“Hold on,” Julian said as the butler moved to take it down. Something about the painting nagged at him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Who was the artist? He moved up close and peered at the signature in the bottom right-hand corner.Z-B.Who the devil was Z-B?
He scrutinized the painting carefully, and things fell into place. Whoever this Z-B fellow was, he’d clearly studied art in the same place as Vita. There were several distinct similarities in technique and style. Dammit, the portrait could even have been painted by Vita herself.
He stepped back and eyed the painting broodingly. Was he imagining things again? It simply wasn’t possible that Vita had painted his grandmother’s portrait. She was in Paris somewhere.
Crowther coughed discreetly. “Shall I have it removed, m’lord?”
“No. You might as well leave it there.” His grandmother’sattempts to control him and act as the matriarch of the family were irritating, but although she wasn’t a blood relation, he supposed she’d earned her place in the gallery of ancestral rogues. She, or rather her money, had pulled his father out of debt, and her interfering ways had ensured he stayed out of debt. Had she not married her daughter into the Fox family and started throwing her weight around, keeping his father and brother under her thumb, he supposed the estate would still be in a dire financial state. Or worse.
He kept staring at the portrait. Who the devil was Z-B? Did he know Vita? And if he did, how well did he know her?
The butler cleared his throat. “The leak, your lordship?”
“The leak. Right. Lead me to it.”
That night Julian dreamed of Vita for the third night in a row. He woke up thrashing around in the bed, hot and bothered. And aroused. Cursing himself silently, he got up and fetched himself a glass of water. It was a cold night, but he hadn’t bothered having the fire in his room lit.
He padded to the window and drank his water, gazing out over the scene below, etched in shades of gray and silver and darkness. The sky was clear and the moon was almost full. No doubt that was the cause of these wretched dreams. Moon madness.
Vita. What did he want with her? He didn’t know. He just needed to see her, that was all. See her properly—in the flesh. To touch her. And to stop imagining her everywhere.
A cold damp nose nudged his hand. He looked down. “I know, boy, it’s ridiculous. But I can’t forget her.”
Hamish gave him a soulful look and sighed.
“You, too? We’re a sorry pair, aren’t we? Come on, back to bed.” Julian climbed into bed and Hamish flopped down at the foot of it, on the special bed of blankets one of the maidservants had made for him. He had a way with women, did Hamish.
Julian lay in bed, trying to go back to sleep. He could hear Hamish snoring gently. How did dogs do it, drop to sleep instantly? No worries, he supposed.
His head was full of things, plans, possibilities—and Vita. He refused to think of her anymore. Christmas was coming.
No doubt his grandmother expected him to drive back up to London and attend the service at St. George’s Hanover Square with her on his arm. So everyone would see.
But no. He would stay here for Christmas, he decided. He’d dodged his Christmas obligations last year and for several years before that by being abroad. This year, having come home earlier than planned, he would be here to do his duty. The warm welcome home he’d received from the tenants, servants and villagers had shamed him much more successfully than his grandmother’s lectures did.
So he would swallow his distaste for all the fuss and read the lesson in church, invite the vicar and others back for Christmas dinner and give out the Christmas boxes on Boxing Day. Cartwright had done it last year, but Julian and Hamish would do the honors this year.
And after Christmas he’d drive back to London and ask Grandmama about that blasted portrait. And find out who the devil this Z-Bwas.
Chapter Twelve
It was Christmas Eve, and in Bellaire Gardens it was cold, with the moon and stars invisible behind a heavy layer of cloud. It was just before six and had been fully dark for several hours, but the street was lit by gas lamps that glowed golden against the dark.
“Might snow later.” Leo glanced at the sky as he and Izzy strolled along. They’d decided to walk around to the Tarrant residence and enter by the front door instead of taking their usual shortcut through the gardens. It was, after all, an event, albeit not a particularly formal one. “We will been famille,” Lady Tarrant had told them.
“I hope it does snow. I love snow at Christmas. It’s so pretty and feels somehow magical. And symbolic, although of what I have no idea.” Izzy wore her warmest pelisse, which was dark red wool trimmed with fur, and a fur hat. One of her hands was thrust into a fur muff; the other was tucked into the crook of Leo’s arm.
“As long as we don’t have to travel in it” was Leo’s pragmatic comment.
Usually at this time of year Izzy and Leo and Race and Clarissa would be at their respective country homes, but the severity of Lady Scattergood’s illness and her slow recovery had convinced them to stay in town until after the New Year.
They turned the corner, saw Clarissa and Race walking toward them and waved. Clarissa was swathed in a dark amber velvet cloak, the hood of which was trimmed with swansdown. It almost hid her face. Race was his usual elegant self, in breeches and boots and a many-caped greatcoat. It being a casual occasion, formal wear was not required.
They were followed by Zoë, walking beside an elegant sedan chair carried by four strong men. She was talking to the occupant through its firmly shut curtains.
Leo raised a brow. “They even got the old lady to venture out of the house. I’m impressed.”
“Yes, she’s been dying to know what it’s all about and couldn’t bear to miss it. Besides, ever since Matteo suggested she use a sedan chair with the curtains closed, she’s been leaving the house more often. Apparently, as long as she doesn’t see the outside world, she can cope with passing through it in her chair.”
