Osgood about it?”
“The man has as much warmth as last Friday’s fire,” Catherine told the duke, her last hope. “I could not appeal to his sympathy or his senses, though Lud knows I tried.” She had wept, whined, and wheedled Bannister into doing something. She’d even tried winding his clock, but the old windbags had no inner workings, it seemed, only an abhorrence of excitement. “Besides, what could he do?”
“He can tell the authorities that you are not insane, for one.”
“What, when they think he is, with his cracked-brain theories? The ton trusts Bannister with their wayward daughters, but no one will take the word of a disgraced doctor over that of a wealthy viscount. Now a duke might be different...”
“I’ll have my solicitor look into the matter as soon as I return to Town. Perhaps if I spoke to Edgecombe, put a flea in his ear, you know.”
“If you put a sword through his black heart, I’d be more grateful. Do you want to know how grateful?”
Kasey could imagine. In fact, he could feel hot breath on the back of his neck, and it was not Castor’s. He sidled to the other side of the horse, to put a mountain of gelding between him and the woman. “Why don’t you, uh, wait until I accomplish something before you shower me with thanks?”
Lady Edgecombe had followed the duke and now poked him with the parasol. “Never say that is the nature of your problem?”
That was not his chest, and that was not what snapped the blasted umbrella in two. “My apologies, ma’am, the brush must have slipped. I’ll pay for a new parasol, of course. That reminds me of a favor that you could do for me, actually, if you are going into the village. Do you think you might be able to purchase a small paint set? Watercolors, nothing expensive or intricate. A few brushes, a pen, a pad of paper?”
“What, do you paint then?”
“Just a bit now and again,” he lied. “I thought it might help pass the time.”
“Ossie won’t like it.”
Kasey untied Castor’s lead, to switch horses. “Sir Osgood likes very little.”
She stepped back, out of the way. “That’s a fact, but are you certain this won’t be more upsetting to him? I shouldn’t like to think of Ossie blaming me for undermining his course of treatment. I have few enough privileges now.”
“What, do you think I am going to paint naughty pictures and hang them in his office? I simply wish to fill the hours. A book only takes so long to read, Patience grows wearisome after a few hands, but there is always something new to paint. And I can hide the whole thing under my mattress so Sir Osgood will never have to know. I doubt the maids will think to look until after I leave.”
Lady Edgecombe sidestepped Castor’s swishing tail. “Perhaps you’ll paint my portrait, then. I’ve never had it done, you know.”
“Oh, I could not do justice to your rare beauty in watercolors. I would need oil paints to capture the depths of expression, the richness of tones. You, madam, are not made for thin pastel pigments.” And Kasey would rather paint Castor’s hind end than have Lady Edgecombe model for him. He shut the door on the bay’s stall.
Catherine was flattered enough, though, to agree to the purchase. Unfortunately, she only had pin money. Sir Osgood permitted her to maintain accounts at a few of the local shops; he did not, naturally, give her enough cash to run off. The duke half emptied his purse, telling her to purchase a gift for herself, besides the new parasol. And some pastries, he added, if she thought she could smuggle the lot back to Bannister Hall.
“You are quite sure?”
He was.
Kasey was a duke in his blue blood, but he was a painter intrinsically, inherently, in his bones. How could he be true to himself if he denied that part of his being? Without art he felt naked, bereft. Surely such emotions could not be healthful. Besides, how was he to know that he was improving if he did not experiment?
“I am sure, with
“The man has as much warmth as last Friday’s fire,” Catherine told the duke, her last hope. “I could not appeal to his sympathy or his senses, though Lud knows I tried.” She had wept, whined, and wheedled Bannister into doing something. She’d even tried winding his clock, but the old windbags had no inner workings, it seemed, only an abhorrence of excitement. “Besides, what could he do?”
“He can tell the authorities that you are not insane, for one.”
“What, when they think he is, with his cracked-brain theories? The ton trusts Bannister with their wayward daughters, but no one will take the word of a disgraced doctor over that of a wealthy viscount. Now a duke might be different...”
“I’ll have my solicitor look into the matter as soon as I return to Town. Perhaps if I spoke to Edgecombe, put a flea in his ear, you know.”
“If you put a sword through his black heart, I’d be more grateful. Do you want to know how grateful?”
Kasey could imagine. In fact, he could feel hot breath on the back of his neck, and it was not Castor’s. He sidled to the other side of the horse, to put a mountain of gelding between him and the woman. “Why don’t you, uh, wait until I accomplish something before you shower me with thanks?”
Lady Edgecombe had followed the duke and now poked him with the parasol. “Never say that is the nature of your problem?”
That was not his chest, and that was not what snapped the blasted umbrella in two. “My apologies, ma’am, the brush must have slipped. I’ll pay for a new parasol, of course. That reminds me of a favor that you could do for me, actually, if you are going into the village. Do you think you might be able to purchase a small paint set? Watercolors, nothing expensive or intricate. A few brushes, a pen, a pad of paper?”
“What, do you paint then?”
“Just a bit now and again,” he lied. “I thought it might help pass the time.”
“Ossie won’t like it.”
Kasey untied Castor’s lead, to switch horses. “Sir Osgood likes very little.”
She stepped back, out of the way. “That’s a fact, but are you certain this won’t be more upsetting to him? I shouldn’t like to think of Ossie blaming me for undermining his course of treatment. I have few enough privileges now.”
“What, do you think I am going to paint naughty pictures and hang them in his office? I simply wish to fill the hours. A book only takes so long to read, Patience grows wearisome after a few hands, but there is always something new to paint. And I can hide the whole thing under my mattress so Sir Osgood will never have to know. I doubt the maids will think to look until after I leave.”
Lady Edgecombe sidestepped Castor’s swishing tail. “Perhaps you’ll paint my portrait, then. I’ve never had it done, you know.”
“Oh, I could not do justice to your rare beauty in watercolors. I would need oil paints to capture the depths of expression, the richness of tones. You, madam, are not made for thin pastel pigments.” And Kasey would rather paint Castor’s hind end than have Lady Edgecombe model for him. He shut the door on the bay’s stall.
Catherine was flattered enough, though, to agree to the purchase. Unfortunately, she only had pin money. Sir Osgood permitted her to maintain accounts at a few of the local shops; he did not, naturally, give her enough cash to run off. The duke half emptied his purse, telling her to purchase a gift for herself, besides the new parasol. And some pastries, he added, if she thought she could smuggle the lot back to Bannister Hall.
“You are quite sure?”
He was.
Kasey was a duke in his blue blood, but he was a painter intrinsically, inherently, in his bones. How could he be true to himself if he denied that part of his being? Without art he felt naked, bereft. Surely such emotions could not be healthful. Besides, how was he to know that he was improving if he did not experiment?
“I am sure, with
Similar Books
