No Choice but Surrender (34 page)

"Who are you?" he asked, only half aware. Then he adjusted his fat, wavering belly, which was covered with matted velvet and looked like the underside of a cur. He seemed to want to stand up but his drugged body could not complete the motion.

"I am Brienne Morrow! I am the daughter of the Earl of Laborde!" She raised her voice, despite the man's high rank in the peerage. "I have come here in hopes of stopping my father. I had hoped that you would be able to . . . Damn you!" She fought back tears of misery.
"You worthless man!
You probably can't even stand up by yourself, let alone control your dukedom!"

"Speak to me of Morrow. The Younger will save us all. Then my guilt will be assuaged," he whispered euphorically.

"You want me to speak of Morrow? Then so be it. The Earl of Laborde is the devil. He is a murderous, evil Satan. And he will be stopped from his mad desires, even if I have to be the one to do it." As she turned to leave, she knew the trip had been a failure. But then, she should have known. Her father had had free rein to perform his evil deeds, and now, glancing back at the slothful, drugged duke, she knew why.

"You've not spoken of Morrow!" The man laughed mildly at her fleeing back. "Come back, wench! Tell me who you are!"

"I am Brienne Morrow!" she screamed at him futilely.
"The daughter of the Earl of Laborde!"

"Nay, nay!"
He snickered in his delusions. "The earl has no daughters!"

She stopped in her tracks. No daughters! Was the man telling her something about her past? In his drugged state, would he make some grand revelation—perhaps that she was illegitimate after all? Her interest piqued, she paused at the door and said, "The Earl of Laborde—Oliver Morrow—is not my father, then?"

"The earl?
Your father?" he whispered, now inexplicably coherent. He smiled with almost painful regret, and then he disclosed something she had never expected. "How could he be, wench? Lord Oliver Morrow has been dead longer than you've been alive."

"A
re you contemplating paying a visit to Degarre?" Cumberland coughed into his hand as he watched Avenel greet a flurry of new faces. They had been to seven soirees in less than five nights, and the hectic pace was beginning to wear on both of them—especially Avenel, who was developing a sharp edge in his already intimidating countenance. He did not look as if he
were
enjoying London society, and at times Cumberland wondered why they socialized at all. But then when he was reminded of who Avenel was, he ceased wondering.

"And what for?
To watch a child being entranced by a poppy plant?
Twould be more than useless," Avenel sneered.

"I daresay the old addict has caused a mound, of trouble through the years. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if the old bird had been different. You know—"

"Have you seen her?" A woman rushed up to a small group nearby, her excited voice carrying over to the two men.

"Seen who?" a young man in the group interjected.

"The painting!
In the library! They say she's an unknown. Oh! But to be so beautiful! It just isn't fair!"

"Whatever is the commotion? I haven't seen these people so excited since the Princesse de Lambelle was rumored to have visited," Cumberland said a little contemptuously. "You know, Slane, I must admit that they are a dull bunch. So proper and witty, they could put you to sleep in mere seconds. And now—who was it, a Mrs. Montagu or somebody—wanting you to join her poetry group? The man who took the daughter of the last
Maryland
governor, and right underneath his very nose practically—"

"Enough said." Avenel's face twitched with suppressed laughter. "Who knows? Maybe Mrs. Montagu will find me a poetic gentleman after all."

"Poetic, maybe.
A gentleman?
Never!"
Both men laughed until certain dignified ladies peered at them over their fans, quietly demanding that they stop.

"Let's have a look at the old gal, shall we?"

"The painting?"
Avenel laughed again. "Another pastoral scene of a young miss who looks vaguely like a brown Guernsey? No, thank you."

"I suppose you've hit the nail on the head. I'm afraid the evening may be a long one, so let's have some more spirits."

"Amen to that." Avenel led the way.

It was a long evening. Both men willingly imbibed too much.
Although it was unusual for them to do so, neither seemed to want to stop.
Dinner was interminably long, and they were grateful when it was time to retire to the viscount's library. Walking ahead of the party after dinner, Avenel went straight to the marble-topped mixing table and poured another couple of brandies. He turned and deposited one in his friend's hand; he himself had already taken his in two long gulps.

"Easy, old boy," Cumberland said to him, noticing that the drink was taking some of the sharpness out of the younger man. He also noticed how miserable Avenel was. Perhaps it was time they returned home; perhaps they should be back at Osterley.

"And now what do we talk about?
Another session against the Colonies?
Or do we trample the French this time?"

"Look, Slane, we don't have to do this. These social events won't make as much difference in your final acceptance as we thought. Truly, to look at these people now, all they really judge is one's purse—and yours is lined with gold and silver. You have nothing to prove." Cumberland noticed that men were wandering into the library and gathering about a large painting over the blazing marble fireplace.

"I'm beginning to believe that." Avenel palmed his empty glass in his hand and looked up. "But we've just got to do everything right. It has taken so long, and we've tried so—"

Cumberland
waited for him to finish, but Avenel's words never came. When Cumberland looked up at Avenel's face, he was awed by the powerful display of emotion that he saw there. Relief, joy, and even love could be seen, but Cumberland also saw a foundation of red-hot anger that seared each of these passions. Confused, he followed Avenel's shocked gaze to the place over the mantel. There he found a typical pastoral painting of a girl. But then he, too, felt the sudden jolt of surprise. Although weeks had passed since she'd left, he had yet to forget that face. Dressed in an ill-fitting gown and poised in unbelievably idealized surroundings was the beautiful face of Brienne Morrow. Everything was hers, from the wind-touseled locks of deepest auburn hair to the haunted blue-violet eyes; she was as real in the painting as she had been the last time both of them had seen her.

"You say it's by a man named Gainsborough?" Cumberland said thoughtfully over his teacup. "You're quite sure?"

"Oh, yes, the viscount said so himself
" The
pigeon-breasted viscountess sipped from her cup. "I must say, I find it strange that you haven't heard of the man. He has made quite a name for himself since his days in Bath. Have you been away to the Continent, perhaps?" She peered at him, and for a second Cumberland actually thought she would coo.

"Ah, no.
I mean—yes!
The Continent, of course."

"I had rather guessed, you see. I'd have known if you'd been in England.
Especially since you have such a handsome companion."
She blushed deeply.

"Yes.
Of course."

"Not that you aren't, mind you."

"Aren't what, my lady?" Cumberland asked distractedly.

"Handsome! Perhaps a little on the small side, but altogether you do make up a fine figure." She pulled her fauteuil closer to him.

"How thoughtful you are, my lady." He stood up in a flash. He knew he was being rude, but he was bent on self-preservation. "If this will suffice for the picture, I am afraid I must be off." He tossed a heavy purse of gold on the inlaid tea table.

"So soon!
But you must stay for breakfast! I had thought that when you left your card with my footman this morning, wanting to see me, you would—"

"All true, all true, my lady." He coughed. "But I am afraid I've an unexpected appointment with Master Slane."

"Yes, that one," the viscountess said slyly. "Perhaps you could give him my regards?" She narrowed her eyes meaningfully, and he did not lose her message.

"Of course, and I am sure he will be utterly flattered." Cumberland was unspeakably relieved to see the viscountess stand.

"I do hope so. I am of the peerage, as you know. You must make it clear to Master Slane that it will do him well to have friends in high places. Remember, one cannot buy good bloodlines."

"No, my lady."

"My footman will show you to the library. The viscount will be furious when he discovers that I have sold his painting, but I say good riddance! The chit is rather attractive, and it doesn't do having her grab all the attention, now does it?"

He furiously nodded his head in agreement and kissed one of the woman's pudgy hands. Then he was finally free to go to the library down the hall and retrieve the canvas from its frame.

Thank God that's over,
he thought as he was led to' the front door, canvas in hand. It was a good thing he had come. If Avenel had been the one to do this job, he might have been eaten alive!

"Here she is." Cumberland stepped into the waiting carriage and handed Avenel the roiled canvas.

"Did the viscountess know anything about the model?"

"
No, only that
the girl was making her exceedingly jealous." Cumberland swallowed hard. "But she does send her fondest regards, Slane. And when I say fondest, I do mean it!"

Avenel laughed as he hadn't in weeks.' Cumberland noted that it was a deep and joyful laugh, quite a change from the dark, brooding grunts that had been the man's response to every question or problem that had arisen since Brienne had run away.

"I've already told the driver to take us to the painter's house. He's apparently quite well known, which
is a blessing
.
Name's Gainsborough."

"Does he live far away?" Avenel questioned anxiously.

"Again you're in luck." Cumberland sat back satisfied. "Did you get the package?"

"The rider delivered it near daybreak" was all he could say before the carriage stopped at its destination.

"Mr. Gainsborough does not receive guests without prior notice. He is very busy, and the morning light is best for his eyesight these days." A small, dour young man stood in the front doorway and blocked their passage.

"Will this make for a better reception?" Avenel tossed three gold coins into the man's palm.

The footman inspected the money and then allowed them to enter.

"Who is at that blasted door?" a voice boomed out from a back room. The young footman pursed his lips and stared at the two visitors accusingly.

"We have come about a painting," Avenel said quietly, waiting for the fainter to appear.

Gainsborough came into the hall wrapped in a blue silk banyan and cap. "A painting, you say? All right, tell me who you ace, so that I may deem you worthy of my canvas or not."

"We have no desire for you to paint our portraits. Rather, we've come for information about a painting you've completed," Avenel explained, trying to control his impatience.

"Information?
Whatever is this about?" the painter asked.

Avenel turned the canvas in his hand and almost flung the portrait at the elder man.

"The Street Chatelaine!
She's come back!" the painter exclaimed.

"Is she here?" Avenel's eyes narrowed.

Cumberland
placed a restraining hand on his arm.

"Here? No. Who is she?" Gainsborough asked him.

"You're telling me that you've painted her portrait but you don't know who she is? I find that utterly unbelievable!" Avenel pushed forward.

"Still yourself, sir.
I am telling you that I painted that portrait from memory. I don't do it often, but beautiful as she was, she was simply unforgettable. Still, I feel I haven't quite done her justice." Gainsborough became sidetracked as he looked at the limp canvas. "The face is correct. But the rest of her—well, there's just something missing."

"This, perhaps?"
Avenel took the package Cumberland was holding.
When he ripped open the brown paper, out flowed yards and yards of hyacinth silk.
Shaking it, he gingerly laid the dress against the back of a chair as if its scent and its very presence held bittersweet memories for him.

"Beautiful gown, I must say. Was it hers?" The painter touched the brocade reverently as if already intent on transferring its lush fabric to the canvas.

Avenel merely nodded his head. "Tell us, how did you come about meeting her? Was she"—his voice caught with uncharacteristic emotion—"was she all right?"

"She was a strange creature," Gainsborough talked freely, sensing the man's distress and understanding it. "But in good enough health. Why, she fairly bloomed! It was the damnedest thing. There I was in a bookstore, and not a very proper one at that." He smiled at the men rather jovially, but neither smiled back. "Well, you see, I didn't expect to turn around and see such a beauty. But there she was in the flesh and, of all things, seeking employment! That's why I call her my 'street chatelaine.' She had everything that seemed to make her a great peer—beauty, intelligence, and manners—but there she was looking for a job. It was quite extraordinary. And when I asked to do her portrait, she refused because I wouldn't give her funds for sitting for me. Can you believe it? We had quite a bickering session for never having been introduced. Then the chit up and left. I was never so disappointed in my life when I couldn't find her again."

"She needed funds, then." Avenel went white. "So this was in London?"

"Certainly not.
I was visiting my sister, Mrs. Mary Gibbon, you see. I used to have a place there, but one grows tired of—"

"Where?"
Avenel demanded sharply, ignoring the painter's conviviality.

"Good heavens! Why, this was all in Bath, of course."

"Bath!" Cumberland exclaimed. "My God, she's been right under our noses all the time! That damned letter from Mrs. Whitsome at The Crescent!
The new girl, Slane—that must have been Brienne.
Oh, how could we have been so stupid?"

Angrily, Avenel dropped some gold onto the commode in the hallway and said to Gainsborough, "The painting is mine now,-and I would have the girl dressed in this." He tossed the hyacinth brocade to the painter. Then, leaving behind the money, the canvas, the gown, and a stiff thank you, Avenel led Cumberland back to their carriage, where his face took on the look of a madman.