Chapter 1 - MARK SEBASTIAN, SON OF THE MARQUESS OF PRAHMN—THE WRONG SIDE OF TOWN

March 1, 1816

London, England

Never admit falling in love with a portrait.

Never talk of how the eyes of the painting followed me along the halls of Kenwood, or how the joy in her sun-kissed cheeks stayed on my mind.

Never utter a word of how a voiceless woman made of oils and canvas, not sugar and spice and other niceties, captivated my dreams.

Said aloud this would be the ravings of a madman, not an artist who hungered for beauty. I tried not to think of the painting or my foolish whispers said to her and rode a little faster to keep up with my so-called friendly companions.

“Will you be seeing her later, Sebastian?” Alexander Melton, the Earl of Livingston, hiccupped and wobbled in his saddle. “You can tell us.”

“Leave the musician alone. We’ve had enough jokes at his expense. Artists are temperamental sorts, but that spurs their creativity.” The Duke of Torrance was a new acquaintance that Livingston and I met at a Farrington coaching inn. Before I could stop him, the earl gleefully told my story of being in love with the painted woman.

The duke, a tall man on a silver mare, looked confused for most of this. I wondered if foolish conversations differed greatly from crazy things said in Saint Petersburg. Half British, half Russian, he seemed distant or perhaps nervous.

“Will you be in town long, Your Grace?” I asked, hoping to change subjects.

“My current plans are up in the air. Once I get this first visit done, I will determine how long I reside in London.”

He and Livingston began to discuss the perfect places to live.

My shame lifted and I secretly thought of living at Kenwood, being a music tutor and getting to see the painting every day.

“Sebastian? Sebastian?”

“Yes. Livingston.” My cheeks burned. Then I relaxed, remembering the man couldn’t read thoughts, only newspapers and science journals. “Did you say something?”

The earl leaned so far in his saddle I thought he’d fall onto his stupid head.

I wasn’t so fortunate. Our new friend sped up and kept the fool upright.

“Thank you, Torrance.” The earl grasped his reins a little tighter. “Sebastian, your mother sent you to Kenwood to ogle a painting. Now you’re in love with Lady Elizabeth Finch-Hatton, a woman idealized on canvas in her youth who today is in her fifties and married. Prahmn will have a fit, but he might approve if you took her to bed for a prize.”

“The Duke of Prahmn? Sounds scandalous.” The duke’s diction sounded crisp, very British, none of the nasally accent Livingston said a man born in Saint Petersburg should possess.

“My father? No scandals. He still has hopes that I turn to the church, the path of a third son. No, I was at Kenwood for renovations. Dry rot gave the new owners ideas. A large music room will be designed, but my mother offered my expertise.” I sat up straighter on my mount. “I guess she finds me good at such things.”

“Oh, Sebastian, you always sell yourself short. Your Grace, he’s a musical genius. His name will be among the masters. No one knows more about the acoustics of a room than my friend. When he finishes his newest composition and wins the Harlbert’s Prize everyone will know the name Lord Mark Sebastian.”

I smiled as did the duke. Perhaps they’d both forget my enthusiasm for the painting of the Mansfield’s nieces at Kenwood, Lady Elizabeth and her lively cousin.

Livingston reached over and slapped me on my shoulder. In prideful, drunken tones he said, “My friend is brilliant.”

Fine. Maybe it was good the earl didn’t Humpty-Dumpty on this cobblestone. Who else would sing my praises? One couldn’t always rely on being your mother’s favorite.

Nonetheless, this feeling of pride was short-lived as Livingston reared back and said, “Pity, a live female, one of flesh and blood and the proper age, frightens the sensibilities of our pianoforte master.”

I fumed at him for being right. I was a master at the keys. The music in my head kept spinning and I remembered the portrait and the way the artist chose to paint her. The moment before she danced. Her smile and the way sunlight reflected from her satin gown would never leave my soul.

Music should be written for her.

Perhaps she was the muse to inspire my composition for the Harlbert competition. Then everyone, including Prahmn, would respect me.

We continued riding in silence, while a blustery wind blew at our backs. It was colder than it should be. Spring should be warm.

Soon we approached Blackfriars Bridge. The huge stone structure formed with high arches led travelers over the Thames. I thought we’d turn another way by now. The duke kept barreling forward. Working class, industrial, what could a duke want on that side of the river?

“Whoa, Torrance.” Livingston cantered closer to him. “You said at the coaching inn you wanted us to assist you on a mission of life and death. You never mentioned crossing the river at sunset.”

“Nearing sunset. There’s plenty of time to go and come back.” The duke offered him a withering gaze, one that could be given by Prahmn or any old man who’d been to war or battled great odds. Torrance had to be in his midthirties, ten more years than what I’d lived, about two less than Livingston. “For a man of science,” the duke said, “you have strange superstitions.”

“It rained on my wedding day.” Livingston guffawed, and then sneered. “If I’d heeded and not gone through with it, I wouldn’t have lost four years of my life.”

My friend had a terrible marriage that ended when his wife abandoned him. “Well,” I said, “perhaps if you hadn’t run on so much and gossiped, you might’ve noticed the incompatibilities and fared better.”

My barb made him shut his mouth, but my bitter words made my stomach sour. “Sorry, sir. That was uncalled for. No one knows what a gamble at love will bring.”

“No offense taken, Sebastian.” The earl looked sad, even wistful. “Damned woman. Would’ve been better off with a painting of her.”

The duke glanced at Livingston. His mouth tightened to a dot. “Everything has challenges,” he said, “and it’s best to be selective. Give your heart too soon to someone unworthy, it’s difficult to get it back.”

“Thank you, Torrance. But, Sebastian, you can make amends by buying ale at the next stop because I’m not going over the bridge.”

“If a little water frightens, you sirs will never survive a visit to my Saint Petersburg. Too many temporary bridges crossing plenty of rivers and streams. Here, you Londoners have it easy. Blackfriars looks permanent and sturdy. That good Portland stone should be sufficient.”

“Torrance, the bridge is fine.” I wove my horse between the men as if to keep the peace. “Let’s all find a tavern and go on the duke’s mission tomorrow.”

Livingston swayed, pulling my scope from my saddlebag, the tube with lenses I used to bird-watch. “Oh, I see why you want to cross, Torrance. There’s a woman walking over by the docks. I can take you to prettier ones on this side of the Thames. The price for the evening will be good.”

We’d just met the duke and Livingston was trying to take him to a brothel. I grabbed the scope and, despite my better nature, took a glance at the object of the earl’s attention. “You can be truly horrible. What kind of welcome is this for the duke? He’s back from Russia, thinking of staying, and you’re so drunk that—”

Can’t breathe.

Can’t think. Got to think.

Say a word, Mark.But nothing came out.

The two began talking or bickering. I cared not. I was grateful that their arguing might ignore my shyness, the dire feeling which sometimes stole my words.

Nonetheless, I returned the scope to my eye. I had to catch another glimpse of the woman on the other side of the river.

Was this twirling woman the same woman in the Kenwood portrait?

* * *

Patting my horse’s mane, I couldn’t settle or wait. I started toward the bridge.

“Can’t hold your seat, Sebastian? Are you more sotted than me?”

I was, but not from beauty, not ale. “Just thinking of Kenwood again. Fine property. Nice music room. Made for twirling—I mean dancing.”

“Thinking of the painting again? You need a real woman. Come with us, Torrance.” Livingston sounded pained, almost normal. “Delay this dash across the bridge until tomorrow. It’s too much of a gamble at sunset. That neighborhood—”

“Gambling? I don’t do that anymore, but I’ll reward whoever among my new friends makes it to the other side first.”

“No, Your Grace, I might fall but Sebastian’s always light in the pockets.” Livingston leaned a little too much to the left and I reluctantly saved him.

“Torrance, he’s too unsteady.” I shoved the tube into my coat. “I need to make sure he gets home safely.”

“What is that?”

“Your Grace, it’s a pocket scope,” Livingston said, slipping backward in his seat. “Young Sebastian uses it to identify birds—the ones in the sky and the beauties in petticoats strolling leisurely in the parks or gardens about London. The way his cheeks reddened, he’s spotted one ’cross the river. What bird, sir?”

“A greenfinch, Livingston.” I grinned a little, thinking of the woman walking on the other side of the Thames fluttering her arms in an emerald coat.

The duke sighed, then shook his head. “Perhaps, it would be better to do this alone.”

Livingston nodded. “Goodbye! Do svidaniya!”

The earl started away from the bridge, wobbling the whole way. “I’d better accompany him. I wish—”

“I understand, Sebastian. If I settle in Mayfair, you must visit. I will be in need of a piano room, one grander than Kenwood’s.”

“You’ve been to the estate?”

“Several times. My father and Mansfield were friends. I too have stared at the same portrait.”

The woman across the river—had the single Torrance found a match to the prettiest woman to pose for the artist?

Suddenly, I felt jealous.

“Go catch your friend. He looks as if he’ll hit a house.”

Torrance doffed his hat and started toward the bridge.

The leaning Livingston waved. “Watch the river, my tzar.”

The earl had drooped to the side. He’d fall and hurt himself. Livingston was a fool, but my friend. I rode after the earl, wishing I’d made it to the other side of the Thames.