The slightest hint of pleasure stole over her expression, and she started forward once more. “A barrister who only tells the truth? Surely that’s against the rules.”
“Ah, well—there is an art to telling the truth. If I doona tell you everything, I have still been honest in what I have said. The trick is to always ask the right questions.” Why was he telling her that? Yes, he was teasing, but it was exactly the truth of his situation with the estate. If anyone asked, he had vowed he wouldn’t lie. But so far, no one had come out and addressed his finances, and he sure as hell had no intention to bring it up.
She pursed her lips, her brow knitted in a soft vee. “I’m not sure that’s any better than lying.”
“So you’ve come right out and told people your deepest and darkest secrets without being asked, then?”
“Gads, of course not. Not,” she added, cutting a playful gaze to him, “that I have many secrets. Mostly I have other people’s secrets.”
His brow furrowed as he turned right down his father’s old street. “Other people’s secrets? What, are you some sort of spy or something?” He grinned at the thought, picturing her stealing through the night in all black, peeking in windows and listening at keyholes. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’a be too surprised if you were. I did catch you red-handed behind my aunt’s curtains, after all.”
She admonished him with a swat of his arm. “Not something you are supposed to mention, thank you very much. And I wasn’t spying; I was hiding. From you, I might add.”
“Let us hope,” he said as he stopped in front of the unmarked wood door and withdrew his key ring, “that you’ll never have need for that again.”
“Hardly. If anything you’ll have to shoo me away.”
Chapter Thirteen
Yes, those words had actually left her mouth.
Yes, her parents would personally drag her home and lock her within her bedchamber if they knew, tossing the key in the rubbish bin. And, yes, they were shockingly forward, even for her.
But she didn’t regret them.
They were true, after all. And hadn’t he just said that he always told the truth? Well, so could she.
And the truth was, she felt alive when she was with him—exuberant in a way no other man of the ton had made her feel. Not self-conscious, not hunted for her dowry, not seen as the daughter of a peer—just Beatrice, lover of art and slightly awful dancer.
She pressed her lips together in a shy smile before brushing past him and up the stairs leading to the rooms above. Her half boots clicked hollowly against the aged wood steps, and the air smelled of disuse. She paused at the small landing and waited for the others to catch up. Rose was right behind her, her dark eyes wide with worry. “I don’t know as we should be here, my lady.”
“Nonsense, Rose. Would you rather be in the rain?”
“No, my lady, but—”
“And it’s not as though visiting an artist’s studio is inappropriate. I’ve visited Monsieur Allard perhaps a dozen times.”
Her maid bit her lip uneasily, but nodded. “I suppose so. Still—”
“There’s nothing to worry about. I promise.”
“Is everything all right?” Colin asked as he mounted the last step.
Beatrice smiled, determined not to let anything get in the way of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. “Right as rain.” She ignored Rose’s frown—she’d be happy once she had a quiet place to sit and her book in her hands. The maid’s love of reading made for easy bribing, and Beatrice had presented her with a brand-new copy of Rob Roy this morning.
He hesitated for a moment, then nodded and reached for the tarnished brass knob before them. The door swung open on rusty hinges, and as the room was revealed to her, Beatrice gasped, her hand going to her heart.
“Oh, my, it’s gorgeous.” She turned to face him, shaking her head in wonder. “I can’t believe this was only minutes from my home all this time!”
He smiled and spread his arm out, inviting her to go inside. She stepped through the threshold, hardly able to take it all in. The faint smell of mineral spirits clung to the space like a memory, despite the dankness.
Behind her, Colin directed Rose to a small parlor off the main room, where a single sofa was stationed in front of the back windows, facing out on the alley behind them.
Beatrice hardly paid them more than a passing glance. Her gaze—her whole heart, really—was riveted on the wide-open studio that encompassed the entire front half of the floor. The centerpiece of the room was a huge, arching Venetian window that took up nearly half the front wall. It had seemed unimpressive from the street, but from where Beatrice stood, it was spectacular. The bottom of the window rested mere inches from the broad-planked floor, and it spanned in a great arc from one side of the room to the other, almost touching the ceiling at its center.
With the miserable day outside, the space was still nicely lit, but she could just imagine the place flooded with light on a sunny day. Several easels stood empty around the room, their spindly legs coated in a rainbow of paint drippings. Various brushes, scrapers, palettes, and rags were stored on racks and tables throughout the space. Mixing cups sat by a paint-splattered sink, and a utilitarian pitcher showed the frequent touches of a paint-covered hand.
Something magical shimmied through her, raising gooseflesh on her arms. These were the tools of Sir Frederick’s masterpieces. Which works had rested in this very room, painted by these brushes, supported by these easels, and lit by these windows? She walked through the space, reverently, imagining half-finished canvases lining the plaster walls.
She turned to Colin, who leaned against the doorway watching her, his dark greatcoat still pulled tight around him to ward off the chill of the unheated room. “What happened to the unfinished portraits?”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug, then pushed away from the wall to join her in the center of the mostly empty space. “We dinna find any.”
She blinked. “None?”
Shaking his head, he said, “Not a one. My sister was certain he was working on something in his studio in Scotland, but there was nothing there, either.”
“How odd,” she murmured, glancing around once more. She had half a dozen unfinished paintings in her own studio at any one time. She rarely concentrated solely on one until it was finished, instead preferring to work on the piece that most moved her. And then there were the ones that just didn’t feel right, which she set aside indefinitely.
Sadness crept into her euphoria. The world would never again have a Tate masterpiece. She had just assumed there would be some unseen pieces somewhere, languishing in various stages of completion.
“My father was odd.” The words weren’t spoken with animosity, but quiet truth.
“Was he? Not terribly surprising, I suppose. Genius often is.” If she had to choose between being average and normal or being brilliant and odd, she’d go with brilliant any day of the week. “I wish I could have seen him at work. Actually,” she said, trailing a finger down the side of one of the easels, “Father had written to him to engage his services more than a year ago, but Sir Frederick declared that he was much too busy and that it might be years before he would be available to us.”
“Really?” His eyebrows rose in surprise. He pressed his lips together, not quite in displeasure, but something close. She looked away, realizing that such a mention might be painful for him. Who could have known his father’s life was measured in months at the time, not years? “Well, I wish I could see you work.”