told
Delphinia not to let him in here! I told her the paints would poison him!"

She stroked his stomach and paws, and it seemed to calm him. He gave a long sigh and went still.

"Poppet! Julian, I think he's…"

Julian knelt down at her side. She scratched the dog's stomach, but he did not move. Girding herself, she pressed two fingers gently on his chest, then leaned down farther, straining for the slightest whisper of breath.

"Yes," she said, sitting back. "Oh, the poor dear thing! He's dead!"

Julian reached out to flick at a piece of paper. "What is this? He's been into something."

"Delphinia is never going to forgive me! Oh, please let it not have been my paints—"

"He ate this, I think."

She plucked the wrapper from his hand and held it up for a sniff.

"Stop that," Julian said sharply, and knocked her hand away. "If it—"

"It's chocolate," she said. "It's—he got into the box." She looked around for it. There it was; the dog had knocked it off the arm of the sofa, and pieces had fallen all along the floor. "Could it have been the chocolate, then?" She picked through them tentatively. "Just one piece, it looks like. But he's gotten into chocolate before. It must have been the paints. Julian, Delphinia is going to kill me!" She looked back toward the easel. Her palette sat, undisturbed, on the small side table. And she had only been working with two colors. Poppet could not have gotten to them. "But how…"

"Where did you get the chocolate from?"

She looked back to him, her hands clutching in her lap. "Oh God," she said softly. "You don't think—"

"Emma, tell me where you found the Urdu for your painting." His voice was very grim.

"Letters," she said dumbly. "I copied lines from them onto my paintings of the Mutiny. But surely—"

"And they were on display at Lockwood's. Christ almighty!" He came off the floor in a rush. "You put evidence of this on display for the world to see!"

"I didn't know!" She scrambled to her feet. "How could I know!"

"Someone knows," he said. His eyes fell to the small dog lying on the floor between them. "Someone is trying to kill you."

How strange that such commonplace words could be combined to signify something so hideous. "Poor Poppet," she whispered, blinking back tears. "Everyone knows chocolate isn't good for dogs."

"Emma, listen to me," he said slowly, and with a hand on her shoulder, pushed her down onto the couch. "It's all making sense. The man who rushed you in Grosvenor Square—the fire at Lockwood's—"

"Yes," she said blankly. "I see where you're going. But—it's impossible, Julian. The man who wrote these letters … he's
dead."

"Are you sure?"

She scuffed the carpet with one foot. "Quite sure."

She knew he was watching her, but she did not look up. He spoke again. "How many of the paintings at Lockwood's had lines from the letters?"

"All of them." A laugh popped out of her. In a black, black way, it was rather funny. "And every painting I've given to the Academy."

"And where are the letters themselves?"

She looked up at him.

"Whoever saw the painting must think you understand what you've written there. That you have proof of—whatever this was. Do you?"

"Yes," she said. "Well—I know where they are, at any rate. But no, they're not … with me. I hid them."

His eyes narrowed. "Why would you have hidden them if you didn't know what they said? Has someone threatened you over this? Did you take them to protect yourself?"

"No. Nothing like that. They just—fell into my possession, so to speak."

His frustration was clear. "If you will not tell me how you got them—"

"I will not."

"Then tell me where you bloody hid them!"

"One of the paintings," she said, and came to her feet, bound for the desk. The red ledger lay open to a fresh page; she flipped back and ran a finger down the list of paintings.
As I Laughed.
"Oh, Julian, it's in one of the paintings I
sold!"