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Sebastian shook out his hands as he walked toward the stairs. He didn’t have to think about hunting for the rest of the day. He needed to change and—
He was about to ascend to his chamber when he noticed a gentleman observing one of the few paintings he’d brought with him to England.
The gentleman was Mr. Marcus Townsend if Sebastian was not mistaken. One of the men who’d arrived late to the house party, making him the prime suspect as the recipient of Victoria’s affections.
Sebastian slowly backed away from the stairs and made his way toward the gentleman.
Mr. Townsend darted his eyes toward Sebastian as he noticed him. “Rather beautiful brushwork, wouldn’t you say? Bold and evokes the summer mood perfectly.”
“What an astute observation.” Sebastian smiled. “Do you paint?”
“Oh, no. Well, I used to. I lived in Italy for a while, but I haven’t picked up a brush since I came back.”
Sebastian chuckled. “England seems to knock the brush out of people’s hands, doesn’t it?”
“Do you paint?” Mr. Townsend had a note of astonishment in his voice.
“I do. You are looking at my work.”
“No,” the gentleman said confidently. “I can’t be. This is the work of the great Bastian Devis. A French painter. I used to own a few of his paintings.”
Sebastian pursed his lips to not let his self-satisfied smile give him away. It was always nice to be recognized. “Indeed.”
“You are Bastian Devis? The author of the legendary pieceLes Saisons?”
“One and the same.” Sebastian gave a small bow.
Mr. Townsend blinked, unable to utter a word for a long moment. “A pleasure,” he finally said and stretched out a hand.
Sebastian shook it. He was glad to finally meet a person who was equally interested in art. This was the conversation he’d rather have than endure more hunting expeditions. “Would you like to see some more of my art? I do not have a lot of it here. I moved only my most favorite pieces with me.”
“It would be an honor,” Mr. Townsend said with star-stricken awe.
Sebastian waved a hand. “Follow me.”
“I used to have at least half a dozen of your paintings,” Mr. Townsend said as he followed Sebastian into the hall, which Sebastian had transformed into a mini-gallery.
It was the corridor that led from the main hall and into the gardens. Openly lit with wide windows, it was a perfect place for a gallery, and a perfect place to paint, too, not that Sebastian had used this place for that particular purpose.
“Used to?”
Mr. Townsend grimaced. “Yes. I had to sacrifice my small collection for the sake of my lands.”
“Are you a titled lord, then?” Sebastian furrowed his brows. His research indicated that Mr. Townsend was the cousin of an earl, but did not own lands himself.
Mr. Townsend cleared his throat. “Not exactly. I inherited a title when my cousin was missing—presumed dead. It’s a long story, but fortunately, he returned, healthy and ready to resume his seat. I, on the other hand, was left with no lands and without my collection.”
Sebastian remembered the story. He hadn’t witnessed these events himself, but Caroline, his cousin and the current Duchess of Kensington, was friends with the earl’s wife, so he knew a little of that story. “Quite unfortunate,” Sebastian said.
“He did promise to buy it back for me, but it is not that easy when my collection is now scattered around the Continent. But perhaps I can buy some of the paintings from the hand of the great Bastian Devis?”
Sebastian walked into the gallery hall and waved his hand once again. “These are all the paintings I brought with me. Aside from a few more which are in my studio. Unfortunately, none of them are for sale. But you can certainly look.”
Townsend walked deeper into the hall, admiring Sebastian’s work.
Sebastian was glad to have the company of a man who understood composition and appreciated how much work it took to complete a painting. Sometimes people thought it was so easy. As if simply by having talent, you could draw anything you wanted. No, it wasn’t that simple.
It was painstakingly hard work, long hours, tweaking the painting into perfection, and irritation if one wasn’t getting it the way one saw it in one’s head. And then there was the matter of a muse. Or, in Sebastian’s case, lack thereof.
