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‘Your wife has a sister, does she not, a Lady Florentia Hale-Burton if I am not mistaken?’
Horror crossed Roy’s face as he asked it, giving James the impression of something being awfully wrong with the girl. His heartbeat quickened because he did not want to be told her shortcomings were his fault or that her abduction on Mount Street had led to some sort of a mind disorder that had never been resolved.
‘Why do you mention her in conjunction with Frederick Rutherford, Winter?’
‘Pardon?’ The conversation had seemed to have got away from him and he waited for the other to explain the query.
‘Florentia, my sister-in-law, is somewhat timid. She does not enjoy London at all but prefers the quiet of her parents’ home of Albany Manor in Kent. But as to the other matter of the portrait—perhaps it is not to me that you should be addressing your queries. The agent you spoke of would hold a far better understanding of these things.’
With care James swallowed his brandy, liking the way it brought warmth into the coldness.
Secrets and lies. His own and Roy Warrenden’s. There was a sense of wrongness here that he could not quite put his finger on, something held back and concealed and the mystery had to do with the artist Frederick Rutherford, he thought.
‘I think I shall agree to the commission of the portrait, though the price is extremely high.’
‘Well, look at it as a painting for posterity, Winter. A foothold into history.’
‘But I won’t take up the offer of using the agent’s gallery in South London as the place of sitting. I want it done at my place in St James’s.’
‘The lad may find it difficult to get there with all the accoutrements needed for such a task. I doubt any artist is all that flush.’
‘Then I shall send a carriage to pick him up. Where does he reside in London? No one I ask seems to know.’
‘Here, there and everywhere, I expect. Rutherford is like a gypsy in his constant changing of addresses. My wife accompanied him on the first visit to see Alfred Ward, actually, so he spent the night at our town house.’
‘Yes, I had heard of that.’
Warrenden smiled. ‘I thought perhaps that you might have. Rutherford is a chameleon, Winter. You might be wise to get the sittings completed as quickly as you are able and without asking the fellow too many questions.’
‘You think he might abscond otherwise.’
‘I sincerely hope not for I’d like to see him settle,’ Roy replied, ‘and you could be just the one to do it.’
‘You think it might be the beginning of a more lucrative career for him? Already he is a painter with many admirers. Does he wish for more?’
Roy’s laugh was harsh as he stood. ‘I leave you to make your own assessment of his ambition, Winter, when you meet him, but for now I’m off home. I am, however, more than interested in seeing exactly how this romp of yours turns out.’ He stopped for a second as if debating if he should say more. ‘Frank Reading intimated you had returned to England to try and understand something of your father’s untimely demise.’
‘He’s right. I never believed William committed suicide and am looking for the truth of it.’ The words came out with a strained anger that he could no longer bother hiding. He liked Roy Warrenden as he was not a man inclined to gossip.
‘Reading also said he had word you were asking around in the more unsavoury parts of town. Sometimes there are consequences in uncovering secrets, Winter.’
‘And I should welcome them if they allow me to understand more about the nature of my father’s death.’
Roy nodded. ‘Well then, I hope you find some answers that might make more sense to you. If you need any help...?’
James was quick to shake his head. ‘I am better alone, but thank you.’
He watched as Warrenden threaded his way through the last of the patrons of White’s and lifted the bottle of brandy up to pour himself another glass when he could no longer see him.
Roy was not quite telling him the truth about Rutherford, that much was certain. There was some faulty connection, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
He knew the Warrendens were better acquainted with the artist than they let on. The lad had returned to their town house on Grosvenor Square for all the nights he’d been in London and once passing by late on an afternoon in his carriage James had noted Maria Warrenden holding the fellow’s hand with more than a little delight.
God, was the sister cuckolding her husband right under his nose? And where the hell did the reclusive Lady Florentia Hale-Burton fit into any of this picture?
* * *
The blow came from behind as he was walking to the corner to hail a hackney cab, a sharp blinding pain that had him on his knees and clambering for consciousness, and all James could think of was that the danger Roy had spoken of had suddenly come to pass.
A boot came next to his face, the edge of the tread connecting with his lip, but the shock was kicking in now and with it came the strength.
Grabbing his assailant by the leg, James brought him down and within a moment he was on top of him, a punch to the side of the head having the effect of keeping the other still.
‘Who the hell are you and what do you want of me?’
‘Perkins sent me, from the Red Fox Inn at the docks. You have been prying around and he don’t like it. It’s him who sends us on to see who is asking too many questions.’
James realised this man was only a messenger boy, all brawn and muscle and no idea at all as to what this was all about. Letting him go, he stood back, watching the fellow collect his hat and move away.
‘Can I speak with Mr Perkins? I’d pay well for a few moments of his time.’
The other nodded. ‘If he wants to talk, you will hear from us.’
With that the stranger turned and disappeared into the night, leaving James to wipe the blood from his lip and find his own hat spilled into the gutter by the unexpected retribution.
His father’s death had rocked him and he had been trying to track down some of William’s gambling partners to get some answers. Suicide was a shameful thing and he could not believe that his father had killed himself. Two parents lost to suicide painted a worrying family weakness, though in his mother the failing was almost to be expected.
He swore again and looked up into the sky. A small rising moon tonight. It had been much the same sort of moon when he had kidnapped Florentia Hale-Burton. Clenching his fists, he lent back against a stone wall and felt in his pocket for both light and a cigar in order to steady himself. He wanted to see her again, to tell her that it had all been a mistake and that he was sorry for it. He wanted to take her hand in his own and let her know that he had not thought her abduction a small thing and that it had changed his life as much as it had ruined her own.
Like a pack of cards, one fell and then the next and the next until finally in the remains of what was left was the realisation that there was nothing at all of value or of honour.
His neck ached and he drew on the cigar, liking the way the red end of it flared in the night and his heartbeat slowed.
Florentia Hale-Burton had had asthma. He wondered if she still had it. She’d had a suitor, too, and a bag full of books. He’d heard her name mentioned in the card room at some ball. It was said that she had always been odd, but that if the Earl of Albany’s girls had made a bit of effort with their appearances they would probably have outshone every other woman in the room.
Perhaps it might be true, though the girl in the carriage had been either unconscious, furious or sick so he had no honest picture by which to measure this.
He