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Rhys let his palms feel the smooth wood.
‘And we all know,’ he continued, ‘that the sisters come from Grecian high-born people on an island where the French have been claiming treasures abound from the past. But people are supposing the youngest one is unsettled.’
Rhys’s lips firmed and he glared at the man.
‘You asked.’
‘Yes, I did.’ Five heartbeats of silence followed and Rhys reminded himself he had offered to wed Bellona. She had refused.
‘One other thing.’
Rhys waited again, wanting to throw an inkpot at the man to hurry him and strangely upset at the thought that the man would not pick up the tossed inkpot and hurl it back.
‘Lord Hawkins, he doesn’t seem to be taking things well and is blaming the girl. He’s said she’s hurt his children with her tales.’ The man put his fist loosely to his upper lip, as if to blunt what was said next, concentrating on his words. ‘Of late, it’s said he can’t even get along with himself.’
Rhys only response was his usual flick of the brows.
Lord Hawkins wasn’t cracked. He knew him. The man didn’t have an unselfish bone in his body. He could lecture for hours on a bird’s beak, as if no one but he could see it. As if everything he saw, he saw in brighter colours and with more meaning than mere humans could digest.
‘He’s not doing...’ The man’s words trailed away.
Rhys met his eyes and forced him to continue.
‘He’s not doing her any good at all, Your Grace. He’s talking about her in a way no lord should talk about a girl who has been a guest at a duke’s home.’
Rhys placed his right hand on the desk, above the drawer, and knew that underneath lay a newspaper, with the words neatly printed, not only the reference to a certain duke, and most of the things his man of affairs had just said, but repeated several times, as if once wasn’t enough.
Bellona was referred to as the Untamed Grecian Temptress from a land of Saturnalian delights, ready to leave a trail of women in tears as she danced about for their husbands.
The simple-lined caricature did not look like her, but a Gillray sketch, hair flowing as a brief covering swirling around her, while she held a tambourine, dancing. The goddess of beguilement. He hoped to be able to return a copy of the newspaper to the artist, personally.
‘We’re through for today,’ Rhys said.
Simpson shuffled the papers together. ‘You’ll do fine, Your Grace.’ He coughed. ‘Not a life about doesn’t have some struggle from time to time. You’ve just had more loss than most of recent. Time for a spell of good luck.’
Rhys waited until Simpson left and returned to his examination of the man’s meticulous records. Truly, he wondered if Simpson hadn’t managed better alone.
Rhys wanted to return his life to normal. To erase the impact of tales that might be told, before the whispers grew louder. To gauge the look in the faces of others and listen, and steer the conversation if they mentioned anything of the improprieties he had caused. But most of all he wanted to forget.
Folding his arms flat over his desk, he rested his head on them, closing his eyes and trying to trick himself into sleeping. In the night, whenever he’d lain in bed, his mind had darted alert, thinking of all the mistakes of the past few days, and the woman whose image he could not erase.
The sound of a rap on the door caused Rhys to raise his head. He brushed his hand over his eyes, uncertain of how long he’d slept. A servant stood there, holding a salver with a calling card.
Rhys straightened, and reached out. The tray was moved to him and he pulled the pasteboard card into view. Lord Hawkins. Bellona’s father. He’d sent for him the day before. He tossed the card back on its resting place.
Rhys brushed a hand across his cheek, feeling the bristles.
The grimness of Jefferson’s face alerted Rhys. Jefferson had been trained well. With just the briefest narrowing of his eyes, and the extra-precise steps he took as he moved backwards to the door, he told Rhys this was not a congenial guest.
‘Show him to the sitting room,’ Rhys said, ‘and serve him cold tea. Collect me when he has reached a proper temperature to boil the water.’ Rhys put his head back on the desk.
* * *
He felt he’d just shut his eyes when the sound of Jefferson clearing his throat woke Rhys.
He pushed himself up from the desk, stood, pulled his waistcoat smooth and reached for the coat he’d tossed on a chair, donning it.
‘Would you care for a comb, Your Grace?’ Jefferson asked.
Rhys shook his head and walked out through the door, running a hand to smooth his hair, but not really caring.
When Rhys walked into his sitting room, the scent of a painting just completed lingered around the man, perhaps linseed oil or painting pigments.
