He paused at the top. The view wasn’t as expansive as the one from King Henry’s Mound, but it was charming: a grassy hillside, stands of trees.
To his right, beneath the shade of an oak tree, a rug was spread on the ground. Aunt Seraphina was its sole occupant. She lay dozing.
He heard the drowsy hum of bees, the soft whisper of long grass in the breeze, his aunt’s gentle snores—and girlish laughter.
Adam walked quietly past Aunt Seraphina. On the other side of the oak tree a second rug had been spread, overlooking the meadow. The girls knelt on it, their heads bent together. They had removed their bonnets. Their curls mingled—golden and nut-brown and dark sable—as they looked at something Miss Knightley held. He heard a squeal of laughter, a delighted giggle.
“Do another one!” Grace begged.
“Oh, yes!” cried Hetty Wootton. “Do! Please!”
“Another what?” Adam asked.
Three heads turned towards him.
For a moment he couldn’t breathe. He’d never seen anything more beautiful, more perfect, than the laughing curve of Arabella Knightley’s lips, the dimple in her cheek, the mischief brimming in her dark eyes.
Desire clenched in his chest. He wanted her more than he’d wanted any woman in his life.
Equally intense, and far more disturbing, was a tenderness that made his throat tighten. I want to make her look this happy. I want to make her smile, to make her laugh.
Miss Knightley’s expression sobered. The dimple vanished. She closed her sketchbook.
“Oh, do show him!” Grace begged. “Adam, you have to see this! Bella’s so clever!”
Adam cleared his throat. He tried to remember his purpose: to find Tom. He stepped onto the rug. “May I?” He held out his hand.
After a moment’s hesitation, Miss Knightley gave him her sketchbook.
It was almost full. Only a few pages at the end were still blank. Adam flicked to the last sketch: a cow in a paddock. He looked at it, perplexed. The paddock bore no resemblance to Richmond Park.
He blinked—and looked more closely at the cow. It was Aunt Seraphina. “Good God,” he said.
Grace clapped her hands and gave a choke of laughter.
Adam looked at Miss Knightley. “That’s incredible,” he said. “How did you do it?”
She shrugged lightly.
Adam examined the sketch again. The paddock, the wooden fence, the distant trees, had been drawn using the minimum of pencil strokes—and yet they were vividly real. He could almost see the leaves turning in the breeze, almost smell the grass. The cow had been sketched quickly—and yet in a few deft lines, she’d made it alive. It was about to breathe, about to blink its large eyes.
He studied it, frowning. How could the cow be a cow, and yet also a person?
It was the eyes, he decided. And something in the curve of cheek, in the mouth, in the way it held its head.
There was no meanness in the sketch. Mischief, yes—but no malice. The cow gazed at him, placid, benign, beautiful—and unmistakably Aunt Seraphina.
“Look at the other ones!” Grace urged.
Obediently, he turned the page—and found himself staring at a ballroom in which were a peacock, a cockerel, and a toad. He laughed involuntarily. “Revelstoke?” he said, glancing at Miss Knightley.
Her lips quirked slightly in a smile. He saw a glimmer of laughter in her eyes.
Adam examined the sketch. The peacock was unmistakably the Marquis of Revelstoke, just as the cow had been unmistakably Aunt Seraphina. It was a resplendent creature, its tail outspread in magnificent display, the crest sitting atop its head like an absurd little crown. He recognized Jeremy in the impish gleam in the peacock’s eye, in the sly amusement of its beak.
The peacock had been drawn with a kindly hand; the toad and the cockerel had not. The toad sat to one side of the page. It had Lady Bicknell’s broad, flat face, Lady Bicknell’s wide mouth. It was squat and . . . Adam searched for the word. Malevolent. The toad was squat and malevolent. Just like Lady Bicknell.
He glanced at Arabella Knightley. If nothing else told him she was in league with Tom, this caricature did. She knew Lady Bicknell was a blackmailer.
The cockerel wasn’t malevolent, but it was foolish and strutting and conceited, with a puffed-out chest and absurdly scrawny legs. Its plumage was gaudy and tasteless. Adam studied the sketch with pleasure. She’d captured Sir Arnold Gorrie’s inflated ego, his crassness, perfectly. I would love Gorrie to see this.
He turned the page—and found himself staring at a stag atop a hill.
Adam glanced sharply at Miss Knightley. She was examining her fingernails.
He looked back at the stag. It was definitely him.
The stag was a handsome creature, magnificently built. It stood on top of the hill, holding its head proudly and looking haughtily down its nose.
Adam stared at the stag. It gazed back at him, certain of its superiority.
He knew exactly what Miss Knightley thought of him.
Arrogant.
Adam felt himself flush. He hurriedly turned the page.
This sketch was of a familiar view. Here was the oak tree, the rug spread on the ground, the picnic basket.
On the rug sat a fluffy white kitten. He recognized it instantly: Grace. It was quite the most beautiful kitten he’d ever seen. Such wide, innocent eyes, such sweetness in its face.
Perched on the handle of the picnic basket was a plump, cheerful robin. Its head was cocked to one side. He saw bright intelligence and curiosity in its eyes. Hetty Wootton.
He turned the page again. Here was the same view, but drawn without caricature. Two girls sat on the rug, their heads bent over their sketchbooks. The scene was drawn with a deft, unerring hand. Miss Knightley had used the barest of detail, and yet he could see the grass heads nodding in the breeze, the pattern on the rug, the crisp ruffles of lace trimming the dresses.
On the next page—
Adam held his breath for a moment, and then touched the
