Impetuous Innocent (Regencies 3)

Taking his seat beside her, and giving the order to start, Dominic turned and smiled. “The journey should not be too tedious, I hope.”

At his smile, all Georgiana’s fears dissolved. She smiled back.

They preserved a comfortable silence as the coach wended its way through the crowded streets. Once the outskirts of town were reached, and the power of the four horses began to make itself felt, Dominic turned to Georgiana. “Have you heard of Prinny’s latest start?”

She hadn’t, of course. Without effort, he entertained her with stories of the ton and other suitable anecdotes, until she had relaxed enough to ask some questions of her own. These, not surprisingly, were focused on the Place. Perfectly content with the topic, Dominic described the actual land attached to the Place, and how it related to his own far-flung acres.

“So, you see, the Place all but cuts my holdings in two, at least in that area. It has meant that my people constantly have to route all their movements around the Place, often tripling distances. Aside from being purely a nuisance, it has in

recent years become an eyesore—a blot on the landscape. It’s been irritating to me, as much as to my farmers, to see good land go to ruin.”

Georgiana nodded, the memory of the Place as she had last seen it vivid in her mind.

Dominic paused to glance once more out of the window. The one subject he was most assiduously avoiding was the weather. He had ensured that Georgiana was seated on the left on the carriage, so her gaze, should it wander, dwelt only on the relatively clear skies to the west. On his side the eastern horizon was obscured by slate-grey clouds of the peculiar quality which, to one country-bred, denoted but one outcome. Snow. By nightfall.

The temperature was starting to fall precipitate, even though it wanted half an hour to noon. He did not think Georgiana would notice, wrapped up as she was. Still, it wouldn’t do to become too complacent on that score. With a wicked grin, he turned to her once more, his brain making a rapid inventory of the latest on dits, selecting those suitable for his purpose.

By his order, the coach took them direct to the Place. It was well after noon when he alighted and handed Georgiana down. His steward, Jennings, and Duckett were there to meet them.

“I’ll leave you with Duckett, my dear,” Dominic said. “I’ll be with Jennings if you need me.”

Recognising Duckett, Georgiana was relieved to have his comforting presence beside her as she walked the old rooms of the Place. There was no piece of furniture she remembered with any particular affection. When appealed to, Duckett suggested the vicar’s wife, who managed the local charity, and promised to convey the furniture to her.

“There’s just one more matter, miss,” said Duckett, pausing at the top of the stairs.

Dominic, having finished his instructions to Jennings, approving the steward’s suggestion that the Place be made over as a single unit into a farm, came to stand at the foot of the stairs. Spying Georgiana and Duckett in the shadows at their head, he ran lightly up to join them.

“I was just telling Miss Hartley, m’lord, that when our people went through the attics they found one of them sealed up. An old cupboard had been moved across the door. Took three men to shift it. Then it was a struggle to force the door—looked to have been left locked for years. The room inside seems to have been used for painting—bits of rag and dabs of paint all over. There were lots of old paintings stacked by the walls. We didn’t know what to do with them, so we left it until you came. Would you care to take a look, miss?”

Her father’s paintings? His studio at the Place? Georgiana simply stared at Duckett.

Correctly gauging his love’s reaction, Dominic took her hand and drew it through his arm. “Lead the way, Duckett.”

Escorted in Duckett’s wake, Georgiana drew a deep breath. “Oh, Dominic! If only…”

He glanced down, smiling, inordinately pleased to hear his name on her lips. “Patience. A moment and we’ll see.”

He helped her up the narrow stairs to the low-ceilinged attics. A white patch on one wall of the first room showed where the old cupboard had been. Now the concealed door stood ajar.

Duckett pushed it open and stood aside to allow Georgiana to enter. Dominic released her and, when she hesitated, gave her an encouraging nudge.

Dazed, she stepped over the threshold, lifting her skirts free of the dusty floor. There was little doubt this had been her father’s eyrie. Long windows all but filled the outer wall. Now half covered with creeper, clear, they would have allowed light to flood the large room. An easel stood in the middle of the floor, empty; a paint-stained rag hung on a nail at one corner. Georgiana gazed about. The odd smell of old paints was still detectable, wafting like a ghost about the room.

For one instant, reminded so vividly of the life that had been, she felt the past threaten to engulf her. She struggled to keep back the tears. Then she heard a soft movement behind her and Dominic was there, his hands closing gently on her upper arms, comforting by his touch, by his solid warmth so close behind her. Like an anchor, he held her in the present, defying the past to claim her.

Georgiana drew a deep breath. Calm once more, she put up a hand to touch one of his. Her gaze fell on the canvases, stacked against the side-wall. She moved to touch them and he released her immediately, following her across the floor.

Without words, they set about the task of examining her father’s last legacy.

Most of the portraits were of adolescent youths. After a pensive moment, staring at one of a gentle-eyed young man with reddish tints in his hair, Dominic grinned. “Ah! Now I understand.”

Patiently Georgiana waited to be educated.

Dominic’s smile warned her. “Your father was clearly an astute man. He wanted to leave you something which was sure to retain its value, regardless of the vacillations of fashion. So he left you these.” Still Georgiana waited. Displaying the canvas in his hand, Dominic said, “This one’s William Grenville as a young man.” When Georgiana still looked blank he explained, “Grenville was one of our recent Prime Ministers. His family will pay a small fortune for this. And,” he continued, replacing the portrait and picking up another, “unless I miss my guess, this one is Spencer Perceval, another Prime Minister. That one,” he said, pointing to another study of an earnest young man, “could be Castlereagh, though I’m not certain.” He bent again to flick through the portraits.

There were sixteen in the series, and Dominic could put a name to nine and guess at the others. But the three portraits at the bottom of the pile, once they were uncovered, claimed his and Georgiana’s complete attention.

The first was of a young woman, with a sweet face crowned by masses of brown hair. Her eyes, startlingly clear hazel, shone out of the canvas, bright and clear. It was the portrait of Georgiana’s mother.