Chapter 5

The dull blade cut through the canvas with alarming ease.

Anthony stepped back to inspect his handiwork, turning the hilt of the painting knife in his palm. In the dim light of his studio, a large slash ran through the centre of the piece he had been working on before his departure. He had been a fool to think he could have picked up where he had left off after leaving the oils for so long. Halfway finished, the painting was amateurish in style and technique anyway.

With a sigh, he cast the knife onto the table beside the easel, where it clattered against the wood. He cleaned his hands off with a rag that was not nearly as soft as the handkerchief Miss Buller offered earlier, scowling as he took a closer look at the table and found it to be free of dust.

"I thought I would find you in here," he heard his mother say from behind him.

Anthony glanced over his shoulder. She stood in the doorway, a black shawl draped over her shoulders. It had been a few hours since his return to the manor. In that time, the sun had almost set.

The last strains of light filtered through the studio's floor-to-ceiling windows, nestled in the top floor of the manor's northwestern tower. His father had commissioned the room, especially for Anthony's fifteenth birthday, ten years ago, after consulting with his artist friend about the best light for painting.

"The studio has been cleaned," Anthony replied, wrapping the rag around his fist. He leaned onto the small table. "I specifically asked that no one come in here while I was gone. I covered all the things that mattered to preserve."

Catherine frowned in that motherly way of hers. He had missed that look. "To be fair, I respected your wishes up until you wrote that you would be returning home. I knew you would wish to paint and wanted to prepare the room for you." She came inside, approaching him with slow steps. "I didn't peek. Not once in those two long years. I know you always hated that."

"I expect everyone does." He tensed as his mother's gaze fell to the slashed painting. He couldn't step in front of it fast enough. Her mouth fell open in surprise, and Anthony cut her off before she could say anything. "It was ruined. I left it too long."

"Oh, Anthony …" She shook her head, stepping back. "You'd been working on that for months. Why not at least try to have salvaged it?"

Guilty feelings writhed inside him. Even at twenty-five, he hated disappointing his mother. "What would be the use of that?" he asked. "I was painting it for Father, for his sixtieth birthday."

And what with him being dead, Anthony thought, there is no use labouring over it anymore.

The painting had been a maritime landscape depicting his father's favourite spot in all of Norfolk. There was a cliff named St Edmond's Point where Anthony and his father Edward had often gone riding.

All their important conversations had taken place there, where the sea met the cliffs at the most perfect angle. It was the most perfect colour. The top of the cliff hosted lush thickets of heather, and they had provided a natural frame to the painting. Anthony could still feel the crisp breeze against his skin and smell the salt in the air. Everything about that spot had been synonymous with his father—with fatherhood.

"These things are not easy to discuss," Catherine murmured, staring at the ruined painting. "A mother should never admit weakness in front of her child, but you are old enough now to learn that I am fallible." Anthony sensed her hesitation.

His father had been fiercely pragmatic, never wanting to discuss trivial things like feelings. Anthony was the same way. "I miss him. And I missed you. And I wish more than anything that we could have spent more time together, just the three of us."

"I know." Anthony's throat constricted, and he turned from his mother. He thumbed the fissure in the centre of the canvas. "Tell me how it happened."

That was as much as he was willing to discuss. He needed to form an image of his father's accident to make it feel real. It was too difficult to accept his death without having seen it first-hand. There was no body, no memory, and therefore no proof.

A man needed proof.

"It was at the races in Newmarket." His mother's tone changed, speaking matter-of-factly. "We'd all gone."

Anthony knew ‘all' to mean their closest friends: the Marquess of Hindborough, the Earl and Countess of Carlston, and the rest of the East Anglian enclave.

"Warren and Edward were placing bets back and forth, and eventually, one of them had the brilliant idea of using the course once the races were done." She paused, and Anthony didn't dare look at her. "I told them that it was too hot to ride and that they were too old, but they were adamant. You know how they were, like two boys when they got ideas in their heads."

Anthony nodded. Warren Webb, the Marquess of Hindborough, had been his father's closest friend since boyhood. Over the years, Warren had become like an uncle to Anthony.

He was an artist as well, except he was twice as talented as Anthony and three times as well-connected. Warren had organized Anthony's tour of the Continent, using those connections to get Anthony into even the most private galleries, when his prestige hadn't cut it. Warren had joined him one spring in Italy, and it had been one of the most educational, fulfilling moments of Anthony's life.

"Word travelled around the boxes that the duke and the marquess were going head-to-head in a private race, and before long, some of the other gentlemen had thrown their hats in the ring. Edward had never been competitive, as you well know, but on that day …"

When she trailed off, Anthony finally looked at her. Catherine's brow was creased in pain. "There was something different about him. He felt the need to prove himself. I wonder now whether it was his upcoming birthday. Perhaps he was starting to feel like an old man and wanted to prove to himself that he was still young."

Anthony interrupted. "Who were they even riding?"

"They borrowed from the jockeys they had sponsored." Catherine rolled her eyes, then shook her head in disapproval. "Those poor horses were exhausted. It was a miracle that none of them collapsed, though I suppose the race was over too soon for that … They all set off, and there must have been a hundred people watching, if not more, egging them on. I could see your father riding harder than ever before.

He was red in the face, doubled over on that horse like he was completely indestructible. They had just come around the first bend when he stopped suddenly and bolted upright." She squeezed her eyes shut before continuing. "His eyes went wide, and he clamped a hand over his breast … Doctor McMillan suggests his heart gave out from the effort and the heat, and I'm inclined to believe the same."

His own heart clenched in his chest. Anthony wished he had been there, knowing that the likelihood of him having been able to prevent his father's death was low but not null. The story didn't provide him with the closure he had hoped. It only made him regret his absence more.

"But he was so healthy," Anthony murmured. "Even approaching sixty, he had been strong as an ox—don't you think? I can scarcely believe that he simply … He had ridden hard before."

His mother smiled tenderly. She cupped his cheek, forcing Anthony to look at her. "You are so much like him. And just like him, you thought that he was immortal. No one can blame you for that. It was his time, Anthony. I'm not sure what more there is to say. We can only distract ourselves and trust in God. Time will alleviate our grief like it heals everything else."

Even though he wanted to believe it had been Edward's time, even when it made no sense to think that something else had happened, he couldn't. He supposed his mother was right. That was Anthony's burden to bear, as a son, to think that his father hadn't been a mortal like the rest.

"Perhaps there is nothing. Nothing more to say, nothing more to do," he replied, stepping back as Catherine released him. He searched for another topic of conversation, not wanting to give his mother the chance to question his feelings. "Is that why you invited Miss Buller here, to distract yourself?"

Finally, his mother smiled. "Am I so terribly transparent?" She laughed softly. "No, that's not the only reason. I promised her mother long ago that I would protect Marianne should the worst come to pass. I will be in mourning for the next year, and while I'm certain some will baulk at Marianne's presence here when I should be grieving, I will not spend the next ten months wallowing when I could be of use to someone."

"You have failed to tell me why you owed the mother anything. I have never heard of the Bullers." He thought back to Miss Buller's lack of decorum and her pretty face, grateful for the distraction. "She is not exactly cut from the same cloth as you."

"I thought I raised you with a more open mind than that, Anthony." She laughed when he tried to protest, assuring him she was only teasing. "I suppose it is only a matter of time until you learn the truth for yourself. Miss Buller is actually Marianne Chambers. Do you remember Nicholas Chambers, or perhaps his father Graham, the late Earl of Foxburn?"

Anthony searched his memories only to come up short. "I recall the name, but I'm fairly certain I've never met any of them."

"You would have been too young to remember, Nicholas, but you did meet him. He was a dear friend of mine. The short of it is this: Nicholas eloped with one of his father's maids, and Marianne was born of their union. I have known of her existence for years."

It seemed far-fetched, but his mother had no reason to lie. Anthony tried to picture Miss Buller—or was that Lady Marianne now?—as a gentlewoman. He supposed she had a natural beauty that some would deem aristocratic.

Everything else about her, especially that strong spirit, was anathema to the ton. If this story was true, and if she decided to claim her heritage, she was going to be eaten alive by them—unless his mother could educate her properly.

"And you have proof of this?" Anthony asked. "The ton will not likely accept a newcomer on hearsay alone. And what about the rest of her family?"

For whatever reason, Catherine looked pleasantly surprised. "I had expected you to tell me that I was mad and order me to send that poor girl packing. How glad I am to know that I have your support in this. Could it be that you are as charmed by her as I am?"

Anthony refused to dignify that question with an answer. He barely knew the girl.

"But, yes, you're right. This will be an uphill battle for both of us. Her resemblance to Nicholas alone should be proof enough. She has the Chambers' eyes. Should that fail, I have decades' worth of letters from both Nicholas and her mother, and I have already tasked someone with finding a record of her baptism. I have knowledge of their wedding location, too. It was a poorly kept secret that Nicholas had a child … But you will allow her to remain here?"

"It's of little consequence to me."

"How practical of you, darling." His mother beamed, glancing at the door. "I shall leave you in peace now." She paused once she reached the door, looking lighter than when she had entered. "You should make the most of these quiet moments. We will have to call the agents around soon to settle you in, and then you must make for London to meet your peers as a duke and …" She stopped herself, dismissing the list with a wave. "Well, I'm hardly helping matters. Rest well, Anthony."

He didn't have the chance to wish her the same before she was gone.

Left alone in his studio, Anthony turned back to the discarded painting. The slate blue sea split in two, frothing where the canvas was peeling back around the cut. He crossed his arms, mind wandering to his mother, to Marianne Chambers, to himself and his new title …

Moorhaven Manor, he thought, a port for lost souls at sea without an anchor.