thread. “
“Moreland has ever been a reliable correspondent. He says Her Grace has insisted that the artists be left to their work and disturbed as little as possible, lest her present not be completed by the Christmas Eve open house.”
“I have eleven other children to look after, Flint. I am not spending my Christmas Eve in some bouncing sleigh, freezing my—” She fell silent, her French grasp of subtleties stealing the rest of her outburst. “Artist
“Elijah has asked for Lady Jenny’s aid in the studio, but His Grace says it has turned into some sort of art lesson for his daughter. She’s handy with a paintbrush, according to her father.”
Flint leaned closer to the candelabrum, as if to see the words more clearly. He was in fact thwarting his wife’s impulse to snatch the letter from his hands.
Charlotte stabbed her fabric as if it were the villain in a bad farce. “Handy with a paintbrush? That is ridiculous. That is a man who does not comprehend portraiture. That is a papa who is not paying attention. If Elijah says the girl is talented, then she’s likely a genius.”
“Perhaps.”
She looked over at him, arching a Gallic eyebrow that had captivated him across many a ballroom and every one of their bedrooms. “Flint, you try my patience worse than all your sons put together. What else does His Grace say?”
He chose his words carefully, because Prudholm had stopped shifting and sighing and using every other aggravating means to remind his parents of his presence. If Oxford was to continue benefiting from Flint’s largesse, they’d give in to his pleading and start Hilary term on Boxing Day.
“He implies that his sons and daughters have a tacitly agreed-to schedule, upon which they routinely intrude on the studio—to look for missing children, to extend an invitation to tea, to inquire about the whereabouts of a particular cat.”
His marchioness made an impatient wave with a graceful hand.
He got to the point, to the troubling, puzzling point. “They none of them report anything of a questionable nature when they drop in unannounced, though neither Elijah nor Lady Jenny is willing to let anyone inspect their works in progress.”
For a moment, Lady Flint was silent, and this was exactly why Flint hadn’t waited to bring matters to her attention. What could it mean that Elijah was closeted with an artistically talented, pretty, available young lady for hours at a time, and not one hint of impropriety could be discovered in his dealings with her? What did it mean that for the first time in nine years—nearly ten—their firstborn had mentioned a young, lovely, unmarried, well-dowered woman of suitable station in his correspondence?
“Elijah is probably preoccupied with whether to join us here this year for the holidays,” her ladyship observed. She held her hoop at arm’s length, studying a scene of snowflakes and pine trees so real, Flint expected it to reek of pine boughs.
Pru shifted on his chair and turned the page of a book. The first page he’d turned in more than fifteen minutes.
“Elijah will join us,” Flint muttered. “I have every confidence he’ll heed his mother’s summons.”
“I do not summon anybody, Flint.”
Prudholm’s book snapped closed, and he exited the room without a word to either parent. A subtle and wearying tension left with him.
“Your youngest son makes a poor spy for his siblings,” her ladyship said. She glanced at the door through which their baby boy had just stalked. “Flint, you must not worry. That Elijah does not trouble the young lady means he respects her, and better still, he respects her art. The lady’s siblings collude with her to keep any mention of longing glances and little touches from Their Graces’ notice. All will be well.”
Ah. When she explained it that way, it made perfect sense. As a younger man, Flint had been heedless with many a merry widow, willing chambermaid, and courtesan, but never again once he’d met his Charlotte.
“What is that you’re embroidering, my dear?”
“A shroud for the fools at Oxford who think young men ought to be sent home for the holidays to stomp about the house, nip their papa’s brandy, and tease their sisters.”
“You love that scamp,” Flint said.
She sent him a look, part parental commiseration, part exasperated wife.
“Pru reminds me of you, Flint. He makes the grand gestures and is full of posturing, and it’s all a diversion. The boy is plotting something. Elijah likely is too. The Harrison male is a crafty creature and determined on his goals, something I love about every one of them.”
She counseled, she flattered, she pretended to inspect her embroidery. He would adore this woman until his dying day.
Flint passed her the letters and a pair of his reading glasses.
“I am going to heave this cat at the next Windham sibling who just happens to come through that door without knocking.” Jenny kissed the top of Timothy’s head, so the cat at least would know she was blustering.
Though only just.
Elijah glanced at the clock then resumed studying the side-by-side portraits of the duchess. “We have at least another twenty minutes before the next sneak inspection. Your portrait of Her Grace is superior to mine.”
She put the cat up on the mantel, having realized the room’s higher spaces were warmer than any place closer to the floor. When she turned back to the easels, Elijah was still before them, arms crossed, lips pursed.
What had he been—?
“I beg your pardon. What did you say, Elijah?”
He held out a hand. “I said, your portrait of Her Grace is superior to my own.”
She did not take his hand. “You spend better than a week carping, criticizing, and sniping at my work then pronounce it better than yours?”
He dropped his hand. “I do not snipe.”
“The Duke of Moreland is not a pair of old riding boots, Genevieve,” she quoted, folding her arms.
“He’s not. I’m trying to figure out
She wanted those details too, wanted him to enumerate them, write them down in triplicate. She wanted him to send a copy to
“I think most people have more trouble with your father.” He stepped back. “Color is part of your secret. Your palette is more varied. You have different colors of shadow.”
She was not going to let him start on her shadows. Not when he’d paid her such a fine, rare compliment. “It’s time we took a walk.”
“Yes. Because in”—another look at the clock—“seventeen minutes, one of your sisters will burst in here, all smiles, and ask if you’d like to take the children down to pet the horses’ noses, or get up a game of hoodman- blind.”
She gave Timothy a farewell caress. “I’ve always hated that game. Nothing about being without sight has ever struck me as enjoyable.”
The door swung open, and a shaggy canine behemoth padded in, followed by a dark-haired little girl. “Hullo, Aunt Jen!”
“Bronwyn, hello. Please tell Scout not to knock anything over.”
On the mantel, Timothy had come to attention, though he remained sitting. He hissed at the dog and added a low, menacing growl for good measure.
“Scout, come.”
The dog ignored his owner, another Windham grandchild, this one down from the North with St. Just and his countess. The scent of Elijah’s boots was apparently more compelling than the punishment for indifferent hearing.
