Men Argue. Nature Acts.
(VOLTAIRE)
Asunset of crimson lake, vermillion and Naples yellow spilled through Verity’s conservatory windows like honey and she just stood bathed within it.
She had found her muse.
A meow from behind her concurred and Verity glanced over her shoulder to Colonel Brandon, curled inside a plant pot, paws stretching, a deep purr rumbling from his chest.
With a smile, she returned to the central haven of her conservatory. Dusk would soon steal that last blush of sunset, and so three lanterns had also been lit by her easel and the canvas she had been working on since midday.
A Plumbago rosea – or to be exact, the flower stem that Miles had decapitated with his boot three nights past.
Three nights that had seemed, at times, no more than a moment ago, for she still felt his touch upon her skin, his kisses on her lips. Yet the day-lit hours had seemed to stretch into an eternity, worry for him consuming her thoughts.
She lifted a hand to the canvas, felt the rough texture of a petal beneath her fingertip as rather than use watercolours, she’d turned to oils.
With the former, one layered colour to capture the soft delicate luminosity of the petals, but with oils…
Textured and vibrant, the flowers spoke with richness and drama, not delicate or soft but tangible and tough.
This was what she would paint now. Not blooms untouched by the world, but those that had endured it.
She unscrewed a pot of marble dust and placed it on the ledge of her easel, for the addition would reflect light and add an effervescence to the petals. Lifting her brush once again, she tilted her head, comparing the Venetian red pigment against the flower stem set in the vase upon the iron tabl–
A forearm clamped her throat.
Breath fractured and the brush fell from her fingers.
“A good day, my lord?” enquired his punctilious butler.
Today Miles had paid a visit to the solicitors’ office and commenced sorting through archives and investments pertaining to his brother’s and father’s time as earl.
Perchance the grievance held was a past one, a withdrawn investment or land dispute, against the earldom and not personal to Miles.
Thus far, naught of interest but he’d return on the morrow.
“No. Bloody awful. I need whisky, ham and a bath, Fairfax, if you would.”
“Very good, my lord. Mr Firth also called upon you while you were out. With a gift. I’ve placed it on your study desk.”
“Jeremy?”
“No, my lord.” Fairfax sniffed. “The younger Mr Firth on this occasion.”
Having never been on the receiving end of anything from Dair, Miles was indeed intrigued.
“I’ll take my whisky and ham in there then. And make it for two as Lynch will be along soon. He’s just taken the carriage to the mews.”
“Of course, my lord.”
The study sconces had been lit and with botanical illustrations upon the walls, a Myrtus communis on the windowsill and rolled maps neatly stacked in the glass-fronted cabinet, it all appeared most homely and somehow…his.
A package was indeed upon his desk, twenty-inch square or thereabouts and wrapped in brown paper.
He lowered himself into his leather chair and hauled it towards him, the edge felt like a…
With a roll of eye, he tore off the paper and then propped the canvas against the candelabra.
Signed by The Witness, it portrayed a group of soldiers sat at leisure in a meadow, swigging liquor from green bottles, likely raided from the local tavern.
Coin spilled over the ground as they laid wagers upon the fall of cards, while their captain – himself, of course – stood aside and stared to the distant hills where dark clouds gathered.
Miles hunted for a note…
Still too thin.
But received in lieu of Lord F’s debt.
The subject matter appealed.
D.
More than that, it was a magnificent study of the fleeting indulgences when on campaign, grasped voraciously before duty would call once more.
But…
With a frown, Miles peered closer.
One of the jug-bitten men had caught his eye: red-haired and dark-eyed, he stared from the canvas as though he loathed the world and all within it.
But he reminded Miles of someone.
Boots in the hallway and…
“Lynch!”
“Blimey, C’tain! Not got me coat off yet.”
“Have a look at this, will you?”
Lynch crossed to the back of Miles’ chair and peered over his shoulder.
“Yer too thin.” He slanted his head. “But pierce me guts and see the gin pour out, it’s good, innit?”
“Quite. But do you recognise him?” And he pointed to the red-haired fellow.
Lynch leaned closer. “Nah. Don’t reckon so. Wasn’t under yer captaincy, fer sure. Dempster might know him as he drank with others in the dragoons a fair bit.”
Miles drummed fingers against the desk and… “Fairfax!”
A softly spoken “Sir?” was mooted from the doorway.
“Tell the new groom Dempster that I wish to see him. At once.”
The butler pivoted neatly and disappeared.
Miles would be damned if he didn’t recognise this man from somewhere.
He stood, turned the canvas to face the room, paced the rug and then glanced back at it.
Lynch watched with dark eyes. “Yer got that feeling?”
“I have.”
That face and those eyes, black as inkwells, gnawed at his noggin.
“Yer wanted me, C’tain?”
Miles twisted to a saluting Dempster. In just the short while since he’d been released from hospital and given lodgings with the other grooms in the mews, his health had improved no end, the pallor having departed his skin.
“Come see this, Dempster.”
He entered with some of the old Dempster swagger.
“Gawd, tha’s good.” Stood back a touch. “Maybe too good. Feels as though I’m back out there.
And ain’t that Randy Riley?” He waggled a finger at some blond fellow tossing wine back like water.
“The lieutenant who used to have a wench in every tent, and two fer–”
“Indeed. But what can you tell me about…him.” And Miles pointed to the red-haired fellow.
Dempster squinted and then scowled. “That sneaky rat.”
“You recognise him?”
“Aye. Under Captain Bowers. Name was…” He scrunched his eyes closed. “Chambers. Martin Chambers. Should have been tossed out when that fella… What was his name? The one who got court-martialled for selling prickers and blankets to the Spanish?”
“Not Cecil Webb?”
“Tha’s the one. Well, that rat were his orderly. Like Lynch to you but not as good.” And he winked at Lynch.
“Well, I don’t recognise him,” muttered Lynch, shrugging off his greatcoat.
“Shifty little bastard, he was. Good at sneaking around and a bit of a playactor, used to mimic the officers’ accents.
We all thought he were funny at first, but, I dunno, stuff always seemed to go missing when he was about.
The regiment surgeon lost a quart of laudanum and he were the only one hanging around.
We all learned to be a bit chary of him.
” He scratched his stubbled jaw. “Needed spectacles too.”
“Spectacles?”
“Aye, couldn’t shoot a cow in a field from two feet without them. That’s why he was assigned as orderly. He’d been a valet before the dragoons so was useful for keeping uniforms spruce and such like.”
Miles pinched his brow as that face and those black eyes began to slide into place. “Damn it,” he murmured.
Because this Martin Chambers in the painting was also that odd little valet of Webb’s with the spectacles.
They were one and the same. He’d swear it. Despite the red hair.
And he must have known who Miles was and yet not said a word.
Had played a game with them all.
“I know the hair’s different but I think that’s Webb’s bloody valet at the lodging house.
” Miles stabbed a finger. “Whether the two are in cahoots, I don’t know, but…
Chambers pretended not to know me, acted the prissy manservant and took nigh four crowns off me, but he must know me from the dragoons because I got his officer Webb court martialled. ”
Lynch shoved his greatcoat back on. “Best get to George Street then.”
The maid opened the door to the gentlemen’s lodgings and having tipped her a shilling, Miles stormed up the stairs, two treads at a time, Lynch and Dempster at his heels.
The door to the attic apartment was ajar so without ado, Miles thrust it open.
Dusk was descending but there was enough light through the small window to view a minuscule parlour that lay empty but for dirtied cups, chipped plates, coats strewn over chairs and the stench of damp stockings.
“Faugh,” mumbled Lynch. “Worse than a privy tent in summer.”
A muttering could be heard from another room, so Miles followed the sound, came to the open door of an exceedingly untidy bedchamber.
One lit tallow lantern revealed jackets and shirts on the floor, a ripped waistcoat draped over the wardrobe door, cravats strewn hither-thither whilst the dressing mirror had been shattered.
And standing with his back to them was Webb, muttering as he refolded shirts on the bed.
“Webb?”
The man spun, mouth falling open. “You! W-what are you doing here? What do you want?” And his eyes shifted to and fro.
“I want to know about your valet.”
“That litt…” He swallowed. “What about him? He’s just the v-valet to this place.”
“I don’t think so,” Miles snapped. “He was also your orderly in the dragoons.”
Webb blinked, once, thrice, his throat bobbing. Perhaps because Lynch and Dempster now flanked Miles’ shoulders.
“I-I don’t know anything.”
“If he’s the valet,” growled Lynch, “why are yer folding shirts? Eh?”
His eye twitched. “Cluny has a…a bit of a temper w-when he doesn’t get his way.”
“And?”
“I-I can’t…”
Lynch cracked his knuckles. “Want me to make him talk, C’tain? After selling our blankets, it’d be a pleasure.”
All resistance seemed to leach from Webb and like a puppet let loose of its master’s strings, he collapsed onto the bed. “It wasn’t me selling the damn blankets or bayonets.”
“I saw you.”