Page 51 of His Tempting Duchess

“This staircase led to the servants’ garrets at one time,” Cassian observed. He was leading the way, his broad shoulders almost brushing both walls at the same time. “Clara had them converted into… well, you shall see.”

The winding staircase gave way to a long, wide landing, with candles burning in various alcoves. It was untidy, with items scattered everywhere—canvases, sculptures, bags, and boxes with their contents spilling out, even a few plant pots with unfamiliar green plants rioting free. Music was playing from somewhere, drifting out of one of the rooms.

“Can anyone come up here?” Emily asked, feeling a little nervous.

The balls and parties she had attended were strictly confined to the main rooms in the house. It would be the height of bad manners for a guest to go poking around the other rooms.

“Yes, Clara doesn’t mind,” Cassian answered. “A few regular guests find crowds and noise a little disconcerting. They get distressed and most upset, but still wish to come and meet their friends and colleagues. When the noise is too much, those guests often come up here to relax.”

They passed the first doorway, and Cassian gestured for her to peer inside.

The room was clogged with books. Shelves lined the walls, but books were piled up on the floor too, in haphazard piles tilting sideways.

A slim young man with spectacles was curled up in a threadbare armchair, absorbed in a book. Another man of the same age, broader and classically handsome, sprawled on achaise, scribbling something in a notebook.

Both men glanced up as Cassian and Emily paused in the open doorway. She flushed, feeling as though she were interrupting something.

“Evening, Cass,” the larger young man rumbled. “Evening, Miss. Enjoying your tour?”

“Very much,” Emily responded.

The bespectacled young man ducked his head, smiling shyly.

Cassian led her away. “Jonathan Styx and Alfred Stone,” he murmured. “Best of friends, those two.”

He seemed to be implying something, but Emily could not quite place it.

“Ah,” he chirped, leading her to a room with no door, only a curtain pulled across it. “Thisroom will interest you, I think.”

He swept back the curtain, and her breath caught in her throat.

The room was full of art. Paintings of all sizes, sketches, charcoal drawings, and more. Some were unfinished, others were completed to perfection. Some pictures hung on the wall, but most of them were piled up in the too-small space, covering the single table and filling what few chairs were available.

“Good heavens,” she gasped.

Cassian leaned against the doorway, grinning. “I wager that the tepid watercolor paintings that all the fashionable ladies make can’t hold a candle to any of these.”

“No,” Emily agreed, still a little dazed. “Speaking of candles, is there any more light?”

“Of course.”

The room had only one small window—curtained, of course—and naturally, it was dark outside anyway. Cassian retrieved a candelabra from one of the alcoves in the landing and brought it into the room, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

Emily stepped a little closer, trying to observe all of the paintings at once.

She had never seen pictures quite like these. Of course, some of the designs were fairly simple and ordinary, the sort of drawings one might find in a genteel gallery, or framed and hanging up in a lady’s home. Bowls of fruit, pretty but bland landscapes, or beautiful women wafting around various locations—drawing rooms, gardens, kitchens, and so on.

Others were a little more…aggressive. One painting depicted a scene from Greek mythology—she could not identify the story behind it—and a vicious battle was taking place, angry red paint used in vast swathes to depict blood and violence. It was a large painting, and detailed. Emily turned away from it with a shudder.

The next set of pictures that caught her eye were charcoal drawings. She wasn’t entirely sure whether they were finished or not, and at first glance, they seemed almost childish. However, the firm, scribbled strokes of the charcoal had given the subject a sense ofmovement. The first picture was a pair of children playing with a ball, and Emily could swear that theyweremoving, the ball rolling between them. The other pictures were similar scenes, all imbued with the same fascinating power of movement.

“It’s quite marvelous how just a few lines can transform a picture from something static to somethingactive,” she murmured, half to herself, half to Cassian.

He chuckled. “I wouldn’t know. My artistic skills extend to stick figures.”

She had to laugh at that, shaking her head. “Drawing and painting are learned skills, you know. If you want to get better at them, you have to keep trying.”

“If you say so. Personally, I would prefer to simply enjoy the talents of others.”

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