“So I’ve heard,” Colin responded, his voice dry as winter wheat. “My father didn’t possess the most prudent of souls.”
“No, but it is my understanding that you do. And to be honest, I find the situation has a rather impressive irony to it.”
“That is one way to look at it. I’m merely relieved you don’t hold his idiosyncrasies against me.” Actually, Colin was relieved about a lot of things. The marquis wasn’t at all what he had been expecting.
“A man can be responsible only for his own actions. Which brings us quite neatly to you.”
Here was the talk he had been waiting for. “Yes, sir. I’ve one more year at the Inns of Court—”
Granville’s upraised hand stopped him midsentence. “I’ve read quite enough about your prospects, Sir Colin. What I wish to know is how you will treat my daughter and what you expect from her.”
Not a question he would have ever anticipated from the Marquis of Granville. And not a question to be taken lightly. The older man watched him with keen eyes, a subtle warning that what Colin said mattered to him.
“Lady Beatrice is a remarkable woman, my lord. It is my wish to provide for her a house in which she can be comfortable, a studio in which she can paint, and a marriage in which she can be loved and honored.”
“And in return you expect what from her?”
“It is my wish for her to be a contented wife, a reliable mistress of my household, and a devoted mother to our future children. She already hails from a family that values hard work, so I have no doubt she will thrive as the wife of a baronet barrister.”
Granville’s eyes softened the slightest bit at that compliment to his work ethic. One didn’t run a thriving horse-breeding business without hard work and dedication. “I see. My daughter is accustomed to the finest things in life. Two thousand a year is a pittance compared to the wealth she was raised in.”
Is that what the man thought was important to Beatrice? Colin held his ground, refusing to be cowed by Granville’s blunt words. “Your daughter is accustomed to a loving family. She will be welcomed most joyfully into mine, I am certain. Her needs will always be met, and she will of course be able to spend her marriage settlement in any way she chooses. But it is my belief, sir, that so long as she has her paints, most everything in life is secondary to her.”
This time the marquis actually smiled as he leaned back in his chair and templed his fingers. “It appears my son was correct. Clearly you have an understanding of what makes Beatrice happy. And only a simpleton would miss the fondness with which you speak of her. I am well aware that many of the
Colin blinked, working to keep the surprise from his face. Unexpected emotion welled up within him at the approval in the older man’s voice. Certainly not a sentiment he was used to from his own father. “Thank you, sir. I am deeply honored to not only be gaining a wonderful wife, but to be joining your fine family as well.”
As they rose and shook hands, Colin let go of the stress that had plagued him since the debt collectors showed up at his door. For a short amount of time, he would keep his secret from Beatrice, but once they were married, all would be well. He would have a wife he loved, a family he could count on, and the estate safely preserved for the next generation.
The wedding couldn’t come fast enough.
The old man didn’t even look up from his inventory as he held up a hand, more in acknowledgment than greeting. “I will be with you in just a moment.” The last word was said with a hard “T,” emphasizing the English version of the word.
Bent at the waist as he was, all Beatrice could see was the top of Monsieur Allard’s dark cap and the tufts of white hair poking out in disarray. She walked up to the counter and peeked over at what new supplies he had just received. “Oh, I love those broad-handled new brushes.”
“Broad handles for broad hands, my lady. They would rest like bricks in your fingers.” Brushing off his hands, he straightened slowly, eyeing her over the rims of his spectacles. “Was there something you needed?”
It was beyond her why the man was so endearing to her. He was abrupt with her at every turn. Although, come to think of it, that might be exactly why. So many people groveled or kowtowed to a woman of her station. Monsieur Allard gave no special treatment, and his gruff manner made her like him all the more. And there was the small issue of him helping her with the engravings.
“Yes, indeed. Apparently, I have quite a fascination with shades of gray lately. I’m very nearly out of both black and white pigments.”
Nodding, he turned and rifled through his stores, coming up with two small pots. “Is that all?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He shook his head, wrapping up her purchase with slow but steady hands. “You do realize that footmen are very good at fetching such things.”
“Remarkably, so am I,” she said, not at all offended by his usual grumbling, “especially when I have good news to share. Or perhaps you may think it bad, since you soon may be deprived of my patronage.”
His bushy eyebrows rose the slightest amount—a veritable outpouring of emotion for him. “Yes?”
She grinned hugely, not caring for once that her crooked front tooth was on display. “I’m getting married.”
She had his attention now. “Married?”
“Indeed. And you will never guess who my betrothed is—or, rather, who his father was.” She could hardly wait to tell him, a fellow artist. Normal people might appreciate what Tate had achieved, but a true artist was in awe of him. With her hands gripping the edge of the counter, she leaned forward. “Sir Frederick Tate.”
Monsieur Allard’s mouth opened in surprise, and his eyes blinked rapidly behind his spectacles. “The famous painter? That is . . . I mean to say . . . My lady, I don’t know what to say.”
“Congratulations is perfectly acceptable, I assure you,” she teased, floating with happiness. It was hard to imagine how a single person could be so unaccountably fortunate.
“But . . . your letters.” He shook his head, his brow crumpled together like a discarded piece of parchment. “I do not understand.”
She cocked her head. “What do the letters have to do with this? I can still write them, after the marriage.” The Frenchman wasn’t making a lick of sense.
“That’s not what I meant. Your letters were so fiercely against the fortune hunter.” He raised his shoulders to his ears, his hands spread palm up. “How could you marry a man who is
“Eh, how to say . . . ?” He shook his head, trying to recall the translation. All at once his expression cleared, and he snapped his fingers. “Bankrupt!”
The word reverberated in her head like a cannon shot, echoing over and over as she stared at him with her mouth wide open. “Bankrupt?” Her voice was a ragged whisper, unfamiliar to her own ears. “Sir Colin Tate is
Saying the words together was almost as absurd as saying Sir Colin Tate is purple, or Sir Colin Tate is Chinese. Her brain couldn’t seem to reconcile them.
The whole situation was made all the more odd by Monsieur Allard’s use of his native language. He was just as unnerved as she was, especially as it became obvious she had no idea what on earth he was talking about.
