It was beyond incredible—it was astonishing. He stared back at Colin with the light of devilment in his eyes, so well painted as to look three-dimensional. God, it looked exactly like him. He hadn’t realized just how faded his memory of his father’s face was until that moment, when his angled jaw and broad brow came into sharp focus.
Despite the freezing temperatures, his blood warmed, pumped with renewed vigor through his veins. God, how he’d missed him. To see him again was like laying eyes on scotch after a month of water. The emotions assailing him were so sharp as to almost burn, searing their way through his chest and gut. All the anger, the resentment, all of the bitterness of the last eight months fell away like a broken shell.
It was several minutes before he could pull his gaze away from his father’s likeness and take in the rest of the picture. Behind him, the rugged Scottish landscape rose toward the heavens, with brilliant green grasses and leaves that seemed to move in an invisible wind. Wildflowers dotted the sloping meadow, and the rocky outcrops of the base of the mountain glistened with falling water.
It was masterful.
All those years he had set aside the landscapes that had been his first love had done nothing to diminish the talent. In fact, it seemed to have grown—Father’s first works didn’t have nearly this level of detail. Colin knew his father had grown disenchanted with portraits lately, but he rather thought it was painting altogether. But the joy in this picture was undeniable.
The landscape was that of the view from the cottage—the land Father had been so damned pleased to own. The estate! Colin had been so caught up in the revelation of his father’s only self-portrait, of seeing his face and experiencing the landscape, he had completely forgotten what the painting meant.
Freedom.
He finally had something to give to Beatrice—something of worth that could put them on equal footing. He could already imagine her delight, her joy at such a perfect gift. Mind made up, he pulled the canvas down from its shelf and started for the door. At the last moment, he doubled back and grabbed the primed canvas from the easel. Barely pausing to shut the door, he hit the trail running.
“Lady Beatrice, what a surprise.”
Oh, drat and blast, where had he come from? Beatrice turned slowly, nodding with a brief bob of her head. “Mr. Godfrey. I didn’t realize you were still in the city.”
She pulled her cloak more tightly around her, a not so subtle hint that it was cold and she didn’t wish to stand in the street and talk to him. She exchanged a glance with her maid, but the girl misinterpreted her silent plea and dropped back to give them privacy.
“Indeed. Is it because of the vitriol published about me in a certain magazine that you assumed I might escape to the country, or because you thought I might have given up and accepted the position my father so keenly wishes for me to take?”
Beatrice could actually feel the blood draining from her face. A very, very bold statement on his part. Good Lord, had Colin been right after all? If Godfrey knew she was the author of the letters, what, exactly, did he want with her? Despite the fact they were in the open for anyone to see, she suddenly felt extremely vulnerable.
“Neither, of course. Just that so many have already left the city for the winter.”
He shook his head, looking at her as though she were a profound disappointment. “I knew it was you the moment I saw the second cartoon, you know.”
At least now she knew where she stood. She stiffened her spine and lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated by the man. “Why? Because you so thoroughly recognized yourself? If you didn’t wish for the world to know of your underhanded tactics, you should have refrained from using them on me.”
He chuckled, the sound colder than the December air. “And here I went to all this trouble to come up with irrefutable proof that you wrote the bloody thing, and apparently all I needed to do was ask.”
“That’s right. Some of us have integrity and answer truthfully when asked.” It might not have been the wisest thing to say, but she wasn’t about to let him think he had her cornered.
“Oh, feisty today, are we?” He smiled, a cruel stretching of his lips that was more sneer than grin. “Well, I won’t keep you. I merely wished to congratulate you on your coming nuptials.”
Warning bells clanged in her head, making it impossible for her to turn and walk away. He had something more to say, something that she felt in her very marrow she did not want to hear. “Somehow I doubt that.”
“Truly, I wish you both the very best.” Tilting his head, he tapped the crystal handle of his rapier-thin walking stick against his chin. “I honestly thought that I would win the wager, but I underestimated the influence his father had over you. Of course, I didn’t foresee his ruse after the musicale, pretending to rescue you, either.” He gave a casual shrug of his shoulders. “Such is life. I did, however, find great amusement in the fact that the author of those pathetic letters fell victim to exactly what she thought to warn others about.”
He looked supremely satisfied with himself, his eyes alight with mischief. She clenched her teeth, willing herself not to respond. Wager? She wouldn’t believe a word he said. He was nothing if not a liar and a cheat. Still . . . how else did he know that Colin’s family was up the River Tick? Disgust welled up within her, almost choking her.
Had they had a wager? Even if they hadn’t, what did it matter? It was clear she would always doubt Colin’s motives—always be susceptible to thinking the worst of him.
Nothing felt certain except that she had to get away from Godfrey. She started to turn, to escape from his sneering face when his parting words brought her up short.
“Enjoy your fortune hunter, my dear. You two deserve each other.”
Traveling to Edinburgh had been a leisurely ride in the park compared to the trip back. Not only was Colin beyond anxious to get back to Beatrice; it was nerve-racking as hell to be transporting the painting. He doubted he would be this edgy if he were in charge of the crown jewels.
And, based on the way his family had reacted to the painting, it might as well have been the crown jewels. He smiled, thinking of their reaction when he arrived home with their salvation tucked beneath his arm.
“I knew yer father had ta be up to something,” Gran had said, nodding as though it hadn’t been months of hell wondering what would become of them. “All that walking, and nary an inch off his middle.” The celebration had gone on into the wee hours of the night, all four of them gathered around the painting, holding close the precious gem that was the image of the man they loved.
The brown grass and barren trees of the countryside gave way to the sooty sky and dirty buildings of the city, his impatience nearly burning a hole through his chest with each passing landmark. He was almost there—so close to seeing Beatrice again he could almost smell the lilac and linseed oil.
Thank God it was a fairly early arrival—he actually had hope of seeing her today. He could hardly wait to see the look on her face when he presented the painting to her. It was the perfect solution. She could have something of genuine worth from him, and the painting would stay in the family, something that meant more to him now than he ever imagined it would.
To have not only a likeness of his father, but one done in his own hand, gave Colin the connection he had been missing all this time. His father hadn’t just sat back and let ruin come to them. He truly had been trying to recapture his love of painting, to provide a way out of the unmitigated mess that fell upon them when the engraving business failed.