The Seduction of Lady Charity: The Baxendale Sisters Book Four (4 page)

“We only need stay in London a day or two.”

“Shall I come?” Mercy asked.

“You would be bored, Mercy,” Mama said.

“I suppose. And I don’t really like leaving Wolf.” Mercy’s long fair hair swung down as she bent to offer a piece of beef to Wolf, who had crept into the room with an air of expectation. “I was told he missed me dreadfully when we went to visit Hope.” Mercy’s shoulders gave a small, almost indecipherable shrug. She’d always been happy to remain at home. But now that she approached her seventeenth birthday, surely it wouldn’t be long before she wished to spread her wings. It made Charity want to fight for Mercy as well as herself, to become an example for her to follow.

“Instruct a footman to remove the dog, Graves,” Mama said to the butler, who was hovering with the wine decanter.

During the trip to London, her mother again expressed her concern for her father’s health. Charity winced, suffering a degree of guilt. The doctor had assured Mama that Father’s health was improving, and his breathing was better when he’d appeared at breakfast that morning. She only needed to remain long enough to gain a sense of her subject and discover what Gunn expected.

London sweltered with humidity under louring clouds. A rumble of thunder in the distance heralded an approaching storm as they reached Lord Gunn’s home on the north side of Grosvenor Square. Individually designed with towering columns decorating its façade, the building faced a more unified group of houses across the garden square.

A stiffly formal butler in dark clothes admitted them to the unoccupied drawing room, where a long bank of windows, festooned with brocade fringed with gold, overlooked the flowers in the square.

While waiting for the baron, they sat on a gold satin sofa in the Egyptian style the king was known to favor. Moments later, when he strode in, he seemed to fill the room. With her artist’s eyes, Charity took in his shock of untamed red hair and long face enlivened by bright blue eyes. She had already discovered he was thirty years old and unmarried when she looked him up in her father’s book,
The New Peerage
. Broad-shouldered and rather overpowering, he would make a splendid subject.

After the usual greetings, he studied her and raised his auburn eyebrows. “So, you’re the remarkable young artist whose work is taking the
ton
by storm.”

Surprised, she blushed. Was she ready for such a task? This newfound fame was unnerving. Her old drawing teacher had called yesterday and heaped praise upon her. He particularly liked her work in oils. She had begun to copy the old masters to learn more of their techniques, but her style had developed into something very different. She still had so much to learn! “You are kind, indeed, sir. But I cannot lay claim to such praise.”

“Of course you can. I recently visited Brandreth Park, where I was impressed with your soft brush strokes and how well you revealed your subjects’ personalities. You’ve captured the marquess and his wife perfectly—breathed life into them. While many artists produce very fine works, only a few of the best can do that. Many tend to make a fellow look like he’s died and been stuffed like a boar’s head.”

Mama cleared her throat.

Gunn smiled and bowed his head. “Ach! Apologies, Lady Baxendale, for ma plain-speaking.” His inquisitive blue eyes focused once again on Charity. “Well, Lady Charity? Are you keen to capture me on canvas? I have one proviso. I want to appear more cheerful than my ancestors do; I’ve a sour-faced lot decorating my hall in Scotland. I trust you’ll produce something infinitely more eye-catching.” His wide mouth stretched in a smile. “As you see, I’m far from dead.”

She had to smile and agree with his view. “Do you wish to be painted in your state robes, my lord?” Charity could visualize him now, with the red robe edged with ermine, carelessly thrown over one broad shoulder. Standing, perhaps, with one powerful leg slightly forward as if about to stride on, and the background…. a Scottish brae perhaps.

He waved a very large hand. “I prefer to wear ma tartan.”

A servant entered with the tea tray. “Now let us take refreshment. Lady Baxendale, if you will kindly pour?” He moved to the edge of his seat and settled his restless gaze on Charity. “How does a young woman of your tender years come to be so skilled, I wonder? And such a pretty lady too.”

Clearing her throat again, Mama seized the silver teapot and began to pour.

Lord Gunn continued his animated conversation while drinking whiskey. She and her mother drank tea and nibbled the fine Scottish shortbread. This interesting man was not as she imagined a rake to be. Not that she’d ever met one.

When the tea tray was removed, he sat back and tapped the pads of his fingers together. “Now, my lady. Shall we begin today?”

Charity picked up her sketchpad tied with blue ribbon from the sofa beside her. She dug into her reticule for pencils. “We can discuss the composition while I rough out some sketches. Once I have your approval, I’ll begin the portrait at home.”

He stood. “Then we shall proceed to the south parlor, as the windows give the best light. Lady Baxendale, you may prefer to remain here where it’s cooler.”

Her mother rose with a hasty rustle of skirts. “I’ll accompany my daughter, thank you, Lord Gunn.”

Gunn bowed. “But of course, my lady.”

Some hours later, they left Grosvenor Place with Charity’s head filled with ideas for the portrait. “I’m confident I can make an excellent start with these sketches,” she said as she and her mother returned home in the carriage. She raised her voice to be heard above the noise of the rain drumming on the roof. “I only need a few sittings with Lord Gunn. Once I have the composition clear in my mind, and the preliminaries meet with his approval, I can work on it on my own.”

“At least we can be glad of that,” Mama said.

“You didn’t like him?”

“He seems personable enough, or certainly tries to be. And one shouldn’t judge a man by gossip, I suppose. But…” She narrowed her eyes and said no more.

“I believe he’s a friend of the king’s.”

“That’s hardly a recommendation.”

“I don’t see there’s anything to worry about, Mama. After all, you will always be present while I’m with him. He could hardly seduce both of us.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Charity turned to stare at her, widening her eyes. “Mama!”

****

In the breakfast room, Robin folded the newspaper into a neat square to reread the news item. The praise for Charity’s paintings was surprising and very heartwarming. “
The lady reveals astonishing maturity in one so young
,” the article stated. Robin had recognized Charity’s talent some time ago but admitted to himself, with a touch of shame, that he’d considered a woman being acknowledged as a portrait artist in England nigh near impossible. In the past, the few women who had made some kind of a name for themselves had hardly prospered. But in these modern times, perhaps anything was possible.

This was indeed good news, for once Charity’s reputation for excellence became unassailable, she could paint the first of his portraits and not risk damage to her reputation through harsh criticism from those who expected the Duke of Harwood to be painted by some eminent fellow like Sir Thomas Lawrence. It would raise eyebrows nonetheless to be painted by a woman. The thought of it was quite intriguing. But he must be patient. He eased his shoulders. He still hadn’t accustomed himself to having his every move watched and written about or the level of expectation heaped on him.

Franklin entered the room. “Lord Bellamy has arrived, Your Grace.”

Robin grinned and relaxed as his friend, Francis Bellamy, followed the butler in, bringing with him the smell of leather, horse, and the leafy outdoors.

“Good morning, Robin.” Francis strode to the sideboard and raised the silver covers, releasing savory smells to the air. “Kidneys, sausages, bacon, eggs. Most satisfactory. I’m as hungry as a horse, as the saying goes.” He piled food onto his plate. “Bring me an ale, Franklin, there’s a good man. A fellow gets thirsty riding this early.”

“You are up with the larks.” Being with old friends made Robin feel so much more himself. He eyed his best friend, who had deserted the fleshpots of London for him. “I recommend the kidneys. How do your mother and father go on?”

“Relishing the country air. Find it damned boring myself. However do you bear it here? My childhood memories have returned to plague me.”

“That’s because you were a horrible child.” Robin put down his coffee cup. “I’m planning to hold a ball. And you are invited.”

“I accept most gratefully. That is if there are any pretty girls in this part of the county.”

“More than enough to please you.”

“Will Louise take over the organizing and so forth?”

“My sister has kindly offered to assist.”

“And what is the reason for this affair?”

Robin buttered a piece of toast. “It’s time I thought of marriage.”

Francis’s dark eyebrows rose. “Are you mad? We have years before we need succumb to the parson’s mousetrap. Ten at the very least.”

“It’s all very well for you. You’re a second son. You consider it your duty to lark about in Town with your cronies.”

“That’s not entirely true. I shall be shafted into the army, the church, or enter the law before very long. I believe there’s a London townhouse amongst those properties you’ve inherited, is there not?”

“There is. And next season I shall reside there. But I have no wish to associate with Cyprians. Not even the most beautiful of ’em.”

Francis eyed him. “You never did have a mind to. Just as well or I’d suspect you’d developed an exaggerated sense of your own importance.”

Robin laughed. There was no point in arguing with Francis. They were chalk and cheese. Their unlikely friendship, which had begun at Eton, had only grown stronger with the years.

“Eat up, Francis,” Robin said. “I plan to ride after breakfast.”

Francis picked up his knife and fork and dissected a kidney. “I just rode several miles from Bellamy Hall, but as I have a new Arab stallion that is a dream to ride, I’m happy to indulge you.”

“Arab eh? I look forward to seeing him.”

While Francis broke into a fulsome description of the grandeur and beauty of his new horse, his finely arched head and neck, flashing eye, and powerful quarters, Robin considered how long he should wait in hope that Charity would change her mind. Apart from her curiosity about his new life, her letters were all about her art. Perhaps it was better for him to give up hope and seek a bride soon. He wanted a woman in his life and, not to put too fine a point on it, a woman in his bed. But stubbornly, the hope remained that, if he could have Charity paint his portrait, it would give him time to make her realize that what they shared was special.

Chapter Four

Charity stepped back from the portrait. It was almost finished, and she was pleased with the result. She’d painted the Scottish baron in his beautiful tartans, a foot resting on the base of a statue in his gardens, one large hand at his hip. A corner of his Aberdeenshire home, painted from a sketch Gunn had given her of his towering stone castle, formed the background.

She had requested a final sitting and was relieved when he suggested coming to her in Tunbridge Wells, as she couldn’t go to London while Father’s chest complaint lingered. Gunn was to call that afternoon.

When Gunn arrived promptly at two o’clock, his large, overwhelming presence in her small workroom made her nervous. He surveyed the painting, perched on the easel, from all angles, and then his bright gaze rested on her. “Remarkable how you’ve captured the movement of the breeze through the trees. Even the clouds seem buffeted about in the sky.” His generous mouth stretched into a smile. “And I believe you’ve captured me. Well done.”

Charity released a breath. Her restless subject was seldom still. Even here, he strode around like a big caged lion. He picked up another of her half-finished landscapes and nodded approvingly.

“Please be seated, Lord Gunn.” Charity chose a brush and picked up her palette.

“Call me Angus, Lady Charity.”

As she worked on the canvas, Gunn described his home in glowing terms. He rose from his chair and came around to view the work. “A touch more gold where the sun rests there on the granite wall, perhaps.” He leaned over her to indicate the spot with a broad hand on her shoulder. “That side of the house turns a beautiful rosy shade in the late afternoon sun. I should like you to paint my home, Lady Charity. Craighead was built in the fifteenth century. It sits above the cliffs overlooking Gruden Bay. You’ll nae see another like it in the world.”

She moved slightly away from him, making him drop his hand, sure that she wouldn’t meet anyone like him either. As his deep, rich, heavily accented voice flowed over her, she could almost believe she would go to Scotland and paint his castle. But that was a dream. Such things didn’t happen. She blended white with yellow umber and added a highlight to the sun-kissed stone then mixed a violet grey before painting a soft shadow along the line of his sharp jaw. Feeling she could do no more, she put down her palette and brush then turned to him for approval.

“Ah, you have it. Perfect.” His gaze rested on her. “I should very much like you to see this framed and hanging in my Great Hall in Scotland.”