Chapter 18
Eighteen
Jack decided his intrusion into the Somerset House party was entirely justified when Captain Sedgewick arrived almost at the same time as their conveyance and with the clear intention of playing escort to the ladies.
That he’d somehow heard of the expedition, and that his sister appeared to be embarking upon it some half hour before the time he’d been expecting, Jack learnt by unashamedly eavesdropping on the exchange of caustic whispers and scowls he was familiar with from his own siblings.
Miss Sedgewick clearly suspected her brother.
And it was equally clear she was doing the little in her power to shield Min from him.
Jack’s breast swelled with a tolerably powerful feeling.
He liked Caroline all the better for the care she took of Min.
It gratified him that others now looked out for her the way he’d always done.
That they recognised her worth. It gratified him that George had…
that George had… He frowned down at the hand in his as he helped Min into the carriage, swiftly taking the seat beside her before Sedgewick could.
But really, there was simply no room inside the grubby little hackney for the two men to sit shoulder to shoulder.
Jack had to sit beside Min, and there was no more proper place for Sedge than beside his own sister—a fact Caroline seemed equally aware of from the twinkling smile she gave Jack as she took her own seat, arranging her skirts and smoothing the lap of her pelisse.
“Very cosy,” she murmured, with laughing eyes. “What a perfect party we make. I can’t think why I didn’t include you from the start, my dear Lord Orton.”
“Probably because Jack can’t abide art,” said Sedge, venting his irritation at the seating arrangements with this uncharitable broadside.
“Whereas I, Miss Fanshaw, happen to be a great lover of it.” He gazed greasily at her across the footwell.
A distinct downside to their seating arrangements.
Min had nowhere to hide, and she hated being looked at.
Jack set his jaw while she ran the beaded tassel of her reticule through her fingers, eyes intent upon the distraction.
It was a decidedly pretty little bag. Jack hadn’t seen her with it before. The whole outfit was decidedly pretty. A very natural shade of pale pink, like the tint just under the skin of an apple. Or a lady’s lips. Or a lady’s—
No, no. Jack swung his head to stare out of the window. Some thoughts were entirely too inappropriate with a woman pressed up against you, hip to elbow. Especially when that woman was Min.
“If you think us military men too rough to appreciate the finer things in life,” continued Sedgewick, “let me be a lesson to you. I’ve always enjoyed looking at paintings and the like.
I’ll have you know I went to a very obscure little exhibition at Soho some years ago, that Blake fellow, and I stayed almost half an hour. ”
“Lost, were you?” enquired Jack.
“No!” said Sedgewick with a glare. “Heard he had a painting of Nelson, but I can’t say it looked anything like him. Seemed more like a painting of faeries or something. Probably he never met the man. Or maybe it was…ah…what do you call it? Artistic interpretation? Is that the word, Miss Fanshaw?”
“Quite possibly,” she replied in a very small, very polite voice.
And probably only Jack, whose arm was pressed up against hers, was aware of the quiver of suppressed laughter that shook her.
It was wholly alive, that flutter of mirth, her arm warm and soft against him, even through the thick fabric of her pelisse.
Darting a glance at her, he spotted the telltale curve hidden at the corner of her lips, the roundness of her cheek visible below the sweep of her bonnet, and the dimple threatening to break out between the two.
Just the dimple alone would have made him smile, but so did this reminder of the little devil that lived inside her, laughing at the world.
He’d once lived for the joy of coaxing it out, a secret shared between them.
Yes, she was quiet, and yes, she was sweet, but she could also be scathing and secretly cutting in her own hidden world, and who had ever glimpsed it but him?
He smiled so wide he had to hide it behind his hand and watch the crowded streets pass, especially when he remembered the story she’d told him about the dog she’d gifted her aunt.
The short carriage ride continued in much the same vein, and by the time they reached their destination, Jack was desperate to pull Min to one side and laughingly recount the whole.
But though he tucked her hand into his elbow, where it felt very comfortable indeed, and, smiling, bent his head ready to begin the dissection, they were immediately hailed by Warde, Kiethly, and the others of their party.
Caroline detached Min from him and took her away into the chattering centre of their circle.
Jack subsided, remembering his reason for being there, and took up a position at the edge—a sort of surveillance position, he thought to himself with a degree of amusement, where he could observe the sallies made on Min’s citadel and be ready to step in whenever the need arose.
It also gave him plenty of time to think, which was a highly unpleasant way of spending an afternoon, especially when there was very little in his mind he wished to dwell on. Thinking was almost as dreary as being dragged from one muddy coloured painting of a complete stranger to the next.
And there was always a next—the exhibition seemed endless.
True to his word, he remained surreptitiously in the background, but he hardly needed to be there.
Min cleaved herself to Thornton, Cotton, and the artist ladies, giving Warde and Kiethly so little encouragement they soon gave up and went to pursue more giggly, amenable prey.
Jack eyed them on the other side of the room, unable to hear what they were saying but well able to imagine it from the bantering, grinning expressions and laughing gestures.
One of the Miss Howarths was their audience, as was the regal Lady Frances, who deigned to permit the conversation with a degree of amusement, sharing an indulgent look with Caroline when she joined them, as though they were watching young puppies try their teeth.
Their peals of laughter reached him where he stood staring at a pale lady in a blue and white dress and wondering if he was meant to see more in the painting than that. She could be at a wedding, he supposed. There were flowers in her hand. Maybe she was a bride.
More laughter from the cluster of flirtations and gallantry.
That was his environment. He excelled there, could even make Lady Frances laugh so hard she abandoned the regal act and snorted, hand clamped over her mouth—he’d done it once or twice before.
But if he was wistful for anything, it was for Min.
To have her hand tucked back in the crook of his elbow, fingers curled lightly around him, and to turn them away from this crowded society stall and back out, into the open, where he could see her exact expression as he reminded her of Sedgewick’s views on Blake and watch the curve of the smile she failed to suppress…
She didn’t need him to be here. She had no wish to leave Somerset House.
She was deep in conversation with Thornton and Cotton, standing before some vast canvas where half-naked men did something vicious with spears to some other poor half-naked man.
The scarlet blood was very vivid. And the white of the man’s teeth, his eyes, stretched open in fear and pain…
Jack suppressed a shudder. Did George not care that Min was here, surrounded by such things?
What if she took a faint? Not that she would.
She was studying the horrible painting with interest, probably wondering how she herself could mix such a virulent shade of red.
Her face was tipped up to where the painting hung high on the wall—no hiding her gaze now.
It was bold and direct, eyes wide and absorbed.
Thornton stood next to her, hands clasped behind his back, studying the picture likewise.
Jack understood his tastes well enough to know Min was in no danger there.
Cotton stood on her other side, plucking at his own sleeves and glancing around, restless and probably wanting a drink.
He’d never shown any interest in women either, his own cravings being solely directed towards alcohol and other, more exotic intoxicants.
As he often explained woozily when found slumped in a corner at the Cocoa Tree, his only mission in life was an attempt to open his inner eye.
Jack went back to perusing his painting of the bride.
What interesting thing could he think of to say to Min afterwards?
He ought to form some…some opinions, or something of the sort.
But the bride looked ghostly and enigmatic and slightly sad, her focus not on him, but on something outside the frame, somewhere over his left shoulder.
What sort of wedding dress would Min wear?
No, no. He tugged on his cuff, pinching the button so tight it left a white dent in his thumb, and walked on to the next painting. A sleepless night had taught him which topics to avoid dwelling on. He had no wish for the wincing lash.
It was just irritating, that was all, being caught so wrongfooted, like getting a dizzying facer during a boxing game when you’d been sure, up until that point, that you’d been holding your own.
It was irritating imagining George with Min because…
because George wouldn’t laugh at the story of the yappy dog, would he?
Or maybe he would. He was a good sport, George, damn the man. Though he’d probably tell Min off a little bit too and put some plan in motion to tactfully rescue the evil aunt from the annoying dog.
Is that what he should have done? Instead of just laughing?