Jack watched her as they crossed the courtyard. Ariana’s party continued to the Strand, where a line of carriages waited. In a moment Jack would have to head home. This would be his last glimpse of her.

She turned and caught sight of him. Her face lit up and took his breath away. His gaze locked with hers, and he thought he sensed the same regret in her eyes that was gnawing at his insides.

‘Goodbye,’ she mouthed, before being assisted into a shiny, elegant barouche.

Jack watched her until he could see the carriage no more. He tried to engrave her image upon his memory but could feel it fading with each moment. He needed to reach his studio. He needed paper and pencil. He needed to draw her before the image was lost to him as well.

Praise forDiane Gaston:

SCANDALISING THE TON

‘[Gaston’s] sensitive, compassionate and sensual romance shows how the power of love can overcome adversity.’

—RT Book Reviews

INNOCENCE AND IMPROPRIETY

‘Diane Gaston’s unconventional male and female heroes give INNOCENCE AND IMPROPRIETY, her latest elegantly written Regency historical, a refreshingly different twist.’

—Chicago Tribune

‘If you are weary of aristocratic heroes and heroines in Regency historical romances, then Diane Gaston’s INNOCENCE AND IMPROPRIETY is just the book for you. Well-written and entertaining…provocative…highly recommended!’

—Romance Readers Connection

A REPUTABLE RAKE

‘…a delightful and thought-provoking look into a side of London we don’t usually get to see.’

—Romance Junkies

THE WAGERING WIDOW

‘The protagonists are so deeply sculpted into living, breathing individuals that the reader will immediately be feeling their emotional turmoil…the entire tone of the book is steeped in sensuality…reading of the highest order!’

—Historical Romance Writer

THE MYSTERIOUS MISS M

‘Wow…it’s a real emotional roller-coaster ride…you simply cannot put [it] down—absolutely mesmerising!…an unusual gritty Regency, packing such an emotional punch.’

—Historical Romance Writer

‘This is a Regency with the gutsiness of a Dickens novel. It’s not always pretty, but it’s real and passionate. Gaston’s strong, memorable debut provides new insights into the era and characters that touch your heart and draw you emotionally into her powerful story.’

—RT Book Reviews

Gallant Officer,
Forbidden Lady
Diane Gaston

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

As a psychiatric social worker, Diane Gaston spent years helping others create real-life happy endings. Now Diane crafts fictional ones, writing the kind of historical romance she’s always loved to read. The youngest of three daughters of a US Army Colonel, Diane moved frequently during her childhood, even living for a year in Japan. It continues to amaze her that her own son and daughter grew up in one house in Northern Virginia. Diane still lives in that house, with her husband and three very ordinary housecats.

Visit Diane’s website at http://dianegaston.com

Previous novels by the same author:

THE MYSTERIOUS MISS M

THE WAGERING WIDOW

A REPUTABLE RAKE

INNOCENCE AND IMPROPRIETY

A TWELFTH NIGHT TALE

(in A Regency Christmas anthology)

THE VANISHING VISCOUNTESS

SCANDALISING THE TON

JUSTINE AND THE NOBLE VISCOUNT

(in Regency Summer Scandals)

…and in eBook Mills & Boon® Historical Undone!:

THE UNLACING OF MISS LEIGH

In memory of my father, Colonel Daniel J. Gaston, who showed me the honour of soldiers

Prologue

Badajoz Spain—1812

Jack Vernon dodged through the streets and alleys of Badajoz as if the very devil were at his heels. Several devils, in fact.

Drunken, marauding British soldiers poured out of doorways and set buildings afire, the flames illuminating their gargoyle-like faces. Bodies of their victims littered the pavement, French soldiers and ordinary citizens, men, women and children, their bright-hued Spanish clothing stained red with blood. Jack’s ears rang with the roar of the fires, screams of women, wails of babies, but no sound was as terrible as the laughter of madmen with a lust to rape, plunder and pillage.

Jack gripped his pistol in his hand while several red-coated marauders chased him, hoping for the few coins in his pockets. These were the same men at whose sides he’d scaled the walls of Badajoz earlier that day while French musket fire rained down on them. Now they would impale him with their bayonets for the sheer sport of it.

The men were consumed with bloodlust, a result of the desperately hard fighting they’d been through that left almost half their number dead. A rumour spread through the ranks that Wellington had issued permission for three hours of plunder. It had been like a spark to tinder. The rumour was untrue, but once they had begun there was no stopping them.

The real nightmare had begun.

After the French retreated to San Crisobal and the looting started, Jack’s major ordered Jack and a few others to accompany him on a patrol of the streets. ‘We shall stop the looting,’ his commanding officer had said.

The plunderers almost immediately turned on Jack’s patrol, who ran for their lives. Separated from the others, all Jack wanted now was a safe place to hide until the carnage was over.

He ran through the maze of streets, turning so often he no longer knew where he was or how to get out. Finally the pounding of feet behind him ceased, and he slowed, daring to look back and to catch his breath. He proceeded slowly, flattening himself against the ancient walls, and hoping the sound of his laboured breathing did not give him away. All he needed to find was an open door or a nook in an alley.

Shouts and screams still echoed and dark figures ran past him like phantoms in the night. The odour of burning wood, of spirits, blood and gunpowder, assaulted his nostrils.

Jack sidled along the wall until he turned into a small courtyard. From the light of a burning building he could see a British soldier holding down a struggling woman. A boy tried to pry the man’s hands off her, but another soldier plucked the boy off and tossed him on a nearby body. The man laughed as if he were merely playing a game of skittles.

A third soldier picked the boy up and raised a knife, as if to slash the boy’s throat. Jack charged into the courtyard, roaring like an ancient Celt. He fired his pistol. The soldier dropped the knife and the boy and ran, his companion with him. The man attacking the woman seemed to give Jack’s attack no heed.

Fumbling to undo his trousers, he laughed. ‘Come join the fun. Plenty for you, as well.’

Jack suddenly could see this man wore the red sash of an officer. The man turned and revealed his face.

Jack knew him.

He was Lieutenant Edwin Tranville, aide-de-camp to Brigadier-General Lionel Tranville, his father. Jack grew up knowing them both. Before Jack’s father had been dead a year, General Tranville had made Jack’s mother his mistress. Jack had only been eleven years old.

He stepped back into the shadows before Edwin could recognise him. He’d always known Edwin to be a bully and a coward, but he never suspected this level of depravity.

‘Leave the woman alone,’ Jack ordered.

‘Won’t do it.’ Edwin’s words were slurred. He was obviously very intoxicated. ‘Want her too much. Deserve her.’ A demonic expression came over his weak-chinned face and his pale blond hair fell into his eyes. He brushed it away with his hand and pointed a finger at the woman, ‘Don’t fight me or I’ll have to kill you.’

Jack stuck his pistol in his belt and drew his sword, but the woman managed to knock Edwin off balance and now stood between Jack and her attacker. She pushed at Edwin’s chest, driving him away while the boy vaulted on to his back. Edwin cried out in surprise and thrashed about, trying to pull the child off. He knocked the woman to the ground and finally managed to seize the boy by his throat.

Jack gripped the handle of his sword, but before he could take a step forwards, the woman sprang to her feet, the runaway soldier’s knife in her hand.

‘Non!’ she cried.

She slashed at Edwin like a wildcat defending her cub. Edwin backed away, but the drink seemed to have affected his judgement.

‘Stop it!’ he cried, the smile still on his face. ‘Or I’ll break his neck.’ He laughed as if he’d made a huge jest. ‘I can kill him with my hands.’

‘Non!’ the woman cried again and she lunged towards him.

Edwin stumbled and the boy squirmed out of his grasp. The woman sliced into Edwin’s cheek with the knife, cutting a long gash from ear to mouth.

Edwin wailed and dropped to his knees, pressing his hand against his bleeding face. ‘I’ll kill you for that!’

The woman shook her head and lifted her arms to sink the knife deep into Edwin’s exposed back.

She was suddenly grabbed from behind by another British officer.

‘Oh, no, you don’t, señora.’ He disarmed her with ease.

A second officer joined him. They were a captain and a lieutenant wearing the uniforms of the Royal Scots, a regiment Tranville had once commanded.

Edwin pointed to the woman. ‘She tried to kill me!’ He made an effort to stand, but swayed and collapsed in a heap on the cobblestones, passed out from drink and pain.

The captain held on to the woman. ‘You’ll have to come with us, señora.’

‘Captain—’ the lieutenant protested.

Jack sheathed his sword and showed himself. ‘Wait.’

Both men whirled around, and the lieutenant aimed his pistol at Jack’s chest.

Jack held up both hands. ‘I am Ensign Vernon of the East Essex. He was trying to kill the boy and rape the woman. I saw it. He and two others. The others ran.’

‘What boy?’ the captain asked.

A figure sprang from the shadows. The lieutenant turned the pistol on him.

Jack put his hand on the lieutenant’s arm. ‘Do not shoot. It is the boy.’

The captain held the woman’s arm while he walked over to Edwin, rolling him on to his back with his foot. He looked up at the lieutenant. ‘Good God, Landon, do you see who this is?’

‘General Tranville’s son,’ Jack answered.

‘You jest. What the devil is he doing here?’ the lieutenant asked.

Jack pointed to Edwin. ‘He tried to choke the boy and she defended him with the knife.’

Blood still oozed from Edwin’s cheek, but he remained unconscious.

‘He is drunk,’ Jack added.

The boy ran to the body of the French soldier. ‘Papa!’

‘Non, non, non, Claude,’ the woman cried, pulling away from the captain.

‘Deuce, they are French.’ The captain knelt down next to the body and placed his fingers on the man’s throat. ‘He’s dead.’

The woman said, ‘Mon mari.’ Her husband.

The captain rose and strode back to Edwin. He swung his leg as if to kick him, but stopped himself. Edwin rolled over again and curled into a ball, whimpering.

The boy tugged at his father’s coat. ‘Papa! Papa! Réveillez!’

‘Il est mort, Claude.’ The woman gently coaxed the boy away.

The captain looked at Jack. ‘Did Tranville kill him?’

Jack shook his head. ‘I did not see.’

‘Deuce. What will happen to her now?’ The captain gazed back at the woman.

Shouts sounded nearby, and the captain straightened. ‘We must get them out of here.’ He gestured to the lieutenant. ‘Landon, take Tranville back to camp. Ensign, I’ll need your help.’

Lieutenant Landon looked aghast. ‘You do not intend to turn her in?’

‘Of course not,’ said the captain sharply. ‘I’m going to find her a safe place to stay. Maybe a church. Or somewhere.’ He glared at both his lieutenant and at Jack. ‘We say nothing of this. Agreed?’

‘He ought to hang for this,’ the lieutenant protested.

‘He’s the general’s son,’ the captain shot back. ‘If we report his crime, the general will have our necks, not his son’s.’ He tilted his head towards the woman. ‘He may even come after her and the boy.’ The captain looked down at Edwin, now quiet. ‘This bastard is so drunk he may not even know what he did.’

‘Drink is no excuse.’ After several seconds, the lieutenant nodded his head. ‘Very well. We say nothing.’

The captain turned to Jack. ‘Do I have your word, Ensign?’

‘You do, sir.’ Jack did not much relish either father or son knowing he’d been here.

Glass shattered nearby and the roof of a burning building collapsed, sending sparks high into the air.

‘We must hurry,’ the captain said, although he paused to extend his hand to Jack. ‘I am Captain Deane. That is Lieutenant Landon.’

Jack shook his hand. ‘Sir.’

Captain Deane turned to the woman and her son. ‘Is there a church nearby?’ His hand flew to his forehead. ‘Deuce. What is the French word?’ He tapped his brow.

‘Église?’

‘Non, no église, capitaine,’ the woman replied. ‘My…my maison—my house. Come.’ ‘You speak English, madame?’

‘Oui, un peu—a little.’

The lieutenant threw Edwin over his shoulder.

‘Take care,’ the captain said to him.

The lieutenant gave a curt nod, glanced around and trudged off in the same direction they had come.

The captain turned to Jack. ‘I want you to come with me.’ He looked over at the Frenchman’s body. ‘We will have to leave him here.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Come.’ The woman, with a despairing last glance towards her husband, put her arm around her son’s shoulder and gestured for them to follow her.

They made their way through the alley to a doorway facing a narrow street not far from where they had been.

‘My house,’ she whispered.

The door was ajar. The captain signalled them to stay while he entered. A few moments later he returned. ‘No one is here.’

Jack stepped inside. The place had been ransacked. Furniture was shattered, dishes broken, papers scattered everywhere. The house consisted only of a front room, a kitchen and a bedroom. He kicked debris aside to make room for them to walk. Captain Deane pulled what remained of a bed’s mattress into the front room, clearing a space for it in the corner. The woman came from the kitchen with cups of water for them. The boy stayed at her side, looking numb.

Jack drank thirstily.

‘Can you keep watch?’ the captain asked after drinking his fill. ‘I’ll sleep for an hour or so, then relieve you.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Jack replied. He might as well stand watch. He certainly could not sleep. Indeed, he wondered if he would ever sleep again.

They barricaded the door with some of the broken furniture, and Jack salvaged a chair whose seat and legs were still intact. He placed it at the window and sat.

The captain gestured for the woman and her son to sleep on the mattress. He sat on the floor, his back leaning against the wall.

Outside the sounds of carnage continued, but no one approached. Jack stared out on to a street that looked deceptively innocent and peaceful.

Perhaps by morning the carnage would be over, and Jack would be able to return to his camp. Perhaps his major and the others in their patrol would still be alive. Perhaps someone, before this war was over, would put a sword through Edwin Tranville’s heart for his part in this horror.

Jack reloaded his pistol and kept it at the ready. In the stillness, images flooded into his mind, over and over, flashing like torture, forcing him to relive the horror of this day.

His fingers itched to make the images stop, to capture them, imprison them, store them away so they would leave him alone.

The sky lightened as dawn arrived, but Jack still heard the drunken shouts, the musket shots, the screams. They were real. Even though it was day, the plundering continued.

Captain Deane woke and walked over to Jack, standing for a moment to listen.

‘By God, they are still at it.’ The captain rubbed his face. ‘Get some sleep, Ensign. We’ll wait. Maybe things will quieten down soon.’

Jack gave the captain his seat. He glanced at the corner of the room where the woman and boy lay. The boy was curled up in a ball and looked very young and vulnerable. The woman was awake.

Jack surveyed the room and started picking up the sheets of paper scattered about the floor. He examined them. Some sides were blank.

‘Do you need these?’ he asked the woman, holding up a fist full of paper.

‘Non.’ She turned away.

Some of the sheets appeared to contain correspondence, perhaps from loved ones at home. Jack felt mildly guilty for taking them, but his notebook was stored safely in his kit back at his regiment’s encampment and he’d not realised how badly he would need paper.

He found a wide piece of board and carried it to a spot of light from another window. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he placed the board on his lap and fished in his pockets for his wooden graphite pencil. Jack placed one of the sheets of paper on the board, and heaved a heavy breath.

He started to draw.

The images trapped in his brain flowed from his fingers to the tip of his pencil on to the paper. He could not get them out fast enough. He filled one, two, three sheets and still he was not done. He needed to draw them all.

Only then, after he’d captured every image, would he be free of them. Only then could he dare to rest. Only then could he sleep.

Chapter One

London—June 1814

It was like walking in a dream.

All around him, history paintings, landscapes, allegories, portraits hung one next to the other like puzzle pieces until every space, floor to ceiling, was covered.

Jack wandered through the exhibition room of the Royal Academy of Art, gazing at the incredible variety, the skill, the beauty of the works. He could not believe he was here.

His regiment had been called back to England a year ago. Napoleon had abdicated, and the army had no immediate need for his services. Jack, like most of the young officers who’d lived through the war, had risen in rank. He’d been promoted to lieutenant, which gave him a bit more money when he went on half-pay. This gave him the opportunity to do what he yearned to do, needed to do. To draw. To paint. To create beauty and forget death and destruction.

Jack had gone directly to Bath, to the home of his mother and sister, the town where his mentor, Sir Cecil Harper, also lived. Sir Cecil had fostered Jack’s need to draw ever since he’d been a boy and he became Jack’s tutor again. Somehow the war had not robbed Jack of the ability to paint. At Sir Cecil’s insistence, he submitted his paintings to the Royal Academy for its summer exhibition. Miraculously the Royal Academy accepted two of them.

They now hung here on the walls of Somerset House, home of the Royal Academy, next to the likes of Lawrence and Fuseli and Turner, in a room crowded with spectators who had not yet left the city for the summer.

Crowds disquieted Jack. The rumble of voices sounded in his ears like distant cannonade and set off memories that threatened to propel him back into the nightmare of war.

A gentleman brushed against him, and Jack almost swung at him. Luckily the man took no notice. Jack unclenched his fist, but the rumble grew louder and the sensation of cannons, more vivid. His heart beat faster and it seemed as if the room grew darker. This had happened before, a harbinger of a vision. Soon he would be back in battle again, complete with sounds and smells and fears.

Jack closed his eyes and held very still, hoping no one could tell the battle that waged inside. When he opened his eyes again, he gazed up at his sister’s portrait, hung high and difficult to see, as befitted his status as a nobody. The painting grounded him. He was in London, at Somerset House, amid beauty. He smiled gratefully at her image.

‘Which painting pleases you so?’ a low and musical voice asked.

At Jack’s elbow stood a young woman, breathtakingly lovely, looking precisely as if she had emerged from one of the canvases. For a brief moment he wondered if she too was a trick his mind was playing on him. Her skin was like silk of the palest rose, beautifully contrasted by her rich auburn hair. Her lips, deep and dusky pink, shimmered as if she’d that moment moistened them with her tongue. Large, sparkling eyes, the green of lush meadows and fringed with long mink-brown lashes, met his gaze with a fleeting expression of sympathy.

‘Do say it is the one of the young lady.’ She pointed to his sister’s portrait.

Tearing his eyes away from her for a moment, he glanced back at the painting of his sister. ‘Do you like that one?’ he managed to respond.

‘I do, indeed.’ Her eyes narrowed in consideration. ‘She is so fresh and lovely. The rendering is most life-like, but that is not the whole of it, I think—’ she paused, moistening her lips, and more than Jack’s artistic sensibilities came alive with the gesture ‘—it is most lovingly painted.’

‘Lovingly painted?’ Jack glanced back again at the canvas, but just for a second, because he could not bear to wrest his eyes from her.

‘Yes.’ She spoke as if conversing with a man to whom she had not been introduced was the most natural thing in the world, as if she were the calm in this room where Jack had just battled old demons. ‘The young lady’s expression. Her posture. It all bespeaks to emotion, her eagerness to see what the future holds for her and the fondness the artist has for her. It makes her even more beautiful. The painting is quite remarkable indeed.’

Jack could not help but flush with pride.

He’d painted Nancy’s portrait primarily to lure commissions from prospective clients, but it had also given him the opportunity to become reacquainted with the sister who’d been a child when he’d kissed her goodbye before departing for the Peninsula. Nancy was eighteen now and had blossomed into a beauty as fresh and lovely as her portrait had been described. The painting’s exquisite admirer looked to be no more than one or two years older than Nancy. If Jack painted her, however, he’d show a woman who knew precisely what she desired in life.

She laughed. ‘I ought not to expect a gentleman to understand emotion.’ She gazed back at the painting. ‘Except the artist. He captures it perfectly.’

He smiled inwardly. If she only knew how often emotion was his enemy, skirmishing with him even in this room.

Again her green eyes sought his. ‘Did you know the artist has another painting here?’ She took his arm. ‘Come. I will show you. You will be surprised.’

She led him to another corner of the room where, among all the great artists, she had discovered his other work.

‘See?’ She pointed to the painting of a British soldier raising the flag at Badajoz. ‘The one above the landscape. Of the soldier. Look at the emotions of relief and victory and fatigue on the soldier’s face.’ She opened her catalogue and scanned the pages. ‘Victory at Badajoz, it is called, and the artist is Jack Vernon.’ Her gaze returned to the painting. ‘What is so fascinating to me is that Vernon also hints at the amount of suffering the man must have endured to reach this place. Is that not marvellous?

‘You like this one, too, then?’ Jack could not have felt more gratified had the President of the Academy, Benjamin West himself, made the comment.

‘I do.’ She nodded emphatically.

He’d painted Victory at Badajoz to show that fleeting moment when it felt as if the siege of Badajoz had been worth what it cost. She had seen precisely what he’d wanted to convey.

Jack turned to her. ‘Do you know so much of soldiering?’

She laughed again. ‘Nothing at all, I assure you. But this is exactly how I would imagine such a moment to feel.’ She took his arm again. ‘Let me show you another.’

She led him to a painting the catalogue listed as The Surrender of Pamplona. Wellington, who only this month had become Duke of Wellington, was shown in Roman garb and on horseback accepting the surrender of the Spanish city of Pamplona, depicted in the painting as a female figure. The painting was stunningly composed and evocative of classical Roman friezes. Its technique was flawless.

‘You like this one, as well?’ he asked her. ‘It is well done. Very well done.’

She gave it a dismissive gesture. ‘It is ridiculous, Wellington in Roman robes!’

He smiled in amusement. ‘It is allegorical.’

She sent him a withering look. ‘I know it is allegorical, but do you not think it ridiculous to depict such an event as if it occurred in ancient Rome?’ Her gaze swung back to the painting. ‘Look at it. I do not dispute that it is well done, but it pales in comparison to the other painting of victory, does it not? Where is the emotion in this one?’

He examined the painting again, as she had demanded, but could not resist continuing the debate. ‘Is it not unfair to compare the two when the aim of each is so different? One is an allegory and the other a history painting.’

She made a frustrated sound and shook her head in dismay. ‘You do not understand me. I am saying that this artist takes all the meaning, all the emotion, away by making this painting an allegory. A victory in war must be an emotional event, can you not agree? The painting of Badajoz shows that. I much prefer to see how it really was.’

How it really was? If only she knew to what extent he had idealised that moment in Badajoz. He’d not shown the stone of the fortress slick with blood, nor the mutilated bodies, nor the agony of the dying.

He glanced back at his painting. He’d not deliberately set about depicting the emotion of victory in the painting of it. He’d meant only to show he could do more than paint portraits. With the war over, he supposed there might be some interest in military art. If someone wished him to paint a scene from a battle, he would do it, even if he must hide how it really was.

Jack glanced back at his painting and again at the allegory. Some emotion, indeed, had crept into his painting, emotion absent from the other.

He turned his gaze upon the woman. ‘I do see your point.’

She grinned in triumph. ‘Excellent.’

‘I cede to your expertise on the subject of art.’ He bowed.

‘Expertise? Nonsense. I know even less of art than of soldiering.’ Her eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘But that does not prevent me from expressing my opinion, does it?’

Jack was suddenly eager to identify himself to her, to let her know he was the artist she so admired. ‘Allow me to make myself known to you—’

‘Ariana!’ At that moment an older woman, also quite beautiful, rushed up to her. ‘I have been searching the rooms for you. There is someone you must meet.’

The young woman gave Jack an apologetic look as her companion pulled on her arm. ‘We must hurry.’

Jack bowed and the young woman made a hurried curtsy before being pulled away.

Ariana. Jack repeated the name in his mind, a name as lovely and unusual as its bearer.

Ariana.

Ariana Blane glanced back at the tall gentleman with whom she had so boldly spoken. She left him with regret, certain she would prefer his company to whomever her mother was so determined she should meet.

She doubted she would ever forget him, so tall, well formed and muscular. He wore his clothes so very well one could forget his coat and trousers were not the most fashionable. His face was strong, chiselled, solid, the face of a man one could depend upon to do what needed to be done. His dark hair was slightly tousled and in need of a trim, and the shadow of a beard was already evident in mid-afternoon. It gave him a rakish air that was quite irresistible.

But it was that fleeting moment of emotion she’d seen in him that had made her so brazenly decide to speak to him. She doubted anyone else would have noticed, but something had shaken him and he’d fought to overcome it. All in an instant.

When she approached him his eyes held her captive. As light a brown as matured brandy, they were unlike any she had seen before. They gave the impression that he had seen more of the world than he found bearable.

And that he could see more of her than she might wish to show.

She sighed. Such an intriguing man.

He had almost introduced himself when her mother interrupted. Ariana wished she’d discovered who he was. She was not in the habit of showing an interest in a man, but he had piqued her curiosity. Now she might never see him again.

Unless she managed to appear on stage, as she was determined to do. Perhaps he would see her perform and seek her out in the Green Room afterwards.

Her mother brought her over to a dignified-looking gentleman of compact build and suppressed energy. Her brows rose. He did not appear to be one of the ageing men of wealth to whom her mother persisted in introducing her. You would think her mother wished her to place herself under a gentleman’s protection rather than seek a career on the London stage.

Of course, her mother had been successful doing both and very likely had the same future in mind for her daughter.

‘Allow me to make you known to my daughter, Mr Arnold.’ Her mother gave her a tight smile full of warning that this introduction was important. ‘My daughter, Miss Ariana Blane.’

She needn’t have worried. Ariana recognised the name. She bestowed on Mr Arnold her most glittery smile and made a graceful curtsy. ‘Sir.’

‘Why, she is lovely, Daphne.’ Mr Arnold beamed. ‘Very lovely indeed.’

Her mother pursed her lips, not quite as pleased with Mr Arnold’s enthusiastic assessment as Ariana was. ‘Mr Arnold manages the Drury Lane Theatre, dear.’

‘An explanation is unnecessary, Mama.’ Ariana took a step forwards. ‘Everyone in the theatre knows who Mr Arnold is. I am greatly honoured to meet you, sir.’ She extended her hand to him.

He clasped her fingers. ‘And I, you, Miss Blane.’

Ariana inclined her head towards him. ‘I believe you have breathed new life into the theatre with your remarkable Edmund Kean.’

Edmund Kean’s performance of Shylock in The Merchant of Venice had been a sensation, critically acclaimed far and wide.

The man smiled. ‘Did you see Kean’s performance?’

‘I did and was most impressed,’ Ariana responded.

‘You saw the performance?’ Her mother looked astonished. ‘I did not know you had been in London.’

Ariana turned to her. ‘A few of us came just to see Kean. There was no time to contact you. We returned almost immediately lest we miss our own performance.’

Arnold continued without heeding the interruption. ‘Your mother has informed me that you are an actress.’

Ariana smiled. ‘Of course I am! What else should the daughter of the famous Daphne Blane be but an actress? It is in my blood, sir. It is my passion.’

He nodded with approval. ‘You have been with a company?’

‘The Fisher Company.’

‘A very minor company,’ her mother said.

‘I am acquainted with Mr Fisher.’ Mr Arnold appeared impressed.

Four years ago, when Ariana had just turned eighteen, she’d accepted a position teaching poetry at the boarding school in Bury St Edmunds she’d attended since age nine. She’d thought she had no other means of making a life for herself. At the time her mother had a new gentleman under her roof, and would not have welcomed Ariana’s return. Fate intervened when the Fisher Company came to the town to perform Blood Will Have Blood at the Theatre Royal, and Ariana attended the performance.

The play could not have been more exciting, complete with storm, shipwreck, horses and battle. The next day Ariana packed up her belongings, left the school, and sought out Mr Fisher, begging for a chance to join the company. She knew he hired her only because she was the famous Daphne Blane’s daughter, but she did not care. Ariana had found the life she wanted to live.

‘What have you performed?’ Mr Arnold asked her.

‘My heavens, too many to count. I was with the company for four years.’

With the Fisher Company she’d performed in a series of hired barns and small theatres in places like Wells-next-the-Sea and Lowestoft, but she had won better parts as her experience grew.

She considered her answer. ‘Love’s Frailties, She Stoops to Conquer, The Rivals.’ She made certain to mention The Rivals, knowing its author, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, still owned the Drury Lane Theatre.

Her mother added, ‘Mere comedies of manners, and some of her roles were minor ones.’

‘Oh, but I played Lucy in The Rivals.’ Ariana glanced at her mother. Why had she insisted upon her meeting Mr Arnold only to thwart every attempt Ariana made to impress the man?

‘Tell me,’ Mr Arnold went on, paying heed to Ariana and ignoring the famous Daphne Blane, ‘have you played Shakespeare?’

‘The company did not perform much Shakespeare,’ Ariana admitted. ‘I did play Hippolyta in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Why do you ask, sir?’

Mr Arnold leaned towards her in a conspiratorial manner. ‘I am considering a production of Romeo and Juliet, to capitalise on the success of Kean. If I am able to find the financing for it, that is.’

Ariana’s mother placed her hand on Arnold’s arm. ‘Will Kean perform?’

He patted her hand. ‘He will be asked, I assure you, but even if he cannot, a play featuring Daphne Blane and her daughter should be equally as popular.’

Her mother beamed at the compliment. ‘That is an exciting prospect.’

Arnold nodded. ‘Come to the theatre tomorrow, both of you, and we will discuss it.’

‘We will be there,’ her mother assured him.

He bowed and excused himself.

Ariana watched him walk away, her heart racing in excitement. She might perform at the Drury Lane Theatre on the same stage as Edmund Kean, the same stage as her mother.

Hoping for another glance at Ariana, Jack wandered around the room now, only pretending to look at the paintings.

Could he approach her? What would he say? I am the artist whose work you admired. He did want her to know.

The war’s demons niggled at him again as he meandered through the crowd. He forced himself to listen to snippets of conversations about the paintings, but it was not enough. He needed to see her again.

On his third walk around the room, he found her. She and the woman who’d snatched her from his side now conversed with an intense-looking gentleman. Jack’s Ariana seemed quite animated in her responses to the man, quite pleased to be speaking to him. Even from this distance he could feel the power of her smile, see the sparkle in her eyes.

When the man took leave of them, the older woman walked Ariana over to two aristocratic-looking gentlemen. Ariana did not seem as pleased to be conversing with these gentlemen as she had with the intense-looking fellow, but it was clear to Jack he could devise no further encounter with her.

He backed away and returned to examining the paintings, this time assessing them for the presence or absence of emotion.

Someone clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Well, my boy. How does it feel to have your work hanging in Somerset House?’

It was his mentor, Sir Cecil.

‘It is a pleasure unlike any I have ever before experienced, my good friend, and I have you to thank for it.’ Jack shook the man’s hand. ‘I did not expect you in London. I am glad to see you.’

Sir Cecil strolled with him back to the spot in the room where Nancy’s portrait hung. ‘Had to come, my boy. Had to come.’ He gazed up at the portrait. ‘This is fine work. Its place here is well deserved. Unfortunate your sister cannot see her portrait hanging in such honour.’

‘She has seen it,’ Jack responded. ‘She is here. She and my mother. They are this moment repairing a tear in my mother’s gown. They should return soon.’

‘I am astonished.’ Sir Cecil blinked. ‘It is unlike your mother to come to London, is it not?’

His mother had not been in London since his father died, so many years ago. ‘She wished to be here for this, I think.’

That was only part of the reason. The truth was, his mother had come to London because Tranville, the man who’d made her his mistress, had also come to town.

When Jack’s father, the nephew of an earl, had been an officer in the Life Guards, the whole family lived in London. John and Mary Vernon were accepted everywhere, and Jack could remember them dressed in finery, ready for one ball or another. All that changed with his father’s death. Suddenly there were too many debts to pay and not enough money to pay them. Jack’s mother moved them to Bath where Tranville took notice of the pretty young widow and put her under his protection.

Jack’s mother always insisted Tranville had been the family’s salvation, but as Jack got older, he realised she could have appealed to his father’s uncle. The earl would not have allowed them to starve. Once his mother chose Tranville and abandoned all respectability, his great-uncle washed his hands of them.

Sir Cecil patted Jack on the arm. ‘It is good your mother and sister have come. How long do they stay?’

Jack shrugged. ‘It depends.’

Depends upon how long Tranville remained in London, Jack suspected. Jack’s mother was a foolish woman. Tranville had been no more faithful to her than he’d been to his own wife. He did return to her from time to time, between other conquests.

Matters were different now. Tranville had unexpectedly inherited a barony and become even more wealthy than before. Shortly thereafter, his wife died. Since suddenly becoming a rich, titled and eligible widower, he’d not called upon Jack’s mother at all. There was no reason to expect him to do so while she was in London.

Jack cleared his throat. ‘My mother and sister have taken rooms on Adam Street, a few doors from my studio.’

‘You have established a studio?’ Sir Cecil beamed with approval. ‘Excellent, my boy.’

Tranville’s money paid for his mother’s rooms. Practically every penny she possessed came from him. He had thus far kept his promise to support her for life. His money had kept her and her children in great comfort. It had paid for Jack’s education and his commission in the army. Jack swore he would pay that money back some day.

‘The studio is not much,’ Jack admitted to Sir Cecil. ‘Little more than a room to paint and a room to sleep, but the light is good.’

‘And the address is acceptable,’ added the older man, thoughtfully.

The address was not prestigious, but it was an area of town near both Covent Garden and the Adelphi Buildings, which attracted respectable residents.

‘I should like to see it,’ Sir Cecil said. ‘And to call upon your mother. I am in London for a few weeks. My son, you know, is studying architecture here at the Academy.’

‘I hope to see you both, then.’ Jack spied his mother and sister searching through the crowd. ‘One moment, sir. My mother and Nancy approach.’

Nancy caught sight of him and waved. She led their mother to where Jack stood. Sir Cecil greeted them warmly.

‘Jack.’ Nancy’s eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘I cannot tell you how many people have asked me if I am the young lady in your portrait. I told them all the direction of your studio.’

His mother lifted her eyebrows. ‘I would say some of those enquiries were from very impertinent gentlemen.’

Jack straightened and glanced around the room.

‘Do not get in a huff, Brother.’ Nancy laughed. ‘I came to no harm. It was mere idle curiosity on their part, I am certain.’

Jack was not so certain. He worried about Nancy in London. With her dark hair, fair complexion and bright blue eyes, she was indeed as fresh and lovely as the incomparable Ariana had said. Jack worried about Nancy’s future even more. What chance did she have to meet eligible gentlemen? What sort of man would marry the dowerless daughter of a kept woman?

He frowned.

His mother touched his arm. ‘I confess to being fatigued, my son. How much longer do you wish to stay?’

He glanced around the room. The crowd was suddenly thinning. The afternoon had grown late and many of those in attendance would be heading to their townhouses in May fair. Some of them, perhaps, would take their carriages for a turn in Hyde Park before returning home. It was the fashionable hour to ride through the park.

Jack, his mother, and sister would walk to Adam Street.

‘We may leave now, if you like.’ Jack glanced around the room again, hoping for one more glimpse of Ariana.

Luck was with him when he and Sir Cecil escorted his mother and sister to the door. Ariana appeared a few steps ahead, but there was no question of approaching her. She and her companion walked with two wealthy-looking and attentive gentlemen.

Jack pushed aside his flash of envy. Instead, he focused on the way she carried herself, the graceful nature of her walk. He watched how her pale pink gown swirled about her legs with each step, how the blue shawl draped around her shoulders moved with each sway of her hips.

Jack watched her as they reached the outside and crossed the courtyard. No more than five feet behind her, he might as well have been a mile. Her party continued to the Strand where a line of carriages waited. In a moment Jack would have to head towards home. This would be his last glimpse of her.

She turned and caught sight of him. Her face lit up and took his breath away. His gaze locked with hers, and he thought he sensed the same regret in her eyes that was gnawing at his insides.

One of the gentlemen accompanying her took her arm. ‘The carriage, my dear,’ he said in a proprietary tone, apparently unaware of Jack staring at her.

She turned back one more time and found him again. ‘Goodbye,’ she mouthed before being assisted into a shiny, elegant barouche.

Jack watched her until he could see the barouche no more. He tried to engrave her image upon his memory but could feel it fading with each moment. He needed to reach his studio. He needed paper and pencil. He needed to draw her before the image was lost to him as well.

Chapter Two

London—January 1815

This chilly January night, Jack escorted his mother and sister to the theatre. His latest commission, a wealthy banker, offered Jack the use of his box to see Edmund Kean in Romeo and Juliet.

Jack had acquired some good commissions because of the exhibition, until the oppressive heat of August drove most of the wealthy from London. The banker, Mr Slayton, was his final one. Jack’s mother and sister also returned to Bath, but they came back to London with the new year. Jack had placed an advertisement seeking some fresh commissions in the Morning Post, but, thus far, no one had answered it.

Jack tried to set his financial worries aside as he assisted his mother to her seat in the theatre box. Sir Cecil’s son, Michael, was also in their company attending Jack’s sister. Michael, as kind-faced as his father, but tall, dark-haired and slim, continued with his architectural studies and had again become a frequent addition to Jack’s mother’s dinner table now that she and Nancy were back in London.

As Nancy took her seat, it was clear she was already enjoying herself. ‘It is so beautiful from up here.’

They’d attended the theatre once the previous summer, but sat on the orchestra floor with the general admission. From the theatre box the rich reds and gleaming golds of the décor were displayed in all their splendour.

Nancy turned to Jack. ‘Thank you so much for bringing us.’

He was glad she was pleased. ‘You should thank Mr Slayton for giving me the tickets.’

‘Oh, I do.’ She turned to their mother. ‘Perhaps we should write him a note of gratitude.’

‘We shall do precisely that,’ her mother agreed.

‘Well, I am grateful, as well.’ Michael stood gazing out at the house. ‘This is a fine building.’

Nancy left her chair to stand beside him. ‘You will probably gaze all evening at the arches and ceiling and miss the play entirely.’

He grinned. ‘I confess they will distract me.’

She gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘But the play is Romeo and Juliet. How can you think of a building when you shall see quite possibly the most romantic play ever written?’

He laughed. ‘Miss Vernon, I could try to convince you that beautiful arches and elegant columns are romantic, but I suspect you will never agree with me.’

‘I am certain I will not.’ She nodded.

‘I remember coming here in my first Season.’ Jack’s mother spoke in a wistful tone. ‘Of course, that was the old theatre. There were not so many boxes in that auditorium.’

That Drury Lane Theatre burned down in 1809.

Nancy surveyed the crowd. ‘There are many grand people here.’

The play was quite well attended, even though most of the beau monde would not come to London for another month or so. Perhaps Jack’s commissions would increase then. Of course, with the peace, many people had chosen to travel to Paris or Vienna and would not be in London at all. Still, the theatre had an impressive crowd. Edmund Kean had been drawing audiences all year in a series of Shakespearean plays.

Nancy leaned even further over the parapet. ‘Mama, I see Lord Tranville.’

‘Do you?’ Jack’s mother’s voice rose an octave.

‘There.’ Nancy stepped aside so her mother could see. ‘The third balcony. Near the stage.’

‘I believe you are correct.’ Her voice was breathless.

Tranville stood with another gentleman in a box close to the stage, the two men in conversation while surveying the theatre. If Tranville spied his former mistress in the crowd, he made no show of it.

The curtain rose and Nancy and Michael sat in their chairs. Nancy’s gaze was riveted to the stage, but their mother’s drifted to the nearby box where Tranville sat.

Jack’s jaw flexed.

Edmund Kean walked on.

‘He is old!’ Nancy whispered.

Shakespeare had written Romeo as a young man who falls in love as only a young man could. Kean’s youth was definitely behind him. Still, Kean made an impressive figure in the costume of old Verona, moving about the stage in a dramatic manner. It would be a challenge to capture that movement in oils, Jack thought.

Artists such as Hogarth and Reynolds painted the famous actors and actresses, Kemble and Garrick, Sarah Siddons and Daphne Blane. The portraits were engraved and printed in magazines and on posters in order to entice people to the theatre. Jack straightened. Perhaps the theatre could provide him with a clientele. He might not get commissions for the principal actors, but maybe the lesser known ones, or maybe he could depict whole scenes as they occurred on the stage. If he could paint the action of battle, he could easily paint the action of a London stage.

The idea took firm root in Jack’s mind. His studio was quite near to Covent Garden, so it would be convenient for the actors. Or he could easily come to the theatre. He began to imagine the scene onstage as he might paint it. He was ready to assess every scene for its artistic potential.

Romeo spoke the lines about planning to attend the Capulets’ supper. He left the stage, and Lady Capulet and the nurse entered, looking for Juliet.

Jack’s fingers itched for a pencil, wishing to sketch Lady Capulet and the nurse with their heads together.

‘See,’ Nancy whispered to her mother. ‘Lady Capulet is Daphne Blane. Her natural daughter is playing Juliet.’

Jack had the notion he’d seen Daphne Blane before. Of course, she was a notorious beauty whose conquests were as legendary as her performances on stage so he might have seen her image somewhere. The birth of her natural daughter had been the scandal of its day with much speculation on who the father might be. Many artists had painted Daphne Blane’s portrait. Why not Jack?

Juliet made her entrance. ‘How now? Who calls?’

‘Your mother,’ the nurse replied.

Juliet faced the audience. ‘Madam, I am here…’

Jack nearly rose from his chair.

Ariana.

Juliet was Ariana. From this distance, her features were not clear, but she moved like Ariana, sounded like her. He’d found her. He’d despaired of ever doing so.

His eyes never left her while she was on stage. His fingers moved on the arm of the chair as if he were drawing the graceful arch of her neck, the sinuous curves of her body.

The intermission was almost torture, because he could not record her on paper and he had to act as if his world had not suddenly tumbled on its ear. As the curtain closed on the actors’ final bows, Jack remained in his seat, staring at the curtain.

Michael gave his hand to Jack’s mother to help her rise, and Jack noticed his mother glancing in the direction of Tranville’s box.

Nancy sprang to her feet, her hands pressed together. ‘Was it not splendid? I mean, it was so sad, but so lovely, did you not think?’

Jack smiled at her, still partially abstracted. ‘You enjoyed it, then?’

Her blue eyes shone with pleasure. ‘I adored it.’ Michael helped her on with her cloak. ‘Well, perhaps not Romeo. Mr Kean was not my idea of Romeo, I assure you.’

Michael grinned. ‘Was he not romantic enough?’

‘He was old.’ Nancy made a face.

Jack’s mother glanced over her shoulder once more as they all made their way to the door. Once they were out in the noisy, crowded hallway, Jack would lose his chance to talk to them.

He placed a hand on his mother’s arm. ‘I should like your permission to part from you here.’

His mother shook her head. ‘Forgive me, Jack. What did you say?’

‘I would bid you goodnight here.’ He turned to Michael. ‘Would you escort the ladies home?’

‘I would be honoured and delighted,’ Michael replied. ‘But this is a surprise. Why do you leave us?’

Jack’s primary reason was to go in search of Ariana, but he had no wish to tell them that. He’d give them a partial truth. ‘I had the notion that I might paint the actors performing their roles. I want to seek out the manager and give him my card.’

‘You would paint the actors?’ Nancy exclaimed. ‘Why, that would be splendid! The print shops are always full of prints of actors. How perfect since you are so close to the theatre.’

‘My thoughts precisely,’ he responded, knowing this was not true. It was far less complicated than explaining about Ariana, however. ‘I should be able to offer a reasonable price.’

Nancy nodded. ‘Very sensible, Jack.’

‘Proceed, my son,’ his mother said. ‘We will manage without you.’

His mother rarely complained, not even when Tranville failed to call upon her. It had been a year since he had bothered.

‘Then I bid you all goodnight.’ He leaned over and kissed his mother’s cheek.

Nancy smiled. ‘Thank you for bringing us, Jack.’

Michael made as if fighting with a sword. ‘Do not fret. I shall scare off any foes who dare to cross our path.’

Nancy giggled. ‘What nonsense. We shall take a hackney coach.’

Michael put his arm around her. ‘Yes, we shall, and I shall pay for it.’

Out in the hallway, they made for the theatre door and Jack for the stage. He did not know the location of the Green Room, where the actors and actresses gathered after the performance and where wealthy gentlemen went to arrange assignations with the loveliest of the women, but he suspected that would be where he would find Ariana.

Backstage he followed a group of wealthy-looking gentlemen, some carrying bouquets of flowers. Jack walked behind them, but suddenly stopped.

Tranville stood to the side of the door.

He still retained his military bearing, even though he was attired in the black coat, white breeches and stockings that made up the formal dress of a gentleman. His figure remained trim and only his shock of white hair gave a clue that he was a man who had passed his fiftieth year.

Tranville, unfortunately, also saw Jack.

‘Jack!’ He stepped in the younger man’s path. ‘What are you doing here? Why are you not in Bath?’

Jack bristled. He’d never been able to disguise his dislike of this man, although when a child he doubted Tranville had even noticed. A few adolescent altercations with Tranville’s son Edwin had made the animosity clear and mutual. Jack never initiated the fisticuffs, but he always won and that rankled Tranville greatly.

Jack straightened and looked down on the older man. ‘I have business with the theatre manager.’

‘You?’ Tranville eyed him with surprise. ‘What business could you have with Mr Arnold?’

Jack felt an inward triumph. He now knew the manager’s name. ‘Business to be discussed with Mr Arnold.’

Tranville’s jaw flexed. ‘If it is theatre business, you may tell me. I am a member of the committee.’

‘The committee.’ This meant nothing to Jack.

Tranville averted his gaze for a moment. ‘The subcommittee for developing the theatre as a centre for national culture.’

Jack remembered it. Control of the theatre had been wrested from the debt-ridden owner, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and given to a manager and a board of directors. A subcommittee of notables had been appointed, but Jack doubted they had access to the purse strings. Nevertheless, if Jack had encountered any other member of the subcommittee he would have spoken of how his art work could further the committee’s goals. This was Tranville blocking his way, however.

Jack maintained a steady gaze. ‘My business will not concern you.’

Jack would wager Tranville’s theatrical interests were in fostering liaisons with the actresses, not fostering national culture. Actresses and dancers encouraged the attentions of wealthy lords who wanted to indulge them with jewels and gowns and carriages.

He frowned. He had nothing to offer Ariana.

He told himself he merely wanted to renew their brief acquaintance. He wanted her to know he had been the artist whose work she so admired.

Two gentleman approached the door and Tranville was forced to step aside for them. Jack took the opportunity to follow them.

Tranville grabbed his arm. ‘You cannot go in there, Jack. You do not have entrée.’

Jack shot him a menacing look. ‘Entrée?

Tranville did not flinch. ‘Not everyone is welcome. Do not force me to have you removed from the building.’ He glanced towards two muscular stagehands standing nearby.

Had Tranville forgotten Jack had also been on the Peninsula? His was the regiment that captured the Imperial Eagle at Salamanca. Jack would like to see how many men it would take to eject him from the theatre.

More gentlemen approached, however, and Jack chose not to make a scene. It would not serve his purpose.

Tranville smiled, thinking his intimidation had succeeded. He dropped his hand. ‘Now, if you wish me to speak to Mr Arnold on your behalf, you will have to tell me what it is about.’

The other gentlemen were in earshot, the only reason Jack spoke. He made certain his voice carried. ‘A proposition for Mr Arnold. To paint his actors and actresses.’

‘Paint them?’ Tranville’s brow furrowed.

‘I am an artist, sir.’ Jack wanted the other gentlemen, now looking mildly interested, to hear him.

With luck one of them might mention to Mr Arnold that an artist wanted to see him. That might help gain him an interview with the manager when Jack called the next afternoon.

Convincing Mr Arnold to hire him to publicise his plays would serve both Jack’s ambitions: to earn new commissions and to see Ariana again.

Tranville made an impatient gesture. ‘Well, give me your card and I will speak to Arnold.’

Jack took a card from his pocket. ‘Tell him Jack Vernon has a business proposition for him. Tell him my work was included in last summer’s exhibition.’

The most curious of the onlookers appeared satisfied. They had heard Jack’s name, at any rate.

Jack nodded to the men. He was resigned. These men would see Ariana tonight. He would not.

And all because of Tranville’s interference. Jack’s hand curled into a fist.

Tranville snatched the card from Jack’s other hand and stuck it in his pocket without even looking at it. Jack turned to leave.

Tranville stopped him. ‘Tell me, Jack—how is your mother?’

The question surprised him. ‘In good health.’ He added, ‘She was at the performance. Did you not see her?’

Jack meant it as a jibe, to show his mother doing well without Tranville’s company, but instead the man cocked his head in interest. ‘Was she?’ He spoke more to himself than to Jack. ‘So Mary is in London.’

Another man walked past and opened the door to the Green Room. Tranville emerged from his brief reverie. ‘I must go.’

Jack was more than ready to be rid of him.

Still, he would have tolerated even Tranville’s presence if it meant seeing Ariana again. Instead Tranville had prevented him.

Another reason to despise the man.

The next day, Jack, wearing only an old shirt and trousers, both spattered with paint, put the finishing touches on Mr Slayton’s portrait. There was a rap on the door.

Before he could put down his palette and don a coat, the door opened and Tranville strode in.

‘Jack—’ Like many military men, Tranville apparently had not lost the military habit of rising early.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Jack stepped out from behind his easel. ‘You cannot just walk in here without a by your leave.’

Tranville, looking perfectly at ease, removed his hat and gloves and placed them on a table by the door. ‘You work in this place?’ He glanced around with disdain.

White sheets covered the furniture, wooden boxes and rolls of canvas littered the floor, but Jack had no intention of apologising to Tranville for the clutter. He tidied the place when he had sittings scheduled.

‘Tell me why you intrude or leave.’ Jack crossed his arms over his chest.

Tranville wandered over to the easel and examined Mr Slayton’s portrait. He shrugged and turned back to Jack. ‘You do seem to have some skill. More than one fellow told me so after I left you last night.’

He’d been discussed? Remembered from the exhibition, perhaps? Jack hid his pleasure. He hoped these admirers mentioned him to Mr Arnold as well. ‘You have not told me why you are here.’

Tranville’s lips curled. ‘I want to hire you for a commission.’

Jack did not miss a beat. ‘No.’

Tranville’s brows shot up. ‘You’ve heard nothing about it.’

‘I do not need to hear. I am not interested in painting you. The reasons should be obvious.’ He headed to the door.

Tranville, remaining where he stood, laughed. ‘If I were to commission a portrait of myself, I’d hire Lawrence or someone of his calibre. No, this portrait would be of someone else. A woman.’

Jack’s eyes narrowed. He ought to have guessed. ‘Most emphatically no.’

It sickened Jack that Tranville would ask him to paint a woman. Who else could it be but Tranville’s latest conquest? Not if he were down to his last shilling, would Jack do such a thing.

He opened the door, but Tranville ignored the demand to leave. ‘I checked with my man of business this morning—’

Rousing the poor man from his bed, no doubt.

‘He gave me your mother’s direction. A few doors up from here, eh?’ Tranville’s tone was pleasant, but Jack did not miss the hint of menace beneath it.

He gripped the door knob. ‘Speak plain, sir.’

Tranville smiled, and Jack recoiled in disgust. ‘Why, I thought I would call upon her. That is all.’

Jack’s nostrils flared.

Tranville’s smile fled. ‘Surely you have no objection.’

Jack had a barrelful of objections, but none he could voice. As much as he despised the idea, his mother would desire the visit. ‘It is my mother’s decision.’

Tranville sauntered towards the door, retrieving his hat and gloves. As he passed Jack, he paused and leaned close. ‘I always get my way, Jack.’

The rumble of imaginary cannon fire sounded in Jack’s ear. A battle loomed, Jack would wager, this time in his London rooms and not on the battlefield.

It took Jack an hour before he could again focus on Mr Slayton’s portrait, attending to its finishing touches. Better to concentrate on the tiniest brush stroke than to dwell upon Tranville visiting his mother.

He peered at the painting before him. He’d posed Mr Slayton at a desk with a pen in his hand. It would have been faster to merely paint the banker’s head on a dark background, but Jack preferred some context to his painting, some sense of movement. Whether it had emotion, he could not tell. The emotion Ariana had seen in his two paintings at Somerset House had been unconsciously done.

He picked up a small brush and stared at the painting, but saw Ariana instead. Thoughts of her were the best antidote to the encounter with Tranville. He might see her today. He planned to visit the theatre this afternoon.

Another knock sounded at the door. Jack braced himself for a further intrusion by Tranville, but the person knocking apparently did not feel entitled to burst in as Tranville had done. The knock came again. Jack put down his palette, wiped his brush and crossed the room to open the door.

‘Jack!’ Nancy entered. ‘Mama wishes to see you.’

‘What has happened?’ What has Tranville done? he meant.

She pinched his arm. ‘Nothing terrible.’ She smiled. ‘Lord Tranville called upon her.’

He frowned. ‘Did he upset her?’

Nancy looked puzzled. ‘Of course not. She was in raptures. You know how Mama feels about him.’

Yes, but he could not fathom it. ‘Then why does she wish to see me?’

‘I am not certain.’ Nancy removed her cloak and hung it on one of the pegs by the door. ‘I did not remain with them above a few minutes. Lord Tranville said very pretty things to me. And to Mama. It was quite a pleasure to see him.’

‘Is he still there?’ If so, Jack preferred to avoid him.

She shook her head. ‘He left, and then Mama asked me to fetch you.’

Jack walked over to his easel to clean his brushes. He covered his palette with a cloth so that the paint would not dry and wiped his hands. ‘Give me a moment to change my clothes.’

A few minutes later he and Nancy walked the short distance to his mother’s set of rooms on Adam Street. Jack liked having his family near after the long separation of war, and Tranville’s money could well pay for rooms in both London and Bath, but his mother would have been far wiser to save that money for Nancy’s future.

Nancy paused mid-step. ‘Do you think Lord Tranville has asked Mama to marry him? Perhaps that is why she wants to see you?’

He gave a dry laugh. ‘That is a ridiculous notion, Nancy.’

She pursed her lips. ‘Why is it ridiculous? He is an eligible man now.’

He shook his head. ‘He has not seen fit to call upon her for over a year. That is hardly prelude to a proposal.’

Nancy gaped at him as if he’d lost his wits. ‘Surely Lord Tranville was concerned as to how it would appear to see Mama so soon after his wife died. He was being protective of her reputation.’

Jack resumed walking. ‘He was never so protective of her reputation before his wife died.’

She hurried to catch up. ‘You do not understand it at all. Now that he is an eligible man of rank, it becomes more important to protect her from talk.’

Jack bit his tongue. He’d always tried to shield Nancy from the sordid reality of Tranville’s relationship with their mother. He wasn’t about to change now.

‘I do not understand why you dislike Tranville so.’ Nancy looked wounded.

Jack never intended for Nancy to think well of Tranville, merely to prevent her from thinking ill of their mother. ‘I suppose I dislike him because he is not our father.’ And because he so quickly replaced their father in their mother’s bed.

She squeezed his arm. ‘I cannot remember our father like you do. I only remember that Tranville helped our mother when we were so poor.’

They had never been so poor that their mother would not have had a chance for a respectable second marriage. Tranville ruined that for her.

They arrived at his mother’s door, but Nancy held him back. ‘Can you not perceive the situation between Mama and Lord Tranville as romantic?’

‘Romantic?’ He could not lie. ‘No, I cannot.’

‘Well, I can.’ Her tone was definite. ‘They have loved each other for so many years, but because Lord Tranville was married, they could not be together. Even so, he loved her with such a passion he could never stay away completely.’

He gave her a disapproving look. ‘A passion?’

She lifted her chin. ‘I am not a child any more. I know what happens between a man and a woman.’

Jack put his hand on the doorknob. ‘What happens between a man and a woman is not necessarily romantic, my dear sister.’

Nancy stood her ground. ‘He must love her. He pays for everything for her. Our food. Our house. Everything.’

‘He has done so.’ It was the only thing to Tranville’s credit and it had always puzzled Jack. A man of Tranville’s character would cut funds the minute he tired of a woman.

‘Why would he spend that money on her if he did not love her?’ Nancy asked.

‘I confess, I do not know,’ Jack responded honestly, turning the knob and ending the discussion.

When they entered the rented rooms, their mother’s manservant, Wilson, appeared in the hall to take Nancy’s cloak and Jack’s hat and gloves. ‘Your mother awaits you in the parlour.’

Jack opened the parlour door for Nancy and followed her in.

His mother stood by the fireplace and turned at their entrance. ‘Jack, I am pleased you could come right away.’

He crossed the room and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Mother.’

Slanting him a somewhat determined look, she gestured for them to sit. Jack waited for her to lower herself in a chair.

Her hands nervously smoothed the fabric of her skirt. ‘I am certain Nancy has told you Lionel—Lord Tranville—called upon me.’ Her eyes flickered with a momentary pleasure.

‘He informed me of his intention to call.’ Jack tried to keep his voice even.

‘We had a lovely time,’ his mother went on.

‘Indeed.’ Jack fought sarcasm.

His mother took a breath. ‘Well, I suppose I should just say that Lionel told me he offered you a commission.’

‘He did.’

‘He did?’ Nancy sat forward in surprise. ‘You never said. How exciting.’

Jack turned to her. ‘I did not accept it, Nancy.’

His mother broke in. ‘The thing is, Jack, I want you to accept it.’

‘I will not.’ She must be mad.

‘Ja-ack.’ Nancy drew out his name, sounding disappointed.

Jack stared at his mother. ‘A woman, Mother.’

She shot a glance to Nancy and back to Jack with an almost imperceptible shake of her head. Very well. He would not delve into why he presumed Tranville wished him to paint a woman, even though his mother was not deluded about it.

His mother answered calmly, ‘He is financing a production of Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra and wishes the portrait to be used in advertisements. It is precisely what you said you wanted last night.’

‘I did not say I would work for Tranville.’

‘But, Jack—’ Nancy inserted.

‘Do not be foolish, my son,’ his mother went on. ‘He offers you a good price—better, I dare say, than you have earned on your other paintings.’ She named the price Tranville had offered. It was a staggering amount.

Jack gritted his teeth. ‘I do not want his charity.’

Lines formed between her brows. ‘This animosity does you no credit.’

He shrugged.

He’d tried to explain before, telling her of Tranville’s harsh treatment of his men during the war while toadying to his superiors, of how Tranville turned a blind eye to his son avoiding combat, but sent better men to their deaths.

‘You know what sort of man he is.’

‘Say no more.’ She lifted both hands to halt further discussion. ‘I accepted the commission for you.’

He stood. ‘You did not!’

She regarded him with a steely glance. ‘You will paint this portrait for me, Jack, because I wish it. I ask little of you, but I ask this.’

He remained standing, looking down at her. She’d aged since he’d left for war. Her brown hair was streaked with grey and tiny lines had formed at the corners of her eyes and her mouth. Still, he thought her as beautiful as when he’d been a boy and she’d been young and carefree. He wished he could paint that memory.

She continued, ‘And I insist you do not cross him. Treat Lord Tranville with civility for my sake, because it is important to me.’ Her eyes pleaded. ‘It is important to me that you have this work, the money it will pay, and it is important to me that Lionel succeed in gaining his desires. He wishes to make this play a success and, therefore, I wish it for him.’

Tranville wished to make a conquest of this actress, if he was not bedding her already. Who was it? An actress as sought after by men as Daphne Blane? Jack would not put it past Tranville to try to buy his way into her bed by financing a play. He’d bought his way into his mother’s bed, after all, and now his mother wanted her son to paint this woman? It was absurd.

Jack narrowed his eyes. ‘Did he threaten you? Threaten to withhold your funds or some such thing?’

She looked surprised. ‘Threaten? Of course he did not. Lionel has always paid my quarterly allowance. I ask merely out of my gratitude for all he has done for us.’

Jack averted his gaze and stared into the carpet whose pile had worn thin in places.

‘Say you will do this for me, my son,’ his mother murmured.

He wanted to refuse, but his mother so rarely asked for anything, certainly nothing from him. Jack slowly nodded. ‘For you, Mother, I will do as you ask.’ He raised his chin. ‘But only for you.’

Only for his mother would he would paint her lover’s new conquest.

Chapter Three

Ariana descended the stairs at the boarding house on Henrietta Street where she and other actresses and actors lived. The rooms were comfortably furnished and the company, excellent. The landlady of the establishment was an accommodating woman, a stickler for propriety, if one desired, or equally willing to ignore propriety completely.

Today Ariana chose propriety. Betsy, the maid, had announced that Lord Tranville had called. Had he not been funding Drury Lane’s production of Antony and Cleopatra, selecting her to play Cleopatra, she would have refused to see him. She kept him waiting in the drawing room a full ten minutes to discourage any notion he might have about how far her gratitude might reach.

She had no doubt her mother had told him where she resided. Her mother believed in patronage above all things.

Ariana wrinkled her nose.

What was her mother thinking? The gentleman was old enough to be her father, at least fifty years old, ten years older than her mother, even.

She swept into the drawing room. ‘Lord Tranville. What a surprise.’ She extended her hand, thinking he would shake it.

Instead he grasped it and brought it to his lips, actually placing a wet kiss upon it. ‘My dear Miss Blane.’

She grimaced and pulled her hand away as soon as she could. Gone was any hope his interest was confined to her acting ability. She sighed. It would require skill to remain in his good graces while discouraging his advances. She’d managed it with other gentlemen; she could do it with him.

She made no effort to look at him directly. ‘I am astonished you are here. Have you come on theatre business?’

He smiled wide enough to show all his white teeth. At least he had teeth, one point in his favour. ‘I hoped my desire to gaze upon your loveliness would be reason enough to call upon you.’

With effort she kept her expression bland, staring blankly at him, as if waiting for him to stop spouting nonsense.

He fiddled with his watch fob. ‘My—my visit does involve the theatre. In a manner of speaking.’

‘Oh?’ Only then did she gesture for him to sit. He chose one of the sofas. She lowered herself on to a chair, making a show of brushing off an invisible piece of lint from her sleeve.

Finally she looked at him again. ‘Do tell me why you have called.’

He leaned towards her. ‘I have a notion to advertise your role in Antony and Cleopatra.’

She lifted a brow.

He went on. ‘If you are agreeable, an artist will paint you as Cleopatra. We shall have engravings made that can be printed for advertising. In magazines. On handbills. It will increase your success, I am certain.’

She looked at him with a wary eye. ‘Who will pay for all this?’ Surely not the theatre.

Mr Sheridan had run Drury Lane Theatre into terrible debt. Kean’s performances, so very popular, helped to ease the burden, but that did not mean the theatre would expend money on behalf of a new actress whose popularity had not yet been established. Her performance had been barely mentioned when the critics gave Romeo and Juliet a very unfavourable review, greatly criticising Kean’s performance.

‘I will pay for everything,’ Tranville said. ‘And, if it pleases you, I will make the portrait my gift to you.’

She wanted no gifts from him, but she did need this play to be a success.

He tilted his head in a manner he probably thought charming. ‘If it is convenient, the artist can see you this afternoon to discuss the painting. I will be honoured to escort you.’

She had no plans for the afternoon. ‘Where is this artist?’

‘On the corner of Adam Street and Adelphi.’

‘Near the Adelphi Terraces?’ It was only a few streets away.

‘Yes.’

A good enough address and nearby. ‘Who is the artist?’

He leaned even closer to her. ‘His name is Jack Vernon.

Ariana gaped at him, ‘Jack Vernon!’

Tranville looked apologetic. ‘I realise he is not as fashionable as Lawrence or Westall, but he did have some paintings in the Royal Exhibition, I’ve heard tell.’

How well she remembered. She’d used her admiration of Vernon’s paintings to brazenly approach the tall, handsome, solitary young gentleman whose inner struggle of some sort had fascinated her. Sadly, she had never learned who he was.

She resisted another sigh. What good was it to dwell on what was gone? Here was an opportunity to meet the artist and be painted by him.

‘I will do it, my lord,’ she told Tranville. ‘But there is no need for you to escort me such a short distance. Merely give me the exact direction and tell me the time I am expected.’

His lower lip jutted out. ‘I would be delighted to escort you.’

Her hand fluttered. ‘Do not trouble yourself.’

‘But—’

She gave him a level look. ‘I prefer going alone. It is daylight. The streets are full of people. No harm will come to me.’

‘I insist.’ He persisted.

Her brows rose. ‘Is your escort a condition of this agreement? I will not do it if there are conditions to which I must comply.’ Ariana knew better than to make herself beholden to any man.

‘No, no conditions—’ he blustered.

‘Good.’ She rearranged her skirt. ‘Tell me when I am expected.’

An hour later Ariana stood at Mr Vernon’s door, her heart thumping with anticipation. She looked down at herself, brushing off her cloak, pulling up her gloves, straightening her hat. She took a quick breath and knocked.

Almost immediately the door opened.

Framed in the doorway was the handsome gentleman she’d met in Somerset House, the one she’d thought she would never see again.

‘You!’ She gasped. T—I have an appointment with Mr Vernon.’

He looked equally surprised. It took him several seconds before he stepped aside.

As she brushed by him she felt a flurry of excitement. She’d found him, the man who’d so intrigued her at the Summer Exhibition. He was taller than she remembered, and his sheer physical presence seemed more powerful than it had been in the crowded exhibition hall. In the light pouring through the windows, his brown eyes were even more enthralling and every bit as beset with private demons.

‘Is Mr Vernon here?’ she asked.

He slowly closed the door behind her. ‘I am Vernon.’

‘You are Vernon?’ The breath left her lungs.

His frown deepened. ‘I—I did not know you would be coming.’

He did not seem happy to see her. In fact, his displeasure wounded her. ‘Forgive me. Tranville said I was expected at this hour.’

He stiffened. ‘Tranville.’

She began to unfasten her cloak, but stopped. Perhaps she would not be staying. ‘Did you desire him to accompany me?’

His eyes were singed with anger. ‘Not at all.’

He confused her with his vague answers. She straightened her spine and put her hands on her hips. ‘Mr Vernon, if you do not wish me to be here, I will leave, but I beg you will simply tell me what you want.’

He ran a hand through his thick brown hair and his lovely lips formed a rueful smile. ‘Tranville told me to expect an actress. I did not know it would be you.’

His smile encouraged her. ‘Then we are both of us surprised.’

His shoulders seemed to relax a little.

He stepped forwards to take her cloak, and as he came so close she inhaled the scent of him, bergamot soap and linseed oil, turpentine and pure male.

He seemed unaware of her reaction and completely immune to her, which somehow made her want to weep. Only once before had she wanted to weep over a man. He took her cloak and hung it upon a peg by the door, moving with the same masculine elegance that had drawn her to him when she first caught sight of him. He had been the first man to ignite her senses in years, a fact that surprised and intoxicated her even now.

He faced her again, and she hid her interest in a quick glance around the studio, all bright and neat, except for where an easel stood by the windows, a paint-smeared shirt hanging from it. She removed her hat and gloves and placed them on a nearby chair.

He did not move.

So she must. She walked to him. ‘Let us start over.’ She extended her hand. ‘I am Ariana Blane.’

He shook it, his grasp firm, but still holding something back.

Her brows knit. ‘Why did you not tell me, that day, that you were the artist? That you were Jack Vernon?’

He averted his gaze. ‘I intended to, but the moment passed.’

‘Come, now.’ She tried smiling and shaking her finger at him. ‘You allowed me to rattle on for quite a long time without telling me.’

He turned his intense brown eyes upon her. ‘I wanted your true opinion of my paintings. You would not have given it, had you known I had painted them.’

She laughed. ‘Oh, yes, I would. I am never hesitant to say what I think.’

Indeed, she had half a mind to ask him why he scowled when looking at her. He made her senses sing with pleasure. She longed to feel the touch of his hand against her skin, but he seemed completely ill at ease with her.

There had been no unease between them in that first, fleeting, hopeful encounter.

She cleared her throat but disguised her thoughts. ‘What happens now, Mr Vernon? This is my first time having my portrait painted.’

He walked over to a pretty brocade upholstered chair and held its back. ‘Please be seated, Miss Blane. I will bring tea.’

She sat down, very aware of his hands so near to the sensitive skin of her neck. When he released her chair, she swivelled around to see him disappear behind a curtained doorway to a small galley in the back. A moment later he returned, tray in hand.

He placed the tray on a small table in front of her chair.

She touched his arm and his gaze flew to her face. ‘Allow me to pour,’ she murmured, as affected by the touch as he appeared to be. ‘How do you like your tea? Milk and sugar?’

He lowered himself in the chair on the other side of the table. ‘I grew accustomed to going without both on the Peninsula.’

‘You were in the war?’ she asked as she poured his tea and handed him the cup.

His gaze held. ‘In the infantry.’

Her voice turned low. ‘Now I comprehend why your history painting had such authenticity.’

He looked away.

Ariana poured her own tea, adding both milk and sugar. She gazed at him when she lifted the cup to her lips. A barrier had risen between them, one that had not existed when they had met at the exhibition. That conversation had been exhilarating; this one dampened her spirits.

She placed her teacup on the table. ‘So, how do we proceed with this portrait?’

A crease formed between his brows. ‘I need to know what you would like it to be.’

She waved a hand. ‘I have no notion. I first heard of this idea an hour ago.’

He glanced away and his brooding expression intensified. ‘I first heard this morning.’

‘Lord Tranville has been busy,’ she murmured, taking a sip of tea.

He made a sound of disgust, pausing before looking back at her with shrouded eyes. ‘I did not expect you to come alone. If you desire it, I shall ask my sister to be present. She is but a few doors away.’

What maggot had taken up lodging in his brain? ‘Why did you think that?’ Actresses did not require chaperons.

He continued to stare at her. ‘Tranville is not with you. Perhaps you would like another woman to be present.’

‘Tranville?’ Why did he persist in bringing up Tranville? He wasn’t her father. Who else would care if she were chaperoned?

Suddenly her brows rose. He thought Tranville was her lover.

Jack Vernon would be surprised to know she’d had only one lover, a long time ago. Yes, she’d been deceived once, even though she ought to have learned of men’s fickle natures at her mother’s knee. Never again. In fact, she’d not even been tempted—until meeting the mysterious stranger at the Summer Exhibition.

In spite of his present behaviour, he still tempted her with his sorrowful eyes holding wounds of the past.

She gave herself a mental shake and made an effort to retrieve their conversation. ‘I require no chaperon, Mr Vernon. No one expects propriety from actresses. There is some freedom in that.’

He merely sipped his tea.

She took a breath and tried again. ‘Shall we discuss the portrait?’

‘You and I must decide how you are to appear as Cleopatra.’ He spoke as if all emotion had been leached out of him.

Except from his eyes.

‘I am not at all certain how to do that,’ she murmured.

He shrugged. ‘We try different poses. I sketch you, and we select the best image.’

This struck her as insufficient, like trying to prepare for a play by guessing one’s lines.

‘Have you read the play?’ She rubbed one finger on the arm of the chair. ‘It might provide you with some ideas.’

‘Not since school days.’

He glanced at her hand, and she curled her fingers into her palm. ‘I have my copy in my rooms. Let us get it so you can read it.’

He blinked. ‘There is no need. Bring it tomorrow.’

‘Then we will be delayed another day. My residence is nearby. It will take no time at all.’

He stared at her and the moment stretched on. ‘Very well,’ he finally said.

He went into another room to get his top coat, and a minute later they were outside in the cool, breezy air.

She took his arm and glanced at the street ahead. ‘Which of the “few doors away” is your sister?’

‘Not far.’ As they passed, he pointed to it. ‘This one.’

‘And is there a wife behind those doors, as well?’ Please say no, she thought.

He shook his head. ‘I am in no position to marry. My sister lives with my mother in those rooms.’

Her heart skipped a beat.

‘You have seen my sister,’ he said to her as they walked on.

She glanced at him in surprise. ‘I have?’

‘Hers was the painting you admired at the exhibition.’

She stopped. ‘Of course it was. Now I understand.’

‘Understand what?’

She met his eyes. ‘Why it was such a loving portrait.’

His colour heightened and she sensed him withdrawing from her again.

And they’d almost returned to the comfort between them at the exhibition.

Ariana asked more questions about his sister, hoping she’d not lost him again. She asked his sister’s age, her interests, how she’d been educated, anything she could think of that seemed safe. The short walk, a mere few hundred yards to her residence on Henrietta Street, was by far the most pleasant she’d had in an age.

When they entered the house, he turned towards the open drawing-room door.

She pulled him back. ‘Come up to my room.’

His brows rose. ‘To your room?’

She waved a hand. ‘No one will mind, I promise.’

She chattered to him about how she came to live at this place, about the other boarders who lived there as well, anything to put him at ease, to put her at ease, as well.

When they entered the room, Ariana pointedly ignored the bed, the most prominent piece of furniture and the one that turned her thoughts to what it might be like to share it with him. It unsettled her that he could so quickly arouse such dormant urges in her. If she’d learned anything from her former lover, it had been that her senses were not always the best judge of a man’s character.

She took off her cloak and flung it over a chair. He removed his hat and gloves, but not his top coat.

He glanced about the room. ‘Where is your copy of the play?’

‘On the table.’ She pulled off her gloves and gestured to a small table by the window.

He picked up the small, leather-bound volume. ‘I will have it read by tomorrow.’

He opened the book and flicked idly through the pages. Quickly snapping it closed, he slipped the book into a pocket of his top coat.

Which passage had caused that reaction? she wondered. Antony’s line, perhaps?

There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch; Without some pleasure now.

He seemed to gain no pleasure from her company. ‘I should return to my studio.’

She had not moved from the doorway. ‘When should I come and sit for you tomorrow?’

‘At the same time, if it is convenient.’ His manner was stiff.

‘Tomorrow, then.’ She nodded.

He strode towards her. As he passed, she caught his hand. ‘I would greatly desire our time together to be pleasant. We started as friends. May we not continue that way?’

Again that mysterious distress flashed through his eyes. What bothered him so?

He stared into her eyes. ‘’Til tomorrow, Miss Blane.’

She released his hand and he hurried out of the door. From the hallway she watched him descend the stairs and walk through the front door, not even pausing to put on his hat and gloves.

When Jack reached Adam Street he was still reeling with the unexpected pleasure of being in Ariana’s company again, as well as the crushing knowledge that she was Tranville’s actress.

Jack walked with his head down against the chilly wind from the river. It was even more appalling that Tranville had chosen an actress young enough to be his daughter.

Instead of going back to the studio, Jack called upon his mother. He found her alone in her sitting room doing needlework by the light of the window.

She looked up as he entered. ‘Jack, you are back again.’

He glanced around the room. ‘Where is Nancy?’

‘She and our maid went to the market.’ His mother’s smile was tight. ‘I fear Nancy finds these four walls tedious. She takes every opportunity to venture out of them.’

He did not respond, but stared blankly at the carpet.

‘Sit, Jack.’ She indicated a chair. ‘Tell me why you are here.’

He wandered over to the mantel, absently moving one of the matched pair of figurines flanking a porcelain clock.

Finally he looked at her. ‘Did Tranville tell you that his actress is almost as young as Nancy?’

She stabbed her needle through the cloth. ‘That is no concern of mine, and ought to be no concern of yours, Jack.’

‘No concern!’ He swung away, then turned back to face her. ‘Does it not trouble you? How can it not? How are you able to insist I paint this portrait?’

Her eyes creased in pain. ‘It is what he wishes.’

He felt his face flush with anger. ‘You do not have to do what he wishes, Mother. He treats you abominably.’

Her expression was stern. ‘That is your opinion. In my opinion he has enabled me to live in comfort, to rear my children in comfort, to give them an education, a future.’

He gave a dry laugh. ‘I could debate what sort of future he’s provided Nancy with, but, that aside, have you not more than paid him for what he has done for you?’

She merely pulled her needle through the cloth.

Jack paced before walking to her chair and crouching down so that he was at eye level with her. ‘Mother, I will make a living as an artist. I will earn more commissions. If we economise I will have enough to care for you and Nancy. You do not need to accept another shilling from Tranville. You can tell him to go to the devil.’

She gazed directly into his eyes. ‘I will not do that.’

He blinked. ‘Why not? I promise I can take care of you.’

She went back to her sewing. ‘I am certain you will be very successful, my son, but I still will not spurn Lionel.’

Jack stood. ‘He has spurned you. In the most insulting way.’

She gazed up at him again. ‘I do not need to explain myself to you and I have no intention of doing so. I will not change my arrangement with Lionel.’

It was no use. Where Tranville was concerned his mother was blind and deaf.

‘Do you stay for dinner?’ she asked, breaking the silence. ‘It is not for a few hours yet, but you are welcome to stay. If you are hungry now, I’ll send for tea and biscuits.’

He shook his head. To sit down at dinner and pretend this day had not happened would be impossible. ‘Do not expect me for dinner. I have much to do tonight.’

She smiled wanly. ‘You are still welcome if you change your mind.’

He walked over and kissed her. ‘I must go.’

She patted his cheek, but her eyes glistened with tears. ‘I hope we will see you tomorrow.’

Once he stepped back out into the winter air, he hurried to his studio and let himself in. He leaned against the door with visions of Tranville hopping from his mother’s bed into Ariana’s.

Throwing down his gloves and hat, he crossed the room to a bureau where he kept paper. Pulling out several sheets, he grabbed a piece of charcoal and began sketching.

The lines he drew formed into an image of Ariana.

Chapter Four

That evening Ariana sat at a mirror applying rouge to her cheeks and kohl to her eyelids to make her features display well to the highest box seats of Drury Lane Theatre. The dressing-room doors were open wide, so that she and the other actresses could hear their cues to go on stage. In a half-hour the curtain would rise on the evening’s performance of Romeo and Juliet, and backstage was its usual pandemonium. People shouted. Pieces of set were moved from one side to the other. Actors, actresses and the ballet dancers who entertained between acts ran here and there in all states of dress and undress.

Ariana loved the commotion. She vastly preferred being among it to walking up the stairs to the private dressing room usually reserved for the leading actress. Her mother had demanded that dressing room, and Ariana had not minded in the least. The backstage bustle energised her.

Her mother’s reflection appeared behind her in the mirror. Dressed for the comparatively minor role of Lady Capulet, her mother glared at her. ‘Have your wits gone begging?’

Ariana set down the tiny brush she’d used to darken her lashes. ‘Whatever do you mean, Mama?’

Her mother gestured dramatically in the direction of an invisible someone. ‘Lord Tranville pays for your portrait and an entire play and you refuse his escort. You would not even walk with the man.’

Ariana replied to the image in the mirror. ‘I was under the impression his financial investment was meant to benefit the theatre, not his vanity.’

Her mother threw up her hands. ‘Then you are a bigger fool than ever I imagined.’

Ariana was no fool. She knew precisely what Tranville had hoped to purchase.

She averted her gaze from the mirror. Even if Tranville’s motives had merely been gentlemanly, Ariana would not have welcomed his company. She liked being alone with Jack Vernon. She liked the intimacy of it, liked that he could look at her without anyone else as witness.

Ariana held her breath, imagining him raking her with those eyes and rendering on paper what he saw. It felt akin to him touching her.

Her mother tugged at her shoulder, interrupting her reverie. ‘Tranville has a great deal of influence here in the theatre. You cannot treat him so shabbily without penalty. You profess to wanting success, but, the way you are bound, you will ruin matters for both of us.’

Ariana did indeed wish for success, success as an actress, not as Tranville’s plaything.

The renowned Daphne Blane enjoyed above all things the adoration of men. Her acting career was merely the means of putting herself on display, and her fame came more from the numbers of men with whom her name had been linked over the years than from her roles on stage.

Her single-minded interest in winning the attention of the most prestigious gentlemen had left Daphne Blane little time to be bothered by a daughter. Ariana had been cared for by others. Theatre people were the ones who showered her with attention. They had dressed little Ariana in costumes, painted her face, even allowed her to walk on stage as part of a scene. The theatre had been where she was happiest. She loved it so much she’d walk on any stage, in any role, merely to be a part of it all.

Ariana drew the line at bartering herself to lustful men, even if they would help her acting career. If that was the price of success, it was too high and too false. She wanted to rise on the merits of her skill, nothing more. She wanted to earn the best roles, the best reviews, the most applause, because her performance deserved it.

Her mother, however, had made one valid point. Ariana might not wish to share Tranville’s bed, but she ought not to alienate him completely. He could wield his influence in this theatre for both good and ill.

She turned to look her mother in the eyes. ‘Put your mind at ease, Mother. I am well able to manage Lord Tranville. I’ve managed others like him before.’

‘Oh?’ Her mother placed fists on her hips. ‘Eighteen years old and you are such an expert on men?’

Ariana inhaled a weary breath. ‘I am twenty-two, older than you were when you gave birth to me.’

Her mother’s eyes scalded. ‘Well, one can be very foolish at twenty-two. If I’d had more sense I never would have given birth to you.’

Ariana flinched.

She covered the sting of her mother’s words with a tight smile. ‘I learn by your mistakes.’

Her mother glanced away, gazing at a tree that seemed to cross in front of the door. Scenery for Act II. ‘Well, Tranville attends the performance tonight. Be nice to him in the Green Room.’

Ariana turned back to the mirror and dipped a huge feather puff into the face powder. ‘I am always nice to gentlemen.’ She merely did not bed them.

Mr Arnold appeared at the dressing room door. ‘Ah, there you are, Daphne, my dear. You look lovely as usual.’

Ariana’s mother beamed. ‘Such flattery. I am dressed as a matron.’

‘Nothing could diminish your beauty.’ He squeezed her hand and glanced to Ariana. ‘Your daughter has inherited every bit of your loveliness. She makes a fine Juliet. Beauty and an acting skill that rivals your own. You must be proud.’

Ariana’s mother still smiled, but Ariana caught the hard glint in her eye. ‘Yes, I must be proud, mustn’t I?’

Early the following morning, Jack woke to a messenger bringing him Tranville’s first, quite generous, payment of the commission. At least Tranville’s money enabled Jack to replenish his supplies. He walked the mile to Ludgate Hill where Thomas Clay’s establishment offered the finest pigments and purchased enough for several paintings. He returned in time to set up the studio for Ariana’s arrival.

As he waited for her, he looked over the several images of Ariana he’d sketched from memory, including the ones he’d drawn after that first fleeting contact with her. The night before he’d filled page after page with her profile, her eyes, her smile; when the light had faded to dusk, he read Antony and Cleopatra by lamplight.

She knocked upon his door promptly at two. Jack rose from his drawing table, hastily stacking the sketches. When he opened the door, her face was flushed pink from the winter air.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Vernon.’ She smiled and her eyes shone with pleasure.

Their impact forced him to avert his gaze. ‘Miss Blane, I trust you are well.’

‘I am always well,’ she responded cheerfully.

He had the presence of mind to assist her in removing her cloak, too aware of the elegant curve of her neck and, beneath her bonnet, the peek of auburn hair at its nape.

‘Were you able to read the play?’ she asked, pulling off her gloves and untying the ribbons of her bonnet.

He hung her cloak on a peg. ‘I read it all last night.’

She placed her hat and gloves on the table nearby and faced him, still smiling, looking eager for whatever was to come.

His sketches had not done her justice, he realised. He’d not captured that spark of energy, that vivacity that was hers alone. His fingers itched to try again.

But he must attend to the civilities. ‘I will make us some tea.’ He started for the galley, but she reached it ahead of him.

‘I’ll do it.’ She swept aside the curtain covering the doorway and glanced around the galley. ‘There is very little for me to do. You’ve prepared everything.’

He’d placed the kettle on the fire before she arrived. The tea was in the pot. She poured the water.

‘You must allow me to carry the tray,’ he said.

She looked up at him with an impish grin. ‘Must I?’

He stepped into the space. ‘I insist.’

There was no room for both of them, but he thought of that too late. Their arms brushed as she tried to move past him and the mere contact with her caused Jack’s senses to flare with an awareness of more than her physical beauty.

She faced him, their bodies almost touching. Reaching up to his face, she gently rubbed his cheek with her finger. ‘You have a black smudge.’

Charcoal from his drawings.

He grabbed a cloth and rubbed where she had touched, but he could not erase the explosion of carnal desire she aroused in him. He turned from her and picked up the tray. She followed silently as he carried it to where they’d been sitting the previous day.

She sat in a chair as if that moment of touching had never happened. ‘Where do we begin? Do we discuss how to depict Cleopatra?’

Jack murmured, ‘It seems a good way to start.’

She poured the tea and handed him his cup. ‘What did you think?’

‘Of Cleopatra?’

‘Yes.’ She lifted her tea.

He placed his cup on the table. ‘I was struck by her political ambition. I had not remembered the play that way from my school days.’

She smiled. ‘Perhaps you were too romantic as a boy.’

He laughed drily. ‘I dare say not, but I understand more of life now. Antony was motivated by passion, but Cleopatra was motivated by ambition.’

She nodded. ‘I do agree. She betrays Antony twice. And I doubt she killed herself out of love for him.’

He moved his cup, but did not lift it. ‘But his love for her led to his death.’

‘And to hers,’ she reminded him. ‘One could say she was a woman alone merely trying to make her way in the world and that his passion for her led to her downfall.’

He thought of his mother’s situation. ‘The world has not changed much.’

‘Indeed,’ she said with a firm tone.

He glanced into her face, remembering it was Tranville who played the role of Antony in her life, not he. The sun from the window shot shades of red through her auburn hair. The look she gave him in return was soft and companionable.

Jack had to glance away. ‘It is an odd play. More a history than a romance.’

She laughed. ‘It is a good thing. There is enough romancing from Mr Kean in the play as it is.’

He glanced at her in surprise. ‘You do not like Kean as your leading man?’

She shook her head. ‘Not at all. He smells of whisky and he is too short.’

‘The celebrated Mr Kean?’

Her face puckered as if she’d eaten a lemon. ‘I dare say he shows more favourably in the theatre boxes.’

Her frank tone made him relax and pushed thoughts of Tranville out of his mind. He felt as if they’d returned to Somerset House.

They began discussing how Cleopatra might be depicted and if she should be seated or standing. Jack was impatient to draw her.

She put down her teacup and sat on the edge of her chair. ‘Shall I pose now? Perhaps as Cleopatra on her throne?’

She straightened her spine and raised her chin, instantly transforming herself into a haughty queen who looked down on the rest of the world.

He was intrigued. ‘Hold that pose.’

He moved his drawing table closer to her chair and placed a clean sheet of paper on its angled surface. He sketched quickly, using charcoal and pastels, not thinking, allowing the image to come directly from his eye to his hand.

She remained very still, almost like a statue.

He put that sketch aside and replaced it with a fresh piece of paper. ‘Stand now and move.’

‘Move?’

He twirled his hand as an example. ‘Move around in front of me. Like Cleopatra would move.’

The natural quick and graceful movements that had entranced him heretofore were replaced by a regal step, back and forth.

He sketched hurriedly.

‘I feel a bit silly,’ she said as she crossed in front of him.

‘You do not look silly,’ he responded. ‘This is precisely what I need.’

He tried her in other poses, seated and standing, producing ten pastel drawings that gave him ideas of how a final painting might appear.

He looked through them.

‘May I see?’ She walked over to stand beside him at the drawing table, bringing with her the scent of rose water. She examined each drawing, one after the other.

‘Remarkable!’ She looked through them again, setting three of them side by side. ‘You were drawing so fast, I never dreamed you could make them look so much like me.’

He sorted through them again. ‘They are still not right. I am not sure why.’

He’d set his earlier sketches of her on the floor next to the drawing table. She saw them. ‘What are these?’

She picked them up and went through them. When she came to the ones he had done after Somerset House, she looked up at him with a puzzled expression.

‘Some sketches I made earlier,’ he replied, deliberately vague.

‘These are different from the others.’ She stared at them. ‘I look…’ She paused. ‘Alluring.’

He did not respond.

She broke into a smile. ‘You drew these after the exhibition, did you not?

He would not lie. ‘I did.’

‘I like them,’ she said simply and he felt himself flush with pleasure. ‘You make me look enticing.’

‘It is not enough.’ He was glad she did not question him about why he’d drawn her that day; he was uncertain he could answer her.

She looked at him as if she could see into his thoughts to all he’d felt about her that day, feelings forbidden him now, but he would not think of that. Today he merely wished to paint her.

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