Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(21)

Alec knew Lady Flora would carefully choose the guests and he would have no reason to worry about arrest, especially if he kept his mouth shut. He’d be Mr. Finn, the talented Irish artist who’d been painting in France and was now down on his luck, helped by the charitable Lady Flora. She was known to give artists and writers she considered had merit a leg up.

Alec lifted his emptied glass. “Here’s to it, then.”

Lady Flora gave him a nod. Alec wasn’t certain he liked the scheming glint he detected in her eyes, but he said not a word.



Celia paused outside the door to her father’s study, voices within changing her mind about opening the door. She had always been privileged to simply walk inside as she pleased, but when her father had guests, she politely did not interrupt.

She seated herself in an armless chair in the gallery, her portfolio on the long table next to her. At least here the portfolio did not slip, fall, or spill open—none of the embarrassing tricks it played when inside Lady Flora’s pristine house. The landing was darker and colder than usual, and Celia shivered.

The rumbles of male voices came to her through the walnut paneled doors. The flickering light of candles showed under the crack beneath it—Celia’s mother thought using too many candles a great waste of money, which was why the hall was quite dark—but the duke had his way on this one point, at least inside his private chambers. Her mother consoled herself that the duke wasn’t often home.

“And you are certain they are safe?” the duke was asking.

Celia heard the answer of her father’s friend, the Earl of Chesfield. “Of course. We have soldiers there, the best trained. Nothing will be lost.”

Celia wondered what precious sort of treasure needed the protection of soldiers. Curious.

Her uncle, her mother’s younger brother, the Honorable Perry Waterson, spoke next. “Not to worry, Charles. You leave such trifles to me and go bounce with Mrs. B.”

“Really, Perry,” the duke said in a shocked voice. “No need to be unseemly.”

The Earl of Chesfield chortled. “I’m sure he meant it fondly. Come along, Waterson, we’ll adjourn and let Charles rejoice in the bosom of his family. Or at least a bosom.”

Uncle Perry sniggered, and Celia went hot with embarrassment. Uncle Perry knew exactly what a mismatched marriage his sister had made, but she wished he wouldn’t be quite so blatant that her father sought his comfort elsewhere.

Celia got quietly to her feet when she heard the men make for the study door. She ducked into the next room along, not wanting either of them to see her. She had to leave her portfolio, but the gallery was so dark she doubted they’d notice it in the shadows or have any interest if they did.

The Earl of Chesfield had a booming voice. He was tall, with a large, red face and big-boned body. His wig was always half askew, but for some reason it never looked comical. Perhaps because he was so loud and terrifying—that is, he’d terrified Celia when she’d been a little girl. These days, she found him rude and boorish.

“A very good night to you, sir,” the earl thundered to Celia’s father. “I suggest you take your brother-in-law’s advice. Until tomorrow.”

He marched out and made for the stairs. Uncle Perry followed him, but Celia knew he’d stop to visit her mother in her sitting room before departing the house.

When the voices and footsteps had died away, Celia left her hiding place and tapped on the study door.

“It’s Celia, Papa.”

She heard a sound of delight and then her father’s pattering steps before he yanked open the door. “Ah, my dear, how wonderful to see you. Come in, come in. How was the drawing lesson? You must show me what you’ve done.”

“Oh,” Celia tried. “It’s nothing very …”

“Nonsense. Is that your portfolio? John—” The duke called to a passing footman. “Be a good chap and carry that in here.”

John, in the red silk livery of the Duke of Crenshaw, his wig far more tidy and straight than the Earl of Chesfield’s, materialized out of the shadows, snatched up Celia’s portfolio, and carried it into the study. John deposited it on the large table in the center, bowed, and glided out.

“Now then.” Celia’s father, a short man running to fat but not too stout, moved to the portfolio and undid its clasp with quick fingers. He opened the leather case and caught sight of the drawing on top, that of Celia’s face. “Oh, my.”

Mr. Finn had taken Celia’s rudimentary sketch and filled in lines and shadows until the drawing glowed with life. She’d done the same when she’d sketched him, catching the spark inside that made Mr. Finn himself. Whatever his true name was didn’t matter—the essence of the man had shone in her drawing.

Was this how Mr. Finn saw her? Outwardly quiet but inwardly blazing with restlessness, a need to move, to know, to discover the world?

She did have those desires, Celia realized with a jolt. She’d told herself she’d be content to remain sequestered in her father’s house, quietly reading or painting for the rest of her life. But now she realized the confinement of that existence, how she’d have to stifle her own needs all her days. She’d grow more solitary and bitter with each passing year—she’d already begun down that path.

Her thoughts spun until she was dizzy, as the duke gazed, enraptured, at the drawing. “A self-portrait. My dear, how enchanting.”