Diamonds And Flowers. Both Live Forever In The Heart
Number Six Grosvenor Square, within the parish of Saint George’s, had an opulent air with Doric columns of Portland stone and a lion knocker growling from the black-painted door.
Miles supposed a mere army captain would customarily have been sent to the servants’ entrance but his new aristocratic title did have the advantage of opening doors.
And this one swung open to reveal an immaculately presented butler.
“The name is Stonewold. I believe the duke is expecting me.”
“Indeed, my lord. If you will come this way.”
Miles glanced over his shoulder and signalled Lynch to trundle the closed carriage around the square before he twisted back and stepped forth. The interior was equally opulent, if not a little dark with a wood-panelled hall and various doors.
“If you could just wait for a moment in the library, my lord?”
“Certainly.”
And one of those doors led to a book-filled room, the scent of beeswax polish and leather bindings twitching Miles’ nostrils.
Since the fair three days past, he’d spent a goodly amount of time with Lynch, comparing the mishaps and looking for commonalities.
But to little avail. The straps on the ale cart at the fair he had checked for himself and though well-used, he was unable to say whether they had torn by chance or design.
But this misfortune of his was not abating.
So, as of this morn, Lynch would watch and trail Cecil Webb whenever he left his lodgings.
Furthermore, after counting up the hospitals in London where Jacob Webster could potentially be and reaching double figures, he’d dispatched a message to that gambling hell owner known as the Prince.
The surly knave had, after all, offered that if Miles ever needed more, then to send word, although doubtless it was to place Miles further in the reprobate’s debt.
So naught more to do but wait, which suited him not at all and caused a considerable ill temper.
He paced to a bookshelf to peer at spines and noticed quite a few copies of the Botanical Magazine bound in leather.
A popular subscription service, it contained a narrative on native and newly introduced plant and flower species aside exquisite illustrations of them.
How Verity had delighted in drawing flowers in this manner – an exact replication on paper.
Why had she ceased?
And why paint cats?
He frowned, recalling their kiss at the fair.
Hell, it had set him afire, her body pressed so flush against his that he’d felt her everywhere, under his skin and in his veins, and he should’ve resisted but…
She’d wriggled, her shifting hips and brushing breasts a torture too far.
And with an irksome lack of self-restraint, he’d kissed her.
It had always been thus.
As a youth, it had taken a dip in the lake to bring his unruly impulses to heel, but at the fair, passion had let loose. A kiss so rough and needy that, as a gentleman, he knew an apology was required.
She was also hiding something; he was sure of it.
The young prideful cub that lingered somewhere within him was doubtless yelling in frustration: that she’d broken his callow heart in two.
What did it matter determining her secrets?
He needed to cease this absurd dalliance as the weighty matters of earl, which included securing a capable wife and more capable stewards, could not be ignored indefinitely. The pressure was palpable.
Yet…
His curiosity had awoken.
Like why she’d responded so fervently if she felt naught?
Why her fearful eyes and exquisite care for him when he’d nigh been felled by those barrels?
Why such vagueness over Mr Locksley. Was he pure fabrication? And if so, why?
Too many Whys.
Their kiss had seemed to ruffle her enough at the fair so perhaps that was the path to the truth…as long as he could keep firm control of his own desires.
Scrubbing a hand over his chin, Miles paced for the mantelpiece and scowled into a mirror above. Since arriving in London, all had been a damn hubbub of disorder and that made him grouchy: the mishaps. Verity Seymour. This damn artist.
Which was why he was waiting in the library of this duke known to be The Witness’ patron.
“My lord?” The butler cleared his throat from the doorway. “His Grace can see you now.”
With a nod, Miles followed the pristine coat-tails from the library and down the corridor, past a grand carved staircase and towards an oak door. A brief knock and the butler pushed it inwards. “Lord Stonewold, Your Grace.”
Miles strode forth and wondered if the hearsay on the Duke of Rothwell would prove to be correct.
Ruthless. Brusque. Aloof. Not one to suffer fools.
The flawlessly dressed duke who rose from behind an immense walnut desk certainly gave that impression. Tall, broad-shouldered, around the age of thirty and with a palpable air of command, he would have suited the army.
Gossip rags referred to him as The Duke of Diamonds – for his wealth, gem mines and, perhaps, the bloody great stone affixed to his finger.
The duke’s dark-blue gaze held steady, composed and inscrutable as they shook hands.
“Do sit, Stonewold. Brandy?”
“A small one, perhaps. And my thanks for meeting on such short notice, Your Grace.”
A nod and the duke strode to the decanters. “How is an earldom after the dragoons?”
It appeared the duke had investigated Miles’ background also.
“Like a pair of too-new boots, to be truthful.” He accepted the proffered brandy and they both sat.
“The fit is…easing but quite a few issues still chafe. As a lad, I attended the same lessons as my elder brother but I admit ledgers did not hold my attention. My elder brother had no choice as he would inherit, whereas I was allowed to pursue other endeavours.”
“Botanical endeavours?”
The duke had indeed been thorough.
“Yes. When the earldom allows, I hope to organise an expedition to discover new plants. Perchance in the Americas.”
“Balancing a title with such diversions is no simple feat but I daresay you’ll accomplish all you wish to.” Rothwell sipped his brandy with a contemplative expression. “You are not here to discuss botany though but art, as your message suggested?”
Miles surveyed the paintings on the study wall, thought one rural scene to be a Constable. “Yes. I’m curious to know more of the artist known as The Witness. I believe you are his patron?”
The duke’s eyes flicked to the study door. “I have that honour, yes, and I can quite understand your curiosity.”
“Indeed. I seem to be a subject in the ones I’ve seen, of which I am flattered, but I cannot help but wonder who this artist is. How he does it. So many of the scenes are real, too accurate to be mere invention.”
Expression unreadable, Rothwell sat back. “Someone from the dragoons, you believe?”
“I do, but on the other hand…” Miles breathed in the fine brandy aroma.
“I’ve also established, and I hope you will confirm, that these works were created and sold whilst we were on the Peninsula.
They were in galleries here in London.” He frowned.
“None of us could smuggle in warm stockings, let alone smuggle out a rolled-up bloody canvas.”
The duke steepled his fingers. “Stonewold, I appreciate the reason for your visit but unless you can tell me this causes you harm in some way, I am not at liberty to disclose the answers you seek. The agreement between patron and artist is founded upon complete trust, which, in this instance, includes the artist’s wish for anonymity.
My hands are tied. I can tell you, however, the artist considers you a most brave and worthy soldier. ”
Miles snorted. “I am not so conceited as to think there is anything different about me from any other soldier in His Majesty’s Service.”
“I beg to differ.” The duke swirled the brandy in his glass. “You are spoken of most highly.”
Miles shifted in his chair. “Thank you, but surely–”
A black cat with white paws sprang upon the desk.
And with the lofty disdain of a despot, it prowled across the leather, flicked its tail and then sat atop what looked to be a bundle of important legal deeds. It then proceeded to lick its paws.
Miles could confess to a fondness for cats – they’d trailed the regiments like faithful camp followers, purging the tents of rats – but surely this imperious duke would not permit such an intrusion.
And indeed the duke reached out a hand to…tickle it under the chin?
Feeling his eyebrows rise of their own accord, Miles cleared his throat. “Yours?”
A smile glimmered. “My wife’s, but Cleopatra has made herself at home here.
” The duke tilted his head. “I regret I cannot help you more with this matter, Stonewold, but if I can be of assistance with earldom duties or other matters, do not hesitate to send word. We could meet at Brooks or some such.”
Miles’ allotted time was clearly at an end.
He’d been poised to continue the conversation, to press for more about The Witness… But the Duke of Rothwell struck him as a man who would not be swayed. His word was his honour, and Miles would not ask him to break it.
“I would appreciate that. And perhaps we will see one another sooner as I’m attending the art exhibition at Chesterfield Gardens, which I believe you are hosting?”
Rothwell’s hand stilled upon Cleopatra’s black fur. A ducal brow rose. The cat narrowed her green eyes. “I didn’t notice you on the list, though you’re most welcome, of course.”
“A guest of guest invite, but I’ve longed to see the Gardens for some while.” He cleared his throat. “And the artworks, of course.”
With quirked lip, the duke stood and held out his hand. “My wife and I shall see you there then.”
Palm met palm. “Until the exhibition.”
“My, my,” said the Duchess of Rothwell, peeking from behind the curtain of the drawing room window. “He certainly is a handsome one.”
Verity scowled and edged towards the curtain also, just in time to see Miles dash down the Rothwell steps, peer left and right and then stride off towards a gleaming closed carriage that his coachman had trundled to a stop aside the Gardens in the centre of the square.