An Irresistible Bachelor (34 page)

Beauvais left four hours later. He'd volunteered to stick around until Jack came back to look at the painting, but she'd declined his offer. It was her project and she needed to be the one who talked with the owner about the future of the portrait.

Callie stared down at the work she'd done with Beauvais. What had been revealed was extraordinary.

In the flat plane of the mirror, there was a miniature portrait of a dark-haired woman. Both she and Beauvais had agreed that the depiction was undoubtedly Copley's work. First of all, the brushwork was obviously in the master's style. And secondly, following the stripping process, it became clear that the lower paint layer was made of precisely the same kind of elements as the rest of the portrait's oils.

What was likewise interesting was that the paint that had bubbled up and been removed appeared under the microscope to also be of the same composition and age as everything else. The appropriate inference to be made, therefore, was that Copley had painted the image and someone, probably him, had covered it up relatively contemporaneously.

Beauvais had been delighted by the discovery. Tickled pink, as he'd put it.

Callie was enthralled because she knew about the letters and was tempted to find a connection between the mystery woman and the love affair that had been hinted at in the old pieces of correspondence. The date on the portrait was 1775, so it could have been painted while Nathaniel was consorting with the beautiful Mrs. Rowe, because the Battle of Concord was waged that year. All it would take to establish whether the woman was in fact the general's wife would be a comparison between the depiction in the mirror and an existing portrait of her.

As for the rest of the conservation project, Jack needed to see the woman's face and consider whether he wanted the mirror's image covered up once again. He might well decide to preserve his ancestor's untarnished reputation, and Callie would support him in whatever he chose to do. The urge to hide a family's immoral past was something she was very familiar with. Given her own commitment and sacrifices to protect her father, she couldn't very well fault Jack if he chose a similar path.

While waiting, she looked outside. Trucks and vans had been pulling up to the back door all day long as food for the party was delivered. She'd assumed there were going to be a lot of people coming, but there seemed to be enough supplies to feed an army going into Thomas's kitchen.

After checking her watch, she walked over to the second bin of documents and decided to get to work. She was about halfway done with what was left in the Rub-bermaid container. If she wanted to finish the sorting before she left, she had to get going on it because she was almost done with the portrait.

It was hard to believe, but a small part of Nathaniel's hand was all she had left to clean. Depending on what Jack decided to do about the woman's face, she might be finished as quickly as tomorrow or the day after. If there was no repainting to be done, the final step of the conservation would just be the application of a fresh coat of varnish, and that would not take long.

Sitting down on the couch, she began to methodically sort, page by page, the remaining documents. She was scanning a letter of credit from 1929 when Jack and Grace both came up the stairs. She put down what she was reading and rose to her feet.

“So what have we got?” Jack asked briskly.

He was still in his suit, but had taken off the jacket and the tie. The pale pink button-down he was wearing made his hair and his eyes look especially dramatic.

“See for yourself,” she said softly, nodding to the painting.

As they looked over the portrait, Grace gasped. “Oh, my God. It's a woman's face.”

Callie measured Jack's reaction. His brows dropped low over his eyes as he studied the canvas, but she couldn't tell whether he was upset or intrigued.

“Well, that's a bit of a surprise, isn't it,” he said casually. And then he looked at her. “And it sheds some light on those letters.”

“Letters?” Grace questioned. “There's more than the one you told me about?”

Callie nodded while Jack spoke.

“I'd found one with a similar tone years ago, and if they are indeed a pair, it appears that Nathaniel might have had an affair with, or at the very least a romantic interest in, the wife of General Rowe.” He looked back down at the painting.

“What are you going to do?” Callie asked him. “Do you want to have the face covered up again?”

There was a long pause.

“Even if it is General Rowe's wife, I think not.” As she glanced at him in surprise, he shrugged. “Whatever the implications, I believe the portrait wouldn't be authentic without it.”

Grace frowned. “These letters, you're sure they're between him and the general's wife?”

“You should look at them yourself,” he said, “but the circumstantial evidence suggests it was her.”

“And you think this woman”—Grace pointed at the painting—“is the one he was in love with? Sarah Rowe?”

Callie interjected. “The general's wife was a known associate of Copley's, right? I mean, there are notes in Copley's journals that stated she often visited his studio before he left for London because she dabbled in painting as well. Nathaniel commissioned this portrait. It's not inconceivable that he'd put his lady love's face in it but, because of the clandestine love between them, have it covered up. A secret pledge of his feelings, perhaps. Quite romantic, actually. And the timing's right—1775.”

Grace laughed softly. “That's a fine theory and I don't doubt some of its merits. There's only one problem. The general's wife was a blonde.”

Both Jack and Callie turned their heads.

“How do you know?” he demanded.

“I have some expertise in American history,” Grace replied with a dry grin. “There are very few portraits of the general's wife. Maybe two at the most, one of which happens to be a miniature owned by the Hall Collection. She most certainly was a blonde.”

“So who the hell is that?” Jack asked, frowning.

“Are you sure the letters make reference to the general?” When Jack nodded, Grace said, “Then it could be his daughter, Anne. She was a brunette, took after her father in that regard.”

“Really?”

Grace nodded and looked up at the ceiling, tapping one high-heeled shoe.

“Let me see if I can do the math properly. This portrait was done in 1775. Anne would have been sixteen, I think, and Nathaniel Walker would have been about twenty. That sounds on the young side now for a love affair, but back then, girls were married off in their teens regularly.” She looked at Jack. “General Rowe's writings suggest he was very protective of his daughter. At one point, I recall reading that he wanted Anne to pursue a spiritual life, and I take that to mean he might even have pushed her to join a religious order. I can certainly see why, if she were falling in love with Nathaniel, she'd want to keep it from her father. At least until there was an engagement and it would be too late.” Grace's eyes went to Nathaniel's face. “But Anne died in 1775, if I remember correctly. Of typhus. Quite a tragedy. Her father never recovered.”

They all stared at the painting.

“Perhaps,” Callie said softly, “her image was too hard for Nathaniel to bear so he had it covered up.”

“It would explain a lot,” Grace hazarded. “Especially why it took Nathaniel so long to marry. It was twenty years later when he finally walked down the aisle with Jane Hatte.”

“Christ,” Jack muttered under his breath. “What a story.”

Grace put her hand on his arm. “But you really should show those letters to a few more people first. All we have is a theory at this time.”

“I have a feeling that we're right,” he murmured.

Grace checked her watch and smiled. “Well, unless you have any other mysteries to solve, I better get changed. The party starts in an hour, right?”

Jack nodded and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Grace.”

“No problem. Just remember to pick up the phone the next time I call you for investment advice.”

“Deal.”

After Grace left, Jack went back to staring at the portrait. “You've done wonderful work.”

Callie's laugh was awkward. “That's kind of you to say considering the mistake I made.”

“But you've transformed the painting. He has such life in him now. Before, he seemed so gloomy, but now I see him differently. He seems younger, more vibrant. You've done very well.”

“I've just revealed what Copley did.” She walked over to Jack, catching the scent of his aftershave. It hurt just to breathe in the smell. “Look, if there is any diminution in value, I will make you whole.”

“Make me whole.” His laugh was short. “What an interesting choice of words, considering I've recently concluded that filling up a bank account doesn't work for me like it used to.”

When he looked at her, his eyes were so dark, it was as if there were no color in them at all.

“Forget about the problem with the painting and keep your money.” He nodded down at the portrait. “All you really have left to do is put on a new coat of varnish, right?”

She nodded.

“And then you're finished.”

“I am.” A yearning tightened her chest. “Jack, I really want to end up in Boston after the job is finished.”

She waited for him to respond, but he just turned away.

“See you back at the house,” he said.

STARTING AT six o'clock, a steady stream of cars began to arrive at Buona Fortuna. From the window seat in her bedroom, Callie watched them come up the lighted drive, disappear under the porte cochere, and then get parked by uniformed attendants on the lawn. They were a fleet of luxury, every make and model that cost an arm and a leg. She even thought she'd made out a Bentley or two.

All those flashy cars were not inspiring her to join the party. She imagined the people getting out of them were every bit as glamorous as their choice of transportation. As someone who avoided crowds to begin with, getting thrown in with a bunch of corporate raiders and beauty queens was like the second ring of Hell to her, and she was debating the merits of hiding in her room. It smacked of cowardice, sure, but she was almost guaranteed to have a better time.

Besides, she wasn't feeling festive. When she'd come back from the garage, she'd gone upstairs looking for Grace. The door to her half sister's room had been shut, however, and the sensual, masculine laughter coming through the panels didn't prompt a good knocking. Callie had gone to her room to change, resolving to talk to Grace the minute the party was over.

She looked down at her black skirt, the one she'd worn out to dinner with Gray. Twice.

The one that Jack had taken off her body that first night they'd made love.

She thought of burning it just to get away from the memories.

There was a knocking sound and then Grace put her head in the door. “Are you all set? Ross and I are ready.”

Callie stood, smoothed down the skirt, and squeezed her feet into her heels.

“You look lovely,” she said to Grace with a smile.

Her half sister was wearing a dark red sheath dress that fell, strapless, from her pale shoulders. With her blond hair cascading down her back, she was almost too beautiful to be real.

“Well, thank you. So do you. Those simple lines really suit you.” Grace went over to the window and leaned in, looking at the cars. “I used to come to Jack's holiday party religiously, but in the last couple of years I've had to bow out. There are so many friends to catch up with! And I'd like to introduce you to a couple of eligible men, if you wouldn't mind.”

Oh, no. Not that.

Grace turned around, a smile on her face, but the expression faded. “Callie? Are you all right? You don't look well.”

That was funny. She didn't feel well, either.

“I'm fine. But I need to talk with you.”

Concern lifted Grace's perfectly arched brows. “Is everything all right?”

“No, it isn't. After we get through this evening, can we find a quiet place?”

“Of course.” Grace eyed Ross, who was waiting in the hall. “Do you want to talk now?”

“I think later would be better.” She didn't want the pressure of keeping Grace from the party and had no idea how long the conversation was going to take. “Just promise me. By the end of tonight.”

Walking downstairs behind Grace and Ross, Callie felt as if she were wearing concrete shoes. Or maybe lead-lined underwear. Her body was impossibly heavy and she gripped the railing as she approached the crush of people in the front hall. There was a jam as guests came in the door and handed their coats to more uniformed staff. The foyer was filled with the sounds of the party, and the volley of talk and laughter made Callie wince as her senses became overloaded. There was too much noise, too much light, too many perfumes competing for the same air space.

As Grace got swept up in some woman's arms, Callie blindly went into the living room and immediately knew she'd taken a wrong turn. She was lost in a sea of people. There must have been a hundred already there and more kept squeezing in from the hall. Moving through the throng, she went over to one of the bars that had been set up and ordered a glass of wine, not because she was thirsty but because she felt like she needed something to do.

She'd just accepted a Chardonnay when a woman wearing a dramatic gold dress stepped in front of her and said crisply, “Oh, good. And my husband wants a martini.”