"Exactly." He hesitated. "And perhaps to help you and your father learn what happened. I owe you that. As soon as I came here, I realized that something was wrong. Your mother's death in ambiguous circumstances injured all who were close to her. The truth, no matter how painful, might come as a relief."
He sounded so blasted reasonable. So kind. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Part of her didn't want to see him go, but another, larger part was terrified at the thought of living under the same roof with the shadow of his treachery between them. It would be better if he left.
Yet if anyone could solve the mystery of her mother's death, it was Kenneth. Tonight he had demonstrated a kind of deductive skill that was alien to her. Surely she owed it to Helen's memory to let him finish his investigation.
As she weighed the choices, he said quietly, "I concealed my true reason for coming to this house, but that was my only deceit. Everything I told you about my past, everything that happened between us, was true. Everything."
She caught her breath as pain lanced through her. She wanted so much to believe him, but her emotions had been too badly mauled. Her gaze went to the carpet in front of the fireplace. A few hours earlier, she had known pure happiness. But he had sounded just as sincere and believable when he had talked with Bowden.
"You kept too many secrets, Captain," she said tightly. "You concealed your station in life, your artistic ability, your very reason for coming to this house. I've run out of trust."
The scar across his cheek whitened. "If you allow me to stay, I'll keep out of your way as much as possible."
"See that you do."
It was permission, and the signal for an armed truce. Kenneth nodded and silently left the studio.
When he was gone, she went to the sofa and curled up against the Persian silk carpet, wrapping her shawl around her like a cocoon. Too much had happened in this disastrous evening. Passion. Treachery. Assault. The possibility of murder. She was too drained even to go down to her bedroom.
Where did deceit end and truth begin?
Kenneth's talent was real. His military experience and sister were also real. His friends were real and loyal, and the quality of those friends reflected well on him.
But that didn't mean he wasn't a fortune hunter. It didn't mean that he had felt anything beyond lust when he bedded her. It didn't mean she could trust him.
Eyes starkly open, Rebecca watched the dying coals slowly crumble into ash.
* * *
Exhausted, Kenneth stripped off his clothing and went to bed as soon as he reached his room. The first edge of Rebecca's fury had been blunted, but the chasm between them was still catastrophically deep. Perhaps it could not be bridged.
She was such a contradiction. Her unconventional upbringing had given her a misleading air of sophistication. She had acted as if virginity were no more than a minor nuisance, and insisted that she had no interest in marriage.
Yet he suspected that at heart she was a romantic who yearned to believe in love and faithfulness. Otherwise she would not disapprove so much of her parents' infidelities. Nor would she have waited until the age of twenty-seven to trust a man with her body and at least a small part of her heart. She had been gradually opening up to him. He had hoped that by the time his financial affairs were sorted out, she would be willing to trust him with her hand as well. But tonight she had bolted back into her shell, possibly forever.
Ironically, the catastrophic evening had finally produced something significant to report to Lord Bowden. The missing heart band from the gimmal ring was a small thing, but it had crystallized vague suspicions into a firm belief that Helen Seaton had been murdered. He couldn't prove it yet. But now that he was convinced there had been foul play, his chances of finding her killer were greatly enhanced.
As Kenneth drifted into restless sleep, he pondered the irony of his situation. Without his secret mission to Seaton House, he never would have met Rebecca. Yet those same secrets might have doomed any chance of building a future with her.
Chapter 29
Two days after the Strathmore ball, Rebecca received a note from Lady Bowden saying that her newfound aunt would be walking near the Serpentine in Hyde Park later that morning. She fingered the paper doubtfully. She had thought of Lady Bowden several times since their meeting. A day earlier, she would have welcomed this discreet invitation to further their acquaintance.
After hearing of Lord Bowden's desire to prove Sir Anthony a murderer, she was not so sure. It would be hard to keep that from Bowden's wife. Then again, perhaps this was a heaven-sent opportunity to learn more about her father's brother.
Pragmatism won, and two hours later Rebecca and her maid Betsy went to the park. Relatively few people were about at this unfashionable hour, so it took only a few minutes to locate her aunt's slight, elegant figure.
"Good day, Lady Bowden," Rebecca said as they approached each other. "It's good to see you again."
Her ladyship gave her maid a glance. The woman fell back out of earshot and walked with Betsy. Lady Bowden smiled. "I'm glad you could come on such short notice, Rebecca. We're leaving for the country tomorrow. Even though it is only a few miles from your father's summer home, I don't think it will be possible for us to meet there."
"Someone would surely notice," Rebecca agreed. She looked around her. "I'm glad to have an excuse to come out on such a fine day. I've been so busy I've scarcely noticed the weather."
The two women talked of inconsequential things as they strolled toward the narrow end of the lake, which was busy with splashing waterfowl. When they reached it, Lady Bowden opened her large reticule and brought out two chunks of bread.
After handing one to Rebecca, she broke a corner off her own bread and tossed it into the water. Ducks and geese darted forward from all directions, honking hopefully.
Rebecca smiled and threw out a piece of bread. "Why is it so soothing to feed waterfowl?"
"They're so much more direct than humans," her aunt replied. "By the way, my felicitations on your betrothal. I gather Lord Kimball is that splendid specimen who escorted you when we met?"
The Candover ball seemed a long time ago. "You mean the gentleman with whom I was caught misbehaving. To be honest, Aunt Margaret, the betrothal was a pretense to avoid scandal. We intended to break it quietly after a discreet interval."
Her aunt gave her a look of bright-eyed curiosity. "From the way you speak, you sound as if you're considering making it a real betrothal. After all, misbehaving with a man generally indicates a certain fondness for the fellow."
"The situation has changed. Perhaps I shouldn't say this, for I don't want to cause you pain. Still, in a way it concerns us both." Rebecca hurled a piece of bread as far as she could. A great mute swan swooped majestically into the water and stole the tidbit from a goose. "I recently learned that your husband hired Lord Kimball to enter our household as a secretary in order to seek evidence that my father killed my mother."
"Oh, my. I see why you were reluctant to speak." Lady Bowden's eyes widened with shock. "Oh, my... I presume you are concerned for your father and furious with your young man."
"He is not my young man. Especially not now."
"Men are imperfect creatures, aren't they? But they are the only opposite sex we have, so we must make the best of them." Her aunt sighed. "Strange how even after almost thirty years, my husband can't get Helen out of his mind."
"I'm sorry, Aunt Margaret," Rebecca said softly. "I know the knowledge must be hurtful."
"Only a bit. He does love me, you know, though I understand that better than he does himself." She tossed out several small pieces of bread, her face a little sad. "We've had a good marriage. Our two sons are a great joy to us both. But I think that because he loved Helen when he was young, she represents the lost dreams of his youth. He doesn't want to let them go."
"I can sympathize, but not if his regrets lead him to falsely accuse my father." Rebecca flipped a piece of bread over a fat Canada goose
so that a small female mallard could snatch it. "Forgive me for asking, but... is there any chance that your husband's hatred would lead him to manufacture evidence to support his belief in my father's wickedness?"
"No chance at all. Marcus can be very fixed in his opinions, but he is rigorously honest." Her aunt gave her a slanting glance. "How did you learn of my husband's scheme?"
"I overheard him talking to Kenneth at the Strathmore ball."
Lady Bowden grimaced. "Perhaps I should have attended instead of crying off. Did you confront Lord Kimball?"
"Yes. If I'd had a weapon, I would have assaulted him."
"Did he brazen it out?"
"Not really. He said he regretted the duplicity." Her mouth hardened. "But that doesn't change the fact of his lies."
"Once he became embroiled in the situation, he could hardly come out and tell you the truth," Lady Bowden said reasonably . "He was truly caught on the horns of a dilemma."
"A dilemma of his own creation," Rebecca said bitterly.
A sudden flicker in the air over the lake was followed by a brief, tortured avian shriek as a pigeon exploded in a flurry of feather and bone. A falcon had knifed down and slaughtered its hapless prey, then carried it off. Rebecca caught her breath, shaken by the suddenness of the strike.
Lady Bowden's gaze followed the feathers drifting down to the water. "You're angry, and you have reason to be." She tossed out the last of her bread, then brushed the crumbs from her gloves. "But if you care for the young man, my dear, I suggest that you not rule out the possibility of forgiveness."
"Is it possible to restore trust once it is gone?" Rebecca asked painfully.
"Love can heal broken trust. Love can heal a great many things. If it weren't true, the human race would have died out long since." Lady Bowden took her niece's arm. "Shall we go have an ice? I've found that ices are very good for dark moods."
As Rebecca obediently went with her aunt, she wondered if she would ever have such tranquility. Probably not. But she appreciated being around it.
* * *
For Kenneth, the two days following Rebecca's discovery of his deceit passed with hellacious slowness. As he had promised, he did his best to stay out of her way. She barely looked at him. His own misery was increased by the terrible ache he sensed inside of her, but he could do nothing to ease it. So he kept busy. The drawings for the engraving series benefited.
The one positive event had been Lord Bowden's reaction to the news of the missing band of the gimmal ring. He'd understood the implications immediately. Of course, he was still convinced that Sir Anthony was the killer, but at least he was satisfied that some progress had been made.
Kenneth spent the second evening sketching in his studio, which had the advantage of sparing him the sounds of Rebecca preparing for bed when she retired. Perhaps he should sleep on the narrow bed in the studio. The night before, the knowledge that she lay only a few feet away had made rest impossible.
It was well past midnight by the time he was ready to retire. The rest of the house was silent. He set aside his sketchbook and went to the window. It had rained earlier, but now a waxing moon was shining through fitful clouds. Perhaps he should do a painting of a night skirmish, with moonlight sliding coldly along rifle barrels and the edges of slashing sabers. It could be eerily effective.
Seaton House stood on a corner, and his attic view let him see a man walking along the side street just outside the garden wall. Kenneth's gaze sharpened when the man halted. There was something oddly purposeful about the action.
Then the man made a swift, hurling movement. A spark of light flashed through the air toward the house, ending in the sound of shattering glass somewhere below Kenneth. A few seconds later, an explosion rocked the building.
"Jesus Christ!" Kenneth bolted from his studio.
As he ran down the narrow hall, he pounded on the servants' doors. Then he raced down the steps three at a time. He reached the floor below as Rebecca and Sir Anthony were emerging from the bedrooms in their nightclothes. With Sir Anthony was Lavinia, obviously spending the night with her lover.
"My God, what has happened?" Sir Anthony gasped.
"There's a fire!" Kenneth called over his shoulder as he headed for the next flight of steps. "In your studio, I think. Make sure the servants are awake! We must evacuate the house."
Lavinia headed for the attic while Rebecca and her father followed him down the stairs. Both were only a few steps behind when Kenneth threw open the door to the elegant studio.
Choking smoke billowed from the room. A great fire snarled and hissed, already nearly out of control, and smaller blazes were beginning to take hold in the carpets and furnishings. Kenneth swore as a jug of linseed oil exploded, hurling more burning fragments around the room. A houseful of priceless artwork was on the verge of utter destruction.
"Oh, God, my paintings!" Sir Anthony cried with anguish. He darted toward the portrait of the twin countesses and their husbands, which stood on an easel below some burning draperies.
The draperies began to collapse with unholy majesty. Rebecca screamed, "Father!"
Kenneth yanked Sir Anthony to safety an instant before the blazing fabric dropped onto the painting. "For God's sake, take pictures that are farther from the fire!" He seized a small carpet and began beating savagely at the leaping flames.
Sir Anthony seized two paintings from the wall and carried them from the room. A moment later he returned for more, Rebecca at his side. Kenneth would have laughed if he could have spared the breath. Leave it to artists to ignore danger to save art.
The two young footmen thundered in, carrying pitchers of water collected from various nightstands. Kenneth yanked off his cravat and soaked it before tying it around his mouth. Then he and the footmen splashed the pitchers onto the largest blaze.
Smoke billowed up in eye-stinging clouds, but the fire was cut in half. Kenneth retrieved his carpet and attacked the remaining flames and managed to beat them out.
But fires still blazed around the room. The dancing flames illuminated the studio and the adjoining salon with a hellish orange and yellow light. From the corner of Kenneth's eye, he saw Rebecca and her father carrying Horatius at the Bridge from the salon. Only a few small tongues of flame had crept into that room, so Kenneth beat them out, then closed the double doors.
The butler, Minton, appeared with a long hooked pole usually used for opening upper windows. He used the pole to smash several glass panes, then began hooking smoldering furnishings and tossing them out into the rain-soaked garden.
Several female servants appeared with pails of water lugged up from the kitchen. Kenneth ordered, "Pass the buckets to me."
He drew as close to the blistering heat as he dared, then hurled water over the largest remaining blaze. Without looking, he handed back the bucket and took another as it was put into his hands. Lift. Throw. Lift. Throw. Again. Again.
They were winning. When there was water, he threw it, choosing targets carefully. When there was none, he fought with his scorched carpet. The taste of charcoal filled his mouth, and he was half blind from smoke and tears. But one after another, the fires were being drowned or pounded into oblivion.
After an interminable hell of smoke and flame, the last flame was finally gone. Kenneth lurched into the corridor and folded onto the floor, gulping the cool air into his lungs.
Almost unrecognizable in his blackened nightclothes, Sir Anthony gasped, "We did it. Or rather, mostly you did it."
Kenneth coughed, his throat painfully raw from smoke. "More water should be put on anything still smoldering."
Lavinia quietly gave orders for more water to be brought up, though at a less furious pace. Rebecca knelt beside Kenneth, a basin of water in her hands. Her delicately embroidered nightdress was smudged with soot and her bare feet were black. "Are you burned, Captain? Your hands don't look good."
He glanced down and saw soot, red skin, and blisters. The sight made him aware that his hands hurt like the dev
il. Wincing, he flexed his fingers. "I think the damage is minor."
She lifted a wet cloth and sponged his right hand. Then she spread a salve over the blistered area, never lifting her eyes.
Her loose muslin gown fell away from her body, revealing the curve of her breasts. The skin was creamy white compared to the sooty haze where she had been exposed to the smoke. His reaction to the sight was clear proof that he was not seriously injured.
He looked away. She finished his right hand and began treating the left with the same cool, impersonal competence.
Sir Anthony returned from a survey of the studio. "The furnishings are completely ruined and five paintings were incinerated. Trivial compared to what might have been. But how did it happen? No candles or fires were left burning. Surely the linseed oil didn't explode spontaneously."
"It was arson," Kenneth replied grimly. "I happened to be in my studio looking out the window when a man threw some kind of incendiary device at the house. At a guess, he filled a bottle with black powder, plugged it with wax, and devised some sort of fuse that would burn for a few seconds before setting off the gunpowder. It wouldn't have been difficult."
"But why?" Sir Anthony said with bewilderment.
"Who knows? An art critic. A jealous rival. An angry husband. A Bonapartist who doesn't like your Waterloo pictures." Kenneth got wearily to his feet. "I recommend hiring a couple of guards to patrol around the house all night for the indefinite future."
"All excellent ideas," Lavinia said. "But for tonight, I suggest brandy all around. Then back to bed."
Kenneth's gaze scanned the servants who were standing in the hall, their faces revealing the same blend of fatigue and triumph that he felt. "Without the efforts of everyone here, Seaton House would have burned, and possibly half the block with it. In recognition, you will all receive bonuses."
Sir Anthony gave a nod of approval as a small buzz of pleasure went through the bedraggled staff. Then he went off with Lavinia's arm around his waist. Kenneth watched as Rebecca followed, her gaze still avoiding him.