How to tell the rest? How to say that Lady Shaldon’s death had been in a way his fault?
She gripped the chair arms. “My father took her guards and went away?”
“Yes.” His insides churned, nerves flaring with the memory of unbearable pain, inflicted by a noble barbarian who’d smelled like a Covent Garden whore.
He took a deep breath. That was all behind him. “He was supposed to accompany your mother to Cransdall. He should have been in that carriage also. Instead, he left with the others and went back to the Continent.” Cold and heat came together on his skin. He clasped his hands behind his back to hide the shaking.
She pushed out of the chair and came nearer, within his reach, peering up at his face. “Go on.”
“Your father had been captured and held for a ransom and not well-treated either. Your mother…organized…the payment and came here to make the arrangements for delivery, and to meet him when he was returned.” He gripped her elbows. “You did not know any of this, Perry?”
“No. Go on.”
“The ransom was delivered. Your father…arrived here.”
And in between had been a whole world of events.
He took a deep breath. Beaten and bedraggled as Shaldon had been, his arrival must have left Lady Shaldon ready for a fight.
Perry had so much of her mother in her. He swept a thumb over her smooth skin. “Several days later, he returned to the Continent.”
She frowned. “But why?”
And now they came to it. “To rescue the man who delivered the ransom.”
“From the kidnapper?”
“No. From the French.”
“It wasn’t the French who held my father?”
His nerves roared with an unquenched need for revenge. He understood Shaldon and his quest. He knew what the man was about to his core. He knew why he’d not shared this with his children. All three—no, four including his by-blow?would have piled into his captor at the first opportunity and slashed him to bits.
He shook his head. “Not at first. It was a Spaniard. A French collaborator.”
Her eyes lit and her mouth worked like she was tasting something foul. “The Duque de San Sebastian. He’s in London for the coronation. I’m glad Charley cuckolded him.”
He couldn’t help laughing. His spunky girl had emerged.
No, nothisspunky girl. He dropped his hands and took a step back. She wasn’t his girl at all, and he must remember that.
“My brother Bink fought on the Peninsula and said the Spanish nobility were mostly spineless traitors. The Duque knew mother had stacks of money. How much was the ransom?”
“He didn’t want just money.”
“But the ransom—”
“He wanted the painting. Your mother’s masterpiece. The painting of Perpetua and Felicity.”
Her mouth dropped open and a wave of crimson lit her cheeks. “I thought you’d stolen it.”
Sweat tickled his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. “In a way, Perry, I did.”
He opened the French door to a sharp breeze. Outside, below them, the waves bashed themselves on those rocks, those bloody rocks that had taken Lady Shaldon’s life. Fox sucked in a great lungful of air, remembering.
Through tense days and nights, he had painted, frantically, furiously. During the day, he brushed the contours of Lady Shaldon’s strong face and elegant form, trying to smooth out the worry lines on the canvas, trying to remember the composure of her expression before the news of the capture had arrived.
At night—he must have started the copy a dozen times, frustrated and frantic to get all the subtleties of lighting right—and everything else, down to the back of the canvas and the peculiar markings along the edge. An exact replica would be his gift to the woman who had shown him much kindness.
