Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(47)

As the days went by, a pattern developed. Emma knew that as soon as Jacob awoke in the nursery, he would dress himself and come to the door of her suite, waiting patiently for her to appear. He shared breakfast with her in the dining room, helped with the chores in the menagerie, and endured her efforts in the afternoon to teach him to ride. He followed her like a shadow, though it was unclear whether he actually enjoyed her company or merely saw that he had no other options. The servants didn't know how to treat him, and Nikolas was determined to ignore him.

“Can't you at least bother to speak to Jake?” Emma demanded at supper one night, on a rare occasion when she and Nikolas were alone. “It's been almost a fortnight since he arrived. Aren't you going to acknowledge him in some way?”

“I plan to find a new situation for him within a week. If it amuses you to entertain the child until then, do so by all means.”

“What kind of situation?”

“A family who will be willing to take him in return for an annuity to be paid until he comes of age.”

Emma set down her knife and fork and stared at her husband anxiously. “But Jake will know the family only wants him because of the money. The other children will tease him—they won't accept him.”

“He'll survive.”

Emma set her jaw stubbornly. “I may not want Jake to leave.”

“Just what would you like to do with the boy? Keep him here to flaunt him as proof of my past sins?”

“I would never use a child that way!” she said in a burst of fury.

“That's right. You won't have the opportunity, because he's leaving.”

More hot words trembled on Emma's lips, but she managed to hold them back. Picking up her fork, she toyed with the cabbage soufflé on her plate. “You seem to take no more notice of Jake than you would any other child,” she said, her voice quiet and intense. “But you must have some feeling for your own flesh and blood. That's why you plan to send him away, isn't it? You don't want to love him or even like him. If you only knew how deprived you are, and what a limited life you lead. You live in constant fear, and you try to protect yourself with mockery and sarcasm and coldness.”

There was a flash in his eyes, like cold fire. “And what, pray tell, am I supposed to be afraid of?”

“You're afraid of caring for someone. And you're absolutely terrified of someone caring for you in return. But a lack of feelings isn't strength, Nikki. Just the opposite.” Emma sensed rather than saw the light quiver that ran through his body, of nerves pulled as tight as a hunter's bow.

Nikolas shoved back from the table. “I've had enough of this for one evening,” he muttered.

“If you give Jacob away, I'm going to find him! He deserves better than that. He's an innocent little boy who's been robbed of his birthright. And if this is your notion of being a father, I hope I never bear your children!”

“Keep him, then,” Nikolas invited with a sneer. “I should have expected this, knowing of your taste for adopting strays and mongrels. Just make certain he's kept away from me.” He left the room while Emma stared after him in speechless fury.

The battle over Jacob was interrupted the next day by the arrival of Mr. Robert Soames. The middle-aged artist had rapidly gained a reputation for his miraculous restorations of artwork that had been damaged by age and mistreatment. Emma liked Soames immediately. He was gentle and unassuming, without any of the pretensions that she expected of people who belonged to the world of art. His lean, pale face was pleasant but unremarkable, except for a pair of piercing blue eyes. The decaying landscape seemed to interest Soames very much, and he accepted the job of uncovering the hidden painting with apparent eagerness.

“It may be nothing very noteworthy,” he told Emma with a pragmatic shrug. “Or it may be something quite special. I suspect within a fortnight we'll have a good idea of what lies underneath the landscape, Your Highness.”

A guest room was prepared, and Mr. Soames moved a few personal belongings into the manor for the duration of his labor. Emma and Jacob came to visit his workroom every day to catch glimpses of the emerging picture. They never stayed for long, because even with the windows opened wide, the fumes of the solvents Soames used made the air sharp and pungent.

“The trick is in removing the top layers without disturbing the bottom ones,” Soames told them, working on the canvas with delicate brushes. “One can't help but lose a bit of the original, even if it's only the smallest fraction of one layer of paint. I must be careful not to rob the portrait of the texture the artist intended.”

“Is it a portrait?” Emma asked.

“Oh, without a doubt. See this corner? That is definitely a section of a gentleman's hand.”

“I hope it's an Angelovsky ancestor,” Emma said, and patted Jacob's small shoulder as he came closer to inspect the painting. “One of your relatives, Jake. Wouldn't that be interesting?”

The boy responded with a noncommittal grunt. He either didn't understand or didn't care for the concept of being an Angelovsky descendant.

“Yes, it would be,” Emma said firmly, answering her own question. She wandered over to a nearby window, then half sat on the ledge. “Really, Jake, you're about to talk my ears off. You must try to keep your mouth from running away with you.”