Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(37)
Lady Flora waved a languid hand. “If you like, child. But stay there and don’t wander the house. It upsets the servants.”
“Yes, Lady Flora.” Celia babbled the politeness before she turned and hurried out. She heard Flora sigh behind her, no doubt unhappy with Celia’s choice, her frenzied pace, and the way her skirts barely missed a delicate table full of porcelain figurines.
Celia hastened up the stairs, aware of the silent footman carrying her portfolio behind her. The footman deposited the leather-bound portfolio on the table in the studio and withdrew, as he did every day. Celia briefly wondered if he’d be happy when the lessons were over.
After the footman departed, she paced the room, trying to suppress her anxiousness and consider things logically.
If Alec had been in fear for his life, surely he’d have run away last night, not retired to his bed and then stepped out on an errand this morning. He might simply be purchasing pigments for mixing paint, or canvases and brushes from merchants who sold that sort of thing. Artists were particular about their accoutrements, and perhaps he didn’t trust a servant to buy the correct things.
Besides, Celia had no evidence that Alec had pummeled the Marquess of Harrenton in Green Park. Any footpad might have done so—London was full of thieves and desperate men.
To try to stem her worry, Celia opened her portfolio and spread out the tracings of the London skyline she’d done with Alec the day before. There was not enough light today to use the camera obscura—the fog was lowering, not clearing.
Celia pinned the drawing they’d already begun to the easel and continued to transfer lines from the preliminary sketches as Alec had showed her. The form of Grosvenor Chapel took shape, a newish building with clean lines and a simple steeple tucked among the houses on South Audley Street. The chapel was unembellished inside as well, she knew from her occasional churchgoing with her mother—with clear windows, white-paneled galleries, and a white-painted ceiling. No clutter of popery, her mother would say with satisfaction.
Celia was perfecting the lines of this chapel and trying to decide how to draw the gap between it and the roofline of the houses partly obscuring it, when she heard a commotion in the street below.
Grosvenor Square was full of noises all day long, as vendors sang out their wares, delivery wagons rolled up with the necessities of life, and carriages rumbled through on their way to other parts of the metropolis.
This was different—a clatter of hooves, shouts of men, and what sounded like barked orders. Celia set down her pencil and made her way to the window, resting her hands on the sill as she peered out.
Two horses had halted in front of the house, ridden by men in uniform, and about a dozen uniformed men surrounded them. They were in a regiment of Foot, from their scarlet coats, but she was unsure which one. Edward was in the Duke of Crenshaw’s Brigade, now in France. She was familiar with that insignia but not ones from other regiments.
The man who dismounted was an officer, she knew not only from his sleek wig and the tricorn hat he tucked under his arm, but by his bearing and the deferential way the soldiers stood to attention for him. The second horseman, who dismounted behind the first as Lady Flora’s footman came to take the reins of both horses, was also an officer but not as high ranking, apparent from the way he stayed back from the other gentleman.
Nausea bit her stomach. British soldiers preparing to enter a house where a Highlander hid. Had Alec known they’d be coming, and fled?
Celia pressed her hands to her skirts and hurried to the door and out along the hall to the stairs. Keeping to the shadows, Celia peered over the railings as one of Lady Flora’s efficient footmen ushered the two officers inside.
Rivers emerged from the back of the house, taking his haughty time. “Good morning. How may I assist you, gentlemen?”
“Captain Jamison of the Twenty-Sixth Foot, at your service, sir.” The captain put his hand to his chest and gave Rivers a shallow bow. “I should like to speak to the lady of the house, if it is at all convenient.”
“Her ladyship sees no one without an appointment,” Rivers said haughtily. “I will convey a message to her if you wish.”
Captain Jamison’s annoyance floated up to Celia. “My mission is more of a warning to her. Last night, his lordship, the Marquess of Harrenton, was assaulted and robbed. The miscreants were seen fleeing into Mayfair, and more specifically, Grosvenor Square. We are conducting a search of the area for the culprits. Your ladyship would be wise to remain indoors today.”
“Oh dear.” Rivers’s note of alarm was subdued. Celia had never seen Rivers grow fully agitated about anything. “Very well. I will explain to her ladyship.”
“We are also searching the houses, in case the villains have found a corner in which to hide. I will take my men downstairs and root out the fellow if he is here.”
An iciness worthy of Lady Flora entered Rivers’s voice. “Certainly not. You will need her ladyship’s permission, and as I say, she cannot be disturbed. She is still abed.”
Both Rivers and Celia knew full well Lady Flora was not in bed, and was likely listening to the conversation from some vantage point.
“We will search below stairs and the public rooms only,” the captain said with gruff concession. “The marquess has commanded it. Her ladyship may discuss it with that gentleman if she has a mind to.”
Rivers drew a breath for another disdainful reply, but at that moment, Lady Flora herself appeared on the second-floor landing and sent a cold look over the railing to Captain Jamison.