Page 18 of Temptation and the Artist

“So why have you followed me here?” Stephen asked. “What is it you want?”

“Do we have to want anything?” Sir Oliphant tried to sound hurt, though he probably wasn’t very good at it, for Stephen didn’t even think about his answer.

“Yes. You have no stomach for my company, nor I for yours, so let us get to the point.”

He had never used to sound so damned sure of himself. He used to at least try for filial respect and civility. But then, Sir Oliphant hadn’t seen his youngest for…three years. Five if one ignored the mere bow they had exchanged in Bond Street in the spring of 1816. Well, Stephen had bowed. His father had stared, for Stephen had been in the company of some very fashionable and clearly wealthy young men who were quite unknown to Sir Oliphant.

“The point is,” Sir Oliphant said slowly, taking the other armchair and leaving the space on the sofa for Gordon, “that we want you to come home.”

Not the faintest smile crossed Stephen’s face. “Run the estate into the ground, have you?”

Jesus. The boy had always been this annoying, but did he have to be quite so blunt? “It’s not doing as well as it might,” Sir Oliphant said with some dignity. “Not nearly as well as it did before you departed.”

“Departed,” Stephen repeated without emphasis.

It was true Sir Oliphant had thrown him out because he wouldn’t leave the damned painting alone, had refused to study for the church or join the military. The word was, he’d gone abroad, despite the war. “Well, we needn’t quarrel over the past. I have to admit you were good with the land, with the demesne, and the tenancies. And your own place at Kennings looks to be thriving. So, we would like you to come home and work a little of your magic.”

Still giving nothing away, Stephen moved his gaze to his brothers. “You all want this?”

The boys nodded emphatically, so like chastened schoolboys that even Stephen’s lip twitched.

“Hire a steward,” he said mildly and rose to his feet.

Time, then, for direct action. Sir Oliphant didn’t budge, but Clive and Gordon sprang up and stood between their little brother and the door.

“Really?” Stephen sounded amused. “Then don’t hire a steward. It’s nothing to me. But if you want me to think about my answer, you’ll sit down.”

They shuffled out of the way, and Stephen strolled to the door. “I’ve thought. Sort out your own damned mess,” he said and walked out.

*

Stephen couldn’t deny it felt good. Perhaps it was petty of him, but he had been bullied too long by his brothers while his father stood back laughing to have any time for any of them. And although he had overcome his anger against them for the most part, his parting words felt like closing the door on the past, on the family who never wanted him, and whom he no longer needed.

He really was free, his own man, and had, besides, a growing success in his art. He had made his way in the world, professionally and personally, without any help from them. And that was the way he liked it.

As he returned to his room, he shook off the encounter, leaving only the mild euphoria of victory, and looked forward to his evening with the princess. He washed and changed into evening dress, dragged a brush through his hair, and set off for her rooms. He encountered a few fellow guests on the way, heading down to the dining room, but recognized none of them.

Only as he turned the corner to the princess’s rooms did a warning frisson run down his spine. He was being watched… Or the princess’s rooms were. Remembering what had happened to her old rooms last night, he kept walking, straight past her door, flexing his fists, but even as he turned to face whatever danger lurked behind, someone rushed toward him, and something dark and smelly blinded him. A sack had been flung over his head.

Holding him strongly from behind, someone tried to yank him off his feet. Someone else was actually lifting his feet. Not so much an attack as an abduction. But he could not afford to be abducted. The princess had to be warned of her danger, protected at all costs. Fear for her lent strength to his instinctive, sudden struggles.

He kicked out hard with both feet and connected with grunting flesh. At the same time, he crashed his elbow backward and freed himself from his other captor.

“The bag!” someone hissed as Stephen reached for the odiferous covering over his head. And then, someone, probably the man who’d had him by the feet, leapt upon him from behind, yanking the bag downward. Stephen heaved with all his might, and his attacker went flying over his shoulder, crashing, by the sound of things, into his fellow.

Stephen snatched the bag from his head, blinking in the sudden light, just in time to see the edges of two large men staggering around the corner. They seemed to be dragging each other, so either they were desperate not to be seen, or he’d managed to injure one or more of them quite badly. Ferociously, he hoped the latter.

He longed to chase after them, but first, he needed to see that the princess was unharmed. He strode up to her door and rapped once before clenching his hand and drawing it back to punch.

Mr. Flowers blinked at him. “Something I said?”

Stephen lowered his fist with a shaky breath of laughter and walked in. Through the open door to one of the bedchambers, Basil’s voice could be heard arguing, presumably with his nurse. A maid was fussing with a table that had been set up near the window. And alone on the sofa, sat the princess, paying him no attention. She was staring at a piece of paper held in her hands.

Stephen went straight to her, sinking onto the sofa beside her. “What is it?” he demanded. “What has happened?”

“Nothing,” she said, crumpling the paper in her hand and trying to smile.

He covered her hand with his. “Don’t.”

---