CHAPTER 21

WHERE THE HELL WAS she? Hadn't they agreed yesterday to meet this morning? He racked his brain trying to think but couldn't come up with a definitive answer. Who could remember such details when consumed with lust and the obsessive compulsion of committing her beauty to stone?

"Samson!" he called his butler, and his servant appeared with his usual aplomb. "Did Lady Renier say what time she would come in today?"

"She did not, my lord."

"Has she sent word?"

"I have not checked the correspondence today, my lord."

"Well, go check it. And if there's a message from her, bring it at once."

His harried butler departed, and a minute later returned with a note.

"She had indeed sent a message, my lord," his butler intoned.

With a ferocious frown that failed to intimidate his unflappable butler, he ripped the paper from the man's hands, reading the words several times, as if their meaning could change. Not that there was much to read. She only said she could not come today and that she would call the following day. That's it. No explanation. No reason why she couldn't come. This was unacceptable.

"Have my carriage readied," he said as he strode from the study.

Five minutes later, he was entering his coach and directing his coachman to take him to Thalia's house. How dare she cancel their standing agreement? She had committed to him! They had an arrangement, and she could not cancel their sessions at random. What could she possibly have to do that was more important than their meetings?

He drowned the tiny voice in the back of his head, reminding him he was being unreasonable. He was not the master of her time. In fact, he couldn't demand anything from her at all. She had a life that did not include him, and he had to accept that.

The thought only made his mood plummet further and his scowl turn more ferocious. When he rapped on her door, a timid little maid answered. The woman took one look at him, and her eyes practically popped out of her face.

"I'm looking for your mistress, Lady Renier."

"Sh-she's not home at the moment, my lord."

"What time is she expected back?"

"I-I don't know, my lord."

"I'll just have to wait for her then."

"My lord?" The little maid looked sufficiently intimidated but still hesitated to invite him in. She would not stop him, though.

"Well?" he said, imbuing the word with all the aristocratic hauteur he was capable of. "Direct me to the drawing room. I'll wait for her there."

"Yes, my lord. Of course." With that, she stepped back, and after taking his overcoat and hat, led him to the drawing room, a quaint little room right off the foyer.

He looked around, taking in the space. Looking for traces of Thalia in the decor. Had she selected the furniture? The chairs and settee were comfortable and well worn, upholstered in a faded rose fabric. Though not expansive, the room was thoughtfully arranged to maximize both comfort and charm.

The intricately carved fireplace served as the focal point, its mantle adorned with a few keepsakes and a modest collection of well-loved books. He read the titles on the spine and smiled. Austen, Gaskell, the Bronte sisters. His little muse liked romantic novels.

A small writing desk in the corner caught his eye next. It was topped with a vase of fresh flowers and an array of drawing supplies. Graphite pencils, charcoal sticks, and pastels were all arranged in little containers. He was familiar with the materials, for he used them himself in his work.

A sketchbook was lying open on the surface of the desk. He got closer to examine the drawing. It was a sketch of ladies having tea in a garden. The subject was not particularly original, but the technique was good. Thalia was much more talented than she let on.

Smiling, he turned the page to another sketch. This one of a young lady that resembled her sister. It was an excellent likeness, but unfinished. Then he flipped to the next page and his blood froze, the smile fading from his face.

It was a grotesque caricature of a man who looked like Viscount Greaves perversely leering at two small girls. The man was disreputable, for sure, but this caricature suggested a more devious crime.

He turned to the next page. And found another caricature. Another gentleman, by the looks of his clothes. He couldn't recognize this man, but he was fat, and the drawing depicted him being serviced by two prostitutes while holding a leg of mutton in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other.

With sinking horror, he kept turning the pages, only to find similarly grotesque caricatures. Caricatures like the ones that had circulated about him. Caricatures mocking people. Implying heinous crimes or debauched behavior. Demeaning, dehumanizing. Was this her work? Maybe she had not created them. Maybe this sketchbook belonged to someone else.

Was it possible that the innocent girl with clear eyes and the artless giggle was also the one creating such ghastly drawings? No. He refused to believe it. It would be akin to admitting he had been duped once again by a devious woman.

Thalia, his muse... a despicable cartoonist? God, this hurt even worse than when he'd discovered his wife being unfaithful. He had thought himself older, wiser, incapable of falling for duplicitous women. It appeared he was the same fool he had always been.

He had been concerned about her seeing the caricatures of him, when she could be the one drawing them! Could her deceit extend that far? He flipped through the whole sketchbook, bracing himself for the pain if he found a caricature of himself. Thankfully, he didn't find any. But that didn't mean she hadn't produced them.

Pushed beyond reason by hurt, he started opening the drawers of her desk, looking for more sketches. Needing to find proof of her perfidy. Afraid of it.

"Liam? What are you doing here?" Her voice had him whipping around. Her tone suggested confusion and...did he detect a bit of joy as well? Or was that wishful thinking on his part?

There she stood in the doorway. Looking beautiful and innocent in the pretty rose dress. She had always been beautiful to him, but since she had started wearing the gowns he'd ordered for her, her beauty was on display. Easy for all to see. Even by the morons who never looked beyond the surface.

He gulped. Steadying his voice to reply.

"Thalia. I came to find you when you didn't show up for our appointment today."

"I told you yesterday I had another engagement today. And I sent you a note. Didn't you get it?"

"I did. But it told me nothing. What engagement took precedence over our meeting?" He shook his head. "Forget that. It doesn't signify anymore. We have more pressing matters at the moment. What the hell is this?"

He saw the blood drain from her face. Her eyes widened in horror, and he had his answer even before she spoke.

"That's my sketchbook."

A dagger to the heart would've hurt less.

"Indeed? Are these the landscapes, flowers, and animals you said you liked to sketch?"he asked bitingly as he opened the sketchbook to an obnoxious sketch and shoved it directly before her eyes.

"I... That's for a different project. Why are you flipping through my sketchbook?"

"I was waiting for you! The sketchbook was open on your desk. The first few images were innocent enough. I was looking through it, admiring your work, when I found this." His mouth curled in disgust.

"I can explain. Please don't be angry. I understand the subject matter is...controversial, but it surprises me to see you react with so much rage."

"Oh, you think my reaction is exaggerated? Did I not tell you how the scandal rags attacked me after my wife's death? How they mocked me and condemned me and turned society's opinion against me?"

"I remember now that you mentioned it. But this is different. This has nothing to do with you. These individuals depicted in my sketches have committed heinous acts, and they deserve to be exposed. In some cases, even brought to justice."

"Oh? And what are you? Constable, jury, and executioner? I was accused of a heinous act. Murder is widely regarded as a pretty serious crime. The fact that I was innocent didn't stop people like you from dragging my name through the mud."

He realized he was yelling when he saw her jump and take a step back. God, he was acting like an ogre. He took a deep breath. Forced himself to draw air in and out of his lungs. Even in his rage, he couldn't bear the thought of frightening her.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You did not deserve that. But I promise you I've never drawn a caricature of you. Or any innocent person. I wouldn't. These other people you see in my drawings, their crimes have been proven."

He didn't want to hear it. "I want you to promise me you'll stop making these caricatures."

She looked stricken. "Stop making them? At all? No exceptions?"

"Absolutely not. Whatever it is you are doing, whatever cause you are involved with, must stop. I don't want you to mock people in this way."

"I can't do that."

"You refuse to comply with this simple request?"

"It is not a simple request!" she exploded, her own temper igniting, feeding his own rage. "This work is important to me, and you haven't even given me the chance to explain myself!"

"I have. And I don't care about your explanations. Either you cease this completely, or we part ways."

Her gaze snapped to his. Their eyes met, held, and her eyes became moist with unshed tears. It seemed as if both of them held their breath, suspended in this moment of pain and loss. But her answer, when it came, sounded clear and sure.

"I guess we'll part ways, then. Goodbye, my lord." She turned sideways and gestured towards the door.

He stared for a couple of heartbeats. His mind felt dazed while his heart cracked in his chest.

Then he stormed out of her house, slamming the door in his wake.