Chapter Three
D elia snapped her laptop shut. Her research paper had been published to favorable peer reviews, another steppingstone toward her grand goal. She’d worked like a draught horse for years. Her research was sound and had earned her respect in her field.
Nothing should get in her way except for John, of course. He could, on a whim, prefer any one of his pet researchers over her no matter how sterling her record. Personal politics carried weight, and John Winter was intentionally unpredictable. ‘Keep them on their toes’ was his motto.
Time for a cup of hot chocolate to celebrate her paper.
She pushed her chair back, stretched, and yawned.
It had been an intense couple of weeks. Not that she could go any slower now that John had sunk his teeth into the ‘Renwood Longevity Project’ and counted on her full and unfailing support which translated to, ‘Cordelia, you do the monkey work in the lab, the DNA extraction, the sequencing, give me your best educated guesses and ideas, and yes, I, Professor John Winter, will rake in the rewards and bask in the glory once the project proves to be a resounding success as it’d better be if you want to get tenure, young lady. ’
Once she was free from his clutches, she’d burn an effigy of him.
She went into the kitchen, poured milk into a saucepan, and put it on the hob.
The Renwood Longevity Project was a pompous name for a bit of genetic sequencing and some guesswork.
She turned the heat down and stirred the chocolate powder into the simmering milk.
Her favorite red ceramic mug, covered all over in white polka dots, sat on the counter top.
She poured the drink into it and pulled up a chair.
Between careful sips of the hot beverage, she mulled over her plans for the day.
In an hour, she’d have to present herself to his lordship to be painted.
What a weird situation she’d gotten herself into. Anyway, it would be fine. Gabriel didn’t give off any creepy vibes, and she didn’t suspect there’d be too much chit-chat involved. She could get lost in her thoughts while he painted her.
An email pinged into her inbox. She grabbed her phone and peered at the message.
Cordelia,
Please procure a DNA sample from the third earl’s wife. ASAP.
Rgds, John
Her hands curled into fists, fingernails digging into her palms. She was so close. So very close to murdering him.
A few slow breaths would lower her cortisol levels and give her a clear head to focus on her goal. Her chest expanded on a deep inhale. She only needed to hang in a little longer. John couldn’t leave her dangling forever; the dean had a say in the matter as well.
Sipping her hot chocolate, she suppressed the impulse to fire out a scathing reply.
There were more pressing things to consider.
For instance, what would she wear for her trip to the manor house?
It’d have to be something nice. She could hardly rock up in jeans and jumper since Gabriel was planning to cover that massive canvas with her likeness.
He had to be a little eccentric to use her as his model.
Surely there were enough fellow aristocrats dying to have their portrait done.
After all, they had those big picture galleries in their vast mansions to fill.
She dropped her empty cup into the sink, went to the bedroom, and started rifling through her wardrobe.
The black sheath dress she’d bought for last year’s faculty ball would have to do.
She changed, did her hair and dug out her black heels from the back of the closet.
Turning to the mirror, she frowned at her reflection.
He probably expected her to wear make-up.
She heaved a sigh and hobbled to the bathroom.
These heels were beastly. No wonder she hadn’t worn them since the faculty function.
Standing around in them was doable, walking not so much.
Her make-up bag only contained the most basic of items—she had limited skills in that area.
With a touch of mascara and a swipe of lip gloss, she was ready.
She left the flat and hopped into her car.
Driving in heels took some getting used to, but it was too late to go back for normal shoes.
Even though she’d been to the manor house once before, approaching it still took her breath away.
The compact, well-proportioned baroque mansion dominated the soft undulating hills of the surrounding parkland, its many windowpanes glittering in mellow golden hues of the reflecting sunlight.
Her Fiat crunched to a halt on the long curve of the gravel driveway. She contemplated the elegant sweep of the stairs leading to the grand double door flanked by pillars. Renwood Hall was one hell of a building.
“Good of you to come.” Gabriel ushered Delia into a spacious and elegant sitting room, covered floor to ceiling in green wallpaper.
“Sure, no problem.” She dropped her handbag on the nearest chair and looked around her. “Renwood Hall is impressive.”
“Ah, thanks. It’s rather small for a country seat. Only twenty-six rooms.”
“Only twenty-six?” She raised one eyebrow. “Must be terribly cramped.”
He put a hand on his hip and affected a lord-of-the-manor stance. “You have no idea.”
She laughed and he joined in. The earl had a sense of humor; that was nice. It would make the whole thing easier.
“This room’s pretty grand.” She smoothed the skirt of her black dress with her hands. “Makes me feel underdressed.”
He lowered his gaze. “Speaking of dresses, I was going to ask you... Would it be all right if you...wore a ballgown?”
“A ballgown?” Talk about raising the bar.
“I have one, I’m not sure it would fit? Could you try?” He pointed to the mass of shot silk, burgundy and green, laid out on a chaise longue to the right of her.
“Goodness me, Gabriel, this is rather glam. Where’d you find it?”
He bit his lower lip. “I’d like a bit of drama for this picture.
The gown was my grandmother’s. It’s part of the family collection of ballgowns and wedding dresses worn by previous countesses.
I’ll have to auction it off soon, but this will be a nice way of documenting some of my family’s past glory before it all goes under the hammer. ”
“Lovely idea. I’ll try it on.” She searched the room. “Where can I change?”
“Right here. I’ll leave, of course.”
“Sure.” She strode to the chaise longue and eyed the dress. “I’ll be gentle with it since it’ll have to be sold.”
“Thanks. Give me a shout when you’re done.” He retreated into the hallway, leaving the door ajar.
Right, okay. She slipped out of her sheath dress and took up the ballgown.
It was gorgeous, to be fair. The shimmering silk changed from forest green to burgundy depending on how the light hit the folds of fabric.
The strapless gown was cinched at the waist and blossomed into a generous floor-length skirt.
She stepped into the silken cloud and pulled it up. Ah, there was a starched petticoat underneath it. Her arms ached from wrestling with the heavy garment. Bending herself into a pretzel-like shape she pulled the zip up.
“Gabriel?” she called.
A muffled “Yes” reached her ears, followed by the scrape of chair legs against hardwood floor.
He walked into the room, and she faced him, enveloped in the lavish dress.
“Stunning. I mean.” His voice caught. “It suits you beautifully.”
She pressed a palm on her abdomen. “It’s bloody tight. I just about managed to close that zip.”
“Is it too uncomfortable for you?” His forehead pleated into a frown.
“No, no, it’s fine, honestly. I’m not used to restrictive clothing, that’s all. Funnily enough, I don’t frequent that many balls.” She chuckled. “Where do you want me to stand?”
“In front of the large window, here, where the easel is?”
She lifted her skirts and teetered to the indicated spot. “By the way, can I take off my high heels? They’re killing me.”
“Absolutely. Get rid of them.” A smile lit his features. “Your feet will be hidden by the dress anyway.”
“Thank goodness.” She pulled off her shoes and lobbed them across the room. They landed near her handbag. “I’m ready.”
He stepped behind the easel and peered past the canvas. “Would you mind turning your face a little toward me? Could you lean on the side table with your right hand and put the other on the windowsill? Yes, exactly. Perfect. Could you hold it, just like that?”
She muttered her assent and tried to relax into the pose, her one hand on some ornate-but-rickety side table, the other resting on the marble sill of a tall crossbar window.
What a weird situation. Wrapped in masses of shot silk, she was as rigid as a waxwork at Madame Tussaud’s. Well, whatever floated his boat. He seemed happy, painting away behind a massive oblong canvas. All she had to do was stand still.
“I’m going to take a few reference photographs if you don’t mind.” He fumbled with an SLR camera on a tripod.
“Work away,” she mumbled, while concentrating on being immobile.
“Done, thank you. By the way, you don’t have to be frozen. I’m focusing on the overall figure first. I’ll let you know when I reach your face.”
“Oh, okay.” What was she supposed to talk about?
“How’s your work going? I hope my ancestor’s teeth aren’t disappointing in any way?”
Painting made him chatty; good. “I’m still in the middle of sequencing. Haven’t gathered all the data yet, let alone analyzed it, but I’m sure there’ll be something interesting deep in the third earl’s DNA.”
“Good old Edwin, he had quite the vibrant personality. His wife, Emmerentia, called Emmy, was a Hessian princess. Family lore has it, she was the intended bride for a minor member of the Royal family but had chosen to elope with my great-great-great-great grandfather instead.” He broke off, concentrating on his brushwork.
“Wow. She had guts, your how-ever-many-greats grandmother.”