‘I don’t want him taken.’
‘Sir Martin can hardly stay in the garden.’
‘I’m not ready for him to go yet.’
Eleanor nodded sympathetically. ‘I’ll tell them,’ she said, moving to the door. On the way she passed the wardrobe and cast a wistful glance at it. ‘Does this mean I won’t get a chance to wear that blue dress, m’lady?’
‘What?’
‘I was thinking about that portrait of you.’
‘Nothing is further from my mind, Eleanor.’
‘You might want it finished,’ suggested the other hopefully. ‘In memory of Sir Martin, I mean.’ She saw Araminta’s pained reaction and repented. ‘That was a silly idea. I’ll go and speak to them.’
She left the room quickly. Alone at last, the young widow of Sir Martin Culthorpe was able to give full vent to her anguish. Pulling back her head, she emitted a long, loud, high-pitched cry of agony.
The news spread like wildfire. By evening, hundreds of people had somehow got hold of the information that Sir Martin had been killed in the quiet of his garden. Henry Redmayne was among them. He immediately spotted an opportunity for personal gain. When his horse had been saddled, he rode swiftly to Fetter Lane to call on his brother. Christopher was stunned by what he was told.
‘Sir Martin is dead?’
‘According to all reports,’ said Henry.
‘What of his wife?’
‘She was unhurt — thank God!’
‘But how is she? The poor woman must be heart-broken.’
‘It seems that she actually found the body in the garden.’
‘That’s dreadful,’ said Christopher, wondering how Araminta could possibly cope with such an ordeal. ‘It’s something she’ll never forget. It will prey on her mind forever.’
‘She’ll need comfort,’ said Henry, composing his features into an expression that fell well short of true compassion. ‘I mourn Sir Martin deeply. He was a good man.’
‘I never heard you say a kind word about him.’
‘In death, I appreciate his many virtues.’
‘What use is that?’
‘I grieve with his wife, Christopher,’ said Henry. ‘She’s too young and fragile to be a widow. My heart goes out to her.’
‘Your heart is always going out to one woman or another.’
‘This one is different.’
‘That could be your motto,’ said Christopher harshly. ‘Have it translated into Latin and set beneath a coat of arms. On second thoughts, let the motto be in French for that’s more suited to blighted romance.’
‘You mock me unjustly.’
‘Then do not lay yourself open to mockery. You are ever your worst enemy, Henry. Father pointed out the cure. You should have married and settled down years ago.’
‘I never listen to sermons from the old gentleman, whether delivered from the pulpit or from directly beside me. The simple fact is,’ said Henry, soulfully, ‘that I’ve never met a woman who could make me repent of my sins longer than a few short weeks. Until now, that is. Until I first set eyes on Araminta Jewell.’
‘Her name is Lady Culthorpe.’
‘But she lacks the husband who gave it to her.’
‘You surely do not imagine you could take his place, do you?’ said Christopher, shaken by the thought. ‘Heavens above, man — Sir Martin’s body is not yet cold and you are already trying to devise a way to get at his widow.’
‘I love her, Christopher.’
‘Well, I can assure you that your love is not requited. When I was introduced to the lady myself, she baulked at the very name of Redmayne because of the way you’d hounded her. You are the last person in the world to whom she would turn.’
‘At the moment, perhaps,’ Henry agreed, ‘but time heals all wounds. Araminta will come to see me in a new light. With your help, I will gradually get closer to my angel.’
Christopher was acerbic. ‘Count on no assistance from me,’ he said, looking his brother in the eye. ‘I’d sooner see her carried off by a tribe of cannibals than fall into your clutches. The woman is suffering, Henry. Do you know what that means? Common decency alone should be enough to make you stay your hand.’
‘I’ll keep my distance from her yet nourish my hopes.’
‘You have no hopes.’
‘I do if you intercede on my behalf.’
‘I’ll oppose you every inch of the way, Henry.’
‘But you’ve not heard my request yet.’
‘I’ll not listen to any request made across the dead body of Sir Martin Culthorpe,’ said Christopher. ‘When he was alive, he could defend his wife’s honour. That duty falls to people like me now.’
‘You sound more and more like Father every day. Hear me out,’ said Henry, silencing his brother with a gesture. ‘Araminta deserves a decent interval in which she can bury her husband and mourn his passing. I accept that and undertake to stay well clear from her.’
‘That’s the first civilised thing you’ve said.’
‘Meanwhile, however, there remains the question of the portrait.’
‘What of it?’
‘Only that Villemot is known for the speed and excellence of his work. The chances are that her portrait has already taken on enough shape for her to be recognised.’
‘It has,’ conceded Christopher. ‘I saw it this very afternoon.’
‘And?’
‘It’s a truly astonishing likeness.’
‘I knew it!’ exclaimed Henry. ‘Buy it for me.’
His brother gaped. ‘Buy it?’
‘Yes, Christopher — make an offer. Araminta will have no need of it now and she will certainly not want it finished. I will buy it in its present state and give it pride of place in my bedchamber. Buy it for me,’ he urged. ‘Villemot would never sell it to me but he would part with it to a friend like you. Purchase it on my behalf.’
‘That’s a disgusting idea, Henry.’
‘Do you not want to make me the happiest of men?’
‘I prefer to save Lady Culthorpe from being ogled by my brother. How could you even think of such a thing?’
‘It’s an important first step in getting closer to Araminta.’
‘Then I’ll advise Monsieur Villemot to destroy the portrait. It must never be in your possession,’ said Christopher, thinking of the powerful effect that it had had on him when he had peeped at it. ‘By rights, the decision about its future lies with Lady Culthorpe. My feeling is that she may well want it burned.’
‘I’ll not see Araminta go up in flames,’ wailed Henry. ‘Let the portrait go to someone who will cherish it. Let me feast my eyes on her day after wonderful day.’
‘No, Henry — that would only feed your lust. Apart from anything else, you have no money to buy such a painting. Even in its present form, it would be expensive. How would you raise the capital?’
‘I was hoping that you might help me there, Christopher.’
‘Me?’
‘Never forget that it was I who introduced you to your first client and set you off on your glittering career.’
‘I accept that and have repeatedly expressed my gratitude.’
‘Do so in a more pecuniary way.’
‘I’ve loaned you money time and again, Henry.’
‘And I mean to repay it,’ said the other, indignantly. ‘You know that you can rely on your brother. One good night at the card table and I can discharge all my debts to you — including the money you lend me to buy that portrait.’ Henry brightened. ‘I’d be able to refund that when I win the wager.’
‘What wager?’
‘The one that I’ve made with three like-minded friends of mine.’
His brother was sickened. ‘If they are like-minded, they must be seasoned voluptuaries in the mould of Henry Redmayne. That being the case,’ he said with repugnance, ‘this wager will doubtless pertain to the very person whom we’ve been discussing. True or false?’
‘True, Christopher.’
‘Then you are even more mired in corruption than I feared. Not content with harbouring designs on the lady’s virtue, you place bets upon the outcome with your fellow rakehells.’ Crossing to the door, he pulled it wide open. ‘I’d like you to leave now, please.’