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After they entered a small room with an ornately carved desk, Bridewater spoke. ‘My lord. I believe you went to university with my son, Marcus.’
‘Yes.’ Warrington nodded. ‘The fellow could outrun a horse. Never saw anyone who could move as fast as he.’
Bridewater laughed, pointing them to chairs carved in the same manner of the desk. ‘My boy never sat still. Could hardly keep a tutor for him. Never thought I’d see the day he finished his education. Soon as he did, he put his nose in an accounting book and now to get him running, you have to kick the legs from his chair.’
Warrington sat and noticed this room boasted a selection of paintings that would be hard to equal. ‘I want to find the artist who painted a portrait my brother saw and also one that you have displayed. The man’s name is Cherroll.’
Bridewater stared a moment and fiddled with a chain hanging from his waistcoat pocket. ‘I suppose it couldn’t hurt for me to tell you his true name.’ He shrugged, stretching his arms out in front of himself, fingers interlaced. ‘He paints under a false name and does not show himself in public as the artist. When he was young his family wanted it kept secret he painted and for some reason he still fancies the old name. Always, I handle any transactions for him. Any enquiries or post in the Cherroll name always come to me and I see that he gets it.’
Bridewater leaned back in the chair. ‘He paints all the time. Chases art like some men chase skirts or spirits.’ He pushed his chair back a bit. ‘Lived on some Greek island off and on for years. That helped his painting—because he’s not a terribly creative artist and he lacks something. Painting a different culture helped get his work shown, but didn’t increase his skill. He repeats himself—never stretches or grows. Never studies others.’
Warrington stood. ‘How old is this man?’
Bridewater squinted. ‘About my age, I’d suppose. But don’t plan on meeting him, even though he’s in London now. If he’s painting, he won’t accept a visitor.’ He shook his head. ‘Man thinks he’ll be more famous than Rembrandt, so he wants to give the world all the art he can.’ At that, Bridewater leaned his head back a bit and grimaced at the ceiling. ‘Just wish he would push himself to paint better, not more.’ He lowered his chin and looked at Warrington. ‘You may know him. Lord Hawkins.’
Warrington paused for a moment. ‘One of the Duke of Beaumont’s brothers?’
‘Youngest, or next, I believe. Never was any chance of him becoming duke. He’s the old duke’s third wife’s second son, or some such. Married well.’ Bridewater smiled and chuckled to himself. ‘Though his father-in-law rather did know how to remind him who the funds truly belonged to. The father-in-law—not a man you’d cross. He loved his daughter and his coins. Tolerated Hawkins.’
Warrington and Melina stood, and Bridewater gave them directions.
Melina spoke as she stepped to the carriage. ‘He’s married again. Now I know why he did not return to us.’
Warrington sat in the carriage beside Melina, pleased at the feel of her so close beside him. The soft scent of new fabric of the dress clinging to it. He sat back against the squabs, which caused their bodies to brush again, and knew he’d only moved because he liked the feel of her beside him. He looked at her fingers clasped in her lap, and moved his eyes to her face.
Her brows were puckered, and his chest tightened in response. He knew what she was about to discover.
‘We’ll call on him tomorrow.’ This man who forgot about his daughters. As soon as the thought formed, his own blackness slogged into his veins. He tensed. Jacob. The rest of it. Once he arranged the next days of his life, he could put everything behind him. Everything but Jacob, and start fresh. He would close away every unpleasant memory and go forward. His life would begin again.
But now he needed to prepare Melina for what she was to find when she met her father, and he didn’t think there was an easy way.
Chapter Twelve
Melina rose from the table, uncomfortable with the amount of food left in front of her. The platter held more boiled carrots and parsnips than had been taken. Parts of three different meats remained—one dark and spiced, small game of some kind and her favourite, one with the lightness of chicken resting in a pool of herbed juices.
Warrington ate, hardly looking at anything other than his food, his movements slow, as if he didn’t taste the meal in front of him.
