Lottie was terrible, a simply awful marksman…markswoman. Patrick was silently appalled. Oh, she hit the targets, all right, but always missed what she aimed at by a good six to twelve inches.
Desiring to shoot came from Lottie’s fear of that blasted baron. Yet did she take up a gun in defense, she would either miss or seize up, both frequent occurrences during their practice.
Patrick had given Lottie a variety of pistols, hoping a better fit might increase her accuracy. None had done so. How the woman could paint the tiniest ship on canvas with incredible precision and make it appear real, yet failed to hit a sizable target with any sort of accuracy confounded him.
She stood before him in a navy riding habit with white piping, its jacket topped with bright brass buttons. A fetching navy hat with a white plume tilted at a jaunty angle topped the confection. Elegant. Yes, but also adorable. He wished to gobble her up.
“I am improving, am I not?” Lottie said.
Her shot had landed a good foot from her target. “Making progress!” he said in a cheerful voice.
Lottie peeled a laugh. “You are bamming me, Patrick! I am truly dreadful at this.”
He could not disagree.
“Not to worry. I shall practice!”
Heaven help them all.
Days later, the letter to St. Michaels weighed on her, for Charlotte had been in a flurry of moving preparations and had failed to write more. One letter would not do. She would bide her time until settled at Hawthorne when the letter writing would begin in earnest.
That chilly day in November, she was all aflutter, and who could blame her? She, Patrick, and their band of merry men, horses, one dog, and accoutrements were journeying to Hawthorne Hall to move in.
Charlotte and Patrick traveled in his specially built coach and much of the family and staff saw them off, with Rose, Rhys, and Claire accompanying them in another coach. Banby sat atop the block beside the coachman, whilst Henry rode Dante, a smile never far from the boy’s face, with Stella trotting alongside. She wore a grin, too.
Several wagons and another coach carried their goods. As Rose’s babe would arrive in a month or so, she’d had to fight Rhys to join them.
When their caravan arrived at Hawthorne Hall, Charlotte leapt from the carriage, eager to see all the changes. She was amazed. Though hammer and saw still pounded and buzzed and the vast gardens remained rather wan, the path to the entrance had been improved, with mauve Michaelmas daisies, red-hot pokers, and delicate Hesperantha adding a cheerful note lining the walk. Progress abounded—the path swept, the yellow door repainted, and the windows gleaming. The front steps were narrowed by a sturdy ramp for Patrick’s ease of entry.
“At present, the carpenters are working on the kitchens,” Patrick said as he unlocked the front door, and they trooped inside. A gleaming central hall greeted them. Tapestried window hangings had replaced moth-eaten ones in the small salon to their left, the oak panels now shining from the light pouring from the cleaned windows. Not a cobweb to be found.
“I say,” Devonshire said, pointing toward the sea beyond, “that is a grand prospect.”
Out the window, beyond the bluff, waves lapped the shore, a few boats bobbing in the distance.
“That it is,” Rhys said, squeezing Patrick’s shoulder. “I could not be happier for you and Lottie, brother.”
“As am I,” Rose said examining the oak beams. “I believe the manor itself was built around the time of Woodbine.”
“That it was,” Patrick said and waved. “Go. Explore.”
Charlotte stayed with Patrick as their group dispersed to various corners of the manor house.
“Come aboard?” Patrick patted his lap.
She smiled as she did so, and they wheeled through the foyer into the great hall.
The hearth blazed, the room warm and inviting. Charlotte slid from Patrick’s lap, eyes focused on the large painting hung above the mantle. A seascape by her father, a large one she’d last seen at Penrhyn Creigiog on that horrid fourth floor. She shivered, recalling the moldering paintings in that strange room and St. Michaels hovering.
No blight darkened the canvas now, the work restored. Ice shot through her veins.
“Did you have this hung here?” she said, a hot ball of anger in her belly.
“I have never see it before,” Patrick said.
She dragged a wing chair close, unlaced her half-boots, and climbed atop the seat.
“What are you about, Lottie?”
Charlotte steadied herself on the hearth’s stone, for she must see the painting up close.
“The mold has somewhat been cleaned,” she said. “But it was done in haste.”
Patrick wheeled close, raising a hand to steady her as she descended. “You have seen this painting recently?”
“I have. It is one of my father’s.” She sat to retie her boots. “At the manor in Cornwall. This is but another game St. Michaels delights in playing.”
“So it seems.” His mild words belied his stony expression.
“In any case, I am glad to have the painting returned to us.” Charlotte pushed the man, his games from her mind. “While the others are wandering the manor, shall we check out our temporary home?”
“Lottie,” Patrick said. “Are you well?”
“Perfectly! His infuriating games grow tedious.”
Though Patrick gave her a skeptical look, she squeezed his hand, and they proceeded to the priest’s house. Upon arrival, their stoop held a gentleman moving from foot to foot to keep himself warm. He stepped forward as they approached.
Dressed in fine clothes, the stranger doffed his hat to bow, revealing a shiny pate. “My Lord and Lady Hawthorne.”
“How may we be of assistance, sir?” Patrick said.
“I have business to discuss and prefer we do so inside, my lord.”
Business? Charlotte kept her council as Patrick directed the man into their home.
A cheery fire burned in the hearth, a new footman taking Patrick’s hat, the stranger’s hat and cane, and Charlotte’s pelisse. She requested tea, gestured the man to the sofa, then took a wing chair before the hearth, Patrick setting his chair opposite hers.
Once seated, the man pulled a sheaf of papers from his satchel and placed them on the table before him. “I am Sir Joffrey Reynolds from the Royal Academy of Arts. I have been tasked with revealing to Lady Hawthorne allegations laid against her to both the academicians at the academy and the trustees of the British Museum. These represent…”
Their staff was thin, at present, and Mercy appeared bearing a tea tray and biscuits, and they remained silent until the girl left the room.
“Allegations, Sir Joffrey?” Patrick said.
A volcano raged within Charlotte, her hands clammy, her heart thumping a tattoo loud enough for the men to hear.
She reached for several of the papers, while Patrick read the others. “These allegations say a piece by Reginald Pheland in the British Museum is a forgery, yet they do not identify the work.”
Charlotte held up another paper. “These say that two Phelands in the academy’s permanent collection are forged as well, again without noting the works. I am supposed to have painted these alleged forgeries?” Charlotte was pleased how steady her voice sounded.
She forced eye contact with Sir Joffrey, the man related to an original founder of the academy, the famed Joshua Reynolds.
Reynolds’ face pinked. “I am afraid so, my lady.”
Here it was. After all these many years.
Patrick smiled, his soft chuckle oddly reassuring. “My lady wife a forger? How amusing.”
“We are not amused, sir,” Reynolds said.
“I would suppose you are not,” Patrick said.
She sipped her tea, eyeing both men. “Which works are in question, and how and when did I supposedly paint them?”
“And whom, I might ask,” Patrick said, “laid these allegations?”
“For the sake of a fair investigation,” Reynolds said, “we are not at liberty to release the gentleman’s name who claimed thus. Nor are we allowed to inform you regarding the works in question.”
Charlotte daren’t look at her husband, but was sure he knew, as well as she, who had laid the charges.
“I admit,” she said. “As well as inane, I find these allegations quite flattering.”
Charlotte was not stupid. When forging her father’s work, she had applied his palette of paints, rather than her mentor Turner’s more experimental colors, which she used in her own works. She mixed her father’s pigments with refined linseed or walnut oil and used his sable brushes, though she owned equally fine ones. The same held true for her canvases and gesso primer, both from her father’s stores, and she fastened each canvas to a wood frame constructed by him.
Reynolds cleared his throat. “I do not know when the committee of academicians and trustees will meet, m’lady. But experts on your father’s oeuvre are studying the paintings in question.”
“You are aware, Sir Joffrey, that this accusation is offensive.” Patrick’s relaxed pose belied a face fierce with that small, dangerous smile. Rather terrifying. “Are you not?”
More throat clearing. “I am merely the messenger.”
“Have you any instructions for us?” He gave Reynolds teeth.
“Not at present.”
“Having delivered your papers and message, we thank you,” she said. “Do tell all involved that we find these allegations both laughable and offensive. We will be contacting our solicitor regarding the matter.”
Mercy magically reappeared with Reynolds’ hat and cane. He bowed to both of them.
Charlotte nodded. “Mercy will show you out, sir.”
Once the door closed behind Reynolds, Patrick took both her hands in his. “Lottie, do not be concerned.”
“I can’t help but be so.”
“These accusations must terrify you. They do not me. For they shall be impossible to prove.”
Charlotte saw not Patrick, but the Royal Academy’s great hall, pictured it filled with observers, them all staring at her with accusatory eyes. “Difficult, yes. Not impossible.”
“Nearly so, then.”
She lifted her eyes to take him in, all concern and care. “Either way, it will cause a fuss, make the Royal Academy wary of us…of me.” Even as they spoke, her large piece for the academy’s Summer Exhibition was on its way to Hawthorne, where she would complete it for submission.
“I do not give a rat’s ass about the Royal Academy,” Patrick said. “I care little for how they act, and less for how they think. The same is true for those stuffed shirts at the British Museum. But I know you care, my darling.”
She slapped her lap intending to rise, but he kept hold of her hands. “Let us address the situation as matters unfold. I have a friend, a trustee on the museum’s board. I shall write him, see if I cannot discover which paintings are in question and who laid the charges.” He ran a hand down her cheek.
“Yes, I shall write Mr. Turner to see if he has any knowledge of these events.”
“We are in accord,” he said.
“Are we not always?” She tapped a finger to his lips, eyes mischievous. “Except when I am right and you are wrong.”
He bellowed a laugh as Lottie grinned.
That night, the wee hours upon them, a cry awakened Patrick from the woman in his arms, who tossed fitfully as she repeated the word “no” again and again. Wishing to soothe her, he began kissing her brow and cheeks in hopes of waking her with gentle caresses. Her eyes blinked wide, then she reached for him as if he were a buoy to keep her from drowning. They made sweet, silent love, and upon completion, his Lottie fell into a dreamless sleep nestled against his chest.
Unlike his lovely wife, his mind was now busy within a maze of frustration, with that lackwit St. Michaels, not to mention the situation with Saumarez. Dawn soon creased the sky, and he tugged the bell pull. He needed a bracing cup of tea.
Bees were less busy during the following week, with workmen, staff, and their band of four bustling around the estate setting things to rights. Banby aided their cooper and woodworkers at the outbuildings, while Charlotte oversaw the household improvements, and Patrick, with his trusty helpers, Henry and Spider, the latter moving from Woodbine to Hawthorne, headed up the stable contingent.
He had set men checking the pasture fences and gates, while he examined the tack alongside their new stable master. He would have brought on Arjuna, the man incredibly competent, but Lucy would never leave Rosamund, and Arjuna would never leave Lucy. On several recommendations, he had hired a local man, and so far, Patrick was impressed.
A month to six weeks would see the manor complete enough to move in, Charlotte presiding over the household improvements, while they’d hired groundsmen to bring the many gardens back to life. Patrick found the work kept her from dwelling on the forgery charges, though he feared it crouched, ever-present, in the back of her mind.
Overall, the week had been pleasant, with much accomplished on the day Rhys rode up to their dooryard.
Charlotte stood in the entryway, hand shading her eyes, the sun was bright on this clear November day. “Hello, brother!”
Rhys handed his reins to a stablehand, then embraced Charlotte with a hug and a kiss to the cheek. “Sister! How fare you?”
“Well! Much has been accomplished since you and Rose were here.”
“Excellent!”
“I am enchanted by the place and the sounds and scents of the nearby sea. To what do we owe the honor of a visit?”
“I received a letter and wished for Patrick to read it.”
“Ah. He is with the horses.” The letter must be important for Rhys to personally deliver it. Not another worry, she fervently hoped. “I shall bring you to him.”
“You need not. I can—”
“I am most happy to do so, as I shall get a kiss from my husband.”
“Ah, newlyweds.” Rhys chuckled, extending his arm.
Charlotte took it. “Not so new!” she said with mock anger.
He raised a brow, chuckling as they made for the carriage house and stables, abuzz with activity. Rhys leaned close. “I still love kissing my Rosie, and we are old married folks.”
“Ancient.”
Patrick spotted them and waved, wheeling to greet them. Charlotte bent for a kiss, and once the men’s back slaps were done with, Rhys bent to whisper in Patrick’s ear.
They exchanged dark looks, ones that presaged difficulties. Charlotte wished to stay, but bid them farewell rather than intrude on their private conversation. She would learn the contents from Patrick later, these new concerns added to her bundle of worries.
Patrick led Rhys to his study, free of dust and done up in hunter green leather wing chairs, with an imposing cherry desk constructed at a perfect height for Patrick’s chair. A sofa in the same leather sat before the hearth, the fire taking the chill from the crisp air. Charlotte had placed several of his ship models around the room, while one of her seascapes hung above the mantle. His midshipmen’s dirk, his captain’s sword, and the sword given him by the Prince of Wales after Trafalgar graced the far wall, though Lottie talked of moving them to the great hall.
Rhys peered at the painting, hands clasped behind his back, remaining silent for long minutes. “This is exceptional.”
“It is.”
“I knew Lottie was skilled, but this work is beyond my imaginings.”
“Far better than her father’s, in my estimation, though I would never say so to Lottie. She would take offense for her father’s sake. The letter?”
“Indeed.” Rhys flung himself onto the sofa.
Patrick rolled closer. “You appear frustrated.”
“I am.”
“Perhaps will be less terse if I ply you with drink? Do hand me the letter, brother.”
Rhys nodded, and Patrick moved to the sideboard, reaching for the glasses to pour them each a Scotch whisky. He handed Rhys his, who knocked it back and held out the glass for another.
“That bad,” Patrick said as he poured.
This time Rhys sipped, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a crumpled letter. “I have sent out feelers to the Admiralty, as you know. This arrived today.” Rhys waved the missive. “Farley sent it. You remember him?”
“Of course.”
“In essence, Admiral Saumarez is waging a feverish campaign to deny your return to duty.”
Patrick swiped the letter and read. “Of course he is, that prick.”
“As you can see, he alleges your infirmity makes you unfit for desk duty.”
“I cannot say I am surprised.” Patrick tossed the letter into the flames. “Nor can I imagine not being a part of the Royal Navy. Christ!”
“Does this concern the slaver incident?”
“I believe so. At the musicale, Saumarez tempted me to drop it by aiding in my return and elevating my rank. More interesting, Henry recognized Saumarez at the auction as having boarded the Despoina whilst the slaves were being loaded. The boy said the admiral talked with the captain and first mate for a long while.”
“As you know,” Rhys said. “I have set two powerful friends to investigate the Despoina.”
“A first-class idea,” Patrick said. “If we can prove Saumarez had ownership of the ship and slaves, his career would be destroyed. The drowned slaves have already cost him a pretty penny.”
“Slaves are no longer insurable as cargo, are they?” Rhys said.
“They are not. I confess I long for the day slavery is not merely prohibited from our shores, but made illegal in all British territories.” The practice was despicable.
“The ownership of human beings is an abomination.” Rhys began to pace and stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowed on Patrick. “A crusade for you to undertake. Perhaps seated in the House of Lords?”