The Bargain of a Baroness Page 15

  His father gave a start. “Not for a moment. I’ve been relishing the idea of this painting ever since your mother told me of her plans last week,” he claimed.

  “Liar,” Henry accused.

  “Have a care, Henry. I welcome any excuse to hold onto your mother for hours on end.”

  “Hold onto her? Just how are we posing for this painting?” Henry asked in alarm.

  James allowed a scowl. “I expect I’ll have an arm about her waist, or a hand on her shoulder. Nothing scandalous. Just what have you been imagining this morning?”

  Glad the hot towel would account for his reddened face, Henry allowed his gaze to lower. “Apologies, Father.”

  Seeing how his son appeared suitably chagrined, James added, “This will probably be the last opportunity for the four of us to do this.”

  “Father—”

  “Your sister will no doubt be remarried within a month, and I expect you’ll finally decide you don’t have to remain a bachelor on our account. In fact, I’m of a mind to order you to find a wife with the threat of withholding your inheritance if you do not.”

  Henry stared at his father, stunned by his words. “You already gave me my inheritance when I turned five-and-twenty—”

  “Part of it, yes,” James agreed. He flicked a hand in the direction of the valet, and Hopkins left the bathing chamber. “I’ve been holding onto the rest to give you upon the occasion of your wedding day.”

  Blinking, Henry straightened in the reclining chair and regarded his father with a furrowed brow. “The rest?”

  “Your sister’s as well,” James added on a sigh. “It’s time you both settled with the spouses you were intended to marry. Time you both got on with your lives. You’re not getting any younger.”

  Henry gave his head a shake. “And just who do you have in mind for me to marry?” He would have asked about who his father had in mind for Hannah, too, but at the moment, and for selfish reasons, he was more curious about his prospects.

  “Well, we’ll know in the next couple of days now, won’t we?” James replied, his gaze going to something beyond the window. “If you’ve a mistress—”

  “I do not—”

  “Then see to it you put your mind to courting,” he ordered. “Hopkins!” he called out.

  The valet appeared on the threshold, the silk cravat held in one hand. “Yes, sir?”

  “Time for a cravat and a fashionable top coat. The artist has arrived.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Without another word, James took his leave of his son’s bedchamber, leaving Henry exchanging curious glances with his valet.

  Henry quickly stood up and looked out the window, but no coaches were parked in front of the townhouse, nor did he see anyone in the street below.

  The faint thud of the brass door knocker sounded through the window, though, and he turned to his valet. “You heard my father,” he grumbled.

  A moment later, and Hopkins had the cravat wrapped around Henry’s neck and tied into a perfect mail coach knot. The black topcoat followed. Once the buttons were done up, the valet stepped back and regarded his master with a nod. “You are ready, sir.”

  Feeling as if he was heading for the gallows, Henry nodded in return and made his way down the stairs to the first floor parlor.

  At first, he thought he had misunderstood his mother’s explanation. He was sure she had said they would be posing in front of the fireplace in the parlor. She wasn’t in the parlor, and neither was his sister nor their father.

  The room wasn’t empty, though.

  He paused on the threshold.

  About to move onto the next set of stairs and make his way to the breakfast parlor, he paused when he saw that a young woman, her back to him, was busy erecting a tall easel directly across from the fireplace.

  Two upholstered chairs had been positioned in front of the fireplace, each slightly angled toward the other and facing the easel.

  Henry watched as the woman mounted a huge stretched canvas on the easel and stepped back, her head angling to one side.

  A head covered in blonde curly hair.

  Henry blinked. He wasn’t aware he made any sound, but he knew he must have when the young woman suddenly whirled around.

  She dipped a curtsy, one hand pulling her dark green bell skirt to the side. “Good morning, sir.”

  Staring at the young woman for a moment too long, Henry finally remembered how to bow. “Good morning,” he replied. His gaze swept the parlor, as if he were looking for someone. “I thought I might be late.” When she didn’t respond but continued to watch him, her eyes occasionally darting to the side, he added, “But it seems I am early.”

  She nodded, her gaze going to the mantel clock. “I’m not expecting my subjects for at least another ten minutes. I take it you are one of them?”

  Henry swallowed. He would have bristled at her use of the word ‘subject’ to describe him, but he was still too mesmerized by her. By the myriad thoughts colliding in his head at that moment. By the brief memories of what she had looked liked naked beneath him. By how embarrassed he felt at what he had done with her.

  To her.

  Wanted to be doing with her right this very minute!

  For the creature who stood before him was not quite the comely young woman he had conjured from his brief glimpses of her, but rather a more beautiful woman with perfect posture and a poise usually found in much older members of her sex.

  “Is something wrong, sir?” Her eyes suddenly widened as she glanced down at the front of her gown and then around where she stood, as if she thought something had stained the fabric.

  Henry shook his head as he scolded himself. The poor woman. They hadn’t been properly introduced. No wonder her responses had been so hesitant. Her query—I take it you are one of them?—had been made as a prompt, and he had missed his cue entirely.

  “Not at all, my lady. Please, forgive the intrusion.” He bowed again. “I am Henry Simpson.”

  She nodded, a grin lifting her lips. “It’s very good to meet you, sir,” she said as she stepped forward and offered her hand.

  Even if she had intended to shake his, Henry was quick to capture the hand and bring it to his lips. “May I know your name? Even though there is no one here to do the honors, surely we can forgo the formality just this once.”

  She stared at him before her gaze dropped to where her hand still held onto his. “Miss Overby, sir. Laura Overby. My father is a broker at Wellingham Imports.”

  All at once, Henry remembered everything his sister had told him about this young woman. Remembered how she had described her. Remembered the gleam in Hannah’s eyes, as if she knew something he didn’t.

  “And your mother is the Earl of Trenton’s sister,” he murmured, realization dawning even as he said the words.

  “Indeed, she is,” Miss Overby replied.

  Damn it, Hannah!

  His sister had suspected his tendre was for the woman he had thought was a housemaid.

  Not just suspected.

  Hannah knew.

  Not once had she mentioned that the woman he had thought was a housemaid was in fact the painter their mother had hired to do their family portrait.

  She knew, and she hadn’t told him! He had suffered in silence for days.

  Weeks.

  Well, just a couple of weeks. Nonetheless, his pain and longing and yearning had made him desperate. Made him surly. Made him cross with the world.

  Well, Hannah would certainly be learning of his ire on this day. He had every intention of marching down to the breakfast parlor and scolding her for withholding such vital information. Of course, doing so would require he give up his hold on the beauteous Miss Overby’s hand, and at the moment, he had no intention of letting go of it.

  A petite hand with long fingers. Fingers that ended with perfectly oval nails. Despite her avocation, there wasn’t a hint of paint beneath those nails. Not a stain on the smooth skin. Not a bit of evidence she was an arti
st.

  He lowered his lips to her knuckles and pressed a kiss there, sure he felt her hand tremble and a jolt shoot up her arm. Perhaps that was merely the jolt he felt in his own hand at the reminder of the jewel he held.

  He heard her slight inhalation of breath, but she made no move to pull away her hand. “And the Earl of Trenton has been a very generous uncle.”

  “He and his countess are known for their charity,” Henry replied.

  Even before the last word was out of his mouth, Henry grimaced. The brief look of pain that crossed Miss Overby’s face could not be mistaken for anything but a wince. “Their generosity to various charities,” he quickly amended.

  “Indeed,” she replied, jerking her hand from his hold. “Please excuse me. I still require a few minutes to set up for today’s sitting.” She dipped a curtsy, not waiting for his reply as she turned to arrange a number of pencils on a table.

  Henry resisted the urge to reach out and capture her arm, sure he had made a cake of himself. “Of course, my lady. I will take my leave and return with the rest of my family when you are ready for us,” he said as he gave a leg and then backed up to the threshold. An expression of pain crossed his face when he turned to head down the stairs.

  Cake, indeed.

  Damn, damn, damn, double damnation.

  Chapter 22

  Pontificating About a Painter

  A moment later

  Henry’s footsteps were leaden as he descended the stairs.

  How could he have said what he had when he did?

  He and his countess are known for their charity.

  As if the Overby family required financial assistance.

  They didn’t. Certainly not if William Overby was a broker at Wellingham Imports. Every businessman and banker in London knew the import and export concern was the best at what they did. Knew the majority of the business was employee-owned and that pay was better than at other import companies.

  As the head clerk at the Bank of England, Henry knew William Overby’s account was flush with funds. Had been for years. In addition to his regular account, there was the account that had been set up to see to Lady Overby and their five children upon her husband’s death, an account that had been funded by Lady Overby’s generous dowry.

  Could a dowry be considered charity?

  Henry cursed himself. Cursed again just as he stepped into the breakfast parlor.

  He stopped short when three sets of eyes turned to regard him with various expressions of surprise.

  “Henry,” his mother scolded. “Whatever has you so cross this morning?”

  “Apologies, Mother,” Henry replied as he helped himself to a plate. He filled it with bits of everything from the sideboard—toast, poached eggs, bacon, ham—and sat in the one remaining chair.

  His sister was sitting in the one he usually occupied, and his gaze fell on her as she quietly sipped tea from a porcelain cup. “I am unhappy with you on this day, Sister.”

  Her brows arching, much like Miss Overby’s had done only a few moments ago, Hannah regarded him a moment before she brought a napkin to her lips. “Dear Brother, you have been unhappy with everyone these past few weeks.”

  Recoiling as if she had slapped him across the face, Henry dared a glance at his mother before he dipped his head and tucked into his breakfast.

  “Henry,” his mother said on a sigh. “Now you have me curious. What is it you think Hannah has done now?”

  “Mother!” Hannah said in protest, even though she had almost asked the very same question.

  “She deliberately withheld vital information from me,” he accused. “Information I should have known prior to my unfortunate introduction to the woman you have hired to paint our portrait,” he explained. When he saw how Sophia Simpson’s eyes lit up in delight, his own narrowed. “And you’re guilty as well?” he half-asked.

  “Why, I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sophia replied as she set down her fork. “I am quite sure I mentioned Miss Overby by name. What else could you be required to know about her?”

  He turned his gaze onto Hannah. “Does she know? About what I thought?” He lowered his voice to a near whisper. “About the woman I thought was a housemaid?”

  The picture of innocence, Hannah allowed a one-shouldered shrug. “I did not share your suppositions with Mother, no,” she replied. “I thought you would do so. Not that she would have been able to clear up any mistaken impressions, even if you had.”

  “Hannah,” he groused. “How long have you known the housemaid wasn’t a housemaid at all?”

  Angling her head in her brother’s direction, Hannah said in a quiet voice, “I did not know for certain until a couple of days ago. Had you brought up the matter of your affection for Miss Overby with Mother—”

  “Affection?” he interrupted.

  “—she would have been able to arrange an introduction—”

  “There is no affection,” Henry firmly stated, attempting to keep his voice down.

  Hannah blinked as she regarded him, her disbelief evident. Then her eyes narrowed. “Are you saying it was just lust?”

  “Hannah.” The quiet but firm rebuke was offered by James, who placed a bony hand on her shoulder. “Apologize to your brother and your mother, please.”

  Her shoulders sagging, Hannah said, “I apologize. It was wrong of me to say such a thing.”

  Sophia leaned forward. “It’s not like you to tease your brother so this early in the morning,” she said. “Now please explain to me what has happened to make you so peevish.”

  Hannah’s expression softened. “Nothing, Mother.”

  “Nothing?” her father prompted.

  Tears collected in the corners of Hannah’s eyes before she suddenly straightened and said, “Nothing. Which is the problem. I would have expected him to call on me by now.”

  Clearly confused, her father exchanged a quick glance with his wife. She shrugged before turning her attention back to Hannah. “Him? Him, who?”

  “He could have at least sent a note, but I’ve received nothing,” Hannah went on, a few tears dribbling down her cheeks.

  Glad he was no longer the center of attention, Henry exchanged glances with his father and mother before turning his gaze back to Hannah. “A note from?” he prompted.

  Hannah inhaled before she blurted, “Graham.” When neither of her parents reacted, she added, “He’s been in London for at least three days, I’m quite sure.” At her father’s look of guilt, she added, “I think I saw him in a hansom cab in Oxford Street when I was shopping on Saturday, but then, when I didn’t receive anything from him—a note or even a word of gossip—I thought perhaps I was wrong.”

  “You were probably wrong,” Henry whispered, not the least hint of humor sounding in his words.

  “I was going to mention it at the end of dinner last night,” Hannah went on, ignoring her brother. “But before I could, Mayfield said something about ‘Mr. Wellingham’ to Edward. Something about having met him at his club. Imagine my shock when Edward said he would speak with him more on the subject whilst they played billiards!”

  “You didn’t ask about it?” Sophia queried, her brows furrowed.

  “I could not, since it was time for the countess and me to retire to the parlor. Mayfield and Edward were in the billiards salon after that, so I couldn’t ask either of them about it, and I took my leave last night before they finished their game.” Despite her attempt at appearing brave, a few more tears leaked from her eyes.

  “So now you’re convinced Graham Wellingham is back in London?” her father asked, his gray brows rising. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised by the news.

  “I am,” Hannah sighed. “We had a bargain,” she whispered.

  It was then Henry remembered seeing the man who he thought seemed familiar—the gentleman who had helped Miss Overby into her carriage on Saturday afternoon. He straightened in his chair as his eyes widened. “I think I may have seen Graham,” he
announced. “With Miss Overby.”

  Hannah’s brows rose as she swallowed a sob. “Are you sure? When?”

  A moment ago, Henry wouldn’t have thought so, but now that he considered how long it had been since he had seen Graham Wellingham, he could imagine how the young man he remembered from his teens would age. How the planes of his face would harden to make him look more like his father. How his eyes were those of his mother and the other members of the Fitzsimmons side of the family. How he might have grown another two inches taller and taken on the physique of a bare knuckle fighter. From moving heavy crates about, no doubt.

  No wonder Graham had looked so familiar!

  “He was escorting Miss Overby when she took her leave of Number Three last Saturday,” he said. “Helped her into her town coach and followed her in,” he added, his attention on his mind’s eye.

  Despite her attempt to reign in her sudden jealousy, Hannah let out a mewl of distress. “Do you suppose...?” she slumped in her chair, her hands wringing together in her lap. “It cannot be,” she whispered as she turned to regard her brother. “We had a bargain.”

  Henry’s expression of annoyance from earlier that morning had been replaced. He now looked as forlorn as he felt. “I fear it can,” he murmured. “Despite whatever bargain you may have had, dear sister, it seems he and the artist...”

  The sound of a throat clearing had the four of them turning to discover Miss Overby just beyond the threshold. She displayed a happy expression quite at odds with those who stared back at her.

  “Good morning, Miss Overby,” Sophia said brightly.

  “Good morning, my lady. I am ready for you in the parlor,” she announced.

  Sophia swept her gaze around the breakfast table before she returned her attention to the artist. “Thank you, Miss Overby. We’ll join you in a moment.”

  Laura Overby dipped a curtsy and disappeared from view.

  Three sets of eyes fell on Sophia as she regarded her grown children and inhaled deeply. “Really, you two. You would think the world had come to an end. Dry your eyes, Hannah. We shouldn’t want you looking as if you’ve been weeping all morning. And you, Henry,” she turned her assessing gaze onto her second son. “Chin up. Sometimes things are not at all as they seem. And if you so much as scowl during our sitting today, I shall order Miss Overby to paint you with a ridiculous smile.”