Portrait of My Heart (15 page)
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Evers said, with some indignation. “Do you think I would have disturbed your rest had I not been absolutely sure—”
“The Star of Jaipur is right here,” Jeremy said, turning away from the mirror and looking, a bit confusedly, at all
the trunks piled on the floor. “Well, somewhere around here. Peters, where is it?”
the trunks piled on the floor. “Well, somewhere around here. Peters, where is it?”
“Right ’ere, Colonel.” The valet bent and, after rooting about in the bottom of one of the trunks for a few seconds, straightened, and held out a small velvet sack.
“Right,” Jeremy said. “Toss it here, would you, old mate?” The valet obliged, and Jeremy caught the bag on the fly, one-handed. Then, overturning the sack so its contents fell out into his palm, Jeremy extended his hand toward Evers, revealing a gem the size of a baby’s fist, and the color of a Mediterranean sea. “Here it is, Evers. The Star of Jaipur. Quite safe and sound.”
Evers stared at the sapphire in confusion. “But … forgive me, Your Grace … . If
that
is the Star of Jaipur, then who is the young Indian lady standing downstairs in the foyer?”
that
is the Star of Jaipur, then who is the young Indian lady standing downstairs in the foyer?”
If Evers had feared for his life before, it was nothing compared to how he felt when he caught a glimpse of the duke’s face as these words registered.
The Earl of Althorpe’s eldest daughter was not what anyone would consider a handsome girl. In fact, with her buck teeth, complete lack of chin, and figure running to fat, due to the amount of sweets she consumed, one could safely call her ugly … though Maggie hadn’t the slightest intention of doing so. After all, she’d been lucky—very lucky, indeed—to have been the artist commissioned to paint the Honorable Miss Althorpe’s portrait. Other artists had vied for the honor—and the several hundred pounds that accompanied that honor—but Maggie had been chosen, and chosen over portrait painters of considerably more renown.
But though they might have been more well-known, none of them managed, in their initial sample sketches, to capture Cordelia Althorpe’s single beauty—her jewellike, almost iridescent green eyes. None of them, that is, with the exception of Maggie, who, staring at the unfortunate Cordelia with something akin to despair, desperately seeking to find
something
attractive about the girl, finally noticed the eyes, almost hidden between folds of fat.
something
attractive about the girl, finally noticed the eyes, almost hidden between folds of fat.
And, Maggie thought, with a feeling of satisfaction, as she stood sipping a glass of champagne beneath the finished portrait, if the bright-eyed, smiling girl in the painting bore little resemblance to the rather dour Cordelia, at least her parents were happy, and had come through with the handsome—and much-needed—check right on schedule, just as
Maggie had completed the portrait in time for the cotillion given in the sitter’s honor.
Maggie had completed the portrait in time for the cotillion given in the sitter’s honor.
“That,” an amused voice intoned, just right of Maggie’s ear, “is nothing short of a miracle.”
Turning her head, Maggie smiled up at her fiancé. “I couldn’t agree more,” she said, with mock solemnity. “The fact that anyone would pay so much money for a piece of canvas with paint splattered on it is simply shocking.”
“Not
that,
Mademoiselle Herbert.” Augustin de Veygoux chuckled. “I’m talking about the clever way in which you managed to make Cordelia Althorpe, a remarkably unattractive young woman, pass for pretty, without committing an absolute act of perjury.”
that,
Mademoiselle Herbert.” Augustin de Veygoux chuckled. “I’m talking about the clever way in which you managed to make Cordelia Althorpe, a remarkably unattractive young woman, pass for pretty, without committing an absolute act of perjury.”
Maggie looked quickly away, but did not manage to suppress her smile. “You insult me, monsieur. I am a portrait painter. I do not embellish. I paint exactly what I see.”
“Then would that I saw the world through your eyes, mademoiselle,” her fiance laughed. “For they are surely the most benevolent lenses imaginable. They see beauty everywhere, especially where there is none at all to be seen.”
“Vous êtes un homme horrible,”
Maggie chastised, raising her fan to tap it playfully against his chest. “The Honorable Miss Althorpe is an accomplished young woman. She sings and plays most admirably. What she lacks in beauty, she makes up for with talent.”
Maggie chastised, raising her fan to tap it playfully against his chest. “The Honorable Miss Althorpe is an accomplished young woman. She sings and plays most admirably. What she lacks in beauty, she makes up for with talent.”
“With money, you mean.” Augustin looked across the vast ballroom, at the opposite end of which the young lady in question was consuming a large puff pastry, ignoring everyone and everything else around her. “The only reason any man would condescend to marry that creature is for her money.”
Maggie opened her fan and began to employ it. Though it was February, the ballroom was not particularly large, and had grown a trifle warm from all the bodies crowded into it. “What a dreadful thing to say. Really, Augustin. There’s no need to be cruel.”
“It is not I who is cruel,
ma chérie,
but the world,” Augustin de Veygoux said lightly. “Unattractive, uninteresting women like Cordelia Althorpe have no hope of marrying for
love. Unless they find themselves attracted to an equally uninteresting, unattractive man. But how often does something like that happen? No, I’m sorry to pain you, mademoiselle, but the Honorable Miss Cordelia’s appeal lies only in her papa’s purse.”
ma chérie,
but the world,” Augustin de Veygoux said lightly. “Unattractive, uninteresting women like Cordelia Althorpe have no hope of marrying for
love. Unless they find themselves attracted to an equally uninteresting, unattractive man. But how often does something like that happen? No, I’m sorry to pain you, mademoiselle, but the Honorable Miss Cordelia’s appeal lies only in her papa’s purse.”
Maggie glared at him. “That may very well be true, but you needn’t say so out loud. You can’t know how thankful I am that I need never worry about overhearing someone say the same of me.”
Augustin smiled. “Now, you,
ma chérie,
a man would marry if you were as poor as a church mouse—”
ma chérie,
a man would marry if you were as poor as a church mouse—”
“But I am,” Maggie reminded him. “I
am
poor as a church mouse! That’s what I meant. No one would marry me for my money, because I haven’t any.”
am
poor as a church mouse! That’s what I meant. No one would marry me for my money, because I haven’t any.”
“Yes,” Augustin agreed. “But you have something considerably more appealing than money.”
“Do I?” Maggie looked dubious. “What is that?”
Augustin smiled wickedly down at her.
“Votre silhouette, naturellement,”
he said, and watched with delight as a blush suffused her cheeks, as he’d known it would.
“Votre silhouette, naturellement,”
he said, and watched with delight as a blush suffused her cheeks, as he’d known it would.
Maggie, very much aware that her face had grown hot at his reference to her figure, glanced around anxiously to see if he had been overheard. As sophisticated as she told herself she was, remarks about her looks still tended to embarrass her. She would have thought that after five years in Paris, she’d be used to flattery, bored with it, even. After all, French men, unlike English ones, were quite vocal in their admiration of a pretty girl, even in such civilized settings as salons and private balls, and Maggie had been admired everywhere she went. Unfortunately, statements like Augustin’s only served to make her uncomfortable. Despite what the mirror told her every time she glanced into it, Maggie still thought of herself as the awkward, gangling girl she’d been in her childhood, and vaguely distrusted anyone who claimed to see her as otherwise.
That was not to say that she didn’t trust her fiance. Far from it! Maggie glanced at him over the lace edging of her fan. Augustin de Veygoux, despite his tendency to compliment her too much, was one of the kindest, most trustworthy
people Maggie had ever known. A tall, charismatic man a little over a decade Maggie’s senior, Augustin had been a frequent visitor to Madame Bonheur’s studio, and not just because of Madame’s generosity with her fine cigars. The de Veygoux family was highly respected in the art community. They owned galleries in as many as seven European cities, and one in America, and had a collection of Renaissance paintings rumored to be one of the most valuable in the world. Augustin himself was always searching for new talent to promote in his Parisian salon, and Madame Bonheur, as gifted a businesswoman as she was an artist, saw to it that several of Maggie’s paintings fell his way. It was Augustin who purchased the portrait of Jerry, before ever even having met the painter who rendered it. How soon after finally having met the artist Monsieur de Veygoux’s plans for promoting her work took on a more personal significance, Maggie was never certain, but for the final two years of her stay in Paris, she was rarely without his company of an evening.
people Maggie had ever known. A tall, charismatic man a little over a decade Maggie’s senior, Augustin had been a frequent visitor to Madame Bonheur’s studio, and not just because of Madame’s generosity with her fine cigars. The de Veygoux family was highly respected in the art community. They owned galleries in as many as seven European cities, and one in America, and had a collection of Renaissance paintings rumored to be one of the most valuable in the world. Augustin himself was always searching for new talent to promote in his Parisian salon, and Madame Bonheur, as gifted a businesswoman as she was an artist, saw to it that several of Maggie’s paintings fell his way. It was Augustin who purchased the portrait of Jerry, before ever even having met the painter who rendered it. How soon after finally having met the artist Monsieur de Veygoux’s plans for promoting her work took on a more personal significance, Maggie was never certain, but for the final two years of her stay in Paris, she was rarely without his company of an evening.
She was not in love with him. There had never been any question of that. When Augustin first declared himself, some two or three weeks into their acquaintance, Maggie had only laughed, thinking he was teasing her. When he persisted, however, in pressing his suit, she finally, and very awkwardly, informed him that his feelings for her were in no way returned.
When Augustin walked into a room, her heart did not skip a beat. When he kissed her hand, she felt nothing. Maggie knew what love felt like … knew it only too well. She knew she was not in love with him, and frequently pointed out to him that he deserved better. He certainly could have gotten any other woman he set his mind to, since he was both rich and relatively good-looking, if one was willing to overlook the rather thick shock of red hair that grew in waves from his head.
But Augustin apparently preferred the challenge of wooing the only woman in the world who was hopelessly, irrevocably, in love with another—though whether or not Augustin ever guessed this was the case, she never knew.
The closest she ever came to admitting to the existence of such a person was the day her mother died.
The closest she ever came to admitting to the existence of such a person was the day her mother died.
Augustin, who’d insisted upon escorting Maggie back to England upon learning the gravity of Lady Herbert’s illness, had been there when Mr. Parks, the surgeon, made his solemn announcement. He had been witness to Sir Arthur’s horrible reaction to the news. It was Augustin who consulted with the vicar about the funeral arrangements, Augustin who sent the messenger to Maggie’s eldest sister, Anne, trapped in London in the ninth month of her fourth pregnancy, Augustin who consoled the servants as they draped black cloths over the mirrored panels in the dining room.
And it had been Augustin who found Maggie weeping on the terrace outside her bedroom, despite the autumnal chill in the air. Though he was good with words, the Frenchman chose not to use any at that moment, simply draping his coat over Maggie’s shuddering shoulders and sitting beside her, for all the world as if they were sitting in his box seats at the Paris opera house. When he finally did speak, it was to remind Maggie that his mother was still alive, and that if she would consent to marry him, she would have a living mother still. Granted, she would only be a mother-in-law, but that was better than no mother at all, was it not?
While the inappropriateness of this remark might have made Maggie laugh despite her tears at any other time, at that particular moment, she felt nothing but shame. Because for the first time that day, she hadn’t been crying for her mother at all, but for herself. Despite her sisters’ efforts to hide it from her, she had seen that morning’s
Times
, with the story of Jeremy’s amazing victory in Jaipur—he had almost single-handedly deflected a rebellious faction’s attempt to burn down the Palace of the Winds—as well as the highly unusual reward he’d subsequently been granted by the maharajah.
The Times
had added the latter almost as an afterthought, the exciting story’s quaint epilogue, which had most of London snickering. Imagine, in this day and age, proffering a human being as a reward for bravery! Why, the abolitionists were certainly going to be up in arms about this one!
Times
, with the story of Jeremy’s amazing victory in Jaipur—he had almost single-handedly deflected a rebellious faction’s attempt to burn down the Palace of the Winds—as well as the highly unusual reward he’d subsequently been granted by the maharajah.
The Times
had added the latter almost as an afterthought, the exciting story’s quaint epilogue, which had most of London snickering. Imagine, in this day and age, proffering a human being as a reward for bravery! Why, the abolitionists were certainly going to be up in arms about this one!
But to Maggie, that small detail—that Jeremy had been offered, and had apparently accepted, since there was no mention in the paper that the maharajah’s reward had been turned down, an Indian princess for his very own—was hardly quaint, and definitely not amusing. It quite literally devastated her. It had been nearly five years since she’d last seen him, and in all that time, she’d never received a single communication from him to indicate that he even remembered her existence. And why should he? She was only a girl with whom he’d once dallied in a stable, that was all. Why, when he could have an Indian princess, would he ever want Maggie Herbert?
Shameful as it was to be crying over something so ridiculous on the day of her mother’s death, that’s exactly what Maggie had been doing when Augustin proposed to her, for what turned out to be the final time. Final because, when she had collected herself enough to speak, she said yes.
She was not so grief-stricken as to be unaware of how much Augustin had done for her family during her mother’s dreadful last days. What had Jeremy Rawlings ever done for her? Nothing! In the whole of the time he’d been away, he had never once written. He had not even sent any messages through his family. He had not, as far as she knew, ever wasted a passing thought on Maggie since that day in the stables. What was she doing, giving up a perfectly good marriage proposal, from a perfectly good man, for someone who hadn’t bothered to send her so much as a line in years, and who had gone and gotten himself saddled with an Indian princess in the bargain?
And Augustin had done so much for her! The very least she could do was try to make him happy. Maggie knew good and well she would never love any man but the Duke of Rawlings, but she and Augustin were quite good friends, and she was genuinely fond of him. That was more than many married couples had, friendship and affection, wasn’t it?
And so rather than turning Augustin down yet again, as she might have, had she not happened to see the newspaper that day, Maggie agreed to marry him instead. What else could she do?
Still fanning herself, Maggie looked up at Augustin as he turned to greet some acquaintances of his. True, his shock of red hair was unfortunate. On a woman, it might have been flamboyant, but on a man, it looked … well, as Berangère put it, distracting. And his mother! There was no doubt that Augustin’s mother was a trial. But he would make a good husband, Maggie knew.
And she needed a good husband. She couldn’t go the whole of her life pining away after a man who hadn’t spared a thought for her in five years. Five years! Oh, there was that letter he’d said he’d written. Perhaps he
had
written. But what did a single letter mean? Nothing. She obviously meant nothing to him. She had only been one woman in a whole string of them with whom he’d once passed a pleasant afternoon. It was only because she’d been so naive, so inexperienced, that she’d fallen in love with him. Well, she was going to fall
out
of love with him. She didn’t care how long it took. She would
not
go the rest of her life loving Jeremy Rawlings. She would
not.
had
written. But what did a single letter mean? Nothing. She obviously meant nothing to him. She had only been one woman in a whole string of them with whom he’d once passed a pleasant afternoon. It was only because she’d been so naive, so inexperienced, that she’d fallen in love with him. Well, she was going to fall
out
of love with him. She didn’t care how long it took. She would
not
go the rest of her life loving Jeremy Rawlings. She would
not.
So intently was she meditating on this particular resolve that she didn’t, at first, hear the sudden lull in the conversation around her. Despite her assertions, half a decade before, that a ballroom was the last place on earth in which she’d ever feel at ease, Maggie had gotten well-used to the noise and the heat and the jostling. Consequently, there was nothing that caught her attention faster in a ballroom than a voice lowered to a whisper. Folding her fan, Maggie glanced interestedly at Augustin’s companions. She recognized them immediately as Lord and Lady Mitchell, whose collection of Flemish paintings rivaled the de Veygoux family’s, and with whom Augustin was frequently in friendly competition at auctions. Both the Mitchells and Augustin were peering at someone on the dance floor, their backs to Maggie.
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