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The entrance was crisp and even the plants she saw placed near the windows knew to grow straight and tall. Not a one leaned one way or the other, or dared a yellowed leaf.
The butler’s face took in awareness of Warrington’s commanding stride and his determined entry into the house. The servant’s eyes narrowed.
Warrington gave the servant a card.
‘Lord Hawkins is not at home,’ the butler intoned, ‘to anyone.’
‘I must see him—about a painting of his.’ War’s voice—soft, a jagged caress of the words. ‘I might wish to purchase it if he has it.’
The butler’s eyes never changed emotion, but a muscle in his jaw tensed. He appraised Warrington, and Warrington moved his body forward, letting strength add volume to his words.
‘I am the Earl of Warrington,’ he said. ‘Tell Robert I am here.’
The butler opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Warrington leaned in, shortening the distance between their faces to little more than a breath. ‘You’d want me angry less than you’d want the artist upset.’
The servant stilled and the line of his jaw stiffened, and his eyelids dropped to half mast. She didn’t have to look at Warrington to know how he appeared. She could feel the challenge in him from the tone of his words. The breadth of his shoulders gave emphasis to everything he spoke.
‘Of course. Follow me.’
A stairway rose, with the hand-carved banister made to look like twisting ropes feeling cool under her touch. And candles. She’d never seen so many lamps at the ready.
The servant led them to a sitting room and marched away without looking back.
‘I fancy hiring him right out from under Hawkins...’ Warrington led her to a sofa and pressed a hand on her shoulder, increasing pressure until she sat ‘...except Broomer would have laughed had someone tried that with him. And he would have done something accidental—such as stepping on the man’s foot and crushing his toes.’
He leaned in towards her, touched her chin and turned her face to him. ‘You’re his daughter. His flesh and blood. You have power, too. While it won’t destroy an artist to have it known he has a second family, he can’t relish his other children knowing.’
Her eyes moved to the walls and she saw the painting over the fireplace. Without thinking, she stood, her gaze locked on the artwork. Talons shredded her insides and she gasped. The painting above the fireplace. Melos. The houses with barns at the base. The olive trees. And shadows in the background, children playing. The shape of her mother sitting on a bench, watching the girls. She remembered that painting and the day.
Melina turned. Anger replaced the pain.
As she opened her mouth, Warrington spoke. ‘Quite a good likeness.’ His words flowed with a silkiness Melina had not heard from him before. ‘I am impressed.’ He tipped his head in acknowledgement. He captured Melina’s fingertips.
The rich timbre of Warrington’s voice broke into the fog in her mind. ‘Painted your home on Melos quite well. I can hear the sea in the distance.’
‘How dare he?’ Melina could not take her eyes from the wall. He’d captured her world exactly, and she could see a woman in the shadows—a woman who watched three girls digging caves in the dirt with seashells. ‘My mother.’
‘I suppose some people dare anything.’
She shifted her eyes to the mantel and nodded in that direction. ‘The one candlestick. The one candlestick—he could have sold it and had enough money to feed us for a very long time. I know it was difficult to get funds to us and he had to make the trek himself to know that it was done. But he’d managed enough before, even with a war going on.’ She leaned in. ‘Even with a war. He convinced the seamen he was French when he wished to. A penniless French painter who spoke sparsely because the words twisted in his mouth. A man hoping to make a few coins to feed his family. Neither side must have cared much about an artist.’
She sighed. ‘I am thankful I did not know the truth then. I might have been tempted to tell the sailors on the man-o’-war my father was a spy. Except it would have hurt my mother. She believed him a great artist. She loved him.’ She said the last words and couldn’t stop the derision of her voice when she said the word love.
Her father walked into the room. Melina would not have recognised him had they passed on the streets of London.
Gone was the scruffy, unkempt look of the island. Now he had the look of a gentleman artist. The only thing unchanged was his turpentine scent from the brush cleaner. He had a cloth in his hands and kept scrubbing at daubs of pigment even as he looked at Melina.
