Chapter 1
Mr. Tobias Blake had a secret. But not for long. Maggie determined to discover it. And when Maggie determined to do a thing, she usually did. Not that anyone noticed.
Just like no one noticed her weaving slowly away from the front of the room where Robert Lockham, England’s foremost portrait artist, was about to unveil his latest masterpiece.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Maggie’s father said, raising a glass of champagne high, “Mr. Lockham has kept us, and the world, in the dark these past ten months. No one but he and his model, whoever that is, know the identity of the subject of the portrait behind this curtain. Until now. Every year, we gather here for a winter solstice party. You, the most talented artist the world has to offer, and those like me with no talent whatsoever.” He frowned woefully, then grinned like a mischievous child. “But with pocketsful of money.”
A rumble of appreciative laughter rolled through the assembled crowd. Maggie’s jaw clenched. How could her father lie so easily? His pockets were much shallower than he wanted anyone to know.
“We share ideas and strategies,” her father continued once the laughter had subsided, “and make art, birth beauty into the world. Every year I am astounded by what you have to offer, yet I’ve never been as excited as I am now.” He bowed low to Mr. Lockham. “Whenever you wish, Robert.”
Everyone’s attention riveted on Mr. Lockham, on the hidden easel. But Maggie’s gaze stayed glued to one man across the crowd. He leaned against the wall and wore the most hideous green waistcoat she’d ever laid eyes on. Mr. Tobias Blake. A distraction. She had more important matters to take care of in the house party’s remaining week. But she could not get him out of her head. He had secrets, and she desperately needed to know them. Her eldest brother called her a busybody. Maggie preferred to think of herself as productively curious.
The curtain covering Lockham’s painting swept aside with aswoosh,and in the following hush, Maggie took one last look at Mr. Blake. He stared at Lockham’s painting. Good. He, and the others, would never notice her departure. She swept from the room, her soft footfalls covered by thunderous applause.
The hallways shortened before her until she found the door to Mr. Blake’s room. She tried the handle. Unlocked! How lucky. “Tsk, tsk, Mr. Blake,” she whispered. “You will never keep your secrets that way.” She closed—and locked—the door behind her, then scanned the nearly empty chamber. He certainly traveled light. It remained void of belongings.
Though her family, and not Mr. Blake, owned the bedroom before her, and she knew very well what it should look like, she somehow found herself surprised at its normalcy. Not like the man who currently occupied it at all. But then, no room, hopefully, could live up to his peculiar style. Pity. A room more like him might give away some clues to the man himself. She tried to imagine him there among the large, staid four-poster bed, the straight-backed chairs, the square full-length mirror, and tall narrow wardrobe. But his bright pink and green waistcoats, his blue and yellow cravats, and his embroidered jackets just did not fit. The disparate pieces of the room fit together nicely, creating a welcoming, though blank, whole. The disparate pieces of Mr. Blake’s ensemble, however, did not. He was an assault to the eyes, anything but blank.
Yet, each piece of clothing was impeccably crafted of the finest quality material with a meticulous eye to detail. And other than being brightly colored, they shared another commonality. They were all textured—embossed, embroidered, pleated—and those textures taken as a wholeworked, even if the colors did not.
The man appeared to dress like a blind fop.
Yet, could a blind fop cultivate such elegant pattern combinations?
She needed a closer look. Her gaze settled on the wardrobe, where, hopefully, he kept his secrets under lock and key. Not that either would keep her from information when she wanted it. She flew across the room and tugged the piece of furniture open. It wobbled, but its doors gave immediately and so easily she staggered back. Unlocked. She should have expected that, considering the bedroom door. Perhaps he was not so bright. Or else he had no secrets to hide. Or he simply thought no one clever enough to figure them out.
But she was clever. She took a deep breath and released it slowly. In the wardrobe, she’d find another secret to add to her notebook, another secret to pull her family out of their dismal straits.
She reached into the wardrobe’s depths and pulled forth a lavender waistcoat striped with deeper shades of purple. She brought it to the window to inspect it more carefully in the light. The darker purple was embroidery, rows of dots so close together they only looked like lines. She whistled, running her fingers gently over the design. How long had it taken to produce this?
She draped the garment across a chair and returned to the window, this time retrieving a black waistcoat with vines embroidered in greens and yellows, across every inch of it. She breathed in and out heavily, excited by her discovery. “Exquisite.”
“It is, is it not.”
She yelped and jumped, clutching the waistcoat to her chest. Then she slowly turned to face the voice in the door, though she didn’t need to see the man to know who it was. Who else would it be but the bedroom’s occupant and the waistcoat’s owner. “I locked the door!”
He held up a key. “And I unlocked it.”
“Yes, of course,” she mumbled. “Hello, Mr. Blake.” She tipped her chin high. Best to act like she did nothing wrong. After all, how odd was it for her to be in a bedroom in her parents’ house—her very own house? Not at all! “May I help you?”
“Oh, I’m sure I could find a few ways in which you could. You’re an attractive little thing, and so conveniently located next to my bed. But momentarily I’m left wondering, instead, if it is I who can help you? Since you are, after all, in my bedroom.” His voice purred low and deep and gritty, at odds with his golden-curled beauty.
His voice had been the first thing she’d noticed about him. She’d been talking to her brother when that voice had grazed across her ears and lit a fire in her belly. She turned and saw a man’s face, blank of expression as he listened to one of the artists talk. His messy golden curls had looked soft, alive, and his cheeks and jaw had been unshaven, as they were now. It was only when two men in Mr. Blake’s circle had moved that she’d seen the rest of him—rust-red jacket, puce waistcoat, blue cravat. The entire effect almost knocked her over and she’d forgotten about how desperately handsome he was, rough and fine at the same time. She’d seen only his clothes.
But now, alone in his bedroom, the heat that had initially filled her when that voice had first slipped like a cat’s tongue across her skin returned. She was a ninny. A right ninny. Yes, this bedroom belonged to her parents, buthecurrently slept inthatbed, and unmarried ladies did not visit men in their bedchambers, no matter whose house the bedchamber existed within.
One corner of his lips quirked up and his hooded eyes seemed full of heated promises.
Focus on the waistcoat. She dropped her eyes down. Oh God, pastel green. That did it. She could not take a man wearing a pastel green waistcoat seriously.
Yet. She looked from the green monstrosity to the black embroidered masterpiece she clutched to her chest. Perhaps she needed a closer look. She took a step, two, closer, peering at his chest.
“My eyes are up here, my lady.”
She dared not look at his face. “The embroidery on this is sheer perfection.”
“Not quite that good.”
