A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(7)

“In her last letter, Alice said that Father had confided in her that he’d held hopes I would endeavor to capture the interest of a lordly widower. Perhaps even Lord Melbourne.”

Melbourne currently served as the home secretary and was expected to one day reach as high as prime minister.

Her lips twisted sourly. “She even recorded his remark that, though nine-and-twenty, my beauty still rivaled that of any debutante, and so he’d expected me to reach higher.”

“She must have choked on her spleen writing that,” I replied, knowing well the jealousy Alice felt toward her younger sister for not only being more beautiful but also having wed a man of higher rank. I was glad her sister had been unable to travel to Scotland, and thus Charlotte had been saved from her malicious company.

“Which means it must be true. She would never have been able to stomach sharing such a thing otherwise, not without knowing it would hurt me.” She flushed angrily. “She even suggested Melbourne would be glad to have me as a wife to give him another son. One without complications.”

Such a comment was unspeakably cruel on many levels.

“I take it you haven’t told her of your difficulties,” I said, knowing Charlotte was unable to conceive children.

“Heavens, no! And have her throw it back in my face at every opportunity?” She laughed scornfully. “No, she can never know. And neither can my father.”

“I’m sorry, Charlotte,” I murmured.

She flicked her hand as if to say what was done was done.

“But just because your father thought and said those things doesn’t mean he won’t approve of your marriage to Rye.” I took hold of her hands before she hopelessly wrinkled her gown and squeezed them between my own. “You said yourself that they’d barely met. With more time, I’m sure he’ll come to love Rye. You’ll see.”

Though, truth be told, I wasn’t certain I cared much for his good opinion—for Rye or myself. Not while knowing he’d heartily approved of Charlotte’s first husband, Lord Stratford. Stratford might have been an earl, and a wealthy one at that, but he had also been a score of years older than Charlotte, and a notorious rake and scoundrel. I supposed I couldn’t hold it against Lord Ledbury that Stratford had also proven capable of murder, as that had happened years after they’d wed. But the very fact that Ledbury should have been so eager to see his na?ve and innocent daughter married to such a depraved man like Stratford, and yet was possibly unwilling to embrace a good and kindly man like Rye, told me all I needed to know about his character.

However, I said none of this to Charlotte, hoping it would be unnecessary for me to point it out. In any case, whether it was my reasoning or my determined optimism that persuaded her, I was relieved to see a glimmer of assurance in her eyes. “You’re right. I’m borrowing trouble, aren’t I?” She exhaled a long breath and then nodded determinedly. “I’ll stop anticipating the worst.”

“Good.” I smiled in encouragement. “It’s going to be a lovely wedding, Charlotte. And I couldn’t be happier for you both.”

Her cheeks reddened again, though this time for a much more pleasant reason, and then she pushed to her feet. “I’m on my way to the nursery. Are you coming?”

“No, Emma should still be napping,” I replied, knowing she was under Mrs. Mackay’s careful watch. “I thought I’d take the opportunity to view some of the paintings Lord Barbreck has been bragging about.”

An impish twinkle lit her eyes. “I could fetch him for you, if you’d like the full tour.”

I clasped my hands together to plead. “Please, be merciful.”

She laughed, turning toward the stairs. “I’m going to tell him you said that.”

“No, you won’t,” I replied as she pattered up the steps.

She glanced over her shoulder to make a face at me before hurrying on.

I grinned at her retreating figure until it disappeared and then turned to the large painting hung on the wall next to the bench. It was a winter landscape composed of skeletal trees, snow-covered houses, and ice skaters on a frozen river, either painted by Pieter Bruegel the Elder—as its gilded frame proclaimed—or his son. It was hung in an awkward setting, half in light and half in shadow, which made it difficult to appreciate the painting in the manner in which it should have been.

As such, I turned from it rather quickly and then slowly made my way up the stairs, scrutinizing the portraits which hung above the stairs, sometimes as many as three high. The paintings hung at such a great height were too far away to be satisfactorily studied, but those closest to my eye level provided enough meat to my senses that I could not be too disappointed. Paintings by some of the greatest portraitists were hung next to lesser artists. Reynolds, Gainsborough, Hogarth, Holbein. I was dizzy with delight. Whether or not the subjects of the paintings were related to Barbreck Manor and the family in some way, I would have to ask Lord Barbreck, but I suspected many of them were not. Their features were too varied, too dissimilar. It seemed clear that most of the portraits had been collected purely in appreciation of the artists and not the person portrayed.

I stood for a long time in front of a Rembrandt on the flight of stairs leading to the second floor, examining the brushstrokes and the way he portrayed character and emotion. One of my various art tutors had pointed out the manner in which he reflected light from the nose and the cheekbone into the eye socket, channeling it there in a brilliant illusion that the untrained eye would not detect, and so every time I saw a new Rembrandt, I looked for that effect.