“No,” he said at once. “I shall take these.” He was already throwing small dustsheets over each and stacking the easels together cleverly so that nothing touched the paintings. He could even carry them in one hand, the folded table in the other. “The chair belongs to the gardens, so we can just leave it here.”

  The only people around were the gardens staff—a few gardeners, who nodded as they passed, and the girl setting up her outdoor tea shop. With some surprise, Aline realized that she felt peaceful again.

  It’s him. He of the sculpted profile, the gentle expression, and the sharp, sharp eyes. Seductive eyes, too, when he chose…

  “May I steal you again this afternoon?” he asked.

  “Inside or out?”

  “Out, weather willing. I’ll take you for an ice.”

  “We should wait for Basil.”

  “We’ll take Basil later, as well. Then you can have two ices.”

  She laughed. “Very well.” She left him at the door of his own rooms and then went down to enjoy breakfast with Basil.

  Chapter Four

  Sir Oliphant Dornan, sauntering along the passage, was delighted to see two footmen and a lady’s maid hauling baggage out of Princess Hagerin’s rooms. He tried not to smirk as he passed them and went on his way downstairs to join his sons for breakfast.

  “It worked,” he said gleefully, sitting down with them at their table by the window. “Her servants are wheeling out her luggage as we speak.”

  “As long as her people don’t trace it back to us,” Clive said. “Upsetting princesses—”

  “Don’t be a bigger gudgeon than you can help,” advised his proud papa. “She’s only the widow of some central European princeling, not a real princess with any power, and she’s foreign. Still,” he added thoughtfully, “I have to say Stephen has surprised me. Extremely beautiful woman. Wouldn’t have thought she’d look twice at our boy.”

  “Maybe she thinks he’s got money,” Gordon said, receiving his breakfast with ferocious satisfaction. “After all, he apparently socializes with dukes and countesses, too. English ones.”

  “They probably want their portrait painted,” Clive sneered. “He’ll sleep with the servants.”

  Sir Oliphant snorted. Although he was perfectly happy to make fun of his errant youngest, he did not care for the idea of a Dornan being treated as a lackey. It was an insult to the whole family.

  “The sooner we get him home the better,” he muttered, tucking into his own substantial meal. “And not just because this hotel is costing me an arm and a leg. We’ll make a call on your brother after breakfast.”

  His sons were uncharacteristically silent until Sir Oliphant looked up and followed their gazes out the window to the terrace. The princess, the same woman who had been moving out of her rooms not ten minutes ago, was walking in the direction of the pleasure garden, laughing with a boy of about eight or nine who danced around her. She wore a pelisse of deep turquoise with a matching hat, both in the first stare of fashion. And she was in no obvious hurry. No carriage waited to be loaded with her baggage.

  “I think that call on our little brother might be premature,” Clive remarked. “It doesn’t look to me as if she’s going anywhere.”

  Sir Oliphant swore. “So much for indirect methods. I’ll give the boy one chance, and that will be all.”

  *

  Stephen knew something was wrong in the princess’s world. He wasn’t surprised she didn’t tell him her problem, though he hadn’t expected that lack of trust to bother him quite as much as whatever difficulty she faced.

  Plus, he was not happy with the portraits he had begun. The sunrise and the roses were an excellent background, and the early light reflecting on her hair and skin he could make work very well. But her face was wrong. Her distracted expression, her mood, were not inspiring. At the moment, the paintings had little hope of being anything other than ordinary, decent portraits. And they should be more. He needed them to be more.

  Abandoning them, he got out another canvas instead and put the finishing touches to his portrait of the Duke and Duchess of Dearham. Looking at it made him smile, which was the effect the pair had on most people. No one loved life like Johnny Dearham unless it was his Kitty. He would give them the portrait when they returned from their wedding journey, and hope they liked it.

  Leaving it to dry, he set about cleaning his brushes and setting up fresh canvases. His stomach had begun to rumble by the time the knock sounded on his door. Hoping it was the princess, he was already opening the door before he realized he was still in his painting shirt. But then, she had seen him so improperly dressed this morning.

  It was not the princess who stood there but one of the hotel servants, who bowed and presented him with a visiting card from a silver tray. Frowning, Stephen picked it up.

  It was his father’s.

  His frown deepened to a scowl. No good ever came from his parent’s communications. And what the devil was he doing here? How had he even known to find Stephen here?

  He turned the card over to find a message in his father’s distinctive scrawl.

  Join me for tea at four.

  A father certainly had the right to command his son, and the son had a duty to obey. But Stephen knew of old the dangers of complying with Sir Oliphant’s orders too precipitously. And he had besides, more or less promised to accompany the princess and Basil for ices.

  “Is there a reply, sir?” the servant asked respectfully.

  “No… That is, yes, there is—one moment.” He walked over the dust sheet to the desk and without sitting, seized a piece of the hotel paper and dipped the supplied pen nib in ink.

  Without troubling with a greeting, he wrote, Unfortunately, I have another appointment at four. I shall be free between six and seven and if convenient, shall call upon you then. Stephen.

  Folding the note, he wrote his father’s name on the outside and returned to the servant. “In which room is Sir Oliphant staying?” he asked, dropping the note on the silver tray.

  The servant told him and went on his way, leaving Stephen thoughtful and not a little suspicious. He could think of no reason for his father to seek him out. Even a bereavement could have been conveyed by letter.

  He removed the paint-splashed shirt and cleaned himself up before changing into more respectable garb, and went in search of the princess. Which, since he knew she was changing rooms, was unexpectedly difficult. The hotel staff were unlikely to tell him which rooms she occupied, and he didn’t want to risk talk by asking. He had just decided to ask staff to send a message begging her company when he saw the distant but unmistakable bulk of Mr. Flowers entering a door on his right.

  Speeding up until he came to the same door, he knocked. A youngish maid opened it, and Basil’s voice could be heard shouting, “Mr. Dornan!”

  The maid opened the door wider to reveal a large sitting room, off which led three other doors. On one side, a desk had been set up, presumably for Basil who was leaping away from it with joy.

  “Forgive the intrusion,” Stephen said, entering. “Good afternoon, Basil! Flowers. I was looking for the princess.”

  “I’m here.” Dressed in a becoming shade of turquoise, she emerged from a door at the far end, presumably her bedchamber. “Come, we shall leave the scholars to their studies. Basil, be good and there might be ices later. Thank you, Mr. Flowers.”

  The casual thanks was given with a quick, direct smile, and Stephen thought the tutor and all her other staff would be her willing slaves just for such genuine appreciation.

  She seemed also to be genuinely pleased to see Stephen.

  “Your new rooms are satisfactory?” he asked as they left the hotel and walked toward the path to the pleasure gardens.

  “Much better, I think. Basil has the other bedchamber and my maid and the nursery maid share the small room. Mr. Flowers has the room next door. I can hear music!”

  “It will be the end of the midday concert,” Stephen said. “We can go and listen if you like.”

  They caught only the last ten minutes, though in that time, he made several sketches of her rapt face, and even one of the wry glances she cast at him once she realized what he was doing.

  Afterward, they strolled to the canopied tearoom, and Stephen devoured a bowl of rich broth with fresh, warm bread. After which, he got out his sketchbook and drew her eating flavored ices.

  “Better than Gunter’s?” he asked.

  “Do you know, I think it is!”

  When she had finished, they walked around the garden, finding interesting little corners and hideaways.

  He said, “I would like to paint you in the moonlight, on one of the public ball nights when the place is lit up with lanterns and torches.”

  “Will there not be too many people peering over your shoulder and barging between us?”

  “That’s why I’m looking for a place that will be lit but not occupied. What is up here?”

  A few steps through overhanging bushes led to what looked like a secret little garden with a lily pond and elegant fronds. A little waterfall poured into the pond and a stream led away down the slope.

  “I wonder if this is the place Kitty told me about?” the princess mused. “It is rather beautiful.”

  “And there are lanterns hung above.”

  “We could bring our own, too, if you needed extra light.”

  “True. I could imagine you here.” At the moment at least, it was a place of peace and warmth and solitude. And being alone with her here, so close he could inhale her perfume and feel her warmth brushing against him, was both tempting and intoxicating.

  “I can imagine you here, too, with your easels set up…here.” She pointed to the grass by the pond.

  “And here, perhaps.” He leaned against a boulder, partly to ease the tension caused by her nearness, and regarded her. He could not help smiling. “From any angle, you are so beautiful, I doubt my ability to do you justice.”

  People—men—must say things like that to her all the time. And yet a hint of color stained her delicate cheekbones as she gave him an amused, skeptical look. “You are an artist. You should be able to see that I am not. My features are not quite regular, my nose too long, and my mouth too wide. And I have it on the best authority that my chin is too determined for femininity.”

  “Beauty is not that kind of symmetry or perfection,” he said impatiently. “Whoever told you it was is a nincompoop.”

  She laughed at the word, and he smiled all over again at her spontaneity. “Come, shall we explore further?”

  By the time they returned to the hotel, there was still an hour left of Basil’s lesson time.

  “Would you let me paint you for that hour?” he asked.

  Her gaze was direct. It always was. “Where?”

  “In my studio.”

  A smile flickered across her face. But to him, this was the true description. He happened to sleep in the room that was his temporary studio. He didn’t think of it as painting in his bedchamber.

  “Why not?” she said lightly, leading the way upstairs. As he followed, he allowed himself a quick glance around the public areas for any sign of his father. In fact, he kept his eyes peeled, until they were inside his room when he closed the door behind them with some relief.

  “Where do you want me?” she asked with a trace of the old, teasing provocativeness he had seen so little of today.

  Inevitably his body answered silently, but with his voice, he was able to say easily, “In the window seat again, if you would.”

  Her fingers hovered over the buttons of her pelisse. “Do you want me to leave it on?”

  “I want you to be comfortable.”

  As she removed the pelisse, he took off his own coat and threw it on the bed before snatching his painting shirt from the top of the trunk. His breath caught at the picture she presented, like ice in the sunshine, waiting to melt. The warmth in her eyes contrasted achingly with the calmness of her face and the cool, turquoise fabric of her gown.

  He began to paint at once, both entranced and determined, inspired and desperate. He knew instinctively that this one would be good. She took form on his canvas in the tones of her skin and hair and the almost exact color of her gown. He would work on its shades of fold and shadow later. For now, he needed its boldness, her expression, and her beauty to shine through…

  “My rooms were ransacked last night.”

  The announcement came out of nowhere and took a moment to penetrate his paint-obsessed brain. His brush stilled. He frowned. “Ransacked?”

  “Ransacked. I found it like that when I returned from dinner with you.”

  “Dear God, why didn’t you tell me?”

  She was silent, and it came to him that she didn’t know. She was too used to dealing with problems—dangerous problems, he more than suspected—alone.

  “Did you even tell your servants? Flowers?”

  She shook her head. “I need good, loyal servants. I don’t want them taking fright and running.”

  “If they do so, they are hardly good or loyal. Their job is to protect you and your son.”

  “I know, and I believe they would. But first, I need to know who did it and why.”

  “Have you any ideas?”

  “Three,” she said. “The first that it was a total stranger, who just happened to get into my room and wanted to make a mess. It wasn’t a thief, though, for nothing was taken. My opinion is that while possible, this idea is unlikely to be the case.”

  “I would agree, but you should have a word with Renwick anyway. What is your second possibility?” He had begun to paint again, to catch that particular brave tilt of the head, her sheer aloneness.

  She sighed. “The Monteignes. My first husband’s family want Basil back. It would be easy enough for them to have discovered by now that I am here and to send someone to frighten me. Basil’s room was untouched, which bears out this theory. I believe this to be the likeliest possibility.”

  “Then I think it’s time the Monteignes were made aware of how many friends you have in London, more than ready to break Monteigne bones or shoot them over twenty paces.”

  A smile flickered once more. “Why, Mr. Dornan, I had not realized you were so bloodthirsty.”

  “I can be on occasions,” he replied, restraining his anger because it would not help her. Or the painting. “What is your third theory?”

  “Ah. Well, that is harder to articulate. It could have been someone who was once my enemy and has not forgiven me. You are aware, I suspect, that I have often been in…odd situations where I have acted to bring information to the right quarters. Or feed lies. I have done…bad things for what are, to me, good reasons, but not everyone will see it like that.”

  His heart swelled with pride in her courage. He understood fully why Johnny Dearham had once been so obsessed with her. Her strength was awe-inspiring.

  He drew his brush back and focused all his attention on the flesh-and-blood woman. It wasn’t difficult. “I think you have someone particular in mind.”

  “Not really.” She shifted uncomfortably. “Smelling your paint just reminded me of a mistake I once made. In Paris, during the Hundred Days before Waterloo. There was an established chain for passing information. I knew none of these people, never met them. But I carried several messages to an attic by the Seine. I climbed the stairs with the scent of oil paint and turpentine in my nostrils and slid pieces of paper beneath a door. One day, I knew I was being followed, knew it was time to go. But first, I took my followers on a tour and lost them to make one last delivery to that attic. I decided it was worth the risk. And it was, for me. But when I looked back, men were swarming up the stairs. I had led them there.”

  Stephen stared blankly in shock. She was reliving the experience, and he…

  He swallowed. “You could not have known. Better that he was caught than you, and in any case, you don’t know that he was arrested, or anything else.” He paused. “Or do you?”

  She shook her head. “No. And as I say, that man is only one possibility who might consider I betrayed him. There are other more obvious enemies.”

  “Would they really waste their time on revenge, four years after Waterloo?”

  “Probably not,” she agreed. “I only mention it because it has been on my mind recently. My own money is on the Monteignes.”

  “And that is why your son’s tutor is also a talented pugilist?”

  “And I keep two almost as large footmen in the room next door,” she admitted. She refocused her gaze on him. “I wanted you to know, though I’m not sure why.”

  “I’m honored that you told me,” he said truthfully. And touched, and moved beyond words by her trust.

  “Is it time to fetch Basil?” she asked restlessly.

  *

  When the words had burst free, she had been as surprised as Mr. Dornan. She had only been mulling over what his reaction might be if she told him what had happened. And suddenly the story spilled out. And not only that, but the Paris fiasco that she hadn’t even thought of for years before coming to Renwick’s.

  As they fetched Basil and hailed him off for an ice, she still didn’t know what had prompted her to tell, unless it was the strange, growing closeness of artist and sitter, a closeness cemented by their time in the gardens this afternoon. By the lily pond, he had stood so close to her that she had wanted to rest her head against his shoulder, slip her arm around his waist. She still wondered what he would have done. Would he have jumped free in shock? Or turned and kissed her?

  She didn’t think the shock terribly likely. Seeing him in the company of Lord Calton over Christmas, comparing him to the younger, more rakish version of Johnny, had given her a probably false impression of him. He could not look as he did and be a stranger to women’s pursuit. But he took it in his stride, from the waitress’s fluttering eyelashes to her own teasing. He might not be rakishly indiscriminate—she suspected he was not and rather liked the fact. His kisses, his love, would be worth something.

  Where the devil had that thought come from?

  Blinking, she refocused on Basil, whose eyes were sparkling in delight as a bowl of ices was brought to him. But he waited patiently while she poured the tea and passed a cup to Mr. Dornan.

 

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