Burning Bright (Brambridge Novel 2) (27 page)

Good grief. Renard had mentioned the name Mompesson too. Turning her head slowly, Harriet stared at Lady Colchester.

“I don’t believe it,” said Hassock stubbornly, obviously not willing to give up. “You could have made that up.”

“Even so, man, but what of the painting that she is holding? The fact that all the initials on the painting also have PB on them for Peter Beauregard.” Anthony stepped to Freddie’s side.

“Could be made up too.” Hassock waved jerkily at the banquette where Harriet sat. “She could have come and copied the painting in her spare time. Lots of artists do.” The expression on his face softened as he looked at the paintings on the wall. “There hasn’t been anyone to equal the use of light and dark in painting in the last fifty years. No one knew who the artist was because he preferred to remain anonymous. The manifest was meant to arrive with the rest of the paintings eight years ago which would have given the author’s name, and the names of the paintings.”

“There’s proof,” Lady Colchester said unexpectedly. Until now she had stayed in the background moving from painting to painting. “It’s in
Debrett’s Peerage.
Marie Mompesson Beauregard, daughter of Peter and Claire Beauregard.”

Harriet
held her breath. Even the noises of the gallery receded. Into the ensuing silence, Lady Colchester continued. “Claire Beauregard was the daughter of Viscount Summerbain of the French Mompesson dynasty, hence they kept the name for Marie, and how they came to be in Debrett’s.” Lady Colchester touched Harriet lightly on the arm. “I’m sorry, Harriet, I looked it up last night after Agatha went to bed.”

Lady Colchester lifted her head and stared down her patrician nose at Hassock. “I understand from my friend Miss Beauregard that we have fifty more paintings currently in addition to this one. If you don’t believe us, then we shall ask a Mayfair gallery to exhibit them. We shall auction the paintings off one by one by the end of the month.”

Turning on her heel, she glided to the exit. “Come, Agatha, Harriet. There are more ways than one to skin a cat.”

Harriet clutched her father’s painting as if it would disappear. Swallowing, she stood and took a step towards the door. Hassock looked as if his heart would give out. His eyes followed the painting in Harriet’s arms.

“It was in Debrett’s peerage all this time,” he said mournfully.

“Dashed useful thing, Debrett’s. Got to know where you were looking.” Anthony Lovall scratched the side of his face. “That’s the thing about the marriage mart. Some of the chits will fabricate connections just to get an introduction.”

“It’s the fifty more paintings that you should focus on Hassock,” Freddie said briskly. “The RA hasn’t mounted a monumental summer exhibition for a while. This could be a real step up in your career. You could become a member instead of just an associate. I might even lend you my patronage to make it happen.”

Hassock looked at Freddie, stunned. Harriet stopped moving,

“Just think of it, secret Mompesson paintings, discovered by Mr. Hassock of the Royal Academy Hanging Committee.” Freddie tapped his cane on the ground. “You would be—”

“I’ll do it.” 
Hassock reached out a hand to Harriet. “May I?” he said softly.

Harriet held out the small painting. Hassock took it and cradled it lovingly in his arms. “It will be the exhibition of the decade,” he said with a glazed look on his face.

CHAPTER 26

It was a long hard ride from Brambridge to Berkeley Square. With each galloping step, James jolted in his saddle. It was a relief to arrive on the hard cobbles of the London roads, and slow down through the narrow Mayfair streets.

At James’ knock, a butler with an ill-fitting wig peered suspiciously through the front door of Number 43 Berkley Square. He opened the door wide as James wearily let his kitbag fall with a thump to the ground.

“Major Lucky! How good to see you, sir!” he said, stepping out onto the tiled front step and bending to pick up the bag.

James cocked his head on one side and grinned. “Hullo Willson. Didn’t know you had butlering in your skill set. Last time I saw you, you were carving out a Frenchie’s heart with a water canteen.”

The butler stood with the dirty kitbag hanging from a forefinger and thumb. “Lord Lassiter kindly promoted me to his personal retinue, sir. He said that he needed men that were good with utensils around him.” Willson turned and stepped into the dark house. “If you will follow me, my lord.”

James stepped through the doorway uncomfortably. “You don’t need to call me my lord, Willson. Major Lucky will do.”

“Oh no! A proper butler always addresses their superiors by their correct title, sir. It says so in the Household Handbook.”

James sighed. Willson had taken to butlering with the same enthusiasm as he had in taking on the French. The butler dropped James’ kitbag in the hall alongside another similarly shaped bag. James blinked in surprise.

“Is Anthony here as well?”

“Yes sir, they are both at breakfast, sir, if you would care to come in.”

“I must stable my horse, Willson. I would be grateful if you could announce me. I will be in shortly.”

“Of course, sir.”

James led Scorpius to the stables in Jones Street that held a number of horses, bays, greys and dappled. He persuaded a reluctant Scorpius into an unoccupied stable and pulled off his saddle. The great horse tiredly cropped at some hay and nonchalantly tried to kick a groom who volunteered to comb his hair.

With an apology, James shut the half door to the stables. Scorpius whinnied and pushed his head into James’ turned back.

“Are you still running around after that bastard horse of yours, Lucky?” James looked up in surprise from his sprawled position on the floor.

“Anthony!” Thank God, a familiar and friendly face. “Throw Scorpius an apple, would you? He’s had a long journey up from Brambridge.”

Anthony Lovall selected a sweet apple from the bin of oats and feed, and threw it to Scorpius, who nipped it out of the air with his great teeth.

Anthony took an apple for himself and bit strongly into its skin. “How’s Cecilia, and Bill?”

“Still there.” James grunted as he hauled himself to his feet.

“And the estate?”

James shot Anthony a frown from beneath his brows. “Leave it, Anthony. We’ll talk later.”

Anthony raised his eyebrows, but with a shake of his head he threw an arm over James’ shoulder. “Freddie’s been collecting again,” he said as they walked back to the front door.

James groaned. “More Spanish tableware?”

“No. Something a little more familiar.” Anthony led James inside into a comfortable breakfast room where the light shone through the windows lighting up war memorabilia stacked high against the walls. Pennants and pikes, shot and staffs stood jumbled together in heaps.

“Bloody hell, Freddie!” James pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. “What happened to the Spanish stuff?”

Freddie stood from where he had obviously just finished eating. Empty plates and a large jug of coffee steamed in front of him. He thrust a mug of coffee into James’ hand and turned with a wince to survey the heaps of objects.

“It’s a long story.” He sat and poured himself a mug of coffee. “My lovely Spanish tableware got broken.”

Anthony glanced at the door and turned to James. “Willson dropped the trunk,” he murmured. He took another look at Freddie, who had paused to eat. “On purpose.”

“I heard that,” Freddie said with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Whatever the motivation, I found that there were rather a lot of items that were left behind by some of the other troops.”

“Amazing what you can find on the battlefield even before people have gone,” Anthony murmured again.

“I heard that too,” Freddie mumbled through his bacon. “I’ve found that quite a lot of people back here in London will pay dearly to hang something from the Peninsular on their wall. I just need to find a good way of storing it all. Anyway, this is a nice surprise, James. The delights of the country palled already?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve come to town to get leg-shackled, James?” Anthony leaned back in his chair. “That would make three of us and then we wouldn’t have a chance.”

James looked at his friends glumly. “I’m engaged,” he said. “Leg shackled, clapped in irons, single freedom curtailed.”

Anthony’s chair crashed to the ground. “You dirty dog, that was quick!”

Freddie stopped eating and put his fork down. “Who’s the lucky girl, James?” he drawled.

“Melissa Sumner.” Each word felt like a death knell to James. The more people that knew of it the more real it became. James shook his head.

Anthony whistled. “Only one of the season’s beauties. All the young bucks were after her. She’s been holding out for a lord, they say.”

“He
is
a lord, Anthony,” Freddie said quietly. “Condolences on your loss, James.”

James’ hands tightened on his mug. Seeing his tension, his friends rushed the discussion onto the evening’s entertainments.

“What do you fancy, James? Whites or Watiers?”

“Where can I get the most bosky and be carried home?”

“Neither, but I’m sure we can provide you with some entertainment after which will give you a good time.”

“How long are you staying, James?” Freddie stood and rang for Willson.

“The wedding is in a few months.” Seeing Freddie’s disapproving face, James suddenly began to boil in anger. “You wait till you are married, Freddie!”

Freddie’s expression cooled. “You can stay, because you are my friend. But something seems very fishy.”

James looked at his friends, who were shaking their heads. He remembered that Freddie had never much liked discussing marriage. He always found an excuse to leave whenever they mentioned it.

“I hope you’ve brought some luggage with you. We go to a masquerade ball tomorrow, and then it is dress uniform on the Friday thereafter,” Freddie threw over his shoulders as he left the room.

“Don’t worry about him,” Anthony said. “He normally walks out when anyone discusses marriage. He’s got a bit of an interest at the moment though. Seen someone he quite likes. Haven’t seen him seriously pursue anyone in ages.”

“When do I get to meet her?” James grinned, his mood shifting mercurially as he realized he still had two months of serious drinking and carousing in front of him.

“She’ll be at the ball on Friday. I’ll introduce you.”

Shaking his fuzzy head, James stared into his pint. They had started off with dinner at White’s and then some cards. He had greeted other military acquaintances whilst there. They had fawned over him, the new Lord Stanton. Even non-military gentlemen had been surprisingly welcoming.

Occasionally, though, he did hear a few spiteful mutterings.

“How do you kill a man, Major Lucky? How do you stay alive in a war, Major Lucky?” The words implied that his luck had had naught to do with circumstance, and more to do with the fact that perhaps he was a coward.

He had paid no attention to these words that swirled round his brain. He merely drank more deeply. They didn’t realize what he was running away from, and it wasn’t death. It was marriage to a woman.
The wrong woman.

White’s had been followed by the Cheshire Cheese where they had switched to hard ale. None of it seemed to affect him. After five pints, Freddie put a hand on his shoulder.

“We should leave now.”

James swung his head. He hadn’t said anything for the last three drinks. Freddie got up and leaned heavily on his cane. “The carriage is waiting.”

As James stood, the tap room whirled. With a curse, Freddie put his free hand under James’ elbow and led him out to the waiting carriage.

“You don’t have to do it, you know,” Freddie said as James aimed his foot at the small pull down steps to get into the coach. “You don’t need to go through with it, James.”

James stopped trying to plant his feet on the step and leaned against the carriage. “You don’t understand, Freddie. Just leave it alone.”

“Listen to me, James, nothing is worse than a loveless marriage, where two people turn against each other. Don’t do it. I’m begging you.”

James leaned his head against the cool lacquered wood. “Do you remember my father?”

“You’ve never mentioned him. But… well. We shared a tent at Corunna I. And you talk in your sleep.”

“He used to beat me with his favorite horsewhip.”

Freddie gasped.

“In his study. He’d make Edgar, my cousin, watch.” James swallowed and risked a look at the sky. The smog in London was so heavy that he couldn’t see the stars. Taking in a deep breath, he rested his head against the carriage again. “He’d say I wasn’t his proper son. He’d leave a crack of door open so my mother could hear my screams. She never once came to rescue me. After a while I stopped screaming.”

Freddie shook his head. “I never had a father.”

James groaned. “I wish I’d never had one. I would look through that crack in the door and long for someone to help. You could see through the door to the gallery, to all the Stantons there. Their eyes looked back at me as if agreeing with Father.”

“All the more reason not to trap yourself in a terrible marriage.”

James shook his head. “Freddie, for two years I waded through muck and men in that awful war. And the only thing that sustained me was the knowledge that I would be able to come back to Brambridge and erase my father from the house. It was the only way I knew to exorcise the memories.” He gave a hiccup then, turning his head to Freddie, pushed his face into a smile. “I even went to Henry Matley’s the color-maker in Long Acre and chose Turners Patent Yellow to paint the study.”

Freddie shook his head. “Far too expensive in my opinion and has a tendency to blacken. You should have gone for Scheele’s green. Just as putrid in my opinion.”

James gave another hiccup and banged his head against the carriage. “In the end the paint didn’t matter. I don’t get the estate unless I find and marry its rightful owner.”