Page 12 of An Enchanting Dare

“Dash it all! Well, that is awkward,” Godwin said, his expression one of deep sympathy. “Not sure Lady Millicent knows I exist, but don’t reckon she hates me.”

Sylvester laughed and raised his glass in a toast. “It is certainly not the ideal situation, Mr Godwin, but faint heart et cetera, et cetera.”

“I’ll drink to that,” the fellow said, and chinked his glass against Sylvester’s.

Both of them looked somewhat surprised as the comte followed suit.

“To the pursuit of fair maidens,” he said, his blue eyes glittering. “May we be worthy of victory.”

Chapter 5

My Lord,

I write regarding your extraordinarily generous donation and the interest you have shown in helping my charitable organisation open another school.

The money you have gifted us is far beyond anything I had expected after our initial conversation, but is most gratefully received. We are looking for a suitable venue as I write this and will keep you appraised of our progress. I should be most pleased if you would be interested in viewing any suitable properties with us as it will be your money funding the project in its entirety.

In light of everything you have done and propose to do, I would like to suggest we name the school in your honour.

―Excerpt of a letter from Lady Elizabeth Demarteau (daughter of their graces, Robert and Prunella Adolphus, the Duke and Duchess of Bedwin) to Lord Maxwell Drake, Earl of Vane.

24th June 1841, The Royal Academy Exhibition, Trafalgar Square, London.

Much to his regret, Sylvester had to quit London to return to work at Marcross Manor for several weeks. The season was ending, however, and he was due to escort his sister-in-law Miss Alana to Trevick Castle. His brother, aware that he was anxious to return to town, but not the reason why, had told him to leave a few days earlier than planned. Sylvester had not needed asking twice. He had worried about Aisling in his absence, worried that whatever troubled her was a situation that might grow worse if he were not there to help her. Arrogance, he supposed, to believe she was a damsel in distress who could not manage without him. She’d told him as much herself, yet he sensed she was far more fragile than anyone realised. Besides which, he’d missed her, though he knew that was ridiculous. She was prickly and difficult and clearly disliked him, and yet he could not wait to see her again. Where she would be, however, he did not know, so he was on his way to visit friends and make some discreet enquiries.

“I say, Cootes! Over here!”

Sylvester stopped on the pavement and turned towards the road to see an elegant carriage coming towards him, pulled by beautiful, matched greys. Barnaby Godwin was hanging out of the window, waving his hat at him.

“Mr Godwin,” Sylvester called back, raising his hand in greeting. “How do you do?”

“In prime twig,” Barnaby called back, gesturing to himself and grinning.

“Oh, the great unveiling. The butterfly emerges. Is that today?”

“It is! Come along and see me make a twit of myself, why don’t you? We’re off to the Royal Academy.”

Sylvester nodded and ran towards the carriage, dodging wagons and dogs and filth underfoot. The exhibition was as likely a place to bump into friends as any, and he enjoyed Mr Godwin’s genial company. He climbed in to discover the Comte de Villen was also inside, and greeted the fellow with a friendly nod.

“I’m done up in my finery, Cootes, and I’ve learned my lessons by heart. His handsomeness over there thinks I’m ready,” Barnaby said, winking at him.

Sylvester laughed. “Good for you. Give me some tips, will you? I don’t know a damned thing about art myself.”

Barnaby folded his arms, frowning with concentration. “Let me see what pearls of wisdom have I to share? One ought to identify the medium first. Is it a watercolour, or an oil on canvas, or whatever? How is it painted, laid on thick or delicate brush strokes? Does it appear chaotic or organised… er…. Oh, yes. Are the colours bright or subdued?”

The comte nodded approvingly and Barnaby beamed, looking pleased with himself.

“And….” the Frenchman prompted.

“And? Umm,” Barnaby hesitated, an expression of intense concentration on his face. “No… No, don’t tell me…. What is the meaning behind the painting? What is the artist trying to convey? Is there any obvious symbolism? Oh, and most important, how does it make you feel?”

Barnaby looked triumphant and Sylvester bit back a grin. “You’ll sound like an expert all right,” he agreed.

“So long as he does not get carried away,” the comte cautioned with a smile.

“I won’t, and if in doubt, ask the lady what she thinks of it,” Barnaby added.

“That’s certainly good advice,” Sylvester replied, nodding.