The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife (42 page)

She was surprised. Not
many people, other than painters, cared for the pungent odors of
paint and turpentine.

“You made it home
safely? Did you meet up with Mr. Mason?”

“Yes, to both of your
questions,” he replied. “How about you, did you have a good time
at your party?”

He looked ready for a
chat. He always seemed happy to see her and spend time talking with
her on any topic, light or serious. Growing up with few people to
talk to and even fewer who really listened to her, she enjoyed having
his undivided attention.

“As much as I
expected.” She didn’t try to hide her lack of interest.

“Don’t all young
ladies enjoy balls?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

“I’d rather be here
painting.” She stopped abruptly. The wine and the punch she’d
taken at Venetia’s must have lowered her guard. She’d never been
so open about her painting with anyone other than Foster or Monsieur
and, more recently, Mr. Mason. Yes, Reed may have seen her up here
painting that one morning, but he didn’t know how vital it was to
her being.

“You take your art
seriously then?” It was more a statement than a question. “Is
that the work that keeps you busy and away from me?”

At her nod, he asked,
“Have you been painting for a long time?”

“Yes, from
childhood.”

He indicated her
cloaked easel. “What are you painting now?”

Grazie
al cielo!
Thank heavens she’d concealed his portrait
with another painting! She jumped up and stood protectively in front
of the easel. Her heart thumped wildly at the thought of him
discovering “the” painting. How would he react if he saw it?

“Now I understand why
you were so keen to see the art exhibit,” Reed said. “Art is your
avocation.” He noted a sudden, mutinous glint in her eye.
Naturally, her art was more than a pleasant diversion. Just the
quality of the paintings he’d perused in the studio tonight made
that clear. This was no hobby. This was her passion, her life.

She responded with a
mild, “One must have a hobby.”

Her self-control was
impressive. He guessed she’d been doing that for years, not letting
anyone see how much her painting meant to her. He watched as she
tried not to look as if she were standing guard in front of her
easel. He swallowed a smile. She’d be mortified if she knew he’d
already discovered her secret.

Sobering up, he
reflected on what else he’d discovered up here. These past few days
had been full of shocks, but the biggest one was tonight, when he’d
discovered he was also a dab hand at drawing.

Had that been the
attraction between them?

Earlier, when he heard
her climbing the stairs, he’d torn off the pages he’d sketched
and hid them among her finished works. He’d retrieve them tomorrow.
He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted to keep this knowledge about
himself quiet for now, in case all here was not as it seemed.

Or perhaps it was the
vehemence with which she had declared, that day at the art exhibit,
that she’d never marry an artist! Disparagement had dripped from
her every word. He’d chuckled and said there was little chance of
that because she was already married. Now he was recalling how she’d
seemed almost shocked at the reminder.

Had he not told her he
was an artist, as well as married her under an assumed name? He was
beginning to dislike the man he appeared to have been before hitting
his head!

“Do you want some?”
Sitting down beside him, she held out her plate of bread and cheese.

“Thank you.” He
took a piece of each. He bit off some cheese and chewed, delighted
with it. “Hmmm... good. I didn’t realize I was hungry.”

“Much more filling
than the food offered at my sister’s, I can tell you.”

He laughed quietly.

They spoke about art
and the view of the sky while they ate and then, after Tally had to
stifle yet another huge yawn, as tiredness took its toll, their
conversation slowed, then tapered off. Almost immediately, she became
aware of his large body lounging comfortably beside her on the window
bench.

His warm sideways
glances sent shivers skating down her spine.

Tension mounted.

She wiped damp palms on
her thighs. Did he plan on kissing her again? She should refuse. She
knew better...

“I think you know who
shot me,” he suddenly said.

She’d been in the
middle of another yawn, but her mouth snapped shut at his question.
Disconcerted. Disappointed. Here, she’d been having romantic
imaginings, while he’d been wondering who shot him. It felt like a
huge pitcher of cold water had been poured over her head.

He continued, “You
told me Foster would never…”

She interrupted him
with her objections, but he stopped her by lifting his hand up palm
out.

“…and I believe
you.”

She relaxed, but only
marginally. This was a subject fraught with… snares, ready to trip
her up if she said the wrong thing.

“But, I need to know
who did, because until I do, I have to worry about being shot each
time I go out. I don’t know who is out there trying to kill me.”

Should
she tell him?

“When I was out the
other day, I was attacked by men who were determined to finish me
off.”

She tried to look
astonished. Mr. Mason had asked them not to tell Reed that they knew.
The investigator hadn’t made his presence known to Reed that day
and deemed it best that he not know he was being followed, even if it
was for his own protection.

“It convinced me I
must be the target of a murderer. But why? What have I done that’s
so terrible someone wants me dead?” His frustration was obvious.

Maybe she shouldn’t
tell him. After all, someone
was
out to kill him. If she didn’t tell him the truth, he’d continue
to be cautious.

Coward! You just don’t
want to face him when he finds out you’re the one who shot him. She
hated herself! But she was too tired to deal with this tonight.

Another excuse, she
admitted in disgust.

“You were already
shot when I found you on the floor,” which, she told herself,
wasn’t precisely a lie. He
had
already been shot by the time she went to see why he wasn’t getting
up. “We didn’t know until we lifted you up off the floor to lay
you on the bed. We saw the blood and found the wound and assumed that
was why you’d fallen”

Oh my heavens, she was
going to hell for all her lies!

He continued to gaze
intently into her eyes. Trying to plumb the secrets of her mind, no
doubt. She did her best to wipe all expression from her face, but was
afraid her guilt must show.

“That’s
disappointing.” He shrugged and stood to face outside, away from
her.

She swallowed the big
lump of tears that threatened to rise. She’d not told him for his
own benefit. But would he believe that when... if... he found out? It
was the only way for her to protect him. But her craven conscience
was whispering to her that it was her own self-interest that had
decided not to tell him tonight.

Disheartened and unsure
of herself, she stood and picked up the dirty plate. “It’s late.
I think I’ll go to bed now.” Another yawn escaped. “I hope you
sleep well.”

She walked toward the
door, sad that their usual warm feelings were being tainted by this
uncomfortable tension that had arisen between them. It was as if he
knew she wasn’t telling him the truth. She’d never been good at
lying. She supposed she should be thankful she wasn’t getting
better at it with practice, but it was darned inconvenient tonight!

She reached the
doorway, then looked back to bid him goodnight.

Still facing the
window, he vowed, “Tally, soon… soon I’ll be well again and
we’ll sleep together and make love once more. We’ll rebuild what
we had... I promise.”

Drat, drat, drat! Tally
knew she should have held out and said no to her sisters’
entreaties to attend their
soiree
.
Now her painting time was being disrupted by visitors!

“
Bonjour,
Mademoiselle
Lawton. I was sorry to miss your sister’s
celebration last evening and especially sorry to miss welcoming you
to London.”

“
Bonjour
,
Monsieur Beauclaire. I am pleased to meet you.” If she had to have
a visitor, at least she was glad it was Monsieur’s good friend and
agent. He might be able to shed some light on where Monsieur had
gone.

“I am your first
visitor,
Mademoiselle
?”
The heavyset Frenchman offered her an apologetic smile. He sounded
surprised.

She hoped that didn’t
mean she should expect a glut of guests! She smiled inwardly at her
turn of phrase. It sounded a bit like ‘a gaggle of geese’.

She gestured him to sit
down, but he bowed politely and indicated she should do so first.
Such gentlemanly behavior augured well for her chances of extracting
information from him.

“Forgive me, if I am
too early,” he said.

“No need for
forgiveness, I imagine there will be others coming along soon,” she
said, thinking of her grandmother.

This was the very
reason she’d not let her family know she was in town and had sworn
not to go out in Society. When she was painting, she had no time for
the social obligations thrust upon one, like receiving visitors in
one’s home. And, at the moment, it was even a frightening prospect,
given that Reed was living here. Today, he’d agreed when she’d
suggested he go to the market with Mrs. P and Joseph. He’d been
eager to go with them. Said he was fed up of being shut inside the
four walls of his bedroom all the time.

She was thankful for
his need to get out, since she couldn’t imagine Grandma not making
an appearance today and she had to keep him out of her relative’s
way! Out of everyone’s way, really.

She sat on the sofa and
indicated the armchair in front of her. “Won’t you sit down.”

She was glad to see
that Foster had already brought in the tea and had set out other
beverages for her to offer. She hoped this would be the first and
last time she’d have to entertain visitors.

How had Monsieur
Beauclaire discovered where she lived?

From her sisters,
naturally. Who else?

Now that she knew
Spencer hadn’t tattled, she worried about who the talebearer of her
whereabouts was. How had that meddlesome person known where she
lived? And if they knew that, what else might they know? She had much
to hide.

At least Monsieur
Beauclaire seemed inoffensive and he was connected to the art world.
He must have interesting tales to tell about it.

Once the niceties had
been observed, she brought up Monsieur Moreau’s absence, but, on
that topic, Gaston Beauclaire was remarkably close-lipped.

He seemed troubled by
her question. “All I can tell you
Mademoiselle
,
is that he …” and he proceeded to repeat the exact same message
that was in the second note.

Had he written it?

She was disappointed
that he didn’t appear to know any more than she did. Or was he
trying to make her believe that? Could
he
be responsible for Monsieur’s disappearance and for her father’s
forged signature on her works? He seemed too old and harmless to be
capable of such treachery.

Less than twenty
minutes later, he rose, preparing to take his leave.

Their farewells were
interrupted by sounds coming from the front hall. Another visitor had
arrived. Tally’s shoulders sagged. Was she going to have to spend
the entire afternoon entertaining callers?

Foster entered and, in
a formal tone announced, “Mr. Victor Dubuc.”

So soon? She was seeing
him tomorrow. She hadn’t expected he’d visit today as well.

“Good afternoon, oh
beauteous one...” he began, then he spotted the older man,
stiffened and changed it to, “…Miss Lawton.” He held onto his
charming smile but she noticed it cooled considerably. He was
obviously not pleased to see her other guest.

“Mr. Dubuc. Good
afternoon.” She gestured for him to join them. Monsieur Beauclaire
changed his mind about leaving and sank back down into his chair.

She didn’t understand
why he stayed because, from the start, she sensed tension, if not
outright animosity, between the two. She’d have expected them to be
friendlier because both were so close to her mentor. But it seemed
not and the next half-hour was like an unrehearsed play where the
actors either forgot their lines or delivered them in so stilted a
fashion, the audience was made to feel uncomfortable. Awkward pauses
punctuated by strained conversation, mostly initiated by Mr. Dubuc
until — realizing his uncle’s friend was not going to depart
until he did — the younger man grudgingly took his leave, followed
closely by the agent.

“Thank heavens,
they’re gone!” She clutched her head in frustration and crossed
her eyes, making Foster laugh. “I felt like I was the red cape
between the matador and a bull!” She walked to the stairs. “I
don’t imagine there will be many more visitors… other than…”

“Your grandmother,”
without a second’s hesitation, Foster finished her sentence.

Grimacing, she started
up the stairs. “After that silent contest of wills, I need to
freshen up before I face Grandma.” On her way upstairs, she
reflected that, in spite of her two visitors’ antagonism, it
uplifted a woman’s confidence to have a handsome man come specially
to see her. She’d been isolated in the country for so long, that
she’d never really had male callers. Other than Spence, of course,
but he didn’t count. He was more like a brother and, his amorous
imaginings aside, he was certainly not of any romantic interest to
her. She may have sworn off marriage, but it was nice to know she was
not without some allure to the male species.