Risk of Ruin Page 2

“There is no need for you to trouble yourself—”

  She squeezed her fingers. “How much?” she repeated.

  Tobias swallowed. “Two hundred pounds.”

  Annalies felt the jolt down to her toes. It was a large sum, but not an insurmountable one, she told herself firmly. “Tobias, you must find me some commissions, as quickly as possible. I will paint portraits for any price, as long as they will settle immediately. Better still, ask them to pay a deposit of half the price. I will even paint dogs and horses, if they insist.”

  He jerked, as if she had slapped him. “No,” he said quickly. “You cannot. If the Academy hears you are…are…”

  “Hiring myself out for disgusting money?” she asked coolly.

  “Exactly!” He turned on the seat so he considered her squarely. His expression dropped into the one he used whenever he lectured her about the politics of the art world. “Impressionism and the Aesthetes are their favorites. We must woo them and do what we must because the Academy can destroy your reputation with a few well-placed words—”

  “So, I must paint urns and doves and flourishes until I am sickened by them,” Annalies muttered, for the talk of favorites and fashion never failed to make her head ache. “Meanwhile, we will starve.”

  “You must finish the series,” Tobias said, his tone earnest. “The Academy has shown interest, Lisa. It is a rare favor we must take advantage of.”

  “And how will I finish the series, if there is no canvas to put it upon?” she demanded.

  His mouth opened, but he did not speak.

  “A study of the family feline would make more money than all the Grecian Urns in existence,” she added dryly.

  “You’d become the laughingstock of the Academy.”

  She recalled, as if from nowhere, the large painting she had completed some years ago, of Innesford as seen from the sea below the cliffs. That was before she met Tobias. She had chosen that picture to hang at the center of her first small exhibition at the Royal Academy, unaware of how plebeian the Academy considered landscapes to be.

  The picture failed to sell during the exhibition, yet only a week later she received nearly one hundred pounds from a gentlemen from York, who liked it. The gentleman was a stranger, which allowed her to believe his earnest praise, while Peter’s admiration for the painting she assumed was simply a cousin and friend offering moral support.

  The sale was from before Tobias took control of her affairs so she would be free to paint.

  Oh, how she yearned for that one hundred pounds now—the Royal Academy be damned!

  An image of Peter as she had last seen him at the family gathering last year slid into her mind—of his tall figure, stiff with fury and horror, and the look in his eyes as he spun away and left her standing in the middle of the maze.

  As quickly as the memory slid into her mind, Annalies firmly rebuffed it and turned her mind to the problem at hand. “I must work, Tobias. You must find me commissions for anything at all. We will resolve this matter…somehow.”

  She bent to press her lips to his. Tobias leaned away from her, frowning.

  Disappointment touched her. She let none of it show. Instead, she straightened and smoothed out her skirt.

  Tobias was still frowning, though. “Why are you still in your painting pinafore, by the way?”

  “Why would I not be? Oh…I suppose, if I must wait for new canvases, then there is no need to wear it, is there?” She reached behind her for the ties on the heavy linen pinafore and tugged them undone.

  “I meant why are you not getting ready to leave?”

  She separated the ties and lifted the stained and paint-smeared pinafore over her head. “Leave?”

  “For your brother’s wedding,” Tobias said. “It is at four o’clock, remember?”

  Alarm crashed through her. Annalies pressed her fingers to her temple. “Oh lord, is today the twentieth of July?”

  “It is,” Tobias said, and slid the pinafore from her fingers. “Go. Go on.”

  Annalies spun, gathering her light muslin skirt up in one hand to avoid tripping on it, as she hurried to the door. She couldn’t miss Neil’s and Blanche’s wedding. It would signal an unforgiveable insult to the family and it would hurt Neil. Annalies had grown up with Blanche and Emma and Catrin, too. Blanche would be so disappointed if she did not attend. No, there were far too many reasons which demanded she be there.

  “Mrs. Thistlethwaite!” Annalies called as she stepped out of the room. She glanced back to thank Tobias for the timely reminder.

  He sat slumped on the chair once more, his hand over his eyes.

  Annalies pressed her lips together to stop herself from exclaiming or speaking. Her heart squeezed. She moved away from the door, her thanks frozen in her throat. Silently, she went to change into her best afternoon dress and pack her evening dress for the wedding supper later that night.

  For the first time since she had come here to live in the striped house on Abbey Road, she would see the family once more. She wasn’t sure if she was looking forward to the occasion or dreading it.

  Then she remembered that Peter would be there. It helped her identify the hot, hard lump in her chest, clogging her breathing and making her heart work too fast.

  It was dread.

  Chapter Two

  Peter wanted to thump on the roof of the cab to encourage the driver to hurry. Only the cab already swayed and jolted enough to put him in danger of disgracing himself all over the bench. Any additional large movements on his behalf would definitely finish him off.

  Instead, he clutched at his head to stop it rocking in time with the cab. It minimized the heavy thudding enough to survive the journey. The cab halted with a screech of the brake against the wheel and a clutter of hooves.

  “‘ere we are, guv,” the driver called.

  Moving carefully, Peter opened the door and stepped one foot at a time onto the footpath. “How much?” he croaked, settling his hat in place.

  “That’ll be two bits.”

  Peter winced at the movement as he reached up to drop the coins in the driver’s sweaty hand. The day was warm, which he didn’t mind as much as the sun, high over the smoky rooftops, which stabbed his eyes. He put his back to the sun and faced the cathedral. The chapel was to one side. Most of the people lingering on the steps were family. This would be a small wedding, Neil had explained—a celebration of the return to the family of two wandering souls.

  Peter’s brother, Jack, strode across the footpath to where Peter stood on the edge. “You’re late,” Jack breathed, his black eyes creased against the sun and his handsome face scowling.

  “Nonsense,” Peter said. “It hasn’t started. Plenty of time.”

  “We’ve been waiting for you. Blanche has circled the church twice. She won’t step out of the carriage until you are here.”

  Guilt made his heart stutter. Peter cleared his throat. “Well, I’m here.”

  Jack tugged on his sleeve, pulling him toward the chapel. “You’d better sit at the back. If Mama Elisa catches the stench coming from you, she’ll get that disappointed look in her eyes and I hate that look.”

  So did Peter. He let Jack pull him into the cooler air inside the stone walls of the ancient chapel. He took a seat on the pew beside Jenny, who glanced at him with a startled expression and touched the end of her nose, as it wrinkled.

  Jack motioned for Jenny to move along the seat. He settled between her and Peter and picked up her hand.

  Peter scowled at their joined hands. The two still behaved as if they were in their honeymoon period, even though they had been married for six years and had three sons.

  “Did you have to cut it quite so fine?” Jack murmured to Peter, as everyone already sitting in the pews turned to glance at him with accusing looks, or eye rolls.

  “Oh, you know how it goes,” Peter drawled softly. “When a lady demands a final bout, it requires a gentleman to respond.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “No, I wouldn’t know.”
His voice was flat. “I’m surprised you had the wherewithal to manage a final bout. You look as though you crawled into a vat of brandy and stayed there for the night.”

  Peter smothered his chuckle. “A fresh glass of brandy and I’ll be a renewed—” The words jammed in his throat. All thought about the twin pleasures of flesh and drink evaporated, for Annalies watched him.

  She stood at the altar with Neil and Cian, waiting for Blanche. Her expression was remote, as if she was holding everything inside her. That was remarkable, for Lisa Grace had never been good at hiding any thought or feeling.

  Peter let his gaze drift from her smart little hat, perched on top of golden curls and rolls, all the way down to the ruffles on the hem of her gown. She was one of the few women Peter knew who could wear purple well, even though every woman insisted upon trying. Her dress was a soft lilac and cream stripe, with a pink ribbon around her waist…which was smaller than Peter remembered.

  In the months since he’d last seen Lisa Grace, she had matured into a fully aware woman. There was a confidence about her poise and her direct gaze which mere maidens did not possess. She was sure of herself and her feminine powers.

  The stripes and lace and soft folds of her dress matched the flowers in her bouquet, and the blooms adorning her hat. Both framed her face, drawing attention to her pink, full lips.

  She is a singularly lovely woman.

  The thought formed before he could dismiss it.

  Then he saw the coldness in her eyes and remembered. She belonged to another, now, and no one in the family but Peter knew of it. He, alone, carried the sickening, dangerous secret. It festered in his breast.

  A shadow fell across the doorway. Everyone got to their feet as Papa Vaughn walked Blanche down the aisle to where Neil stood with a small, warm smile on his lips and a heated look in his eyes.

  THE WEDDING CEREMONY PASSED IN a blur of inattention. Annalies automatically took Blanche’s bouquet when Blanche held it out to her. She recited the correct responses as needed, while her mind whirled with an altogether different matter.

  Peter’s appearance had been a shock. He looked ill-used. Tired. That had not been the most shocking aspect of his appearance, though. It was the reminder that Peter knew of her arrangement with Tobias. He was the only person in the family who did and he resented her for telling him the truth. However, it meant she could talk to Peter about her predicament.

  Peter had always been willing to listen to her woes in the past. Perhaps he would once more. It had been ten months since the Gather, last October. Surely he had forgiven her by now? After all, the sky had not fallen. Society had not ruptured an organ over her living arrangements. No one suspected a thing. The dire consequences Peter had predicted when she told him about Tobias had not come to pass.

  He was a smart man. He had moved inside society strictures for years, while pleasing himself and a rather large number of ladies, without incurring the wrath of the ton. If anyone could think of a way to resolve her problems while also keeping her private situation away from the public at large, Peter could.

  “I now present to you Major Neil Williams and Mrs. Williams,” the priest intoned.

  Everyone clapped, their smiles wide and warm. More than one woman wiped her eyes hastily, as she laughed and clapped.

  Neil took Blanche’s face in his hands. “I love you,” he told Blanche, his voice soft, before kissing her. It was not a peck to the cheek as a properly modest groom should, but a whole-hearted kiss of pleasure and pride.

  Blanche leaned into the kiss, her hand with the plain gold ring against Neil’s chest, taking as much pleasure from the kiss as Neil was.

  Annalies blinked rapidly as her eyes stung and she realized with a touch of surprise and dismay that she was on the verge of weeping, too. She blinked even harder, to rid herself of the sentimental tears.

  Public declarations of this sort were not needed, if a man and woman loved each other. They could find sustenance in their regard for each other without society’s support.

  As Neil’s kiss continued, Uncle Vaughn cleared his throat noisily. Titters ran through the church. There were no sounds of disgust or horror, though, for everyone in the chapel was family, or a close and trusted friend.

  Neil released Blanche, his smile wicked. Blanche rested her head against his shoulder and smiled at everyone, unembarrassed.

  “I would add that you may kiss the bride,” the priest said, behind them, “but you have no further need of direction, it seems.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Only Peter remained unmoved, his scowl deeper and darker than ever. Annalies realized with a shiver that his gaze was locked upon her.

  No, he hadn’t forgiven her at all.

  AT SEVEN O’CLOCK THAT EVENING, everyone gathered at the white townhouse on Park Lane for the wedding supper.

  Annalies took her old room, to rest and change into her evening gown, before descending the stairs and moving into the drawing room where everyone was gathered. Neil and Blanche stood together at the fireplace. When Neil was not shaking hands, his arm slid behind Blanche and his fingers rested against her waist.

  Annalies reminded herself once more that public acknowledgement didn’t change how she truly felt. She finished her glass of champagne and took the glass over to where Travers was busy pouring. Travers had traveled from Innesford for the wedding and brought a handful of staff to supplement Cian’s staff for the occasion. “Brandy please, Travers,” she told the butler. “In the same glass is fine,” she added.

  He raised a brow. “Of course, Miss Williams.” He poured a generous dollop.

  The next thirty minutes were a whirlwind of greetings and hugs. Annalies answered nearly all the questions put to her truthfully, telling everyone about the exhibitions and displays of her work, and assuring them she was very happy spending her entire year in London.

  To her mother, Natasha, Annalies tried to explain how absorbing and all-inclusive her work had become. “I barely move out of the house, Mama,” she added. “I’m only pulled from my studio if I must attend an exhibition or to meet buyers. Otherwise, I paint and paint and paint.”

  Natasha smiled, although a small line ran between her faded brows. “You do sound happy,” she admitted. “And you look different. Perhaps it is contentment showing?”

  “I believe so,” Annalies replied, smoothing down the top tier of the pleated satin ruffles which cascaded down the front of her dress.

  “Mrs. Thistlethwaite treats you well, clearly,” Natasha added.

  A hot coal of guilt dropped into her belly. Annalies forced her smile to stay in place. “Very well, Mama. She cooks and cleans and runs to my colourman every time I am out of Prussian Blue…I could not ask for a better companion.”

  “You must ask her to bake more treats for you, though,” Mama Natasha said judiciously. “You are far too slender, Annalies!” She patted her cheek with her gloved hand. “You cannot live on paint alone!”

  “I would if I could!” Annalies admitted.

  Natasha laughed.

  Over her mother’s shoulder, Annalies saw Peter standing at the door of the drawing room. He looked as though he had just arrived there. He was turning his head, taking in everyone in the room.

  He had bathed and changed since the chapel. His tuxedo was perfectly cut, the shirt collar stiff and the tie a luxurious silk. The shoulders were agreeably wide, too. Like most of the men in the great family, Peter was tall, which allowed his well-made suits to hang properly, giving him a long, elegant line which he took advantage of.

  Annalies might have called him a dandy, except Peter never seemed to care about his appearance, or take great pains with it. He never adjusted his clothing where anyone might see him do it. Nor did he brush at the cloth or pluck away lint, or minutely adjust his cuffs and sleeves or his tie.

  Despite his careless air, Peter appeared in the most fashionable apparel made by the most sought-after tailors, and he wore it well.

  His tuxedo, tonight,
was another fashion-leading garment. Most men wore plain black for their evening suits. Peter’s suit, while cut exactly the same way as a standard and proper tuxedo, was a pale gray fabric which might be silk, for it had the same dull gleam which Annalies’ silk garments did. She twitched to touch the flecked gray fabric and find out for herself. His waistcoat was cut low and most of his shirt front was on display.

  Peter leaned against the side of the archway with one arm languidly propping him up. His ankles were crossed and his other hand was in his trouser pocket, which had the effect of holding the long front of his jacket back out of the way and displaying his hips.

  It was the very air of casual indifference, as if Peter didn’t give a damn about joining the rest of the family.

  Nevertheless, Annalies found herself moving across the room, her satin train swishing behind her. She did not make a decision to speak to him, but drifted there like a windblown russet leaf, to stand before him.

  He didn’t move an inch. His dark brown eyes settled on her. “Good evening, Lisa Grace.”

  She had forgotten the effect of Peter’s voice. It had a deep resonance to it, a timbre which always made him interesting to listen to, no matter what he was saying. Now, though, the rumble of his voice seemed to stroke along her spine. She shivered.

  “It has been so long since I saw you, Peter.” She managed to speak without stuttering or otherwise revealing her odd reaction to him. Like most fashionable men, Peter had a beard, although he kept it neatly trimmed, so it outlined the clear line of his jaw and chin. His mustache curved with a sinuous line around the corners of his mouth, to join the beard, below.

  Her gaze shifted to the tanned skin of his neck, below the beard. The longer locks of his thick, dark brown hair were still damp from washing. They curled around his ear to lie flat against his flesh.

  Annalies folded her gloved fingers in upon themselves, to resist the almost overwhelming urge to brush the damp curls away from his flesh. She drew in a breath, reaching for calm.

  “It has been as long since you saw any of the family, I believe.” Peter’s voice was stiff. Polite. His gaze shifted from her face, to move around the drawing room behind her, as if he was ready to end the conversation right now.