Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

S he was here.

Max sensed Miss Lennox’s presence in the manor before anyone even alerted him to her arrival – which was disconcerting, to say the least. No woman had ever had this hold on him before – especially one he had only just met.

“My lord?”

“I know,” Max responded to Whitaker from where he was bent over his ledgers in the study, the fire crackling in the hearth beyond.

He had been working diligently to ensure that all was put to rights before his time came—whenever that might be. If his ancestors’ age of passing before him were any indication, it would be soon.

Unfortunately, no matter how creatively he added the numbers, they all amounted to the same. Less than nothing.

Max opened the page of the ledger detailing each piece of artwork in his collection, which was a considerably long list. He had only brought a small selection to Hampstead.

So far, he had received letters of offer for three of the statues and two of the paintings, which had been exactly what he had been hoping for – patrons who would express interest even if he hadn’t noted that the items were for sale. Most of the potential buyers likely wanted them for that exact reason, for it was far more fun to think that they were stealing something away from him.

He snorted. The chance of all of this falling through was high. He should tamp down any hope that might arise.

Hope was the last thing that a man like him needed in his life.

“Mrs. Bloom showed Miss Lennox to her chamber, but she soon made her way to the music room,” Whitaker said. “She wanted to spend time with the portrait.” He visibly shuddered before walking away.

This was the very reason he had hired her. He had never before met someone who was actually drawn to the portrait of Isolde – everyone else ran from it as though it was chasing them.

Which, he supposed, in a way, it was.

While Miss Lennox had obviously felt that the portrait expressed emotions, she had accepted it for what it was.

He realized that he had read over the ledger about five separate times, the words still dancing across the page in front of him. Ever since Miss Lennox had stepped foot in the house, he hadn’t been able to concentrate. It was as though he was being pulled toward her, out of his seat and to the music room, his feet knowing the way even if Whitaker hadn’t told him just where he would have been able to find her.

He slammed the book shut.

It seemed his work was finished for tonight.

Amelia ignored the tray sitting beside her, as tantalizing as the scent of perfectly cooked beef with the side of roasted potatoes was.

Since she had entered the music room, she had been just as captivated by the portrait as she had been the first time she had laid eyes on it.

Only now, it was as though she was being welcomed home by Isolde herself.

“Good evening,” she said cautiously, taking a seat in front of it. “Since we are going to be spending a great deal of time together, I thought it was best we get to know one another.”

She stared at the portrait, and while Isolde stared right back, this time she did not say a word.

At least, not that Amelia could hear.

“Nothing, then? I am not here to hurt you, if that is your concern.”

Amelia tilted her head, studying the crimson curtains behind Isolde, as well as the items on the table and the locket around her neck.

“Whoever commissioned this painting wanted to remember your true self,” she murmured, her eyes widening with the discovery. She could be wrong. But most portraits from past eras showed perfectly posed subjects with the most formal of garments and stuffy of backgrounds. Not this one.

“Why the melancholy?” she wondered aloud, standing and walking back and forth in front of the painting, tapping her index finger against her lips. “What happened to cause such sorrow, if someone loved you enough to have you painted in your vivacity? And then why were you shut away to cause this much destruction to the painting?”

Isolde stared back as though willing Amelia to figure this out for herself.

Amelia sighed, realizing that she would have to take another tactic.

“Very well, then,” she murmured, closing her eyes and lifting her hands.

She focused all of her attention on the painting in front of her, picturing it in her mind, feeling the brush in her hand, the woman sitting in front of her as though she were behind the easel.

“Tell me your secrets,” she said, trying to see within each stroke of the brush, and for a moment, she was there, in the painter’s seat, watching the paint adhere to the canvas as though she was applying it.

She had been right. With her eyes closed, she could sense someone behind the painter’s right shoulder, love emanating from him, although there was also hopelessness there, so intense that it threatened to rip her apart completely.

What had caused it? She turned, trying to get a sense of the identity of the man who had requested Isolde’s painting, watching the brush strokes as though he wished he was caressing his fingertips over her skin instead, but she couldn’t seem to turn completely around to see him.

No , she heard in her mind, but the more resistance she encountered, the more determined she became to see who was hiding from her.

“That’s it,” she murmured as she turned the other way, finding more flexibility there. She took a deep breath, turned, and then encountered what felt like a fist knocking against her head.

She gasped as her hands flew up to cover her temples, her eyes squeezing closed, her breaths short and fast as she fought the pain of what seemed like a strike.

Amelia backed up, trying to put as much space as possible between her and the painting – until she hit a solid wall behind her.

A wall who reached out and wrapped his arms around her, holding her steady.

“Careful, now,” came the low-timbred voice, one that most certainly belonged to her physical world. “I’ve got you.”

She whirled around to find the earl standing behind her, unease etched on his face as he looked her up and down.

She appreciated the concern, for she found that the world around her was growing dizzy from the magical knock to the head she had taken.

“What happened?” he asked grimly, and she wasn’t sure how much she should admit. She stole a glance at him.

“I was trying to learn more about the painting, and I seem to have… hit a wall.”

It was the truth, even if it wasn’t complete.

“You appear to be in pain.”

She rubbed at her temples.

“Somewhat. I was concentrating too hard, I suppose.”

His gaze flickered from her to the painting behind her, and for a very brief moment, she saw lurking in his eyes, the very last thing she expected from him – fear.

“What can you tell me about this painting?” she asked.

“I’ve told you about it already,” he said, his gaze hardening as he stepped back from her. “It is Isolde.”

“Was she an ancestor of yours?”

He shook his head.

“No. My grandfather was in love with her, but of course, his father never approved of the match.”

“Because she was a commoner?”

“That was part of it. She was a villager, well known for her many talents, including healing.”

“She was a medicine woman.”

“Most called her a witch, but yes. My great-grandfather was of the impression that she had cast a love spell upon my grandfather and was using him for his title.”

“What happened to her?”

“Why do you think something happened to her?”

“There is true melancholy within this painting emanating from both Isolde and whoever commissioned it. If you would like me to do a proper job of this, I need to know all you can tell me about it and those involved with it.”

“Very well,” he said, looking back at the painting and then to her. “Come with me.”

He picked up her tray, which was very un-earl-like of him, and led her out the door and into the adjoining drawing room.

“You do not want her to know that we are speaking about her?”

He didn’t respond as he picked a bit of beef off her tray and ate it absentmindedly.

“My grandfather was convinced that their love was real, that it was too true to fabricate. Of course, I have no way of knowing for certain, but from the stories I’ve heard, he would have done anything for her.”

“Even leave everything behind?”

His gaze shot up toward her.

“How did you know that?”

“I could see the love through the painting.”

“Well, yes, I believe so. He told his father that he didn’t care what he nor the family thought of the match – that he would marry her anyway and run away with her, leaving behind his family, his inheritance, and his responsibilities.”

“Did he not follow through?”

“His father sent him on an errand, away from the estate for a couple of days – long enough for him to put his plan into place. My great-grandfather concocted a story, telling Isolde that his son had no love for her and that he had asked him to deliver a message to her, which he gave her in the form of a letter. Distraught at the loss of her love, she weaved a spell against the family. She was powerful, but the spell was so strong that, legend says, it took all the life out of her and she died right there on the steps leading into this house.”

Amelia wished his story had come as a surprise, but she had already felt it, deep in her bones.

“Your grandfather must have been destroyed.”

“He was,” the earl agreed. “My family was never the same after that.”

“Why not?”

He studied her momentarily before responding, as though considering whether she was worthy to hear the rest.

“My grandfather remarried as was arranged by his family, for he no longer cared what happened to him. It was a loveless marriage and after his wife bore a son, he died.”

“Of a broken heart?”

“So they say.”

“And Isolde remains.”

The earl scoffed. “Are you telling me that you believe in ghosts?”

“Call them what you will,” she said, waving a hand through the air before her. She was used to skeptics, but one would think that a man who lived with a spirit as strong as the presence before her would know more. “I can sense her, however. She is still not happy.”

“You can say that again,” he murmured.

“Do you have any other family that might be coming to stay in the near future who might know more?” Amelia asked.

“No,” he said curtly, nearly before she had even formed the words. “They’re all dead.”

Her mouth dropped open wide.

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

“What about cousins?”

“I have some distant cousins, I suppose, although none with any actual connection to my family.”

“Friends?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “None worth noting. I try not to allow anyone too close to me. If I do… well, let us say that my family has not had a great deal of luck.”

“Since Isolde laid the curse.”

“I never said that it was a curse.”

“You didn’t have to,” Amelia said with the smallest of smiles. “I already knew.”