Raph leaned forward, set his elbows on the table. “Do you have the funds to do this?”
“Of course I do.” Or he would soon.
“Because your inheritance?—”
“I don’t want it.”
Zander whistled, Theo chuckled, and Atlas downed half his ale.
“It’s yours,” Raph said. “No ridiculous will stipulations necessary. Mother has decided to forgo all the nonsense Father insisted on in his will.”
The infamous will donated most of his father’s massive art collection—the only thing of value left in the family—to the Royal Academy, leaving his children and widow with nothing but debts, a crumbling house, failing estate, and six priceless paintings. One painting willed to each child with the stipulation they must first earn it. Through the creation of a work of art.
Bloody ridiculous. And just like his father.
Drew pulled the wrists of his gloves up tight, as if they weren’t already perfectly formed to his fingers, and he straightened his already straight glasses. The glass glinted in the firelight, reminding him of the necessary barrier between him and the world.
He remained behind it as he spoke to no one in particular. “Not that any of you have skipped past the will’s demands. You’ve all done just as it asked, as Father asked.” Drew had seen his brothers’ art. Most of it. The canvas splashed with blobs of paint—Zander’s—and Theo’s satirical cartoon. Only Raph’s artistic contribution was missing because he’d drawn it on his wife’s arm. Raph’s own damn heart curling from Matilda’s palm to her elbow, alive like vines climbing a trellis, according to his mother. She liked to describe it whenever the chance arose.
His married brothers had done what his father’s will had demanded of them in order to earn their inheritances. They’d each produced a work of art deemed valuable by their mother, and they’d each been bestowed a painting worth more money than they’d possessed in their adult lives. The paintings had been sold, the funds put toward rebuilding the estate and wealth their father had wasted while still alive or toward building new lives for themselves.
Only Drew had built his life before his father’s death.
“I don’t need the money.” Not necessarily true. He needed money. Just notthatmoney. He had a plan.
Raph turned his hands on the table palms up. “Just sell the damn painting, Drew, and be done with it. I tell the same to Atlas, but?—”
“I want to fulfill Father’s last request.” Atlas heaved a sigh. “Not sure how yet.”
“Songs about cows not winning Mother over?” Drew asked.
Atlas erupted into laughter, a deep sound that boomed throughout the pub. “Not a bit. Afraid she’s become spoiled. Thinks what she really gets is a daughter-in-law, not a work of art, and I’m not producing one of those for her to fawn over anytime soon.” He scratched his jaw. “Wish I had the funds, though. The dower house needs it. I’m almost done, but it’s not ready to rent out yet. There’s some fine work that needs a more artistic touch than I have. Some old furniture that needs new life.”
The brothers groaned, Atlas included.
“We don’t have to bring an artist to the house, do we?” Raph asked.
They’d been raised with artists of all kinds, their father’s friends and students, protégées who took the money he gave them even when he had no money to give.
“A cabinet maker,” Atlas said.
“Hire him, then.” Raph lifted his glass to his brother.
“Can we afford it?” Zander asked.
“Not really.” Raph sighed. “But if we wish to rent out the dower house, we must find a way to make it happen.” He stretched his mug toward Theo. “You’ve just opened that school for artists. Surely you or your bride know of someone who can help. Someone with much talent and little experience. We’ll pay them in food and lodging and help them gain the experience they need to land other commissions.
“Not a terrible idea,” Drew admitted.
“Very well.” Theo finished the rest of his ale and stretched his neck to look about the room. “I’ll ask Cordelia. She’ll know someone. She knows everyone.” His roaming gaze stopped, and he slapped his hands to his thighs as he stood. “Speaking of my beautiful wife, there she is. You brutes won’t mind if I exchange your company for hers.” He did not wait to hear their answers.
And Drew would not give one because he’d finally spotted the pink gown beneath dark corkscrew curls.
“Mrs. Dart.” His muscles clenched to stand, to join her, to ask her about the horrid gown. But he found himself frozen to the chair. Intimidated by pink? It seemed so. An unacceptable turn of events, and one he’d have to conquer. Because they had work to do before they left for London on the morrow. And while he couldn’t control, apparently, the clothes Mrs. Dart wore, he could control preparations for conquering London before week’s end.
But… the pink taunted him from the corner of his eye, drawing his attention closer like the bony hand of fate. He didn’t believe in fate. He’d finish his ale first.
Two
