“Good, I’ll–”
“No, no it is not good, my lord. She is stubborn as a deuced mule and has decided matters for herself without first discussing with you, just as she did when young, and I cannot agree with her decision at all.” Miss Nash huffed. “I have promised not to say anything but…” She turned to the window and drew a single finger against the pane. “Let me tell you a little of what Verity means to me, my lord.” Breath misted the glass. “I owe her everything, you see. I had been ruined and publicly ridiculed by a lying libertine so Father threw me onto the street, told me it was where I belonged – with the dirt and rubbish.” Her profile was as stone and Miles had an overwhelming urge atthis moment to punch her sire in the mug. “I pawned the one ring I had on me for a foul room off Seven Dials, but I was one step away from…” She swallowed. “Then one morn, there came a knock. I’d not seen Verity since we were young but she’d heard about my ruin and Father’s abandonment of me.” Miss Nash turned. “And there and then, stood on the lodgings’ doorstep, for my room upstairs was so very small, Verity offered me a home. Shelter. With herself and Aunt Theo. There were no recriminations or criticism for the foolish, naïve girl I had been. Only open arms and love.” A single tear swept her cheek. “So, my lord, Verity will see you in her bedchamber, but I will not accompany you as she requested, and…” She drew a long breath. “And I…I believe you ought to take some smelling salts with you. They used to aid her, though she detests them, so you will find them stuffed at the back of the tallest wardrobe in her art studio.”
“Could a maid not fetch–”
“No.” She fixed him with a beady eye. “No, you must fetch them. And…and if you happen upon something else in that wardrobe, something not intended for your eyes but of which you can trust in the truth of what you see, well, I cannot be blamed for the coincidence.”
Miles stepped forward and reached for her hand, pressed it. “Thank you, Miss Nash. And whatever the future holds for myself and Verity, I thank you also for being such a good friend to her.”
“And I thank you for making Verity draw flowers again. Now go.”
He strode to the door but paused to turn. “Your father and that libertine were damned fools, blind to the treasure they had.”
Flapping a hand, she giggled. “Shoo!”
Miles complied and took the stairs three at a time till he reached the third floor and, as Miss Nash had directed, the soledoor here opened into a long airy room, nigh the width of the house, mostly painted white, with tall windows, their panes now given over to night.
A handful of lanterns lit desks covered with sketch pads and pencils. The far end was clearly for works in progress with canvases, paint pots, palettes and easels.
He endeavoured not to tarry but it was hard not to envisage Verity here in her painting smock, splodges on her fingers, and he smiled as he made for the far end.
One easel held a canvas of war with himself at the centre – motionless and austere – whilst battle raged behind him. Once, he would have been dismayed to find himself in a painting, but now he felt a fierce pride that Verity could create such a powerful piece.
She’d even broadened his shoulders a little.
Twisting, he noted theAmaranthus speciosusflower he’d sent her had been placed within a vase, its tassels dangling with perfect form against a white wall, and he could not resist but pick up the watercolour that lay aside it, tilt it to the lantern for better light.
A quick study, it had likely been created without measurement, but hell she had a plantsman’s eye, taking in the details and the layers of colour, the leaf ribs and the tiny eyes of the racemes.
Perfection.
But…
There in the darkest corner of the room was a wardrobe. Its door was stiff, the interior scented with camphor mothballs, stale air and old oils.
No one had opened this for some time.
Divided in two, one side was shelved and he rooted around. The wardrobe was one of those for all the items one never found a home for: frayed ribbons, bits of string, broken quills, old keys,mugs with no handles, spare linen bags and ah, a pot ofMr Quinn’s Invigorating Bergamot and Lavender Smelling Salts.
But smelling salts were not the reason Miss Nash had directed him here so he opened the other side. A few worn painting smocks on hangers, cotton stiff with age, but naught else and he scrubbed a hand over his face.
Then rummaged amongst the smocks. Felt in the pockets but solely found tuppence.
So he kneeled down to see if anything had been shoved below.
Beneath a pile of moth-eaten shawls and the stale scent of time was the textured rear of a small canvas. So he lent in and discovered more canvases stacked there. Old paintings, forgotten and unloved.
Miles withdrew the smallest and turned it over. Frowned. It appeared…completely black, though his fingers felt ripples and ridges of oil.
So he gathered the lot together, rose and placed them onto the art desk within the light of a lantern.
But he’d not been mistaken.
The first canvas was entirely black – but all shades of black. Thick brushstrokes of ebony, thinner of obsidian and then daubs of raven, the oils thickly applied like peaty soil.
The next was the same. But for a minuscule circle of pure white at its centre.
The third identical in colour and texture. Only the circle was now larger.
