Page 6 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

Very well. If he and Jeffrey were allowed to escape the house in the middle of the day, then so was she. Hattie lifted her skirts and climbed the stairs to her bedchamber where she located her satchel of supplies. She checked to make sure she had everything she needed before slipping from the room and quietly letting herself out of the house. Papa and Jeffrey had likely traveled the fields to the left where they could practice hedge jumps with reckless speed.

Hattie enjoyed hedge jumps as much as the next person. And she was absolutely not pouting about being left out of the fun. But if her painting made her stay out for the rest of the afternoon, then her brother could not complain. It was his spouse he had left to fend for herself.

Hattie went to the west, where she hoped to find a secluded spot in the wooded area. Maybe even a starling would make herself known and sit for a portrait. Hattie wished she had the ability to paint from memory, but it was not a skill given to her. She had to paint what was before her very eyes in that moment, or the image would fly from her mind.

It was very boring and not the least bit romantic.

But sneaking into the wooded area owned by the neighboring estate wasn’t boring in the least. The woods held a magic in them, a quiet and peace Hattie had grown to appreciate. And as far as she was aware, the reclusive duke never left his house, so he would likely never know she was in his woods. She often stayed near the perimeter of her own land anyway, so she was unlikely to be caught.

It was all perfectly above board in Hattie’s mind. If a gardener or land agent would happen upon her, she could easily slip into the persona of an insipid young miss and fool them into thinking she believed the land was her own.

Any silly young girl couldn’t be expected to know the precise boundaries of her property. It hardly mattered that Hattie was five-and-twenty. She was petite and could certainly pass for much younger if she made her voice high enough.

Slipping between the trees, Hattie walked slowly, heedless of her blue gown snagging on the brush that lined the forest floor. She’d seen the perfect location during a walk just a few weeks prior where the trees opened up to reveal a portion of Hattie’s house in the distance. She’d thought then of painting it, of creating an image of forest in the foreground and a minor focus on her house in the back, through the curtain of trees. She was close. Now if only she could locate the exact spot…

Ah, perfect. She found it. Standing in the small clearing, the painting formed in her mind as she looked for the right angle from which she should capture the image. Stumbling upon the precise location was the easy part. Finding a decent place to set her things was not going to be quite as simple.

It was just as well that she’d thought to bring her painting smock, as it looked as though she’d be kneeling on the ground. Lowering herself to the cool dirt, she began pulling brushes and paints from her bag and setting up her mixing implements. Rolling her shoulders, she raised her face, gathering all the irritation she’d felt at Lucy and pushing it from her mind.

It was time to focus on more pleasant things.

* * *

Bentley sat in his study, the half-read newspaper he’d received the day before spread over his lap while he swirled the brandy in his glass. The fire in the grate glowed in his peripheral vision, stealing his attention each time he’d managed to make it to the end of a paragraph. Folding up his paper in a frustrated huff, he tossed it onto the table beside him and crossed the room in agitated steps. He could no longer read the words of the burned letter, as it had now turned to a pile of ash, and yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He’d burned plenty of his mother’s letters, but this had never happened before.

He found himself wondering how his mother had phrased her request for him to visit. It was irrelevant—he would not go, regardless of how it was said. But he was curious, and he wanted to know. Had she written that her husband’s health was declining or that it was failing?

Not that he cared, of course. The distinction only mattered if Bentley cared at all for the man. Maybe he just needed to be away from his study so he would cease staring into the fire.

He paused at the sideboard and swallowed the rest of his drink, squinting as the sunlight slipped through the window and pierced him in the eye. A soft crying came from somewhere near the window, and Bentley paused. It couldn’t possibly be a baby, but it certainly sounded like one. Perhaps his imagination was running wild again.

Well, if that was the case, he either needed to stretch it further or go outside and allow the fresh air to cleanse him. The woods outside his window were a beautiful array of reds and golds, like an artist had dipped his brush in multiple colors and dashed them every which way across the trees, blending them into a rich tapestry of leaves. Outside it was. He might as well go for a walk while the afternoon sun was high enough to keep him warm in the autumn chill.

Egerton helped him into his greatcoat and gloves at the door, and Bentley slipped his hat over his overgrown hair as he stepped from the house. He was due for a haircut, and his valet was perfectly capable, but as the days grew shorter and slipped closer to winter, he was more inclined to allow the hair to grow. It wasn’t as though he would see anyone outside of his own household anytime soon. After his visit to Graton’s shops yesterday, he was determined to steer clear for some time, to allow the shop owner ample time to forget him.

In the meantime, he would be much warmer with his hair grown out and his beard growing thicker over his jaw.

Bentley walked the perimeter of the woods, skirting the edge of the vibrantly colored trees. When he heard the same mewling sound again, he halted. Cocking his head to the side, he quieted and listened, but silence met him. Sweeping his gaze over the edge of the woods and the lawn which led to the overgrown hedges butted up against his house, he did not see any disturbance besides the minor breeze ruffling the leaves. A chicken clucked behind the house, its head bobbing as it walked across the packed-dirt earth, and he turned away.

Bentley stepped slowly, picking his way across the forest floor as he kept an eye out for animals. He’d seen a fox just a few weeks ago and wouldn’t mind finding it again.

The woods felt oddly still today, nearly reverent. Inhaling the rich smell of earth and bark, Bentley continued to pick his way through the trees and leaf-strewn earth when a flash of color caught his eye. It couldn’t be the fox—not unless the creature had rolled through burgundy paint.

No, this was a woman in a dark gown, a smock tied about her waist as she knelt on the forest floor. On Bentley’s forest floor. His personal property. Was she mad? Trespassing was illegal.

But something about her bearing rang familiar, and he froze, his stomach constricting. Either this was the woman from the shop, or Bentley wished for it to be, and neither of those possibilities weighed positively on his conscience. She turned her face to the side slightly as she dipped her brush in paint, and he noted her freckled cheeks. It was absolutely the same woman.

He stood just behind her, close enough to peer over her shoulder at the work of art before her. She was certainly talented, he would grant her that. And judging by the way she had not flinched at his approaching steps, he assumed she was rather consumed by her work. He understood that sentiment completely.

Only, if she had mixed the darker green with just a smidge of blue, the color would have been perfect for the shadowed foliage beneath the house.

Bentley didn’t blame her for missing it. It was so close to perfection as it was. He loved it. The dark curtain of trees with their bursts of autumn colors was breathtaking, and the way they opened at just the right place to show the estate was striking. Not only did this poor, innocent miss have a talent for painting, but she clearly had an eye for what constituted a good image. And he would know. He was something of a connoisseur himself.

But the color. The depth needed in that green truly could have made the shadows better. Perhaps if he told her of the trick, she could try it next time, see if it was to her liking.

Taking another step, his foot snapped a twig underneath, and he paused, but still, she did not seem to notice. Hesitation filtered through him briefly, but he pushed it aside. He hadn’t spoken to an artist in years, and the thrill of talking about painting with someone who was adept was too tempting to resist.

Clearing his throat, Bentley said, “The color is wrong.”

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