Risk of Ruin Read online

  For the same reason, he had never let himself speculate about Lisa Grace in that way, even though she was exactly the type of woman he was drawn to—creative, strong-minded and independent. It would be a disservice to her to put her at the same level and treat her as he did his dalliances.

  He had, therefore, always pushed away any speculation about Lisa Grace and dealt with her as he would any of his cousins, with the added layer of interest she always generated.

  When had it changed? Was he such a crude man that the knowledge that she was no longer a maiden made her more tempting? And what did that make him, if it did?

  Yet the knowledge simmered there, just below the horizon of consciousness. She had changed. Few women failed to change once they learned about sex and the power it gave them over men. With Lisa Grace, though, the change went deeper. He had noticed the physical changes in the chapel. Her clothing was more sophisticated. The deep plunge of the neckline of her evening dress tonight let him glimpse creamy white breasts and the long line of her neck, and wonder what the remainder would look like. There was a minimum of ruffles and frills on the deep purple satin, giving her silhouette a clear line. The dress today was also alluring, rather than sweet, outlining her abdomen and trimming her waist.

  Annalies had changed on the inside, too. It did not occur to her to run to Cian or Aunt Natasha to bail her out of her troubles. She no longer relied upon the crutch of family. And today she had learned she could not lean upon the bastard living with her, either. It was a hard lesson for anyone to accept, yet she had not given up. She had not packed her bags and returned to Innesford.

  Was that the power of her allure, now?

  He had stood at the library door, waiting for her to pass through and…yes, that was it. He had seen the knowledge in her eyes. The temptation to…what, exactly? Had she wondered what he might be like as a bed partner? She knew what that meant, now. Or had she merely wondered what it might be like to kiss him? Her thoughts had been undeniably lustful. He was an expert at sensing such interest in a woman and hers had been powerful.

  Peter took the refilled glass Travers handed him with a murmur of thanks, his gaze shifting back to the bright purple satin in the corner. He traced the line of her bare shoulder, down to the tiny pleats over her upper arm, with the little rosettes on the top. The soft, satiny flesh beneath.

  His body tightened. He growled into his brandy and drank. He must stop this! She was as beyond his reach as she had ever been. More now, for he had lent her money and to pursue any other relationship while that financial one was in place would be the worst sort of usury…

  “Peter, darling,” Mama Elisa said, her hand against his arm.

  Peter thrust aside the seductive speculation and turned to Elisa. “Mama, I was waiting for Wakefield to finish chatting, so I could speak to you myself.”

  “Dane is such a dear,” Elisa said, rising upon her toes to kiss Peter’s cheek. “Do you have a moment, Peter? Your father and I would speak to you about a personal matter. In the library, perhaps?”

  “The morning room would be better,” Peter said quickly.

  Elisa picked up her hems and moved through the room, smiling at people when they caught her gaze, or touching their arms or shoulders with gentle acknowledgements. She never failed to make anyone feel a little better with her gentle attention.

  Papa Vaughn waited in the foyer, closer to the library doors than the morning room. Peter hurried ahead of Eliza to open the morning room door wide. “In here, Papa,” he told Vaughn.

  Vaughn crossed the tiles and came in behind them. “Pleasantly cool,” he observed of the darkened room, as Peter groped for matches and lit the lamp on the table behind the sofa.

  The golden light flared, as Elisa settled on the sofa and patted the other cushion. Vaughn pulled the upright chair from beside the table, to face the sofa. He sat.

  Peter looked from one to the other. “Is this to be a dressing down?” He kept his tone light.

  Elisa bit her lip and shook her head. She glanced at Vaughn.

  Vaughn’s mouth lifted at the corners. “I am sure you have much we should discuss, but it is not why we pulled you aside. You know Emma has been staying in Kirkaldy?”

  Peter recalled the last time he had seen Emma, at Lisa Grace’s small Academy exhibition. The girl had drunk far too much, her bitterness with her life spilling over and upsetting Lisa Grace. “Kirkaldy might suit Emma better, if anywhere does,” Peter said cautiously.

  Elisa sighed. “Emma reached an age where not knowing about her parents became an undressed wound.”

  “That surprises me,” Peter confessed.

  “You do not feel a similar need to know your parentage, Peter?” Vaughn asked.

  Peter leaned back. “That is why you brought me here?”

  Elisa picked up his hand. “You have been our son since the day you came to us, but we have learned with Emma that sometimes, it isn’t enough.”

  “It is for me,” Peter growled.

  “You have never been even curious to know?” Vaughn asked.

  “I presumed you did not know who my parents were,” Peter ground out. “Or if you did know, you withheld the information for a reason. I have no need to learn who they were, whoever they were. I do not care to know. You are my mother and father.”

  “Oh dear,” Elisa said softly. “We’ve made you angry.”

  “No!” Peter drew in a breath. “No,” he repeated more gently and gave her hand a squeeze. “It is not you I rail at. You have reminded me of a danger which hovers near this family I love.”

  “A danger?” Vaughn said sharply.

  Peter shook his head. “I cannot give you the details,” he said quickly. “I am taking care of it. Only, that is the point, do you see? You are my family, the only family I care about. I will do anything to protect it.”

  Elisa gave a soft sigh. “You are a good son, Peter.”

  Vaughn looked thoughtful. “How great is the danger? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “You do not want to know the details,” Peter assured him. “I am doing what I can. I will do what I can to diminish it.” His determination to shield the family from Annalies’ dangerous choices solidified in his heart.

  Elisa reached up and brushed the hair back from his forehead. “You look tired, Peter.”

  “Too much wine, too many…um…too much company,” Vaughn said, grimacing as he amended his observation.

  Mama Elisa gave a small laugh. “I knew another young man just like you, once,” she told Peter.

  Vaughn cleared his throat with a self-conscious note.

  Elisa patted Peter’s hand once more. “You should come and stay at Marblethorpe for a while. Walk the estate and go hunting when the season starts. Some color in your cheeks would garner you even more company, I wager.”

  Peter’s laugh was pushed out of him with surprise.

  “Although,” Vaughn said, “if you have time to spare, there is something else which has just come to mind, which might be just as diverting.”

  “Who says I wish to be diverted?” Peter growled.

  “The lines about your eyes say so,” Vaughn said. “So did your appearance in the chapel this morning. You’re burning the candle at both ends, Peter. You need to draw breath for a while.”

  There was a gleam in Vaughn’s eyes, one of an expert providing assessment. Peter had heard the gossip, here and there, when he cared to pay mind to it. Vaughn had been a rake of the first water, in his early days. It was hard to imagine when considering the contented husband and father sitting opposite him, yet Peter took the advice because he respected Vaughn deeply. “What is your diversion, then?”

  Vaughn grimaced. “Farleigh Hall. The place is falling into ruin, as I have no care to return there, ever.”

  Peter nodded. This part of Vaughn’s history he knew well. Vaughn’s father had been a despicable, vengeful man. Papa Vaughn would rather Farleigh Hall crumble to dust, than ever step foot upon the land to take care of
it, now he lived in Marblethorpe.

  “I don’t remember Farleigh at all,” Peter admitted.

  “Be thankful for that,” Vaughn assured him. “However, someone must take a minimal interest in the place. Ugly as it is, the manor and the land it sits upon is the seat of the title. Will won’t go near it and his time is taken up by his affairs in Scotland, anyway. It would be a kindness to Will and to me, if you would visit and see what repairs and maintenance should be carried out and arrange for them to be done. Then we can happily ignore the place for another few years.” His tone was sour.

  Peter nodded. “It is little enough to ask. Of course I will see to it.”

  “Thank you,” Vaughn said, his tone heartfelt. “There is no rush, however. If you must stay in London for a while to take care of this other matter, the danger you speak of, then do so. Visit Farleigh some time this year, or early next year, when you can spare a moment. I would not force the place upon you, not even for a simple visit.”

  Peter’s heart squeezed at the reminder. “It might well take me the rest of the year to sort it out,” he admitted.

  “Oh…” Elisa said, sounding frightened.

  Peter cursed himself. He straightened, shrugging off the black mood, and kissed her lined, soft cheek. “The family will prevail, Mother. Have no fear.”

  Her smile was tremulous. “I do hope so!”

  Vaughn said nothing. His expression was troubled, as if he had detected Peter’s lie.

  Chapter Four

  Tobias made the mistake of trying to discuss something with Annalies in her studio, while she was painting. That was what she told herself, later. At the time, all she knew was that something was pulling her attention away from the soft outlines on the canvas, where she was attempting to compose disparate elements into a cohesive whole.

  It didn’t help that the elements weren’t cohesive. A Greek water pot, a Roman column, and a Byzantine screen which already had far too much detail on it to begin.

  “It doesn’t matter that they’re not a matched set,” Tobias had said at breakfast. “What matters is that they make a pleasing arrangement.”

  Doubtful, Annalies had come to her studio after breakfast to find symmetry among the jarring notes. So far, it was not working. And now Tobias was asking her something which she barely heard.

  “What did you say?” she asked, reluctantly putting down the lead pencil.

  Tobias at least looked guilty about interrupting. He also looked awkward. Even embarrassed. “I said, how much of the money do you have left?” His voice was strained.

  “Why?” She recalled the twenty pounds in her pocket. The four hundred Peter had forwarded to her had melted away like snow in August. Tobias had not asked her how much she had borrowed. He had been mysteriously silent about the whole matter. He had paid the outstanding bills, and food and paint had flowed once more. Only, now they were two weeks on and he was asking her about more.

  Tobias rubbed the back of his neck. “I would not ask…it is unseemly to ask…yet needs must. The Academy is requesting patronage.”

  Annalies resisted the impulse to stamp her foot. “I deplore politics!” she declared. The Royal Academy did not demand membership fees of its registered artists. Instead, every year they delicately sought “patronage” from the peerage. Refusal to support the Academy, Tobias had explained more than once, would make the Academy less inclined to support her. As the Royal Academy of Arts was the leading authority upon art in Britain and held a huge influence upon art in Europe, too, they could launch one’s career into the realms of fame and adoration. Or they could destroy one’s career with a few well-chosen hints that one’s work was not up to par.

  Annalies had seen it happen, although she wasn’t certain if the director who had demolished one watercolor artist had not done so for personal reasons. It remained that the Academy had too large a hold upon her future for her to consider refusing Tobias now.

  “How much did you donate, last year?” she asked Tobias.

  “One hundred and fifty pounds.” He spoke as if the words tasted foul in his mouth. They might, at that. Tobias seemed to be allergic to discussions about money—a trait most of the upper class shared.

  Annalies didn’t know how she felt about such discussions. She had been ignorant of money until only a few weeks ago. Now she was learning how fast money could disappear. She’d had no idea how expensive simple food could be until she’d perused the account Mrs. Thistlethwaite had presented for payment. Annalies had been stunned to learn that corned beef was a whole five pennies per pound, while sugar was even more expensive—six pennies per pound!

  She choked down her slice of butterscotch pudding that night, as she tried to figure the cost of every mouthful. She had eaten every skerrick, though, because to waste it would make her even more nauseous.

  Tobias met her gaze, while her mind whirled. “Lisa?”

  Annalies shook her head. “I don’t have that much.” One hundred and fifty pounds was far out of her reach.

  He shifted on his feet. “Could you…get more?”

  Annalies’ gaze fell upon the silk screen with the overwrought decorations on it, and grimaced. “If I could only paint something other than objects d’art! I could make the money in a week, just inside my family. Do you know how many nieces and nephews I have? That’s not counting the children to whom I am an honorary aunt.”

  Tobias turned white. “You cannot think of it…!” he whispered. “Your reputation—”

  “Does me no good at all if we starve in the meantime. This is ridiculous, Tobias. It has been two weeks since I told you I would paint anything at all, if someone would only pay me for it, yet you have failed to find a single commission…” Suspicion popped into her mind. “Did you even try to find work for me?”

  “I placed the sunrises in the gallery, just last week,” he reminded her. “There are prestigious clients at that gallery.” He seemed to be recovering from his awkwardness about money talk, now they had moved on to his area of expertise. “It will not serve you to have family portraits scattered across England, Lisa. You are too good for such workaday subjects, which is what I am trying to impress upon the Academy. You will undo all my work in a single painting of a smiling child.”

  “Oh, your work,” Annalies breathed. She tore at the ties of her pinafore, irritation building in her. “Perhaps you should ask your father for the money, as it is your work which is in jeopardy.” She tossed her pinafore violently to the floor. Only, it ruined the effect by fluttering and dropping softly to the paint daubed tiles…which made her angrier still.

  Tobias looked offended. “Everything I do, I do for you and your career. You know that. I have no other interests in the art world but you.”

  “Then find me some work!” she cried and this time, she did stamp her foot.

  Tobias’ face was no longer just white. It was gray. He sank onto the edge of the worktable, breathing hard.

  Alarm scattered Annalies’ anger. She moved closer. “Tobias, what is wrong?”

  He shook his head, his fingers digging into the edge of the table on either side of his slender body. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” His voice was weak. “I am not accustomed to…to arguing.”

  Guilt tore through her. “Oh, Toby…”

  He winced at the contraction of his name. She ignored it and pressed herself against him, trying to hold him. It had been too long since they had laid together—which was another worry she thrust to the back of her mind in order to paint one more horrid still life. Only, she missed being held…and more.

  Tobias tolerated her hug for only a moment or two, then cleared his throat and pulled away from her.

  Annalies tried to be charmed by his proper English reluctance to demonstrate affection. His attitude was amusing when Tobias was so deeply immersed in the art world. Everyone in this life led Bohemian lives which would shock sober British families if they knew the details. In part, it was the excesses of artists Annalies knew well which had encouraged her to
break with propriety and live with Tobias to simplify their business arrangements.

  Reluctantly, she stepped away from him as Tobias rose to his feet and tugged his jacket back into place. He didn’t quite meet her gaze. “The Academy patronage…”

  Her irritation flared again. She smothered it, feeling a great tiredness digging at her bones. “You do not understand what you are asking of me.”

  Horror built in Tobias’ face. “What did you do? Did you…did you sleep with a man, Annalies?”

  She shook her head. “That would have been easier,” she said frankly.

  His mouth dropped open. “Lisa!”

  She picked up a rag and wiped the dark gray lead from her fingers, then tossed the rag back onto the work table. “I have a call to make,” she said, bitterness like sour lemon in her mouth.

  MRS. THATCHER, A ROBUST LANDLADY with pink cheeks and a huge bosom, and an even larger sense of humor, informed Peter with a twinkle in her eye that he had a lady visitor waiting for him in the front sitting room, downstairs.

  Peter sat up, his interest stirring. “I do?” Ladies never visited him at his rooms. He had told no one where he lived, except for the immediate members of his family… “A golden-haired lady?” he asked Mrs. Thatcher, his tone suspicious. “With blue eyes and paint on her fingers?”

  “I wouldn’t know about the paint,” Mrs. Thatcher said. “But the pretty eyes are right enough. Would the lady like tea, do you think? I have some China tea tucked away that the likes of her might enjoy.”

  “Let me speak with my cousin first. I believe it might be a family matter, in which case, brandy might be preferable.”

  Her amusement died. “Trouble. Oh, dear. Well, you just call me if you need anything.” She marched downstairs. Mrs. Thatcher was not light on her feet.