11. Chapter 11 #2
Laura batted the idea aside with her hand. “He often calls this late when French officers have escaped their parole. Time is of the essence if he wants to claim the reward. Papa says they don’t pay men in Mr Jenkin’s position very well.”
Kitty was taken aback. “That’s rather harsh. Don’t you think he’s just doing his duty?”
Laura shrugged. “I expect he is hoping for a free dinner.”
“It must be hard for the officers who have escaped, to know there is a price on their heads, and they are being hunted like criminals,” said Mr Merry.
“They are the enemy,” said Kitty, glaring at him, “or have you forgotten we are at war?”
“Of course I haven’t forgotten. But if your brother had been taken prisoner by the French, wouldn’t you want him to escape from his parole? Would you have him treated as a criminal if he succeeded?”
She was not amused by Mr Merry’s attitude. “Were Edward to be captured, he would do nothing so shameful as trying to abscond.”
Mr Merry pulled at his ear. “What is dishonourable about escaping from the enemy?”
“To gain his parole, a detained officer must promise he won’t try to escape. By doing so, he breaks his word. Hardly the act of a gentleman, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Nonsense. We are at war. Would you condemn your brother to spend months, maybe years, in some French town he could break free from, all for the sake of keeping his word?”
“Yes.”
“Well said, Miss Lacey,” remarked Mr Barrington as he and Mr Jenkin joined them. “If more people thought like you, we wouldn’t have this problem of the enemy escaping from under our noses, aided by the English they’re at war with.”
The edges of his mouth built slowly into a smile, his firm gaze resting on Kitty until she looked away. She pinched the skin at her throat, unable to believe that her words merited such intense approval. What was it that made Mr Barrington look like a cat with his paw in the cream?
William feared dinner would be an uncomfortable affair.
Miss Barrington sat between him and her father, with Kitty and Mr Jenkin on the opposite side of the table.
If they continued in the same vein as in the drawing room, the beauty would ignore him, the riding officer would skewer him with his disapproving stares, and Miss Lacey would continue to scold.
How could he have known she had such a keen sense of honour that she would rather her brother stayed a prisoner than broke his word? The revelation niggled him, poking his conscience with guilt over his careless attitude.
As for Mr Barrington, his smile would soon fade when he realised how little his daughter liked him and that the man’s hopes of winning him as a son-in-law were slim.
“How many portraits have you painted, Mr Merry?” Miss Barrington asked, when the soup course was laid before them.
William blinked. The lady was deigning to talk to him at last. Not only that, but she allowed their gazes to connect.
“A good number. My family, naturally, and several of my friends. A flower girl, a bandbox seller and a few military men, not to mention the opera singers and actresses and more than one member of the nobility.”
After two spoonfuls of soup, she fixed her gaze on him again and fluttered her eyelashes. “Who is the most highly ranked person you’ve painted?”
Why the sudden interest in his art? It was a far cry from her silence over the past few days.
“That’s easy. The Duchess of Wessex.” He didn’t have to admit she was his grandmother. “It was Her Grace who recommended me to Mr Penn.”
“How fortunate.”
“Indeed. I’ve found that one connection leads to another, which means I have never had a shortage of requests for portraits.”
“Yet you want to paint me?”
“Yes. It is rare to have the chance to take the likeness of a lady as pretty as you.”
Miss Barrington lowered her eyes and blushed. “Oh fie, Mr Merry. You flatter me.”
He dipped his head toward her in homage. “I state only the truth.” In this, at least.
“Stop teasing me. Of the ladies you have painted, who is the prettiest?”
“How is it fair to ask me such a question when you are before me? If beauty is bought by judgement of the eye, then you are the most beautiful of them all.”
The pink in her cheeks deepened as she trailed her fingers up her forearm and giggled. “I do not count, Mr Merry. You have not finished my portrait yet.”
William glanced across the table and saw the confusion on Kitty’s face. She was as perplexed as he was at the change in her friend’s behaviour. When their gazes met, he almost shrugged in response, but stopped himself just in time.
This was what he wanted. A relaxed Miss Barrington. She would be much more likely to reproduce the expression that had captivated him.
“The most beautiful lady I’ve painted so far? It would be impossible to choose any of my sisters, for I would get into all manner of trouble if I declared one prettier than the others—”
Miss Barrington shook her head and tittered in the irritating way his cousin Louisa often did. “I don’t mean your sisters. You could not have a grand passion for any of them.”
“I confess I have not formed an affection for any of those I’ve painted.”
She stared at him with her huge doe-like eyes. “Yet.”
William gulped hard at the gentleness of her tone, as if the word were a secret between them. He lost hold of his spoon, which clattered as it hit his bowl. She was flirting with him!
He leaned back in his chair and wiped his lips with his napkin. His gaze encompassed the other people at the table. Mr Barrington beamed as though he had just won a game of cards, but Mr Jenkin’s mouth was tight, and he pulled at his cravat, as if it were throttling him.
Kitty’s expression gave nothing away. Any hint of surprise had vanished, and it was impossible to know what she thought. She had her feelings well under control.
“There is always the chance I will fall in love with one of the women I paint,” William said in a lower tone, leaning toward Miss Barrington.
Attraction tugged at him as she bit down on her bottom lip and shot him a shy smile. If she continued to flirt with him like that, she might engage more than his artistic eye.
William’s chest expanded. His charm had not deserted him.
With a satisfied lift of his chin, he glanced back in Kitty’s direction to ensure she had observed his success, but the curl of her lip as their eyes met soured the taste of his last mouthful of soup.
William refused to let Kitty’s disdain knock him off balance. What right did she have to look at him like that? Was it his fault that her friend had succumbed to his charm? Putting it behind him, he conversed with Miss Barrington and her father until the meal was over and the ladies withdrew.
It was the first time the gentlemen had lingered at the table after dinner since he had arrived at Rufus House. He supposed it was because Mr Jenkin was with them. The butler set out the decanters and glasses and a box of cigars before leaving them alone.
Mr Barrington moved to the sideboard and then turned to William. “Can I tempt you to a glass of brandy or would you rather have port?”
Did he have to drink either? His father never did. “I confess, I would prefer a cup of tea—”
“Nonsense. Let the ladies coddle their insides with tea. You must try this. I daresay you’ve never tasted a finer brandy.”
That wouldn’t be difficult, as he rarely indulged in spirits. He hoped he would not get drawn into drinking more than his stomach could stand.
Mr Barrington poured three glasses and handed one to him and another to Mr Jenkin.
William knew he couldn’t keep staring at his glass all evening and hazarded a sip. The amber-coloured liquid was so soft it was like velvet on his tongue. “You’re right. This is the smoothest brandy I’ve ever tasted. My uncle used to say that the best was usually smuggled.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting I’ve come by these spirits illegally,” Mr Barrington said with a frown. “It was part of a contraband cargo that Mr Jenkin’s men apprehended a month ago. I bought several barrels in the subsequent sale of confiscated goods.”
William was taken aback at the fierceness in the older man’s tone. “Of course not, though I shouldn’t have judged you if you had.”
Mr Jenkin glowered at him so fiercely that his face warmed under his gaze. “That sounds as if you sympathise with the smugglers. You do know that free traders are criminals, don’t you? They are a menace, depriving the state of their rightful dues.”
“Do you not think the government has brought the increase in smuggling on itself by making the tariffs so high?”
Mr Jenkin sneered. “Are you truly so ignorant? We are at war. Those who trade in smuggled goods are aiding our enemies, putting gold into the hands of the French and worse.”
“Worse?”
“There are some smugglers who take more back with them than coin.”
“What do you mean?”