Chapter 11 Rhys #2
As he retrieved the diary, a myriad of expressions crossed her face . . . confusion, astonishment, and something that looked like fear. “Yes, that’s it,” she said, glancing down at it but not touching it. “Was Merlin’s sister a wizard too?”
He hesitated. What an odd question. “I don’t know. By all accounts her brother possessed magic in the myths and could see the future. In reality, he was a Druid, and Druids were mystics. They never wrote anything down, so they’re shrouded in mystery. Most likely she was a Druid too.”
“But she did write something down.” Magellan fingered the pages of his translation. “May I read your translation, please?”
“Of course,” he quickly agreed. “I would like to translate it in its entirety. We can return after the evening’s entertainments.
” Even as he offered, he had no idea what he was about anymore.
He had a house full of guests, and here he was scheduling a private tête-à-tête with the one lady who hadn’t been invited.
“Polly will accompany you, of course, as a chaperone.”
Magellan touched his arm again. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
Good Lord, she had to stop touching him.
He forced himself to step back and drop his gaze and gave her a formal bow.
“Of course. The pleasure’s mine. I will see you at dinner.
” He marched from the room as if he had somewhere important to go, leaving Polly to escort Miss Brighton.
Her reaction to the diary was not what he expected.
Not only did she recognize the book, she said she needed to read it, as if it were of great importance.
How had the book ended up with his father?
Goose bumps reappeared on his arms. As if to tell him the answer was not so simple. The explanation of her was not so simple. Then he pushed that thought away. He was being nonsensical. Of course there was a logical explanation for her and the book.
And yet . . .
Unable to stop himself, Rhys strode upstairs, straight to his closet where he found the painting. Ripping the black cloth away, he stared at the portrait, suddenly winded.
Good God. Was it her?
Could this be Magellan Brighton? Just the thought filled him with a sense of vertigo.
Could she have been alive in 1799? A woman who did not age?
Then he laughed out loud at himself. By Jupiter, he was losing his marbles and turning into one big oatcake to even consider it. He sank down onto the bed and put his head in his hands, trying to clear his thoughts. He rubbed his face and let out a pained laugh.
The painting stared back at him like a challenge. A puzzle. A parting gift from his dead father.
Rhys had never shown the painting to anyone, especially his mother, for fear the painted woman had been his father’s mistress.
Godwin had done the painting in 1799 before he’d met Birgit, his future countess, and Rhys’s parents’ union had been a love match.
They had fallen in love over the course of a waltz at a ball in Vienna almost thirty years ago.
Rhys had heard the story countless times.
Godwin had gone there on a trip and come back with Birgit, a grand piano, and a carriage full of instruments he had bought from a shop in Salzburg.
His father had so many endearments for his mother.
He had called her his Beautiful B, his Beloved B, his Lady B, and sometimes just B.
Rhys had grown up witnessing their love, and yet he had found a painting of another woman hidden away.
How many nights had Rhys stared at the canvas?
Duende was the Spanish word for the mysterious power behind a work of art to deeply move one’s heart. For over a year the painting had obsessed him, until last month he’d finally put it out of his sight. If he was to take a wife, he couldn’t be mooning over a woman in a portrait who didn’t exist.
He shook his head and whispered, “Father, why the bloody hell did you paint this?”
He draped the black cloth over it and tucked the painting back into its hiding place. The Lady of Labyrinth may look like Magellan Brighton, but it wasn’t her. End of story. He would not be looking at the painting again.
Feeling resolute, Rhys dressed for dinner and hurried downstairs.
When he entered the room, most of the guests had already gathered, sparkling in their evening attire and ready to begin the night’s festivities.
His mother was busy leading Magellan, who was in a new gown, around the room and making introductions.
He tried not to stare as he listened to his mother spin her tale like a master about how Miss Brighton was the daughter of a treasured friend from America.
Then she brought Magellan over to meet his brother, Cecil, who was next to him.
Rhys found himself standing up straighter.
“This is Rhys’s younger brother, Cecil.”
Cecil winked. “The better, kinder, funnier one.”
Magellan laughed, and Rhys could only stare at her.
Cecil needled him by telling her, “See how he glowers at us so seriously?”
It was true he was glowering, and he tried to stop, instead making his face a mask of indifference.
A look he practiced in the mirror for such social occasions when he was on display.
It was also true he and Cecil were nothing alike, either in appearance or personality.
Cecil had lighter hair, lighter eyes, and a lighter heart.
Cecil was the epitome of sprezzatura, the Italian word for making any action seem effortless and graceful.
Presently, Cecil was attempting to make Magellan laugh again, but she was back to looking about the room with a petrified gaze, as if she’d never seen a salon full of people in her life.
Then the fantastical notion wormed its way into his head again. Could she actually be from another century? Had she magically appeared in the labyrinth from the sixth century?
He brutally pushed those whimsical thoughts aside. A mystery surrounded Magellan Brighton to be sure. She was a woman with secrets, he could see them in her eyes, and they were secrets he intended to find out quickly for his own peace of mind.