“I can see that was a sensible move business-wise.” Violet was jotting, then she looked up and met Renee’s eyes. “Lady Carisbrook has another daughter she’s currently taking about—Julia. Are her ladyship’s bills in any danger of…ah, outdistancing the constable again?”
Renee chuckled, but shook her head. “Oddly enough, this time, with this younger daughter, Lady Carisbrook seems to be determined to do the minimum she can, at least with respect to young Julia’s gowns. For herself, her ladyship has never stinted, and she continues to order new gowns more regularly than any of my other clients.” Renee humphed. “With respect to her, I frequently ask myself just how many gowns a lady can wear in one year. To return to your point, however, given she’s really only spending on herself, I doubt that my bills are causing Lord Carisbrook any sleepless nights.”
Griselda and Violet exchanged glances, then Violet hmmed.
Renee got to her feet. “Let me look in my ledgers and find the exact year for you.”
She was as good as her word, identifying the year of the Carisbrooks’ financial stress as 1831. “Eight years ago,” Renee said. “Further back than I’d thought.”
Just then, the shop bell rang. All three women looked at the clock ticking on a shelf on the wall behind the desk.
“Almost three o’clock.” Renee shut the ledger and set it back on the shelf. “That will be Lady Hemmings—she’s almost always a trifle early.”
Griselda gathered up Megan, tangled ribbons and all, and stood. Violet settled her notebook in her reticule and, hoisting Martin up, rose, too.
Griselda held out her hand to Renee. “Thank you for your help.”
Renee frowned. “I forgot to ask—are the Carisbrooks in financial trouble?” She met Griselda’s eyes. “Should I be wary of extending too much credit their way?”
Violet shook her head. “No—quite the opposite. We suspected the family had had a difficult time in the past, but that they overcame it. It’s the past that concerns us. We’ve found nothing to suggest the family is in anything but sound financial health now.”
“Good.” Renee nodded. “I might thoroughly dislike his wife, but I like Lord Carisbrook.”
Renee ushered Violet and Griselda into the salon, where a fussy lady was quibbling with the poor assistant. After exchanging a look with Griselda and Violet, Renee left them to find their own way to the door while she turned her attention to dealing with her customer.
Violet followed Griselda onto the pavement of the fashionable shopping street. Side by side, they walked toward the corner around which they’d left Griselda’s small carriage. “What did you make of that?” Violet asked.
“Reading between Renee’s lines,” Griselda replied, “I would say that eight years ago, in 1831, Lady Carisbrook effectively beggared her husband.”
“Hmm.” Violet looked ahead. “And given the way his lordship’s affairs are arranged, that means she beggared the Carisbrook estate.”
Chapter 6
Hugo had wracked his brain to find an excursion that was suitable for him to escort Cara on alone and had hit on the latest exhibition of the Royal Academy, which was open to the public in nearby Burlington House.
With its adjacent arcade, Burlington House stood on Piccadilly a mere two blocks from the corner of Albemarle Street—an easy walk along well-populated streets.
He’d tentatively mentioned his idea to Mrs. Montague, half expecting her to disapprove. Instead, with her pen tapping on Penelope’s blotter, Mrs. Montague had thought, then she’d called in Mostyn and consulted the experienced majordomo. After Hugo had agreed that there was no reason a footman couldn’t trail along behind them—just in case of unforeseeable danger—both Mrs. Montague and Mostyn had smiled and, somewhat to Hugo’s surprise, labeled his suggestion an excellent notion.
Now, with the midafternoon rush of visitors milling about them, Hugo stood with Cara on his arm and considered himself a lucky man. Cara’s expression said she was delighted, fascinated, and thrilled—and, of course, given her absorption with the paintings and sketches displayed, she’d all but forgotten he was there. That meant he was free to gaze at her face, to drink in the intense appreciation of life that infused her features and attracted him as nothing and no one else ever had.
He indulged himself while indulging her and inwardly preened at having realized that art was the way to her heart.
Contrary to Hugo’s assumption, Cara was very much aware of his gaze; the touch of it feathered over her senses, over her skin, like the gentlest caress. She should—perhaps—turn her head and frown at him and make him stop, but…standing before wonderful paintings while on his arm was currently her idea of heaven, and she was loath to mar it.
That said, beneath her joy at being able to feast her eyes on the artworks displayed and the pleasure she found in Hugo’s company ran a darker, unsettling train of thought that insisted that what her silly heart had already started imagining and hoping for would never come to pass.
Within a day of her joining her uncle’s household, her aunt had taken her aside, sat her down, and soberly explained what she had termed the facts of Cara’s life. Namely that, as the daughter of a scandalous lady who had run off with a penniless Italian painter—Cara had bitten her lip and stopped herself from correcting her aunt; her father had been far from penniless—Cara could not hope to make what the English termed “a good match.” Instead, she would have to be content with whatever gentleman her aunt could find for her after settling Julia. Her aunt had gone on to suggest that Cara should affect a retiring disposition until Julia was suitably established—if, that was, Cara wished for her aunt’s support subsequently.
Her aunt had repeated her warnings several times since—sometimes with eyes blazing and her words hissed through her teeth.
Cara was still feeling her way in the partially familiar but in some ways strange arena of English society. She wasn’t so naive as to believe everything her Aunt Livia told her, yet she remained unsure of what her place in the ton might be.
And now, close beside her, his steely arm beneath her hand, stood a gentleman who set her heart alight. Who, she sensed, might make her soul sing. Every moment she spent with Hugo Adair, every new little fact she learned about him, only increased her conviction that he might be…what her father had been to her mother.
Her father had seen the joy in her mother’s soul and had seized her and set her free.
Hugo seemed to feel similarly about her…yet even though he didn’t bear a title, he belonged to a noble family, and that family might frown direfully on any putative association with her, much as her mother’s family had on her father’s suit.
Cara simply didn’t know how stable the ground on which she stood might be.
Indeed, in truth, she didn’t even know on what ground she stood.
Just thinking about it left her feeling hopeful and cast down at the same time, and she truly didn’t know which way to lean. Toward Hugo? Or would she be saving them both heartache if she forced herself to pull back from him?
“Hugo?”
Hugo snapped out of the reverie in which he’d been imagining the day on which he would take Cara into Wiltshire to see his parents’ home, turned, and beheld Mrs. Jacqueline Debbington attired in a severe and highly fashionable gown and holding two of her children—the elder two, Hugo assumed—by their hands.
“Fancy meeting you here.” Jacqueline—who Hugo knew was a close friend of Penelope’s—quizzed him with her eyes, then she turned her gaze on Cara and, flicking free of her son’s grasp, extended her gloved hand. “I’m Mrs. Debbington, and you must be Miss Di Abaccio. It’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear.”
Cara touched fingers and bobbed a curtsy. “I am pleased to meet you as well.” Cara glanced at the children, then at the paintings surrounding them. “Do you often come here? Do the children enjoy it?”
“Yes.” Jacqueline smiled. “They’ve had quite a lot of experience of exhibitions.” She looked at her children. “This
is Fredrick—he’s seven—and this is Miranda, who is six.”
Frederick dutifully made his bow, and Miranda bobbed a curtsy.
Cara smiled on them both. “You are very well-behaved children.”
Frederick’s eyes grew round, as did Miranda’s, then Frederick blurted, “You’re very beautiful.”
Cara laughed delightedly and dropped Frederick a curtsy. “Thank you for the compliment, young sir.”
Frederick had been prepared to be thoroughly embarrassed, but, reassured, he smiled easily back.
Jacqueline, too, was smiling, in her case, indulgently. She caught Hugo’s eye. “I spoke with Penelope this morning. She mentioned you were keeping Miss Di Abaccio company—what an inspired idea to bring her here.” Jacqueline included Cara with her gaze. “I hope you’re enjoying the works, Miss Di Abaccio.”
“Please, call me Cara.” Cara returned her gaze to the large portrait she’d been studying. “I am particularly interested in the portraits…” She frowned, then looked at Jacqueline. “You are Mrs. Debbington? The wife of the so-famous Gerrard Debbington?”
Jacqueline laughed. “Yes, for my sins, I am, indeed, Gerrard’s wife.”
“So”—Cara looked at the children—“these are his children, and they are here to look on their papa’s work?”
“Well, yes, but they’re both more interested—as Gerrard is—in landscapes.”
“Truly?” Cara looked surprised. Then her eyes widened. “Ah—now I have looked properly, I see you are the lady in Mr. Debbington’s most famous portrait. Is that not so?”
Jacqueline nodded. “That was how we met. My father commissioned Gerrard to paint me.”
Cara sighed. “It is a very lovely painting—I was lucky enough to see it once when it was shown in Florence. And now I understand why it has so much”—she gestured with her hands—“intensity. He was in love with you when he painted it.”
Jacqueline regarded Cara shrewdly. “In the first throes, as it happens. You’re very perceptive. Not many have seen that. Most simply see me and what the portrait reveals about me, not him.”
“Ah, but I…” Cara broke off and amended, “My father was a painter, you see.”
Jacqueline nodded.
Hugo was rather surprised she didn’t question Cara further.
Instead, Jacqueline glanced around before returning her gaze to Cara’s face. “This is the end of the exhibition for us. Have you finished, or are you just starting?”
“No.” Cara smiled at the children. “This, too, is the last painting for us.”
“In that case, might I suggest we all repair to the tearoom in the arcade next door?” Jacqueline looked fondly at her children, who promptly adopted pleading expressions. “If I don’t get cream cakes for these two, my life will be a misery.”
Cara looked hopefully at Hugo.
Jacqueline’s look was a great deal more pointed; it warned him not to think of denying her, Cara, or the children.
Hugo managed a smile for all four. “Why not?”
Cara, beaming, joined the children in uttering a suitably muted cheer.
Hugo escorted his now-expanded party out of Burlington House and into the arcade. The tea shop proved to be half empty, and the children scampered to take possession of one of the round tables in the window.
Having glimpsed the footman who had been delegated to assist in watching over Cara as the man followed them into the arcade, Hugo decided the position was well enough. He didn’t care if passing matrons noticed him having tea with Cara, especially not now Jacqueline and her children had joined them. Nothing could be more innocent than the picture they doubtless presented as pots of tea arrived and orders were taken for cream cakes and scones.
To Hugo’s relief, it was a relaxed and comfortable interlude.
Jacqueline spoke to Cara of Italy; she and Gerrard had visited several times over the years, although they had never been to Sienna, where Cara’s father and mother had lived.
“I do remember seeing several Di Abaccios in a gallery in Rome,” Jacqueline said over her teacup. “Landscapes with quite wonderful brushwork.”
Cara tipped her head from side to side. “My father loved the painting, but he never paid much attention to the business—that wasn’t his love.”
“Purely out of curiosity, did he leave you many paintings?”
“He tended to give his works away to family and friends, but I have thirty of his best canvases. They are on their way by sea and will be some months yet. I will have to find somewhere to put them—I’ll have to ask my uncle where they might go.”
Jacqueline shot a wide-eyed and rather intent look Hugo’s way, but then, as if thinking better of whatever her point was, simply murmured in agreement.
A few minutes later, while Jacqueline was quizzing Hugo over what he was doing with his life and Cara was distracting the children and apparently succeeding wonderfully, judging by the way all three were giggling, Cara looked at Jacqueline and waved to get her attention. When Jacqueline arched her brows, Cara said, “I enjoy sketching faces—would it be all right for me to draw these two imps?”
Jacqueline smiled, glanced at her children, and waved. “By all means.”
Cara pulled a sketch pad and her pencils from her large bag—Hugo had wondered at its size, but had assumed it was an Italian fashion—and after explaining to the children how she wished them to pose, happily settled to sketch.
“I heard from your sisters that you’re proposing to expand your father’s hound-breeding program.” Jacqueline arched her brows. “Is it very different from breeding horses?”
Hugo found himself explaining in more detail than he had to anyone before, but then Jacqueline was an excellent listener. Later, he realized that she was also an excellent plotter, every bit as devious as Penelope.
But then the teapots were empty and the cakes all gone, and the children were eager to see what Cara had made of them.
Smiling, she set aside her pencil and tore three sheets from her sketch pad. “No,” she admonished, as two pairs of greasy hands reached for the pages. “Your mama can hold them for you until you get home and wash your fingers.”
Both children sat back, but strained to look at the creations as Cara handed them to Jacqueline.
“Oh.” Jacqueline’s eyes widened.
Cara blushed. “They are nothing, I know—not measured against your husband’s talent. But they are just for the children to laugh at and remember this moment, you see.”
Jacqueline looked at Cara, then back at the sketches she held in her hands. After a moment, her gaze still on the sheets, she said, “Would you mind, Cara, if we showed these to Gerrard?” She glanced at the children. “They’ll wish to, of course.”
Cara shrugged and smiled at the children. “The sketches are yours to do with as you please.”
“Thank you, Miss Di Abaccio,” the pair chorused.
Hugo had caught only the briefest glimpse of the sketches as Cara had handed them across the table; to his eyes, they had seemed very fine—expressive, which was an adjective he associated with Cara—but he wasn’t any expert.
He had already paid their shot, so they gathered themselves, rose, and made their way out into the arcade and on to Piccadilly.
The footman hovered and, at Jacqueline’s request, hailed a hackney.
Hugo helped Jacqueline and the children up, then stepped back and boldly retook Cara’s arm as if he had the right to do so.
She made no demur, and after they’d waved Jacqueline and the children off, walked by his side as they covered the short distance along the busy thoroughfare, then turned in to the relative quiet of Albemarle Street.
After a moment of strolling along, Cara sighed.
“What is it?”
When she looked up, Hugo felt as if he was falling into the vivid green of her eyes, but then they clouded, and she faced forward. “Seeing all those paintings reminded me—I do miss my paints and easel.”
“Where are they?”
br /> “In the back of my armoire in my uncle’s house.”
Hugo slowed, then halted. “There’s no reason we can’t go and fetch them, if that’s what you’d like?”
Cara blinked at him. She searched his eyes and confirmed he was in earnest. She’d expressed a wish for something, and he immediately offered to get her what she’d wished for…
In that moment, she fell—helplessly—just a little deeper in love with him.
He’d taken her to the exhibition, and for the past hours, she’d forgotten all about the difficulties of her situation. But those difficulties were still there.
Slowly, her eyes on his, she said, “Thank you for the kind thought, but it has only been just over one day. It was simply the sight of the paintings that made me wish to pick up a brush. But best I wait until this business with the emeralds is decided before I venture under the same roof as my aunt again.”
He looked at her as if debating whether to challenge her decision or not.
She smiled, tightened her hold on his arm, and nudged him into walking again. “Truly, I would prefer not to run the risk of meeting Aunt Livia just now.”
“That, I can understand.” After a moment, he closed his hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve and, in a quieter tone, said, “But trust me, with Barnaby and Penelope—let alone Stokes and Montague and their wives—all working on the case, it won’t be long before you have your paints, brushes, and easel again.”
Three o’clock came and went, and Barnaby and Stokes still loitered on the pavement two houses up from the Carisbrook residence.