Temptation and the Artist, page 5
He cast her a quick smile. He sat in a quite unorthodox position, leaning back in his chair with one knee propped against the table edge and his sketchbook balanced there while he drew. His focus shifted from her to Basil and back, as though he were making sketches of each, or perhaps of their interactions.
She had never imagined the relationship between a portraitist and a sitter could be this…intimate. And yet it felt oddly comfortable. Even Basil, who had grown wary recently, of new people—probably since she had left him in France with the Monteignes—seemed accepting of Dornan’s restful company.
And then, “Ah,” said an amused male voice. “Now I understand why you were too busy to keep an appointment with your old papa.”
A tall, thin gentleman of middle years had appeared behind Mr. Dornan. Beneath the sagging jowls and the lines and shadows of premature aging, he possessed similar features, though there was something wrong about the eyes.
Stephen Dornan’s pencil stilled, and for a moment, he did not raise his eyes from the page. Then, without turning he said, “I merely postponed it for a couple of hours. How are you, Father?”
Two younger, bigger men had materialized at either side of Mr. Dornan senior.
“In the pink,” one of them said, reaching over Stephen’s shoulder to pick up his teacup and drain it.
“Thanks to us,” said the other. “While you…what?” Without warning, he whipped the sketchbook from Stephen’s hands. “Make children’s drawings? Good God, little Stephen, do people actually pay you for this tripe?”
The spite in his mockery shocked Aline. This was not mere brotherly raillery. This was…bullying, confirmed by the sneering laughter of the other brother and the complacent smile of the father.
Stephen did not react in any obvious way. He did not try to snatch back the book or even curl his fingers in rage.
Instead, he said mildly, “Manners, gentlemen.” And pushed out his chair so suddenly that the brother with the book was forced to leap backward. “Madam, allow me to present Sir Oliphant Dornan, my father, and my brothers, Mr. Clive Dornan and Mr. Gordon Dornan. Father, Princess Hagerin.”
Aline did not offer her hand, but at least the men moved away from Stephen to approach her side of the table and bow.
“My son,” she said distantly, while every nerve prickled in alarm to have such men so close to Basil.
“How kind of your highness to allow my boy to practice his drawing around you,” the father said indulgently.
“And, bless you, he needs the practice,” Clive said with scornful amusement. He tossed the book to Gordon who laughed and pushed it onto the table in front of Basil.
“You could make a much better job of drawing your mama, couldn’t you, my boy? Go on, try. And when you’re grown up, you can call out my talentless brother for the insult to your beautiful lady mother.”
Basil, bless him, closed the book and passed it to Aline, though his color had risen and he had that mulish, glittering look about him that had once preceded a tantrum. Clive, meanwhile, had returned to Stephen’s end of the table and now seized him with an arm around his throat while he scrubbed his knuckles brutally hard against his brother’s head.
“Pleased to see us, little brother?” he chortled. “Of course you are!”
To Aline’s distress and fury, Clive began to haul Stephen by the neck out of his chair, attracting attention from the other patrons and the waiting staff. “Come on, time to give the lady some peace. The little prince there will be a better escort fo—”
Before Aline could move to intervene—as she most surely meant to—Stephen’s chair somehow shoved hard into Clive’s middle. The arm at Stephen’s throat loosed, and with a sudden twist and clatter of movement, suddenly it was Clive who sat in the chair, blinking, an expression of ludicrous surprise on his face.
While Sir Oliphant and Gordon stared at Clive in astonishment, Aline quietly rose and, with Basil, walked around the other end of the table.
“I believe it turns insalubrious in the garden,” she drawled. “Your escort, Mr. Dornan?”
Stephen, whose wary gaze was divided between his family and the two burly waiters approaching from the kitchen area, turned at once, offering her his arm.
Chapter Five
As the three of them walked away without a backward glance, Aline passed Stephen Dornan his sketchbook, which he slipped into his pocket.
He said quietly, “I apologize, madam. My family’s clowning is tedious at the best of times. Before a lady and her son, it is unforgivable.”
“They weren’t clowning,” Aline said shortly. “They were belittling you in front of me. Or trying to.”
“I didn’t like them,” Basil pronounced, peering back over his shoulder. “I’m glad I don’t have brothers.”
“Not all brothers are as annoying as mine,” Stephen said.
“They’re placating the waiters,” Basil reported.
“Well, they won’t want to be thrown off the premises,” Stephen said. “At least, not yet.”
“Did you know they were here?” Aline asked.
“I knew my father was at the hotel. I received a note commanding me to tea.”
“Then this was punishment for not obeying?” she asked incredulously.
“No,” Stephen said thoughtfully. “That was a deliberate scene.”
“They seem an entirely different species to you.”
A flicker of a weary smile crossed his face. “In that, they would agree with you. Now you know why I avoid family. But at least the ices were good.”
“Better than Gunter’s!” Basil enthused. “The raspberry one was delicious, but I think the chocolate might be my favorite.”
“Mine, too,” Aline agreed, and for the rest of the walk back to the hotel, they discussed ices and jugglers and other fun things about the gardens. Stephen joined in, making ridiculous suggestions about other entertainments that could be introduced, including elephants to spray the guests in summer to keep them cool, and lions and tigers to chase the stilt people.
Basil laughed, and even Aline was smiling as they walked along the passage to her new rooms. A footman admitted them to her knock, and Basil began to explain to him and Ellen about the elephants.
Apparently assured of her safety, Stephen Dornan bowed, clearly about to take his leave.
“A moment,” Aline said quickly. “You do not mean to keep the appointment you made with your father?”
“I am a dutiful son,” he said sardonically.
“Are you?”
“No. But I am as polite as I can be. And besides, I need to know what they want before I can say no and be rid of them.”
“Be careful,” she said austerely. “Better still, I shall accompany you and use my august presence to prevent violence.”
The surprise in his eyes melted her heart. “That is the kindest of offers, but I must decline. For one thing, I would not subject you to them twice in one day. For another, I have been dealing with them all my life and know how to manage them.”
He hadn’t fought for the sketchbook, knowing his brothers would merely toss it between them until it was damaged, forcing them to find another way to torment him with it. He had broken Clive’s hold and escaped him without violence or temper. Perhaps he did know, but she could not like it.
“Then have dinner with me afterward,” she blurted. “Otherwise, I shall worry.”
His eyes warmed. “Will you? I could not have that on my conscience, too. On the other hand, it would not be a pleasant meal if my family joined us in the dining room.”
“Then we shall dine here,” she said recklessly. “Mr. Flowers can join us as chaperone.”
He was silent, perhaps recognizing that Mr. Flowers, as well as the footmen, were excellent guards. But his eyes were focused unblinkingly on her face. “They won’t actually hurt me, you know. They are family, and they need me to do something. But I shall gladly dine with you and Mr. Flowers.”
With that, he bowed and walked away.
*
“Remind me,” Sir Oliphant said coldly to his elder sons when they were once more ensconced in his rooms, “not to listen to any of your ideas ever again.”
“Why not?” Gordon demanded, almost hurt. “She didn’t care for the scene, and we made him look pretty small.”
“And yet she walked off on his arm, leaving us to be told off by the damned waiters!” Sir Oliphant snarled. “No more public scenes.”
“Whatever you say, Papa,” Clive muttered, flexing his shoulder.
Stephen must have twisted it for him when he’d flung the bigger man in the chair. Although it went against his own interests, Sir Oliphant was fiercely glad someone had punished the fool.
“So, what do we do now?” Gordon demanded.
“Talk to him like a human being,” Sir Oliphant said, somewhat reluctantly conceding that the days of bullying Stephen might be over. “Tell him what we want, and I’m sure he’ll agree to come home with us.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Clive asked skeptically. He stretched out on the sofa with his feet up on the cushions. He hadn’t troubled to remove his boots.
Sir Oliphant bared his teeth. “Then we’ll favor the direct approach and be done.”
His sons speculated on that directness with obvious pleasure, until a knock sounded on the door.
“Prompt,” Sir Oliphant observed, encouraged, and jerked his head at the door.
Gordon rose from the chair he’d been lounging in and opened the door. “Stephen,” he said with mock affection. “Look, Papa, Stephen has honored us with a visit.”
“I have,” Stephen agreed, walking in and leaving Gordon to close the door behind him. “But I can’t stay long. I have a dinner engagement.”
“The beautiful princess?” Sir Oliphant said before Stephen’s brothers could mock. “Quite a catch you have there. I’ll be honest—never thought you had it in you.”
“I don’t. We merely have an agreement that I paint her portrait.”
“Whatever you say, Stephen. Budge up there, Clive, let your brother sit down.”
Reluctantly, Clive moved his feet and sat up to leave space. As though he didn’t notice, Stephen sat in the armchair.
“So why have you followed me here?” Stephen asked. “What is it you want?”
“Do we have to want anything?” Sir Oliphant tried to sound hurt, though he probably wasn’t very good at it, for Stephen didn’t even think about his answer.
“Yes. You have no stomach for my company, nor I for yours, so let us get to the point.”
He had never used to sound so damned sure of himself. He used to at least try for filial respect and civility. But then, Sir Oliphant hadn’t seen his youngest for…three years. Five if one ignored the mere bow they had exchanged in Bond Street in the spring of 1816. Well, Stephen had bowed. His father had stared, for Stephen had been in the company of some very fashionable and clearly wealthy young men who were quite unknown to Sir Oliphant.
“The point is,” Sir Oliphant said slowly, taking the other armchair and leaving the space on the sofa for Gordon, “that we want you to come home.”
Not the faintest smile crossed Stephen’s face. “Run the estate into the ground, have you?”
Jesus. The boy had always been this annoying, but did he have to be quite so blunt? “It’s not doing as well as it might,” Sir Oliphant said with some dignity. “Not nearly as well as it did before you departed.”
“Departed,” Stephen repeated without emphasis.
It was true Sir Oliphant had thrown him out because he wouldn’t leave the damned painting alone, had refused to study for the church or join the military. The word was, he’d gone abroad, despite the war. “Well, we needn’t quarrel over the past. I have to admit you were good with the land, with the demesne, and the tenancies. And your own place at Kennings looks to be thriving. So, we would like you to come home and work a little of your magic.”
Still giving nothing away, Stephen moved his gaze to his brothers. “You all want this?”
The boys nodded emphatically, so like chastened schoolboys that even Stephen’s lip twitched.
“Hire a steward,” he said mildly and rose to his feet.
Time, then, for direct action. Sir Oliphant didn’t budge, but Clive and Gordon sprang up and stood between their little brother and the door.
“Really?” Stephen sounded amused. “Then don’t hire a steward. It’s nothing to me. But if you want me to think about my answer, you’ll sit down.”
They shuffled out of the way, and Stephen strolled to the door. “I’ve thought. Sort out your own damned mess,” he said and walked out.
*
Stephen couldn’t deny it felt good. Perhaps it was petty of him, but he had been bullied too long by his brothers while his father stood back laughing to have any time for any of them. And although he had overcome his anger against them for the most part, his parting words felt like closing the door on the past, on the family who never wanted him, and whom he no longer needed.
He really was free, his own man, and had, besides, a growing success in his art. He had made his way in the world, professionally and personally, without any help from them. And that was the way he liked it.
As he returned to his room, he shook off the encounter, leaving only the mild euphoria of victory, and looked forward to his evening with the princess. He washed and changed into evening dress, dragged a brush through his hair, and set off for her rooms. He encountered a few fellow guests on the way, heading down to the dining room, but recognized none of them.
Only as he turned the corner to the princess’s rooms did a warning frisson run down his spine. He was being watched… Or the princess’s rooms were. Remembering what had happened to her old rooms last night, he kept walking, straight past her door, flexing his fists, but even as he turned to face whatever danger lurked behind, someone rushed toward him, and something dark and smelly blinded him. A sack had been flung over his head.
Holding him strongly from behind, someone tried to yank him off his feet. Someone else was actually lifting his feet. Not so much an attack as an abduction. But he could not afford to be abducted. The princess had to be warned of her danger, protected at all costs. Fear for her lent strength to his instinctive, sudden struggles.
He kicked out hard with both feet and connected with grunting flesh. At the same time, he crashed his elbow backward and freed himself from his other captor.
“The bag!” someone hissed as Stephen reached for the odiferous covering over his head. And then, someone, probably the man who’d had him by the feet, leapt upon him from behind, yanking the bag downward. Stephen heaved with all his might, and his attacker went flying over his shoulder, crashing, by the sound of things, into his fellow.
Stephen snatched the bag from his head, blinking in the sudden light, just in time to see the edges of two large men staggering around the corner. They seemed to be dragging each other, so either they were desperate not to be seen, or he’d managed to injure one or more of them quite badly. Ferociously, he hoped the latter.
He longed to chase after them, but first, he needed to see that the princess was unharmed. He strode up to her door and rapped once before clenching his hand and drawing it back to punch.
Mr. Flowers blinked at him. “Something I said?”
Stephen lowered his fist with a shaky breath of laughter and walked in. Through the open door to one of the bedchambers, Basil’s voice could be heard arguing, presumably with his nurse. A maid was fussing with a table that had been set up near the window. And alone on the sofa, sat the princess, paying him no attention. She was staring at a piece of paper held in her hands.
Stephen went straight to her, sinking onto the sofa beside her. “What is it?” he demanded. “What has happened?”
“Nothing,” she said, crumpling the paper in her hand and trying to smile.
He covered her hand with his. “Don’t.”
Her gaze flew to his, and held, and then, almost to her surprise, she opened her hand and let him take the crumpled note from her.
“Someone slipped it under the door,” she said. “Just a few minutes ago. I thought it was you, saying you could not come after all.”
He spread the note out. The words were few and printed in easy-to-read letters.
GO HOME. THINK OF THE LITTLE PRINCE.
Something went click in Stephen’s memory, and stretched rapidly, wretchedly into understanding.
“They are threatening Basil,” she said in a low, shaking voice. “This changes everything…”
Flowers had appeared beside them and Stephen, still going over the evidence in his mind, wordlessly passed him the note.
“We’re all thinking of the little prince,” Flowers said savagely.
“No, we’re not,” Stephen said. Both the princess and the tutor turned stares of outrage upon him. “Basil is not a prince, is he? He is the son of your first marriage.”
Panic, clearly, had stopped her thinking, but she thought now. “Some people would not know that.”
“Some people clearly do not,” Stephen agreed. “But Basil’s family do. Enemies you might have made during the war would surely know. All your London acquaintances know. If anyone had troubled to follow you here, they would surely be aware that Basil is not a prince.”
The princess searched his eyes. “You think you know,” she accused.
“I do,” he said ruefully, “though part of me wishes I did not.” He dragged his fingers through his hair, drawing her attention to his slightly rumpled appearance, the tear in his cravat, an irritation on his face thanks to the disgusting sack.
“Stephen Dornan, have you been fighting? Was that the noise I heard? I thought the staff had dropped something in the corridor…”
“Sort of.” He drew a deep breath. “First, I believe you and Basil are both safe. This note, and what happened last night, I believe to be the work of my family.”
“Your family?” she exclaimed while Flowers scowled, completely baffled.
