Page 48 of To Seduce a Stranger

Chapter 13

When rain began to spatter the window, Charlotte stretched an arm through the casement to close it, dampening her sleeve in the process, raising gooseflesh beneath.

“What about that fire, Garrick?”

As if in answer to her question, a bristly broom shot down the chimney and clattered onto the hearth, bringing with it a cloud of soot and the remains of a bird’s nest or two, streaking Garrick’s face with black and leaving him sputtering. Sykes, the earl’s coachman, had agreed to be the one to ascend to the roof, and until that moment, Garrick had been quietly guffawing at his willingness to take the less desirable task.

“Right on it, missus,” he said when he had scrubbed his face with his handkerchief, which only made matters worse.

Of course, the room was large, and damp even before the rain had begun, so it was going to take some time to warm it, even though the fireplace was nearly as big as the one in the kitchen. Charlotte, who had been dusting and polishing, paused to frown sharply at the mess surrounding Garrick. With a shiver, she retreated into the dressing room, where the earl’s trunks sat, and knelt to unpack them instead.

His clothes—as smooth and sensual and sinfully rich as he—ought not to have come as a surprise. In London, they must have drawn the eye of every woman he passed, perhaps even the touch of a few of them. Here, however, they felt not just out of place, but somehow almost an affront, for every fiber that had gone into their making felt as if it had been thoughtlessly ripped from Ravenswood, leaving holes and tatters.

Despite being tempted to abandon the task—she was not, after all, the earl’s servant—she slid her fingers into the garments and began to put them where they belonged: hanging coats and waistcoats, stacking folded breeches on the shelves, tucking rolled cravats into a shallow drawer. Small wonder Sykes had struggled under the trunks’ weight. They contained more clothes than a man would need for a six months’ stay, although she doubted a young man would be content to pass anywhere near that much time in the country. The scent of sandalwood competed with camphor and made her head ache.

At last reaching the bottom, she bent to close the lid and realized the trunk was not quite empty. What her fingertips had felt, what she had imagined to be the bottom of the trunk, was in fact a large case of some sort, a portfolio tied shut in several places with frayed silk ribbon. Should she leave it there? She wanted to do nothing that might be misunderstood, felt no curiosity about his private papers.

Curious or not, however, she was not to be spared from discovering what the case held. Deciding at last to lay it on a shelf so that the empty trunks could be stored away, she lifted the heavy, leather-covered boards, one hand over the hinged side, the other between two ties on the side opposite. She failed to notice that the single tie at the bottom of the portfolio—or perhaps the top—had come undone, either during its travels or through the carelessness of her own fingers as she had scooped up the clothing lying atop it. A sheaf of heavy, deckle-edged paper slid out and scattered across the floor at her feet.

There were dozens of pictures, some rough sketches, some carefully finished to the last detail, most of women. The artist’s skill was undeniable. In one, the woman’s blushing cheeks looked as if they might be hot to the touch. In another, the tears welling from troubled green eyes threatened to spill off the page.

Although beautifully executed, the pictures made her uncomfortable, though she could not quite put her finger on why. The expressions of the subjects—sorrow, embarrassment, fear—were human emotions. Mon Dieu! Had she not felt them often enough herself?

Perhaps that was the reason for the disquiet she felt. Because it was evident that the artist intended for the images to draw the viewer’s eye. And she could not be at ease with the notion of using one person’s obvious distress for another’s pleasure. Who was the artist? Some friend of the earl, perhaps?

The chill that passed through her had nothing to do with the cold, damp room. She would never want to meet such a man, with a gift for making art of others’ suffering.

“Tell me, what do you think?” The earl’s voice.

Charlotte jumped and hastily stuffed the sketches into the case, although there was no hiding what she had seen. “I don’t—that is, I am no judge of art, my lord,” she managed to say as she turned, smoothing a hand over her hair, feeling her own cheeks flame like those in one of the pictures.

“Come, now,” he said, filling the doorframe so that there was no way past. She took some comfort from the fact that Garrick and Sykes were merely in the next room. “You must have had some reaction.”

Had he expected her to find the pictures?

“They are . . . the artist clearly has a gift.” A gift for what, she would not venture to say. “Is he known to you?”

“Intimately.” She could by no means call the curl of his lip a smile. As he looked her up and down again, he took a step closer. “Your husband is a fortunate man.”

Surely he did not intend to flirt with her? The very notion almost forced a giggle past her lips. But it really was no laughing matter. Men like him, possessed of wealth and power, had no occasion for anything as subtle as flirtation. In her experience, they simply took what they wanted. An accident of birth became a ready excuse for base behavior.

“The estate is fortunate to have him here, my lord.” The prim answer brought a spark of amusement to his eyes, making her wish she had not spoken quite so hastily. “If I may be so bold. He is determined to see Ravenswood restored to its former glory.”

“Restored? Does he have some familiarity with the estate’s history, then? Was he ever here before?”

“No,” she said quickly, before recalling Edward’s inexplicable knowledge of the house. “That is, I do not know.”

“If he had, one presumes he would have told his wife.” Surely she had imagined the sardonic note in his voice, the almost imperceptible stress he had laid on the final word.

She gestured toward the doorway. “If you would be so good as to excuse me, my lord. I’ll just see that Garrick and Sykes have finished their tasks, and the room will be yours.”

He grinned. “I do believe it’s already mine, is it not, Mrs. Cary? And as those fine fellows had already done with their work, I sent them on their way when I came in.”

Panic tingled through every limb. As frantic and unthinking as that poor bird in the sitting room, she dashed toward the door, though it meant coming closer to him. His sandalwood cologne filled her nostrils. Did he intend to hold her, keep her here against her will? And if so, would anyone hear her struggle to get free?

To her surprise, he made no move to stay her. “Duty calls, I suppose?” Turning slightly to the side, he let her pass. Only the hem of her skirt brushed against him, but she felt it nonetheless, the way a cat’s whiskers might sense a narrow escape.

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