Risk of Ruin Read online

  Peter swapped his dressing gown for his jacket, and re-pinned his collar and cuffs, while he tried to guess why Annalies was here. The range of possibilities was too few, and none of them were happy.

  Bracing himself, he took the stairs two at a time, and opened the door of the front sitting room.

  Annalies sat upon the front edge of the single armchair in the worn, but tidy room. She looked as out-of-place upon the chair as she had in the Williams drawing room, two weeks ago. She was an exotic creature more in tune with her art than with normal, average life.

  Her dress was a marvelous creation made from Kirkaldy tartan. There was not a single straight line anywhere upon it. The plaid ran diagonally, was draped and gathered, and stitched into folds. White petticoat lace peeped from beneath the hems, and black shoe leather behind that. The petticoat bore ribbon bows in the same green as the tartan.

  Her little flat hat matched, and the ribbons running from behind were the same as those on her petticoats.

  “You look wonderful,” Peter said honestly.

  Annalies’ smile was brief, but glowing. Then it faded. Her gaze met his.

  His heart sank. Now he knew why she was here. “You’re not here to pay me back, are you?”

  Annalies looked as though she might weep. She shook her head. Her eyes glittered.

  He sank onto the hassock, the only other comfortable perch in the room. “You intended to paint your way out of debt…”

  “I can’t seem to sell anything.” Her voice was remote. She was holding herself above the emotion of the situation, so she could deal with him without hysterics.

  “It isn’t your responsibility to sell anything!” Peter raged, the fury exploding in his chest. “What is he doing, while you paint your fingers off?”

  “Tobias is trying, Peter. But it is not easy. The politics are complicated. He could arrange a dozen commissions in a day if we were willing to paint horses and houses and happy families, only it would ruin my reputation with the Academy. They would never offer me an exhibition or display my work again. He must weigh the long term against the expedient short cuts.”

  “Short cuts which pay bills,” Peter growled.

  Annalies’ gaze was steady, despite the welling tears. “He is right, though, Peter.”

  He threw himself to his feet. “Is he?” he demanded. “Do you enjoy painting bowls of lemons, Annalies?”

  “There is more to Aesthetics than fruit,” she said with quiet dignity.

  “Do you remember the pictures in your first exhibition?” Peter returned. “The painting of Innesford from the sea, with that single figure on the cliff? The picture of Jenny in her ballgown, trying to adjust the train while baby Phillip sat on the end, laughing? Or the picture of Will, shooting grouse? His whole attention was on the shot. I remember those pictures, Anna. I remember them well, while I can’t remember a single still life you’ve completed in the last year.”

  Annalies stared at him, her eyes wide. “You remember? The picture of Will…I did that years ago.”

  Peter nodded. “Yet I remember it clearly.” He returned to the hassock. He could not talk to her while standing over her. He gripped his hands between his knees. “You do not simply paint people and houses, Lisa Grace. You tell stories. There are few artists who can. You are one of them and you’re good at it.”

  Annalies smiled. “What you are describing is Genre painting, Peter.”

  “Is it?” He shrugged. “It is what you do.”

  She looked affronted and amused at the same time. “Genre painting is commercial and crass.”

  “Who gives a damn?” Peter demanded. “You are one of the best I’ve ever seen, when you allow yourself to paint what you really like to paint. People respond to that.”

  “The Academy would laugh me out of London.” Her voice was strained.

  “If you are making money, does it matter what the Academy thinks?”

  Annalies bit her lip. It was a nervous tick which betrayed the sophisticated exterior. Doubt gnawed at her.

  Peter tamped down his frustration and gripped his hands together once more. “Have you any idea what one of your still lifes sells for?”

  Annalies gave a laugh. “Not at all. Tobias manages such things.”

  Peter grimaced. “He’s not managing at all. He’s not charging enough, to begin.”

  She drew back. “How could you possibly know that? He charges what the picture is worth.”

  “He does not, or you would have money to spare to pay bills. The man is as unworldly as any artist I’ve ever met.” Peter reined in his impatience another notch, as Annalies frowned, bewildered. “Consider this for a moment,” he said. “A simple lesson in pricing. Do you have any idea what a new canvas costs?”

  She shook her head.

  “You should find out,” Peter said. “For now, let us say it costs an entire pound, just to keep this simple. Then, half a pound for the paint you use to make a picture, the turpentine to clean your brushes, the brushes themselves—”

  “Once a brush is bought, it is used many times, for many different paintings,” Annalies pointed out, proving she was following him adequately.

  “Brushes do not last forever,” Peter replied. “Eventually, you must replace them, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Therefore, each time you use a brush, you are diminishing its life a little more. There is a cost to each use of the brush, even though it may be miniscule. Those costs add up.”

  “Like the cost of sugar and flour,” Annalies said, her tone remote. She was thinking it through.

  Peter nodded. “There is a cost to each painting you complete, and what you charge for that painting must at the very least cover those costs.”

  Her gaze refocused on him. The blue eyes were thought-filled. “Tobias must be charging more than the costs to make a painting. He must be. He is surely not that…that ignorant.”

  Peter nodded. “No one with even a little experience with buying and selling is that ignorant. They understand how to cover the costs of production. Those are not the only costs, though. It is overheads and your time which he has failed to account for, and now you are squeezed for both.”

  She frowned. “Overheads?”

  “The studio you paint in costs money. So does the gas to run the lamps which light your studio. Mrs. Thistlethwaite’s expenses contribute to you being able to paint. Rent for the house itself.”

  “Coal,” Annalies whispered.

  “Any bills you pay which indirectly help you paint are overheads,” Peter explained.

  “Like paying fees to the Royal Academy?” Annalies asked.

  “Yes, just like…” He hesitated. “The Academy are charging membership fees now?”

  “They may as well be. They have sent out their annual plea for patronage.”

  Peter sat back, thinking it through. “You must respond favorably, if you want them to bestow their attention upon you and help your career… Well, Tobias isn’t a complete fool, after all.”

  Annalies rolled her eyes. “He isn’t a fool. Don’t you see, Peter? If I paint what I want, I will never win favor among the most generous patrons of the art world, because they take their cues from the Academy.”

  “So you paint insipid still lifes to earn their favor.” Peter grimaced. “With a little courage, you could do without the Academy altogether.”

  She looked shocked.

  Peter laughed at her expression. “Ah, you are not really a Bohemian at all, are you? You’ve discarded Society’s standards, and instead let the Academy rule your life.”

  Annalies drew in a sharp breath. “That is…something I must think about,” she said slowly.

  Peter reached into his jacket and withdrew his wallet. “How much do you need?”

  She hesitated.

  He lowered the wallet. “Now you are too refined to discuss money?”

  Annalies seemed to make up her mind about something. She squared her shoulders, the way a boxer would, just before engag
ing his opponent. “I have twenty pounds left. Tobias needs one hundred and fifty pounds to donate to the Academy. That is why I am here.” Her gaze was direct and cool. “I thought you would want to know.”

  He got to his feet once more, too edgy to remain sitting. “I am glad to know that,” he said. “It makes a difference.” He opened his wallet and sorted through pound notes. “The twenty pounds you still have you can use for expenses and overheads.” He met her gaze. “Only expenses and overheads, you understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Here is another fifty pounds.” He held out the notes toward her.

  Annalies gripped them. He held on to the notes, waiting for her to meet his gaze once more.

  She looked up, startled.

  “None of this goes to the Academy, is that clear?”

  “But—”

  “No. In fact…” He pulled the notes from her fingers and put them in his pocket. “I will keep this fifty pounds.”

  Her mouth opened.

  “I will give it to you when you have painted three…what did you call that style?”

  “Genre painting.” Her voice was squeezed to a whisper. It seemed to Peter she was losing color, too. “You would force me to…to…”

  “I’m not forcing you,” Peter said gently. “In fact, I dare you to paint a single genre painting, then stop and go back to your teacup pictures. I will double this money—” and he patted the pocket where the fifty pounds rested, “—if you can stop after the first picture. If you cannot, I will relent and pay you the fifty pounds once you have completed three of them.”

  “You’re putting me on commission?”

  “I am not buying the pictures,” he said firmly. “They are yours to sell, once you have completed them. Let us say I am encouraging you to remember what it is you have forgotten about your art.”

  Annalies rose to her feet. The tartan dropped into symmetrical folds and drapes, the lines following the curves of her body. “Tobias will be furious.”

  “Then he can find the money to pay your bills somewhere else,” Peter said, his tone harsh.

  “He’ll think you are interfering.”

  “Make no mistake, Anna. I am interfering. The man may understand the higher world of art, yet he knows nothing about economics and little more about what real art means.”

  Annalies picked up her parasol and gloves, moving stiffly. “Neither do you,” she pointed out. “You haven’t a creative bone in your body, Peter. You do nothing but drink and woo ladies. You do nothing useful.” She moved toward the door.

  “Except for rescuing willful ladies who don’t appreciate my wisdom,” he shot back, refusing to let her words ruffle him. “Insult me all you wish, Anna. You will come to see I am right, by and by.”

  She looked up at him. “Why do you call me that? Anna? You’ve only begun since…” Her gaze cut away.

  Peter finished her sentence in his head. Since I discovered I wanted to kiss you.

  The air between them heated, blooming with unspoken promise. His body throbbed with sudden, imperative need. He curled his fists to stop himself reaching for her. “Anna suits the woman you have become.” His voice betrayed him.

  Her gaze swung back to his face. Her lips parted. He heard the rush of air between her lips as she drew in a shaky breath. He could read her desire in every taut line, in the glitter of her eyes, the rise and fall of her breasts.

  Temptation tore at his self-control, made him shudder with the overwhelming need to pull her against him and plunder her pink, full lips.

  “You should leave,” he ground out.

  Annalies nodded. He didn’t have to explain. She moved toward the door once more. She halted with her hand on the door and looked back at him. Her gaze was steady. “Thank you.”

  He wanted to laugh. “For what?”

  Annalies took a step toward him. Then another, which put her right back in front of him once more. She raised her hand and rested it against his cheek.

  A maelstrom of sensations hit him with the impact of a train. Her scent—no rosewater for Anna, but a spicy, sophisticated perfume. Her natural scent beneath that. The heat of her clever fingers. The length of them. The trembling in her hand.

  The wanting surged in him. He gritted his teeth together, his jaw iron hard, holding himself still. If he moved but an inch, he would explode into action he dare not take.

  “You have never let me down,” she whispered. Her eyes were very blue. “Not once, even though I have put you in the most untenable position. You have no idea how…how it makes me feel to know you will help if I need it.”

  He was drowning in her eyes. He breathed hard, fighting for the surface, for sanity.

  Her fingers stroked. The tiniest slide of the tips. Was she even aware she was doing it? He knew, though. The slip of her fingers across his cheek was the touch of a white-hot brand. He shuddered with it.

  Annalies withdrew her hand. Cold air replaced it. His cheek throbbed.

  Peter could do nothing but watch her leave. He dared do nothing else, least he let the beast out. His body was iron hard, every inch.

  Only when he heard the front door shut and her light steps across the front step and down the three steps to the street, did he let himself drop onto the hassock once more. He drove his fingers into his head to disperse the impact of her touch.

  Chapter Five

  Farleigh Hall, Farleigh, Hertfordshire.

  Aday later, Peter was still taut, his body thrumming with the ache to take her. He could so easily imagine the sweetness of that taking. Indeed, he thought of it so frequently, his body was permanently braced for it.

  Parties and soirees and the last mad society events before the Glorious 12th left him utterly disinterested. At this time of year, such events were usually rich with opportunities. Desperate debutantes who had failed to catch a husband were giddy with the frantic celebrations before departing London for their family estates. Normally he reveled in the prospects the desperation provided. This year, he couldn’t stir himself to muster enthusiasm.

  Instead, he dashed off a cable to Hertfordshire and put himself on a train for Farleigh. He was alone in the compartment, with his thoughts and aching body. It was not the first time he had found himself obsessed with a pair of lips and a small waist. This time, though, the malady had never hit so hard.

  Still, the cure was straight-forward enough. Distractions, and plenty of them, preferably with a great deal of physical effort to wear away his need. Once, he had rowed the Thames from the Isle of Dogs to Gravesend, then slept solidly for two days.

  While he had no idea what waited for him at Farleigh, it would at least provide a distraction. Walking might do the rest. Farleigh, which spread across eight square miles, would provide plenty of walking.

  He studied the brief which Vaughn had sent him. The details about the estate included annual income, which was close to zero. He wondered what income other, similar sized estates brought to their owners. It would pay to learn, so he could measure if Farleigh was under-performing. He suspected so. Vaughn had all but ignored the place for over twenty years.

  Will had lived there for not quite a year before declaring he would have nothing more to do with it, either. As Will got along with everyone and rarely complained about anything, his departure from Farleigh was a potent warning.

  The little platform which served as the Farleigh station held a pair of park benches and nothing else. A man stood beside a bench, clearly waiting for the train to halt. He scanned the length of the train and watched the first-class carriage in particular.

  As Peter was the only person to disembark, the man came toward him, removing his big, floppy black hat. The youthful face, square jaw and snapping, bright eyes did not match the salt and pepper hair of the man. His hair was loose and long, well below his collar.

  He wore the uniform of the country—a soft, corduroy jacket, unfitted trousers and Wellingtons. His tie was a scrap of bright red cloth with unhemmed edges. He held out a big, sq
uare hand toward Peter. “Mr. Wardell?”

  “You must be Scott, then.” Peter shook his hand.

  “James Scott. Pleasure, sir. I have a buggy over yonder. I can take you straight out to Farleigh.”

  Peter hefted his valise and nodded. “Lead the way.”

  “Would you like me to take that for you, sir?”

  “Oh, I need the exercise,” Peter assured him.

  Scott grinned, a bright expression. “You’ll be getting plenty of that, sir.”

  “I hope so.” Peter followed him off the platform, down a series of stone steps, to where a horse and open-topped, battered coach stood waiting upon a furrowed road.

  “There’s lots of land to walk, sir,” Scott said. “Well, you’ll see soon enough. Here we go.”

  He opened the half door and stood aside for Peter to climb in. Peter considered the drivers’ bench at the front of the coach. “You’re driving?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “I will sit up front with you. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind?”

  Scott looked startled. He scratched his head, pushing the hat back to do it. “Well, if you’ve no objections to a plain plank and no cushion, then be welcome.”

  Peter tossed his valise upon the leather-buttoned bench. Scott closed the door.

  They swung up onto the bench and Scott touched the long whip to the mare’s back. She walked on at an easy pace.

  It was a pleasant day, with few clouds. Later it would be hot. The countryside was buzzing with crickets and other insects. Butterflies flitted. Birds called and occasionally burst from the bushes as they passed them.

  “It’s well-settled land,” Peter observed.

  “It is, sir. Life rolls along quietly. A birthin’ is a big news day.”

  “You’re married, Scott?”

  “Not me, sir. Too busy.”

  “How many estates do you manage?”

  Scott considered. “All told, ten of them, lying between Manchester and London. Although some of them are easier to manage than others, so it isn’t the load it sounds like. Although I do keep busy.”

  Peter had no idea what the average estate manager usually looked after, or if Scott really was overworked.