Kent's Orphans: The Prisoner Part 16

"I did it for you, Genevieve."

Her eyes widened. And then she waited for him to qualify it, to say that he had done so because he felt a sense of debt toward her, that he owed her something for all the risks she had taken and the trouble she had gone to on his behalf, and now their account was settled and they could part on equal terms.

He said nothing.

It was this that cracked the wall of resistance she had so carefully constructed against him. A man like Charles would have blathered on incessantly about the whys and wherefores, and what all of this must now mean between them. He would have expected payment of some kind, although not with anything so cra.s.s and simple as money. No, Charles would have expected a debt of grat.i.tude, in which he would forever own some part of her, and whatever she gave of herself would never be sufficient to render the debt paid. But Haydon merely stood there, strong yet strangely vulnerable. It was as if he had opened some long-hidden part of his soul to her, and was now waiting to see whether she would trample upon it or treat it with care.

A desperate longing surged through her, the need to be held by him, to be kissed and stroked and crushed by the glorious power and heat of him. She was suddenly aware of the thinness of her nightdress and the cool air upon her bare legs, the worn, frigid floor beneath her slippered feet, and the promise of warmth from his flesh. She had lived for over eight years amidst a constant blur of people who needed her, children and adults who relied upon her to provide for them, to show them how to be strong and fight back against a world that seemed determined to reduce them to rubble. But until that moment, as she stood staring into Haydon's heart, she had not understood how terribly alone and afraid she had been. And suddenly she could not bear it a moment longer.

With a little sob she ran to him, wrapped her arms fiercely about his neck and crushed her lips to his, losing herself to his powerful longing as she drew him closer to her heart.

Haydon moaned and hauled her slender body against him. The plaid he had wrapped around his waist slid down his legs and puddled upon the floor, leaving him naked. He pressed himself against her, maddeningly aroused by the soft caress of the woolen blanket that was slipping down Genevieve's body. Her thin shawl followed, until finally she was garbed in nothing but the transparent linen sheath of her nightgown, which was worn and plain and thoroughly arousing. He began to fumble with the closures at her neck, kissing her deeply as he did so, but his ardor made his fingers clumsy and the tiny b.u.t.tons refused to yield. With a growl of frustration he tore the fabric apart, exposing her silky cool skin. The night rail trickled down her body with a whisper, leaving both of them naked in the flickering peach light.

"Genevieve," he murmured, his voice rough with awe.

He lifted her up into his arms, enjoying the softness of her cradled against his own muscled body, then kissed her ravenously as he laid her upon the narrow bed. Her hair spilled in glorious red-gold waves across the pillow, and her flesh was luminous against the sun-bleached sheets. He stretched out over her and covered her with himself, plunging his hands into her hair as he stroked and tasted the deepest recesses of her mouth. She was all softness and curves and coolness and heat, and he could not seem to get enough of her.

His hands roamed across her milky flesh, touching and swirling and caressing, learning every inch of her as his tongue swept along the ivory column of her throat, down the fine structure of her collarbone, over the lush hill of her breast. He drew a claret-colored peak into his mouth and suckled long and hard, causing her to moan with pleasure, then went to the other breast and suckled it as well, until both nipples had tightened into swollen buds.

From there he journeyed down, brus.h.i.+ng his lips across the flat of her belly, caressing the velvet cream of her thighs, then pressing his face into the dark triangle between. Genevieve gasped and tried to push him away, but he gripped the slender bones of her wrists and held her firmly. Imprisoning her against the mattress, he dipped his head low and flicked his tongue deep inside her hot, slick opening. She gasped again, but this time it was with pure, undiluted pleasure.

He began to lap at her, tasting her with slow, languid strokes, swirling his tongue in and out, and over the sweet pink petals of her. He found the pearly nub in which her pleasure was centered and he sucked gently upon it, causing her to arch suddenly against him, raising herself up so that he might taste her better.

Genevieve jerked her wrists free of Haydon's grasp and threaded her fingers deep into the ebony mane of his hair, pulling him closer as she opened her legs and wantonly offered herself to him. She felt as if she were melting, and yet she had never felt so incredibly tense. She wanted him to touch her and kiss her and lick her everywhere, to devour her whole, until there was nothing left of her that did not belong to him. The pleasure roiling within her was unbearable, but it wasn't enough, for the more Haydon's tongue and lips swirled and stroked the intimate depths of her, the more she wanted him to taste her faster, harder, more deeply. A terrible ache was blooming far inside her, a tight hollowness that could not be filled by the magnificent caresses he was raining upon her hot, wet womanhood. And then he slowly pressed a finger deep inside her and began to move it in and out in leisurely, deliberate thrusts, dancing in rhythm with the agonizing caresses of his mouth. It was more than she could bear, she was certain of it, and yet it wasn't enough, and so she closed her thighs around the roughness of his jaw and held him fast, taking pleasure in the sandy feel of his cheeks against her silky skin, the scalding slickness of his mouth on her hot, coral cleft, the gloriously deep penetration of his finger as it slipped in and out, exploring and wors.h.i.+ping her until there was nothing but Haydon and the magnificent wet fire that was raging within her.

Suddenly she was gasping for air, tiny, desperate sips of breath that could not fill her bursting lungs, for everything was strained and tight and reaching for more, and Haydon's tongue licked in rapid little strokes at her liquefying flesh while his finger drove deep inside her. And then she was bursting into a shower of stars, which rippled over her in hard, breathless waves. She cried out, a desperate cry of joy and wonder, and as the ripples eased, she clawed at Haydon's shoulders, pulling him up until his powerful body was covering her with naked, hard heat.

Haydon fought for control as he felt his manhood pressing against Genevieve's exquisite wetness. He wanted to plunge deep inside her and take her fast, to slake the unbearable l.u.s.t that was surely going to kill him if he did not sate it immediately. She was a virgin, he reminded himself fiercely, and she required gentle care. And so he claimed her mouth with rough hunger, as his hands roamed the silky hills and valleys of her body, rousing her again until her nails were biting into his rigid shoulders and her legs had twined with his. Unable to bear the torment a moment longer, he entered her, just a little, feeling as if he had died as the scalding slickness of her closed over him.

Genevieve's eyes fluttered open and she regarded him with smoky desire. Then she wrapped her arms tightly around him and opened her legs wider, raising her hips, drawing him farther within. Despite his determination to go slowly, Haydon felt the last thread of his control snap. With a groan he drove himself deep inside, sheathing himself in her hot tightness.

Genevieve gasped.

"I'm sorry, Genevieve," Haydon managed, cursing himself. What the h.e.l.l was the matter with him? he wondered furiously. He had no more control than a schoolboy. He held himself perfectly still, resolving not to move until she had grown accustomed to the feel of him within her. "I think, if we wait a bit, the pain will pa.s.s."

Genevieve blinked and nodded.

"I also think you should breathe," Haydon added after a moment.

Slowly, she exhaled the breath she had been holding.

"Better?"

Actually, it was much better, Genevieve realized, especially when she allowed her body to relax. Longing to be back to where there were no words, she threaded her fingers into his hair and pulled him down so she could kiss him.

Haydon moaned as his tongue tangled with hers. He began to flex slowly within her, swearing to himself that he would be gentle, that he would give her time to be roused once more. But she seemed to be roused already, for she was kissing him deeply as her hands swept across the rigid curves of his shoulders and back and b.u.t.tocks, pulling him into her as she thrust her body against his, opening herself to him and closing herself around him until there was nothing but wetness and heat and the silver sheen that was s.h.i.+mmering on their skin. Again and again he drove into her, overwhelmed by the silky river of her red-blonde hair, the summery hot scent of her skin mingling with the fragrance of her pa.s.sion, the soft, lean beauty of her elegantly sculpted b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hips and legs.

She was everything he had ever wanted, he realized with piercing clarity. And the realization was agony, because he knew she was not his and never would be. He had killed a man and lost his ident.i.ty, and he could not stay without endangering her and the children to whom she had devoted herself.

Yet if he ever succeeded in reclaiming his life as the Marquess of Redmond he was certain she would not want him, for that selfish, careless b.a.s.t.a.r.d was not worthy of a woman like her. The realization wounded and enraged him, for if he had but known that she existed he might have lived his life differently, might have refrained from drinking and gambling and heedlessly spreading his seed, creating children to whom he had no right and who he could not protect.

He wanted to join Genevieve to him, wanted to drive himself inside her and kiss her and hold her and cover her until neither knew where one ended and the other began, wanted to meld their flesh and their breath and their blood so that nothing could ever come between them. But there was just this moment that would quickly be over, and the realization filled him with despair.

He tried to slow himself, tried to make this brief, stolen interlude between them last longer, but she was writhing and stretching beneath him, opening herself to every aching thrust with hot little pants of breath and her nails clawing desperately at his back, meeting his penetrations with gasps of pleasure as she gripped him in her tightness, until finally he couldn't bear it a moment longer. He shoved himself deep inside her, burying himself within the magnificently taut clench of her beautiful body. And then he groaned and poured his essence into her, feeling as if he were dying, and not giving a d.a.m.n, as long as he could stay joined to her, with her heart pounding rapidly against his chest and the whisper of her breath gusting soft and sweet against his skin.

They lay joined together a long moment, each afraid to move for fear of severing the fragile bonds between them. But as his flesh cooled, his reason returned. What had he been thinking? Haydon wondered, his mind suddenly reeling with self-loathing. It was not enough that he had selfishly created one unwanted child-because of his lack of control, he may well have started another. He had not lived the life of a monk since his torrid affair with Ca.s.sandra, but after Emmaline's death he had vowed never to create a life so casually again. Yet instead of withdrawing before his own climax, as had been his rule these past two years, he had buried himself within her.

How could he have been so careless?

He rolled off her and rose from the bed. He picked up his fallen plaid and wrapped it around his waist, then went to the window and stared grimly out at the infinite blackness of the night, cursing his own stupidity.

"Jesus, Genevieve," he said, his voice low and harsh, "I'm sorry."

Shame washed over her. Genevieve grasped the edge of the blanket and wrapped it around herself, s.h.i.+elding her body from Haydon's perusal as she gathered up her nightgown and shawl. She turned away and dressed beneath the tent of her blanket. Tonight she had shown herself for what she really was, she realized, trembling with humiliation-a wanton s.l.u.t who would writhe on a bed beneath a man's touch. She had kissed Haydon and held him and opened herself to him, drawing him into her body with no thought to the consequences. He was not her husband, she reminded herself miserably, and he never would be. He was a fugitive from the law, a convicted murderer, and he could not stay there a moment longer than was necessary. Even if he did eventually reclaim his life as the Marquess of Redmond, he would never return to marry a woman like her. No man of decent station or normal sanity would marry an impoverished spinster with five young thieves and one maid's b.a.s.t.a.r.d for children.

She wanted to say something, but no words could articulate her emotions. He had apologized, but it seemed grossly hypocritical to accept that apology when it was she, in fact, who had sought him out, venturing to his room in the middle of the night in nothing but a nightrail and shawl. She had wanted to talk to him, to understand what had compelled him to take such enormous risks on Charlotte's behalf. She had also hoped to strip away some of the veils that shrouded the man whom the rest of the world believed to be her husband. But these were not the only reasons she had gone to his room, she realized, nearly sick with shame. The pa.s.sion that had flared between them several nights earlier in the drawing room had awakened powerful feelings in her that she hadn't known she possessed. Despite her efforts to lock them into a dark corner of her mind, she had longed to experience those feelings again. On some level that was incomprehensible to her, she had wanted Haydon to touch her, had been desperate to know what it was to have him kiss and caress and wors.h.i.+p her body, and to fill her to the core with his heat and strength and pa.s.sion.

She flew across the room and jerked open the door, desperate to be away from him. The corridor was cold and black as she stepped into it, leaving all the heat and light that had flamed with such joyful brilliance but a moment earlier fading in the chamber behind her.

...AFTER THAT HE LEFT THE JAIL WITH THE GIRL AND returned to Mrs. Blake's house at approximately four o'clock."

Mr. Timmons scratched a rather alarming pimple on his nose as he closed his notebook, indicating his report was finished. "I remained on the street until eleven o'clock this evening-just before I came here. Mr. Blake did not leave, nor did any of the other inhabitants of the household."

Vincent Ramsay, the earl of Bothwell, drummed his manicured fingers thoughtfully upon the scratched surface of the small table in his room. Then he rose, withdrew an envelope from an inner pocket in his coat, and slid it across the table. "Thank you, Mr. Timmons. I shall be in touch if I find I have further need of your services."

Mr. Timmons's mouth gaped open as he glanced at the thick pad of notes bulging within the envelope. "Thank you, Mr. Wright, sir," he gushed, overwhelmed by the generosity of his mysterious employer. "I'm happy to be of service to you. If there is anything else I can do-perhaps I should watch Mr. Blake again tomorrow...."

Vincent opened the door to his hotel room, anxious to have the wheedling little man gone from his sight. He despised men who made their living by prying into the lives of others, and disliked Mr. Timmons in particular because his very presence was an intrusion into Vincent's own life. He had paid him well to ensure his discretion, but the earl was not foolish enough to believe that his confidentiality was absolutely a.s.sured.

"That will be all for the moment." Best to let the little toad think there might be more work coming his way. That way he would be more inclined to keep his tongue still. "Good night." He shut the door abruptly, leaving Mr. Timmons standing in the hallway with the envelope clutched in his hand.

Vincent poured himself a gla.s.s of insipid sherry, took a sip and cringed. He was not accustomed to drinking such cheap vintages, but he had made every effort since his arrival in Inveraray to do nothing to draw undue attention to himself, and that included not indulging in his fondness for discriminating wine. Hence he had registered in this decrepit little hotel as Mr. Albert Wright, a businessman from Glasgow who was on his way north to investigate the production of charcoal in the hills north of Taynuilt. He dressed modestly and kept to himself, giving no one any reason to notice him except when they served him his stringy, grease-laden meals, either in his room or in the dreary restaurant below-with its copiously stained rug and hopelessly tarnished flatware-that he felt obliged to patronize on occasion. He presented himself as a quiet, polite, wholly uninteresting man, who he hoped was forgotten the moment he was out of sight. He had no wish to make an impression of any type on anyone during his stay here.

Except, of course, for the missing Marquess of Redmond.

When he first received word that Haydon had actually managed to fend off the attackers he had hired to kill him, Vincent had been infuriated. Ultimately he consoled himself with the view that hanging was just as fitting an end for the rutting b.a.s.t.a.r.d. The fact that Haydon was paraded before a court like a common criminal and found guilty of murder seemed ironically appropriate. There had been the added pleasure of imagining him languis.h.i.+ng for weeks in a fetid, vermin-infested cell, surrounded by the sc.u.m of humanity, undoubtedly beaten and abused, all the while desperately protesting his innocence to no avail. Vincent had dallied with the idea of traveling to Inveraray to attend the hanging, but ultimately decided that the whole miserable business was best left to play out in his absence. He had wanted Haydon dead, but he had not felt any compelling need to witness it himself. All he had desired was some small measure of retribution for the unspeakable humiliation and suffering the marquess had so casually inflicted upon his own life. It had cost a substantial sum and had taken some discreet arranging, but ultimately Vincent had been certain that both the funds involved and his time were well spent.

What he had not antic.i.p.ated was that Haydon would escape his death a second time.

The idea that his deceased wife's lover had managed to elude the sharp talons of justice and was roaming about, hunted but free, grated mercilessly upon him. After waiting impatiently to see if he would be recaptured, Vincent ultimately realized he had no choice but to take the matter into his own hands. He had traveled to Inveraray and hired Mr. Timmons, an experienced investigator whose discretion, like almost everything else, could be reasonably a.s.sured for a price-at least for a time. Mr. Timmons was easily able to secure information on Haydon's trial and his sojourn in the jail. What struck Vincent as most interesting was the fact that a pretty, well-meaning spinster had been the last person to visit the marquess in his cell before he escaped. According to the warder, who had been eager to talk to Mr. Timmons when he realized the investigator was willing to buy him unlimited pints of ale, his lords.h.i.+p had looked little better than a filthy, broken beggar on the night of his escape. Vincent had suspected that may not have mattered to the eminently altruistic Miss MacPhail. The Marquess of Redmond had always had a talent for enchanting and seducing women, regardless of the circ.u.mstances. That was what had enabled him to crawl between the legs of his lovely Ca.s.sandra.

He took another bitter swallow of sherry.

The humiliation of his wife's affairs still had the power to enrage him. He reminded himself that she had been a selfish, spoiled b.i.t.c.h, and Vincent had been glad to be rid of her when she died some two years earlier, after some ignominious doctor had tried to sc.r.a.pe the progeny of her latest lover from her womb. The shambles of their marriage had ceased to matter after Emmaline was born eight years prior. With her wonderful, miraculous arrival, everything else in his life had suddenly diminished in importance.

When Vincent had learned that Ca.s.sandra was finally pregnant after more than six years of marriage, he had unashamedly hoped for a son. A son would inherit his t.i.tle and his holdings and leave an important mark upon the world. When little Emmaline was handed to him in his study an hour after her birth, her face all pink and shriveled and squalling, he had known a moment of wretched disappointment. He tried to give her right back to the nurse, but the frazzled woman said she had to fetch something immediately for his wife and bolted from the room. And so he was forced to carry Emmaline up the long staircase himself to deliver her back to his wife's bedroom. Somewhere along the way Emmaline stopped crying and settled contentedly in his arms. She opened her blue eyes and regarded him with quiet satisfaction, as if to say that she had only been crying for him, and now that she had found him, all was well. It was in that moment that Vincent discovered what he had believed was the purest form of love.

The knowledge that he had been wrong burned a deep, agonizing hole through him.

He set down his gla.s.s and went to the window, pulling back the cold, musty drape so he could look out at the frozen street below. He did not know for certain that the man known as Maxwell Blake was, in fact, the Marquess of Redmond. Tomorrow he would keep vigil near the house, and every day after that, until he caught a glimpse of him and determined his ident.i.ty.

If he did turn out to be the man who had destroyed his life, then Vincent would make very sure that this time he succeeded in killing him.

Chapter Ten.

HERE'S A BONNY ONE OF SOME BOATS ON LOCH Fyne." Oliver placed the painting on the worn sofa in the drawing room so that Haydon could better appreciate it. "That would be good for someone who fancies the water-don't ye think?"

"Possibly," Haydon allowed, critically examining the work. The brush strokes Genevieve had used were quick and soft, giving the boats and the loch a fluid, almost dreamy feeling.

"I like this one better," declared Annabelle as she and Grace plopped a rendering of a vase of flowers onto a chair. The amethyst and pink blossoms were drooping slightly, and a single petal had fallen onto the linen of the table on which the vase stood, marring its otherwise pristine surface. "The flowers look so terribly sad-almost as if they were crying." She sighed with pleasure.

Haydon had to agree. Genevieve made no effort to execute a precisely realistic rendition of what she saw, but instead filtered her work through her own emotions and sensibilities. The result was stirring.

"Here's one that she painted of me and Simon last summer," said Jamie, dragging his corner of the painting along the floor, while Simon supported the other.

"She said it was of two men getting ready to sail the world," explained Simon proudly.

In the painting the two boys were sailing their little wooden s.h.i.+ps upon a stream. They were shown from behind, with their clothes rumpled and their hair ruffled by the same wind that was fluffing the sails of their small boats. The scene was sunny and had an almost tangible lethargy to it, as if the afternoon would never end. But a narrow strip of clouds painted in the distance was ominously leaden, suggesting that the boys' game, and perhaps by extension their childhood, would soon be brought to an end.

"I like this one." Jack deposited a portrait of Charlotte on the sofa beside the painting of the boats. "It really looks like you, Charlotte."

Charlotte regarded the painting with shy uncertainty, secretly pleased that Jack thought her as pretty as the girl on the canvas. "Do you think so?"

Genevieve had painted Charlotte seated in a chair, quietly reading a book. Her gown was drawn tight about her narrow waist before it fell in a generous puff to the floor, giving no hint of where her legs might be beneath it. But upon the floor by the hem of her skirts lay a single, creamy rose, with thorns protruding in sharp green spikes along its stem. If Charlotte bent to retrieve the rose, it seemed certain that she would p.r.i.c.k herself upon its thorns. But if she left it where it lay, the rose would wither and die. It was a simple enough quandary to the casual observer, but Haydon found the image troubling, for he sensed that the rose was a metaphor for Charlotte's crippled leg.

It was clear that Genevieve could not help but infiltrate her work with her private perception of the world around her. It was this seductive, haunting quality that Haydon hoped would make an indelible impression on prospective buyers.

"That's the last of the wee ones," huffed Doreen, planting another painting beside the two that were already precariously balanced upon the mantel. "Jack and Ollie will have to bring up the rest."

Eunice planted her hands upon her plump hips as she inspected the makes.h.i.+ft exhibition. "There's no more room in here, so we'll have to start piling the rest of them around the dining room-"

"What in the world are you doing?" demanded an astonished voice.

Haydon's chest seemed to constrict when he saw Genevieve standing in the doorway.

The flame-gold hair that had poured like warm silk over his hands and across his pillow the night before was now tightly pinned into a proper arrangement, and the dark, chastely b.u.t.toned gown she had selected would have been appropriate for the most formidable of dowagers to wear to a funeral. Had he not experienced the pa.s.sion that had blazed between them, he might have thought he was in the presence of a virgin nun. Genevieve's skin was pale and the dark circles that bruised the area beneath her eyes suggested that her night had been as sleepless as his. He knew it had taken courage for her to come down to the drawing room and face him, and he had no desire to make it any more difficult for her. All he sought now was to restore some security and comfort to her and her household.

Once he was certain she would not lose her home he would leave, so as not to put any of them at further risk.

"His lords.h.i.+p here thinks he can get someone to buy yer paintings," said Doreen excitedly.

Oliver scratched his white head, unconvinced. "I suppose they're a sight better than most o' the dribble and rot some folk hang on their walls."

"At least the people in them are decently dressed." Eunice surveyed the canva.s.ses with approval. "Ye could hang them anywhere and nae be ashamed, or need to drape a cloth over them when there are ladies and wee ones present."

"If Haydon sells enough of them, then we'll have the money to pay the bank and we won't have to worry about being on the street," added Jamie happily. "Isn't that wonderful?"

Genevieve affected a frozen calm as she looked at Haydon. She had remained in her chamber for as long as she felt she could that morning, trying to summon the composure she needed in order to face him without betraying her shame over the intimacies they had shared the night before. Unfortunately, the sight of him coolly a.n.a.lyzing her precious paintings, which he had apparently ordered the rest of the household to dig through and line up around the house, shattered that composure.

"Why are you doing this?" Her voice was brittle.

"Because we need to find a way to meet your obligations to the bank," Haydon replied. "I have been through all the other items that are stored in your cellar, and unfortunately, there is really nothing there of any consequence. Your paintings, however, are extremely well done. I believe if we can get a gallery to show your work, you will be able to sell enough canvases to satisfy a significant portion of your debt."

"My work isn't good enough to sell," Genevieve informed him, feeling exposed and humiliated. Her work was very personal, and she had no illusions about its value. "It's only portraits of the children and simple little scenes of boats and flowers and landscapes. No one would want to buy them. People prefer paintings that are grand and heroic in their subject matter."

"Unless there are naked ladies in them," piped Jamie. "People seem to like that."

"Here now, that's enough of that talk," scolded Eunice.

"I believe you are wrong, Genevieve," Haydon countered. "There is a growing movement away from painting G.o.ds and heroes and violent episodes of history and mythology. Your paintings reflect the scenes of your life-modest, quiet, fleeting moments, to which many people can easily relate. And more, they are suffused with emotion. One cannot look at any of your paintings without being drawn into them and feeling something."

"He's right, la.s.s," said Oliver. "I look at these boats here and I'm thinkin', 'twould be nice to have fish for dinner tonight."

"Ye know there's no fish to be had tonight," Eunice scolded. "It's Sunday."

Genevieve stared warily at Haydon, wondering if he was being sincere. Deep within, it pleased her to think that he had looked at her paintings and thought that they were more than just the pleasant work of a woman who amused herself by dabbling with a paintbrush. She had sketched and painted for as long as she could remember, but after her father died and she had taken Jamie in, her painting had changed dramatically. Isolated and afraid, she had needed some way of expressing her joys and fears and frustrations, and painting had become that venue. Every work within that drawing room held special significance to her that went far beyond the depiction of its subject matter. It was as if her happiness and her suffering were saturated into the very paint, and each stroke bonded some small part of her forever to the canvas.

Was it possible that Haydon was able to sense the pa.s.sion with which she had created these canvases? And if he could, did that mean that perfect strangers would be able to recognize it as well, and be willing to pay for them?

No, she suddenly realized, angry with herself for being so foolish. "No one in Inveraray would ever host an exhibition showing the work of a woman," she told him flatly. "Nor would anyone here think that my work was of any value. People may be willing to pay me for painting their children's portraits, but that is far different from purchasing my other work solely based on its own merits."

"You're right," Haydon agreed. "But I do not intend to secure an exhibit for your work in Inveraray. There is not enough of a market here to command the prices I believe your paintings warrant. I am going to try to arrange for a showing in Glasgow."

It was clear to Genevieve that Haydon did not understand the intrinsic male exclusivity of the art world. "No art dealer in Glasgow will grant a woman artist an exhibition either."

"Which might be a problem, were I to reveal that this work is by a woman." Haydon stood in front of the portrait of Charlotte, considering. "I'm thinking a French name would work well. In my experience, Scottish art dealers have a great fondness for representing something that was created elsewhere. It instantly gives the work a certain credibility and mystique."

"That's true for them that buys the paintings as well," said Eunice. "Lord Dunbar's house was full of all kinds of pictures, and not one of them was by a good, honest Scotsman. They all came from Italy and France and England-as if those lads know more about slappin' paint on a piece of cloth than our own." She huffed with disapproval.

"Are you suggesting that we say that my paintings were created by a Frenchman?" Genevieve wasn't certain she cared for that idea.

"I realize it isn't the perfect solution," Haydon acknowledged. "But if we hope to secure a showing of your work and create some interest in it, I believe that is our best strategy."

"I think it's very romantic," Annabelle decided with approval. "French names sound so elegant."

"I think they sound silly," said Simon. "Like someone is trying to spit something up from the back of their throat."

"I won't do it, Genevieve, unless you are in agreement." Haydon regarded her intently. "But I believe this is your best chance of raising the money to pay off your debts."

Genevieve stared at her precious canvases haphazardly arranged around the drawing room. Each one represented some private facet of her life, and by extension, her children's lives. She didn't care for having her world put on display for others to gawk at and a.n.a.lyze and possibly ridicule. And she found the idea of having her work accredited to some fictional man, because the fact that it had been created by a woman undermined its merit in the eyes of others, was truly offensive.

Jamie, Annabelle, Grace, Charlotte, Simon, and Jack were watching her, waiting for her to make her decision. Their expressions were utterly trusting, as if they believed that should she refuse to sell her paintings, then she would just come up with some other way to pay her debts and keep their household going. Oliver, Eunice, and Doreen looked more concerned. They had a far better understanding of the precariousness of their situation.