“I assure you I would if I could. I can honestly swear to you that we hadn’t met before the day in the lane.”
“You have no sisters who resemble you?”
“I have not.”
“Cousins?”
“Alas, no.”
“Then I am flummoxed,” he said. “Never mind, it will come to me.”
Eugenie could not help but hope it would not. It was probably something uncomfortable, like being pointed out to Sinclair in the village as that Belmont hoyden or Belmont’s ramshackle daughter. From experience she just knew it could not be anything good.
To her relief they were nearing the end of the gallery. A few portraits hung upon the walls, several enormous canvasses showing the Dukes of Somerton doing heroic deeds or seated on fat horses with small heads. There was even one of Boudicca—or at least she thought it was Boudicca—with her bosom barely covered with a flimsy robe and her hair streaming behind her as she drove her chariot toward her glorious end. The smile on her face seemed rather unlikely, unless she was laughing at fate.
“Aha!”
His cry made her jump. He was clutching her arm, his hand large and warm, his fingers tighter than was comfortable. With his other hand he pointed triumphantly at the vast painting.
“You see! I knew I had seen you somewhere before!”
Chapter 4
Eugenie stared up at the painting, trying to see what the duke saw. As far as she could tell Boudicca bore no resemblance to herself, none whatsoever. Perhaps the hair was somewhat similar, although far redder than her own, and the eyes had a hint of green in their mad glare . . . but the likeness was extremely nebulous.
“This came from an eighteenth century royal household, I believe,” Sinclair was saying, dredging up his memory of the painting. “My ancestor bought it because there seemed to be very few women hanging among our ancestors and he considered Boudicca an acceptable addition. I wonder, Miss Belmont, if this might be your ancestress? George’s mistress?”
Eugenie made a sound that could have meant anything. The woman in the painting was fierce and pagan, neither of which Eugenie considered part of her own character. Sinclair seemed rather excited by his conclusions but all she wanted to do was stroll on and leave her unsavory great-grandmamma—if indeed it was her—behind.
“Good Gad, Genie, is that you?” Terry was standing, mouth open, staring up at Boudicca.
“It’s very like, isn’t it?” Sinclair said, forgetting for a moment his dislike of the boy.
“Could be twins,” Terry agreed obligingly.
“Well, I can’t see it,” Eugenie burst out uncomfortably.
Sinclair and Terry exchanged a look.
“No need to take it like that, Genie,” her brother murmured. “You should be flattered.”
“Well, I’m not,” she said, and strode off down the final stretch of the gallery, not caring whether the duke followed her or not.
Sinclair found her in the yellow saloon, standing before the French windows and gazing out over the terrace and a fine sweep of the gardens. Her slim back was very straight, rigid almost, as if she was determined to show she didn’t care about the painting.
Now that he considered the matter he realized the resemblance wasn’t all that great. Just enough to strike a chord in him. Certainly not as apparent as her brother claimed, which was no doubt to repay his sister for her admonishment over the sword.
Sinclair rang for tea, and Terry threw himself in a chair covered in striped pink satin and yawned rudely. “I haven’t been to bed yet,” he announced with pride, as if he expected to be congratulated.
“Nothing ages a person more than lack of sleep,” Eugenie said, turning from the window.
“I agree,” Sinclair put in, meeting her eyes. She looked a little pale but her gaze was as clear as ever. “I knew a man once, looked at least sixty. He was barely thirty. No sleep, you see. Wore him out before his time.”
Her mouth twitched but she bit back her smile.
Suspiciously Terry glanced from one to the other of them. “You must think I’m an idiot. Lack of sleep isn’t fatal.”
“But can you be sure?” Sinclair retorted.