If His Kiss Is Wicked. Jo GoodmanЧитать онлайн книгу.
to me. I wasn’t sure that you would. You did not make much effort to hold your tongue or wait to follow my lead.”
“Can you not imagine that I was in shock? It has been some ten days since I saw you.”
“Eleven.”
“What?”
“It’s been eleven days. When you visited my home you said it had been nineteen days since you were attacked. By my reckoning it’s now been a month.” He paused in his steps and held her up, taking her by the elbow so that he might examine her face critically. “The bruising has all but faded, except for that spot on your chin, and my recollection is that it is a remnant of a carpet burn.” He released her immediately upon sensing her discomfort with both his touch and his study of her features. “The healing for the sake of appearances seems almost complete, but I wonder about the wounds that are not visible. How do you fare, Miss Hathaway?”
“I can’t think why it concerns you, but I am well enough.”
“Of course it concerns me. There is the matter of our agreement.” He turned with her to mount the main staircase. It was wide enough for them to climb side by side. He noticed she did not merely run her hand along the length of the banister. Her fingers curled over the polished curve with a grip that was firm enough to suggest she was not as steady as she pretended. “You thought I reneged on our agreement, didn’t you?”
“I believe I mentioned I have not seen you in ten, no, eleven days.”
“You would have had to leave your home, Miss Hathaway. Take a turn in the park, for instance. Go shopping. Attend the theatre. Call upon a friend for tea. Join the revelers at Vauxhall Gardens. Dance at Almack’s. Present yourself at a ball. In short, participating in any or all of the entertainments that have amused your cousin these last eleven days would have had us crossing paths. Miss Vega, by the way, is an inveterate flirt whether she is attended by her fiancé or not.”
Emma was glad of the banister’s support. She managed to go on without faltering. “You met Marisol?”
Restell shook his head. “No. Not formally. I think it is unlikely that she noticed me, surrounded as she was by her confidantes and admirers. That suited me, for my intent was only to observe her and make certain no harm befell her. That is what you requested of me, is it not?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “Yes, it is.” She darted him a sideways glance as they reached the first landing. “You observed nothing untoward?”
“I observed a great deal that was untoward, but you will understand that I am in no position to cast stones. She is a lovely young woman, heady with the success of her connections and conquests, and she appears to be enjoying herself enormously. There is no finding fault there. Such comments as society is wont to make about her are generally favorable. I hasten to add that remarks of a critical nature must be interpreted cautiously, as they often seem to be taking root in jealous waters.”
Emma frowned. “I do not like it that she is the subject of talk, no matter the nature.”
“One cannot go about in society without occasioning talk. Many times it is simply a consequence of being seen. There are even those people who seek it out, if you can credit it.”
“And my cousin is one of those people?”
Restell could not help but smile. She might have easily made a statement. That she offered it as a question indicated she retained some small hope that it was not so. “Miss Vega is yet an amateur, but yes, it is my sense that she would rather be the subject of conversation than a contributor to it. To the extent that her behavior remains above reproach, she will not be harmed by the wags and may even cultivate a circle of influence.”
“Yet you said you observed things that were untoward.” She led him around the landing, and they began climbing again. “What did you mean by that?”
“In spite of her following, she is able to escape the crush to find time alone with Mr. Charters.”
“But he is her fiancé. It is my experience that society makes allowances in this regard. There is a certain amount of indulgence for engaged couples.”
“There is, but she is not engaged to Mr. Glover. Nor Mr. Collier. Nor Mr. Truss.”
Emma’s shoulders sagged. “She was alone with those gentlemen?”
“To the extent that she did not know I was watching her, yes, she was alone with each one of them. They merely talked. I believe Mr. Collier was hopeful that he might take her hand, but she did not permit it.”
“I don’t understand. Was she encouraging them or not?”
“I cannot say. Mr. Charters happened upon your cousin and Mr. Truss and did not appear to take exception to what he observed.”
“That does not surprise. He is ever charitable in his regard of Marisol.”
“It begs the question of whether he knew about Miss Vega’s assignation with Mr. Kincaid.”
Emma’s nod was reluctantly offered. “It occurred to me also, but I cannot make sense of what it might mean.”
“It might simply mean that he is so intoxicated with her that he will forgive her everything.”
“Intoxicated?” she asked. “That is a peculiar characterization. Do you not suppose that he is in love with her?”
“I imagine he thinks he is.”
She stopped on the next landing and regarded him with interest. His features did not reveal the bent of his mind, making it difficult to know how serious he was about his remark. He had mastered an air of casual indifference that challenged her powers of observation. “You are not a romantic, then.”
“Oh, but I am.” He smiled down at her. “Very much so. It is why I can speak of intoxication with some authority. Do you know the feeling, Miss Hathaway?”
She was uncomfortable with the intrusive nature of the question, but she recognized that she was in some way responsible for it. “Only in passing,” she said. She pivoted, giving him her back, and proceeded quickly to the end of the hall. “Through here,” she said, opening a narrow door and stepping into an equally narrow stairwell. She started up after cautioning him to be mindful of his step.
“It seems an inconvenient location,” Restell said. “You must encounter a certain amount of difficulty getting the paintings down.”
“The larger ones, yes, but Sir Arthur designed the means to lower them to the street from the balcony. You will see. The complication is nothing compared to the advantages of the light.”
Restell had been aware that the stairwell, while not lighted by any lamps, was nevertheless awash in light. Glancing up, he saw three skylights had been set into the roof. On a cloudless day such as London was enjoying, they funneled clear, golden sunbeams into Sir Arthur’s studio. Canvases in a variety of dimensions were either covered or had their painted surfaces turned toward the walls to protect them from the direct and damaging effects of the sun. A window large enough to serve as a door opened onto a small balcony that overlooked the street side of the house.
Emma was not terribly surprised when Mr. Gardner did not wait for an invitation to explore the garret room that served as her uncle’s retreat and began to go about on his own. She noticed that he touched nothing save with his eyes, lingering over the scarred pine table, which Sir Arthur used to mix his own oils, as if he could imagine the industry of the artist involved in grinding the ingredients, measuring the oil, and finally mixing the whole of it to create the exact color that had been in his mind’s eye all along.
Restell stepped around half a dozen canvases stacked against the north wall without giving in to his urge to examine them. The studio had few amenities, most of them placed there, it seemed, for the relative comfort of those who came to sit for Sir Arthur. A loveseat was situated on a small platform under one of the skylights. The upholstered back of the piece gave up the original color, its golden damask covering having