18. Chapter 18
Istand frozen in place while maids scurry around me to light the candles clipped to tree branches until the entire tree glows. Footmen carry in trays laden with holiday aromas. Uncle Elias directs the staff—the moment has come, and Dunn House must be brought to full glory.
“It’s happening. It’s truly happening,” Jane whispers into her gloved hand.
The Duke of Ashbourne, for whom this entire display has been put on, looks only mildly impressed.
“You invited a duke?”
“Of course not! This isn’t my house.” She’s clutching her hands before her.
“Although I might have convinced your uncle to do it. I hinted that the duke may have a proclivity for interesting gems, which he very well might, and that he would welcome an invitation and—well, the duke must have accepted. Once he received my letter, of course.”
The one about where to find his missing son.
Uncle Elias approaches his new guest, hand extended. “What an honor, Your Grace. Welcome to my home, and may I say how pleased I am to welcome a man of your distinction for the holidays.”
I’m too stunned to roll my eyes.
“Perhaps you would like a tour of the estate. I’d be pleased to introduce you to my work.”
The duke stiffens, as if he’s ever on alert for opportunists and swindlers. He looks past Uncle’s shoulder, his quick gaze snapping from one face to the next. Yet the masks make it impossible to locate a person.
Simon Balfour does not rise for the new guest, nor does he turn from his work. But he has stiffened. Quick glances are all he allows the grand gentleman and his wife, the slender woman positioned just behind the duke.
With two quick strides I stand between the duke and his forgotten other son, proffering a bow. “Welcome to Dunn House, Your Grace. We are most pleased you could join us.”
Run, Simon. Run away. A sob rises up in my throat at the thought of him leaving, but he must. If even Jane can see the resemblance…
The duke’s gaze acknowledges me, then flits away. “Quite.”
I turn back, and Simon is staring at the guest. He’s drawn to this man, this father he’s never been allowed to claim.
Or perhaps to the woman who held what he would deem his mother’s rightful position beside his father.
The duchess, slender and elegant with a tiara gracing chestnut-colored locks, seems the sort to blow away in an Atlantic gust.
“Welcome, Your Ladyship.” I offer a warm smile. “How did you enjoy the journey? I hope you find Cornwall to your liking.”
“Yes, indeed.” Her countenance brightens. “The snow is lovelier than—”
“The journey tired her.” The duke’s polished voice slices through his wife’s words. “I’m afraid she’s unwell, and holidays tax her considerably. This trip has proved most inconvenient.”
Her face dims as if someone has lowered the wick inside.
I offer a smile. “You’ve traveled a great distance and braved a storm to be here. Perhaps I might escort you on a private tour of my uncle’s more exclusive pieces.” Then, with a lowered voice, “those corners of the parlor may prove a bit more private.”
The duchess releases a sigh of relief. “Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you.”
I steer them toward the brightly lit display cases in the rear of the room, and catch a gleam of approval from Uncle as I pass him.
At last, I made the correct decision.
I tip my head in acknowledgment and begin explaining the settings I know by heart, my fingertips grazing the cases. I brave a glance over my shoulder.
Simon Balfour is still here.
He is hovering in the shadows across the room, sketching a couple posing as Mark Antony and Cleopatra. Does he believe his father will not know him after pursuing him all this time? Simon dares not look our way, but he’s aware. So very aware. His expression is dark, his posture rigid.
How odd that the man is searching for two sons—but for entirely different reasons.
“It’s lovely,” says the duchess, her voice barely above a whisper. “Is it a ruby?”
“It’s a blood emerald, from the east.” I eye the profile of this porcelain woman, the one who’d been silently rejected in favor of other women. The one whom Simon’s mother replaced for a time.
She hovers over the emerald’s case with sparkling eyes.
“Perhaps you’d like to see it?”
The duke steers her away with a serene smile.
“My wife feigns interest, but she hasn’t the stamina for lengthy details.
Perhaps you have gems in… other rooms?” His furtive glances toward the darkened doorway make it clear he hopes to exit the parlor—likely he believes I’m waiting for a private moment to reunite him with his son, or perhaps he merely wishes to question me alone.
“There is one more in this room, then I shall take you to the gallery. This blood emerald comes from the heart of India, and it’s—oh!”
The duchess sags and I catch her just as she collapses. She’s surprisingly heavy, and I struggle to prop her upright.
Servants rush to assist, little cries erupting from the crowd, and the duke stands by, his veneer melting away in a flash of annoyance. “Why couldn’t you simply stay at home?”
Her eyes fly open, liquid blue and piercing, riveted to his face.
“Because if our son is truly here, I wish to close the distance between us without another wasted second.” Her voice is a whisper only we can hear.
Tears quiver on her eyes. “These arms, the first to hold him, shall be the first to welcome him home. And not even you can deny me that.”
While the woman is transported to the divan with servants rushing to fetch her pillows and tonics, Jane diverts the attention.
“Let us have the first unmasking,” she declares.
“I elect our fine artist to reveal himself. What say you all?” Then she claps, and in true Jane fashion, she enchants everyone into joining along.
The sound swells until the entire room is cheering for the artist to remove his mask.
Which she believes will be a boon to the stricken woman. Oh, Jane. What have you done?
I cannot breathe. Why hasn’t Simon left? He had ample opportunity.
Yet who is not drawn to stare into the fiery flame, drawing ever nearer, in spite of the danger?
I must help him. I must rescue this situation I’ve created.
Simon stands. The movement is unhurried, deliberate. Conversation thins as if the room itself draws a breath and holds it. I glance at Uncle Elias, staring at them with his bulging eyes and double chin, always scanning for opportunity. For any risk to his reputation.
Then the caped Robin Hood lifts his head slowly and draws off the mask, revealing the solemn face that is the mirror image of the man across the way—yet a stark contrast of character brims from beneath the surface.
Our new guest turns, and I hold my breath as the men face one another, mere yards apart.
The Duke of Ashbourne goes pale, then ruddy, and he struggles to master his shock at the sight of the son he did not expect to see. His expression does not change, but it sharpens.
Simon is as bold and proud as he was under that bridge in Exeter, accepting the hard look of the man who has rejected him from birth.
I take quick sips of air, unable to look away. I glance at Uncle, then at the duke.
He’s seen you—the danger cannot become greater now. Unmask him, Simon. Unmask every man who ever pretended to be grander than he is. Bring about the change society needs.
Truth wins in the end. It always does.
He’ll say something clever. Or he’ll sketch a picture—he’ll show the truth without wasting a word.
But surprisingly, he does not do either. Crossing the room in several long strides, his footfalls on carpet the only sound, Simon Balfour passes his father and kneels before the forgotten duchess, lifting deferential eyes to her. “Might I sketch you, Your Grace?”
She rouses, studying him with a light frown. She sees the resemblance—she must—but she says not a word.
“She is unwell,” the duke says firmly. “She’s hardly fit to sit for a—”
“Yes,” says the duchess, a slow smile spreading. “Yes, you may sketch me.” The color is creeping back into her face.
Offering a quick, disarming smile, Simon pulls out the pastels and paper he tucked beneath his arm and begins as the room looks on.
He captures the duchess’ likeness perfectly, highlighting her poise.
She is resolute and lovely. As he whips pastels over canvas, the duchess’ gaze never leaves Simon’s face. “What is your name?” she asks.
He tells her.
She takes a ragged breath. “And your mother?”
He says her name.
She accepts the blow with a simple nod.
“I say,” declares Lady Humphrey, finger touching the corner of her mouth. “This young man bears an uncanny resemblance to yourself, my lord. Is it coincidence, or is he a relation?”
I suck in a breath.
The room is watching. The duke goes still. Simon’s poised look meets his father’s boldly, and without apology for his existence. How will he phrase it? How will he deliver the truth about the man who rejected him and sent his mother to her death?
“The resemblance,” Simon says, each word weighted, “Is entirely superficial.”
My heart pounds rapidly. What is he doing?
After another flourish with the pastels, Simon pivots the sketch to show the duchess her portrait.
She gasps, and I peer around her to see for myself.
Sweeping, elegant pastel lines reveal a beautiful woman standing on the Atlantic like a lighthouse, a golden glow emanating from behind her.
Waves of chaos foam around her skirts, yet she stands tall, an irrefutable wisdom and grace lighting her face.
But the duchess’ finger reaches toward a smaller form painted on the portrait’s shoreline—an inconsequential detail to most. It’s a young man with his father’s remarkable eyes and his mother’s poise, hand shielding his eyes as if he’s searching for home.
The lighthouse is drawing this man—silently, radiantly, powerfully.
And he’s about to spot it.
I check Simon’s face, trying to guess his scheme. He’s clever. His reveal will be powerful and absolute. Instead, he does the very last thing I expect as the room looks on—he tucks the piece beneath his arm, turns on his heel, and quits the room.