Page 15 of Temptation and the Artist

“Ah. Well, that is harder to articulate. It could have been someone who was once my enemy and has not forgiven me. You are aware, I suspect, that I have often been in…odd situations where I have acted to bring information to the right quarters. Or feed lies. I have done…bad things for what are, to me, good reasons, but not everyone will see it like that.”

His heart swelled with pride in her courage. He understood fully why Johnny Dearham had once been so obsessed with her. Her strength was awe-inspiring.

He drew his brush back and focused all his attention on the flesh-and-blood woman. It wasn’t difficult. “I think you have someone particular in mind.”

“Not really.” She shifted uncomfortably. “Smelling your paint just reminded me of a mistake I once made. In Paris, during the Hundred Days before Waterloo. There was an established chain for passing information. I knew none of these people, never met them. But I carried several messages to an attic by the Seine. I climbed the stairs with the scent of oil paint and turpentine in my nostrils and slid pieces of paper beneath a door. One day, I knew I was being followed, knew it was time to go. But first, I took my followers on a tour and lost them to make one last delivery to that attic. I decided it was worth the risk. And it was, for me. But when I looked back, men were swarming up the stairs. I had led them there.”

Stephen stared blankly in shock. She was reliving the experience, and he…

He swallowed. “You could not have known. Better that he was caught than you, and in any case, you don’t know that he was arrested, or anything else.” He paused. “Or do you?”

She shook her head. “No. And as I say, that man is only one possibility who might consider I betrayed him. There are other more obvious enemies.”

“Would they really waste their time on revenge, four years after Waterloo?”

“Probably not,” she agreed. “I only mention it because it has been on my mind recently. My own money is on the Monteignes.”

“And that is why your son’s tutor is also a talented pugilist?”

“And I keep two almost as large footmen in the room next door,” she admitted. She refocused her gaze on him. “I wanted you to know, though I’m not sure why.”

“I’m honored that you told me,” he said truthfully. And touched, and moved beyond words by her trust.

“Is it time to fetch Basil?” she asked restlessly.

*

When the words had burst free, she had been as surprised as Mr. Dornan. She had only been mulling over what his reaction might be if she told him what had happened. And suddenly the story spilled out. And not only that, but the Paris fiasco that she hadn’t even thought of for years before coming to Renwick’s.

As they fetched Basil and hailed him off for an ice, she still didn’t know what had prompted her to tell, unless it was the strange, growing closeness of artist and sitter, a closeness cemented by their time in the gardens this afternoon. By the lily pond, he had stood so close to her that she had wanted to rest her head against his shoulder, slip her arm around his waist. She still wondered what he would have done. Would he have jumped free in shock? Or turned and kissed her?

She didn’t think the shock terribly likely. Seeing him in the company of Lord Calton over Christmas, comparing him to the younger, more rakish version of Johnny, had given her a probably false impression of him. He could not look as he did and be a stranger to women’s pursuit. But he took it in his stride, from the waitress’s fluttering eyelashes to her own teasing. He might not be rakishly indiscriminate—she suspected he was not and rather liked the fact. His kisses, his love, would be worth something.

Where the devil had that thought come from?

Blinking, she refocused on Basil, whose eyes were sparkling in delight as a bowl of ices was brought to him. But he waited patiently while she poured the tea and passed a cup to Mr. Dornan.

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.”

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