CHAPTER 25 #3
“Actually, I’m not surprised to hear that art is your passion, milady,” she continued as they began to descend. “I’ve heard that you were married to an artist and spent time in Italy before becoming the Countess of Wrexford.” A pause. “Word is there’s a touch of scandal lurking in your past.”
Charlotte hesitated. Few people knew anything about her past. Her family had taken pains to cover up the truth about her elopement, and she herself was very guarded about the details of her marriage to Anthony Sloane.
If anyone looked too closely at his activities on returning to London, they might uncover more than she wanted to reveal.
Which raised the question of how Lady Kirkwall appeared to know more than she should.
However, Charlotte chose to disguise her unease by responding with her own challenge. “As there is in yours.”
“True,” agreed Lady Kirkwall. “Any intelligent female who has the audacity to flaunt her cleverness and imagination is considered scandalous. Women are expected to submit to a life of dull and dutiful drudgery. Those who refuse to be corseted in rules threaten the hierarchy that men have created.”
A throaty laugh. “We frighten them.”
The lady’s sentiments echoed her own. And once again, Charlotte sensed a quicksilver flicker of elemental connection between the two of them. Such sardonic wisdom about women and the world had not been won without a number of battles. And the scars that went with them.
“Rather than frighten the gentlemen,” replied Charlotte, “I would prefer to change their thinking.”
“Good Heavens, what an optimist you are.” Lady Kirkwall’s voice held a note of mockery.
“I like to think of Hope as a strength, not a weakness.”
Lady Kirkwall shrugged, and yet a flicker of uncertainty seemed to belie her cynicism. “Then perhaps you’re not only an optimist but also na?ve.” She gave a brusque gesture as they reached the landing, but her show of steel-sharp toughness didn’t quite ring true. “This way.”
The portrait gallery was an airy space located behind stately double doors.
On the far wall, noted Charlotte, a bank of windows would allow a soft natural light to illuminate the room in the daytime.
Even now, with night having settled over the townhouse, a mellow glow from the oil wall sconces brought the paintings to life.
“Your collection is impressive. This portrait of Sir Thomas More is one of Holbein’s most renowned works,” remarked Charlotte as Lady Kirkwall led her to a gilt-framed canvas to their right.
“Yes. Magnificent, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. The brushwork and attention to detail are superb,” answered Charlotte.
“But what makes Holbein truly special is how he captures the intensity of his subject.” She studied it for a moment longer.
“That is what lies at the heart of being a great portrait painter—the artist must see straight into the sitter’s soul. ”
Lady Kirkwall looked away. “And here I thought an artist’s biggest challenge was to create a flattering likeness.”
“That depends.” Charlotte deliberately added nothing more, which seemed to discomfit her hostess. She then moved on to the next painting.
They moved slowly around the perimeter of the galley without further verbal sparring. Lady Kirkwall was knowledgeable about art, and they exchanged polite comments on technique and style.
“I see you have several lovely works by Gainsborough,” exclaimed Charlotte after they had passed the windows and came to the next set of portraits. “Lady in Blue is quite a tour de force. He used his palette of pigments to create such a subtle range of the color.”
She moved slowly down the row. “Ah—what a striking portrait by Thomas Lawrence, for whom I have a great admiration.” After carefully scrutinizing the details, Charlotte added, “He captured your likeness quite well, Lady Kirkwall. I doubt that he had to resort to any of his tricks of the trade in order to make it flattering.”
A faint flush seemed to tinge her hostess’s face, though it might only have been a glimmer of red from the nearby sconce’s flame. “Lawrence likes ladies. I think he’s more interested in smiles and cleavage than in searching for the sitter’s soul.”
“I think he studies his subjects more than you might realize,” replied Charlotte.
“Lawrence is known for his double dot technique, which helps capture the emotion in his subject’s eyes.
” She turned to face Lady Kirkwall. “Most people might miss it, but it seems to me that he’s caught that subtle look of vulnerability that occasionally sneaks into your gaze. ”
The comment sparked a flare of anger—no, it was fear, Charlotte realized—but it was gone in the blink of an eye.
“You have a very vivid imagination, Lady Wrexford—” Lady Kirkwall bit off her words as a footman appeared in the doorway.
“If you will excuse me for a moment,” she snapped, and moved away before Charlotte could reply.
Shifting her stance, Charlotte managed a peek into the shadowed corridor. The servant looked troubled as he bobbed his head and began to speak, but the hushed tones of the tête-à-tête made it impossible for her to make out what was being said.
The exchange didn’t last long, and Lady Taviot returned with a hurried step that set her ruffled skirts to swirling around her legs.
“Please come with me, Lady Wrexford,” she said, a sense of urgency underlying her tone as she indicated a connecting door to the left of the Lawrence painting. “We need to wait in the library.”
“Is something wrong?” demanded Charlotte once they had passed into the adjoining room.
“There is no reason to be alarmed,” answered her hostess. “Lady Peake is feeling a trifle dizzy—”
“I must go to her!” exclaimed Charlotte.
Lady Kirkwall caught her arm. “Come, calm yourself. You heard the dowager say she didn’t wish to stir any gossip about her infirmities.
My brother is handling it discreetly, by simply announcing that you wish for Lady Peake to join you in viewing the portraits.
He will escort her downstairs without anyone suspecting any trouble. ”
Trouble.
At that instant, Charlotte heard the whisper of steps on the carpet behind her. She tried to whirl around, but Lady Kirkwall’s grip on her arm was surprisingly strong. It took a second tug to pull free.
Too late.
The cudgel hit her skull with a sickening thud.
Knees buckling, Charlotte sank toward the floor. The room was spinning, spinning, spinning like a whirling dervish.
“Ye gods, what have you done!” Lady Kirkwall’s voice sounded very far away. “The plan wasn’t to harm her!”
“Plans have changed,” answered a voice that sounded oddly familiar.
Blackness was closing in. Charlotte tried to claw her way back to consciousness, but everything had turned hazy and all she could hear was a loud buzzing, like the sound of angry bees.
And then there was naught but silence.