The queen tumbled to the chequered board, leaving the pawns. “So who else?”
Lynch scratched his whisker bed. “Wot about from the regiment, then? I remember a few ructions.”
“Perhaps, but…” He sifted through his memories, the seasons and campaigns, before he recalled two incidents that could be construed as such. But would those men really seek him out here in London? “There was that court-martial I gave evidence for. And also that chap I had transferred to one of the foot regiments. That wasn’t taken well at all.” Lynch nodded so Miles slid the two pawns to encircle the king. “Well, I’ll start with a visit to the Regiment Office, ask if I can see their black books, while I consider who on earth else, from the household to the peerage, might loathe me enough.”
A grunt from Lynch as he rose to his feet. “Don’t yer fret. By the stack of invitations on yer desk, plenty like the new earl well enough too.” He smirked, gold tooth winking. “Not to speak of that artist fella who likes yer.” And with a salute, he stepped smartly from the study.
Miles flung himself into his late brother’s leather chair and glowered.
For that was the other odd occurrence since arriving in London…
In the first week of his return as earl, he’d been invited to a dinner held by the regiment’s colonel. It’d been a lavish affair, but one in which Miles had felt a little adrift, neither fish nor fowl, not yet adapted to society and yet no longer a soldier.
And whilst bayoneting a fillet of beef, he’d been struck by a painting on the wall – of a man in the uniform of captain. A man who’d damned well looked very much like himself.
When the ladies had left the gentlemen to their port, Miles had approached the painting to find that although rather too haggard and thin in his opinion, it was indeed his own mug staring back at him from a battlefield of carnage within France, the corner of the canvas signed by some jackanapes calling himself The Witness.
The colonel had clapped him on the back, declaring he’d purchased it from a gallery on Bond Street. “Had to have it,” he’d said, “since you’re the subject. Picked up a similar one for Major Howard too. I suppose you know the artist?”
Miles had choked out a “No”.
Then the next day had visited Major Howard who’d indeed had a similar canvas upon his study wall. That one had even featured dragoon soldiers from Miles’ own troop, set against the very real backdrop of the Battle of Vitoria.
The artist must have been there, as how else could he divine such accuracy?
Miles loathed coincidence – it wasn’t ordered enough for his tastes – so was there some connection between this artist and these…mishaps.
Scrunching his nose, he debated for a while, but despite his haggard aspect in them, he supposed the bloody canvases were flattering in a way. Nevertheless, some enquiries would not go amiss.
Rising from his chair, he stretched, grimacing as Lynch’s surgical forays pulled taut. Not the neatest but his forearm would not be coming apart anytime soon, and he proceeded to the bookshelf.
A botany book detailing others’ travels within the Americas caught his eye and he withdrew it, having read it a hundred times in his youth.
When young, his own dreams of travel and discovering new species of plant life had been shattered.
Now, however, as earl and a man who’d survived all war had thrown at him, he vowed to rebuild those dreams.
That was, of course, if he survived London long enough.
3
“MARY, MARY, QUITE CONTRARY, HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW…”
No. 12 Queen’s Square, Westminster, London.
Verity took a step back.
The cheekbones were high and with a hint of carmine. Lips emphasised with gypsum white. Hair of rich umber and eyes of…
Well, the shade was more wilted cabbage than green celadonite so she seized her oil palette and mixed in a smidgeon of Naples yellow.
Leaning forward, she then delicately allowed the sable brush to drag around the pupil.
Perhaps his eyes had darkened over time, anyhow? After all, it had been seven years since Verity had last seen him and her memories were fixed in that moment.
Of course she’d broadened his shoulders a little, for life in the army would have added some muscle, but moreover such hardship would surely have bestowed haunting shadows, premature age, gaunt features and fatigue.
All her fault, of course.
