Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(67)

West’s thoughts were drawn back to the present as Phoebe led him to a spacious reception room with silk-paneled walls and a gilded ceiling. Above the marble fireplace hung a large three-quarter-length portrait of a young man. A slant of light from the windows caused his face to glow as if with its own illumination.

Fascinated, West drew closer to the portrait.

“Henry,” he said, with a faint, questioning lilt.

Phoebe nodded, coming to stand beside him.

The young man was clad in a loosely painted suit, shadows hollowing the fabric here and there. He posed next to a library table with a touch of self-conscious grace, one hand resting lightly on a stack of books. A handsome and touchingly vulnerable man, dark-eyed and chiseled, his complexion as fine as porcelain. Although his face had been rendered with precise edges, the borders of his coat and trousers were softly blurred, seeming to melt into the dark background. As if the portrait’s subject had begun to disappear even as he was being painted.

Staring at the portrait with him, Phoebe said, “People always tend to idealize the departed. But I want the boys to understand their father was a wonderful, mortal man with flaws, not an unapproachable saint. Otherwise, they’ll never really know him.”

“What flaws?” West asked gently.

Her lips pursed as she considered the question thoughtfully. “He was often elusive. In the world, but not of it. Part of that was because of his illness, but he also didn’t like unpleasantness. He avoided anything that was ugly or upsetting.” She turned to face him. “Henry was so determined to think of me as perfect that it devastated him when I was petty or cross or careless. I wouldn’t want—” Phoebe paused.

“What?” West prompted after a long moment.

“I wouldn’t want to live with such expectations again. I’d rather not be worshipped, but accepted for all that I am, good and bad.”

A wave of tenderness came over West as he looked into her upturned face. He longed to tell her how completely he accepted her, wanted her, how he adored her every strength and frailty. “I’ve never thought of you as perfect,” he told her flatly, and she laughed. “Still,” he continued, his tone gentling, “it would be hard not to worship you. I’m afraid you don’t behave nearly badly enough to bring my feelings into proportion.”

A hint of mischief glittered in Phoebe’s light gray eyes. “If that’s a challenge, I accept.”

“It’s not a challenge,” he said quickly, but she didn’t appear to hear as she led him from the room.

They went to a glass-and-stone corridor connecting the main block of the house to one of the side wings. Sunlight poured through the paned windows, warming the corridor agreeably.

“The guest cottage can be reached through the east wing,” Phoebe said, “or by way of the winter garden.”

“Winter garden?”

She smiled at his interest. “It’s my favorite place in the house. Come, I’ll show you.”

The winter garden turned out to be a glass conservatory, two stories high and at least one hundred and twenty feet long. Lush ornamental trees, ferns, and palms filled the space, as well as artificial rock formations and a little streamlet stocked with goldfish. West’s opinion of the house climbed even higher as he looked around the winter garden. Eversby Priory had a conservatory, but it wasn’t half as large and lofty as this.

An odd little noise seized his attention. A series of noises, actually, like the squeaking of toy balloons releasing air. Bemused, he looked down at a trio of black-and-white kittens roaming around his feet.

Phoebe laughed at his expression. “This room is also the cats’ favorite.”

A wondering smile spread across West’s face as he saw the sleek black feline arching against Phoebe’s skirts. “Good Lord. Is that Galoshes?”

Phoebe bent to stroke the cat’s lustrous fur. “It is. She loves to come here to terrorize the goldfish. We’ve had to cover the stream with mesh wire until the kittens are older.”

“When I gave her to you—” West began slowly.

“Foisted,” she corrected.

“Foisted,” he agreed ruefully. “Was she already—”

“Yes,” Phoebe said with a severe glance. “She was a Trojan cat.”

West tried to look contrite. “I had no idea.”

Her lips quirked. “You’re forgiven. She turned out to be a lovely companion. And the boys have been delighted to have the kittens to play with.”

After prying one of the kittens from his trousers as it tried to climb his leg, West set it down carefully.

“Shall we continue to the guest cottage?” Phoebe asked.

Knowing he couldn’t trust himself with her if there was a bedroom in the vicinity, West suggested, “Let’s stay here for a moment.”

Obligingly Phoebe sat on the stone steps that formed part of a bridge over the goldfish stream. She arranged her skirts to keep them from bunching beneath her and folded her hands in her lap.

West sat beside her, occupying a lower step so their faces were level. “Will you tell me what happened with Edward Larson?” he asked quietly.

Relief flashed across her face as if she were eager to unburden herself. “First,” she said, “will you promise not to say anything insulting about him?”