Nothing But Deception Read online

  She had her independence, but what good had it done her?

  Of course, if she wanted to meet the right sort of man—the sort she could love and marry—she needed to attend the right sort of events, not the usual teas and musicales she was too polite to turn down.

  Chaperoning Charity at Monsieur Durand’s salon seemed like a good place to start. Still, years spent attending ton events left her skeptical. The only appropriate topics of conversation were meaningless—fashion, weather, and such. They left one with scarcely more than a surface-level acquaintance. This time, Bea wanted more. A second marriage to someone who didn’t truly know her, and value her at that deeper level, might leave her feeling even emptier than she did now.

  Chapter 3

  The salon, hosted by Lord Robert and Lady Alicia Wilbourne, was a crush. Footmen scurried to gather pelisses and overcoats, while the butler worked double-time to account for the fact that many of the evening’s guests had not been on the original invitation list. Thankfully, the Wilbournes were gracious enough to take this in stride, and their home large enough to accommodate Philippe Durand’s many admirers.

  Bea and Charity arrived just in time and melded into the receiving line to greet their hosts.

  “Bea, lovely to see you again,” Alicia Wilbourne said as they approached. “And Charity. The two of you make quite the lovely picture.”

  “Enjoy yourselves, ladies,” Robert Wilbourne invited. “My Alicia here was beyond excited to learn Monsieur Durand was coming to England. He’s never put in an appearance in our country before, you know, but we had the good fortune to meet him in Paris last year. So when we got the word, my lovely wife insisted we open our home to display his work.” He winked. “If I didn’t know how much she loves me, I daresay I’d be jealous of the man.”

  “Is Monsieur Durand present, then?” Charity asked eagerly.

  Lord Wilbourne’s genial smile widened. “Don’t tell me you harbor a tendre for our artistic friend as well. The youth of London will be devastated. Yes, he’s here, putting the finishing touches on part of the display. I’m sure he’ll be out presently.”

  Bea and Charity thanked the host couple and moved into the small ballroom, where a number of paintings were already on display. Others remained draped in velvet, presumably to be unveiled later.

  “Ooh, how exciting,” Charity said. She clasped her hands, then anxiously smoothed her skirts. “Do I look presentable?”

  “Absolutely.” Bea studied her. Charity’s golden hair and blue eyes were set to perfection by the ice-blue silk gown she wore. The design was simple, the color pale, befitting her status as a debutante, but each drape and fold was artfully designed to flatter.

  “In fact, you are even more stunning than usual this eve, Charity.” She smiled. “But I promised your sister I would not let you fall all over yourself before the Frenchman.”

  Charity’s mouth dropped open in mock outrage. “Well, I never! Simply because I remarked once—all right, perhaps twice—that Monsieur Durand is known to be both handsome and charming, not to mention talented…”

  Bea held up a hand, laughing. “Enough. I, too, am anxious to meet this paragon.” And any other eligible gentlemen who happened to be present.

  Charity moved closer to examine a painting of a young girl peering through ferns, into a forest stream. “Amazing,” she murmured. “The expression is so intent, you feel as though you are there.”

  Bea said nothing, drawn in as well. The lush strokes and colors of the work were so different, so much more alive, than the rigidly formal portraits of aristocrats that graced the homes of so many of her London counterparts. If only she could capture that same sense of life in words, in her own creative dabbling, perhaps she’d have the courage to pursue her love of poetry more openly.

  Bea chuckled to herself and shook off the silly musing. Monsieur Durand was known as a flamboyant, flirtatious Frenchman. He painted in a style that disregarded current convention, then fearlessly opened his work to the public. Good fortune had smiled on him when the work caught on, but Bea couldn’t envision baring her soul to the world like that—for baring the soul was what true art, in any form, did.

  “Do you know,” Charity remarked as they drifted toward another painting, “Monsieur Durand never accepts commissions. He insists on choosing his own subjects, whether they be peasants or nobility.”

  Lady Tanner, an aging but formidable member of the ton, poked her cane into their conversation. “I imagine the monsieur is successful enough to have earned that luxury.”

  “Now, yes,” Charity told her politely, “but he has always done it thus.”

  “I declare, Charity, I’ve never known you to study a subject so avidly,” Bea teased.

  Charity had the grace to blush.

  Lady Tanner looked pointedly around the room. “I daresay half of London has a newfound appreciation for art. One can only hope it is caused by a desire for self-improvement.”

  Bea bit her lip to keep from laughing as Lady Tanner moved off, her cane clicking on the polished wood floor. The astute old lady obviously had surmised that many of the room’s occupants had more interest in the artist than in his work.

  “Well,” Bea said brightly, “shall we continue our journey toward self-improvement?” She gestured to a large display across the room.

  Charity grinned back. “Indeed.”

  She leaned toward Bea and whispered, “There’s more…not only does he choose his own subjects, but there is rumor he shot a man.”

  “Shot?”

  Charity nodded, relishing her news. “In a duel. The fiancé of one of his subjects claimed that though Monsieur Durand’s portrayal of the young lady had her fully clothed, her expression, the painstaking detail with which he captured every nuance, could only have come from knowing her intimately. He denied it, of course, but the man demanded satisfaction.” She sighed. “Have you ever heard of such a romantic figure?”

  Bea rolled her eyes and redirected her enthusiastic charge toward the next painting. But the moment they stepped forward, a swell of murmurs filled the room.

  Charity stopped, craning to look around a heavyset man in front of her. She sucked in a breath and grabbed Bea’s arm. “There he is.”

  She pulled Bea to an open space as heads turned and bodies parted, revealing Lord Wilbourne. Standing at his side was a tall man with golden, stylishly neglected hair and a gaze that seemed to not only see, but absorb his surroundings.

  Bea was grateful for the steadying grip of Charity’s hand as a sudden rush of awareness set her heart beating faster.

  This was no ordinary salon, no everyday artist. She’d felt it when she’d glimpsed his work, but seeing him in person, the sensation hit her full force.

  The man who’d created that living, magical art was a good ten paces away, but even at a distance he projected an aura—all indolent charm and undercurrents of passion. No wonder Charity was smitten. No young London fop would stand a chance against Jean Philippe Durand.

  Lord Wilbourne held up a hand, and the murmuring crowd settled. “I’d like to thank you for attending tonight’s salon, honoring the work of my good friend. It is my pleasure to introduce you to the creator of that work, Monsieur Jean Philippe Durand. Although he prefers to give no formal speech, save a brief welcome, please do not hesitate to approach him during the evening with any questions you may have, as he is happy to answer in an informal setting.”

  The Frenchman stepped forward. “Messieurs and mademoiselles, my lords and ladies, I am deeply honored and humbled by your presence tonight. This is the first opportunity I have had to experience England, and I must say I find it unexpectedly delightful.” His English was accented but precise, his voice a resonant baritone.

  He paused, one hand frozen in midair as he took a deliberate gaze around the room. A smile spread across his features. Bea felt the jolt of it in her toes.

  “Ah. The women of Paris mock their English counterparts, but now that I see for myself, I declare t
hey speak out of jealousy,” he said grandly. “Had I known London harbored such beauties, I would have come here years ago.” He bowed. “Please, enjoy yourselves. I shall speak briefly about the remaining paintings as I unveil them, but there is no need for a formal audience, so let us mingle and enjoy the lovely home of my gracious hosts, Lord and Lady Wilbourne.”

  He flashed another smile, all polish and charm, and women’s fans throughout the room fluttered vigorously.

  Charity looked around. “Unbelievable.”

  “Oh, come now,” Bea laughed. “Were you not the one who insisted we come? I thought you had a mad crush on Monsieur Durand.”

  “Had.” Charity tossed her head. “I don’t like to be part of a crowd.”

  “You, darling, will always stand out from any crowd.” Bea shook her head in amusement. Elizabeth’s little sister was headstrong, but Bea had known Charity long enough to know she had a heart of gold and was steadfastly loyal to those she truly cared for. Apparently, Monsieur Jean Philippe Durand no longer rated in that category.

  Charity’s disillusionment, however, didn’t diminish Bea’s enthusiasm in the least. Though she’d heard of Durand, she’d never seen his work before tonight—and now she was captivated.

  “Come.” Bea nodded to where the first covered painting was being unveiled. “Let us see this new work, and hear what the artiste has to say of it.” She led Charity to the edge of the crowd that had gathered for the spectacle.

  With a flourish, Monsieur Durand whisked away the draping of amethyst velvet, revealing an ornately framed portrait of a woman. The subject stood on the balcony of a Paris town house, gazing pensively at the street below. She was lovely, yet to Bea, she exuded the impression she longed for escape.

  The Frenchman cleared his throat. “This, friends, is the last portrait of my mother.” He spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear, but without the showmanship used earlier. “She was taken by illness earlier this year, but it is to her I owe my career, my passion for art. She saw to my lessons from the time I was young, and her connections afforded me the exposure necessary for success.”

  Bea watched his features soften as he spoke. Clearly, his mother had meant a great deal to him. Never had she observed a man who seemed so willing, if not entirely at ease, about speaking of emotional matters before near strangers.

  The artist paused in his speech. Those gathered about remained respectfully quiet as well, seemingly content to admire the painting rather than press questions.

  “He’s looking our way.”

  “Hmm?”

  “He’s looking our way,” Charity repeated.

  She was right. Bea glanced from Charity to the Frenchman, who was most certainly gazing in their direction, in spite of the fact that they stood on the very fringes of the gathering.

  “You see?” Bea said. “It is just as I proclaimed earlier—you stand out in a crowd. I predict you shall receive singular notice this eve. You look stunning, after all.”

  “Monsieur Durand?” A heavyset woman in a blue turban spoke up. “Is it true that you have studied in Venice, as well as France?”

  The artist dismissed the out-of-place question with the merest shake of his head.

  A low buzzing seemed to fill the air around Bea. Something extraordinary was happening. She turned to Charity, who seemed to sense it, too.

  But when Jean Philippe Durand made his way through the crowd and came to a dead stop, it was not in front of Charity.

  He lifted one hand, gesturing almost reverently toward Bea.

  “Belle. You must be a transplanted rose, for in all of England, I have seen nothing so beautiful.” He looked to Charity. “Please, permit me an introduction.”

  Charity appeared stunned, but recovered quickly. “Of course, monsieur. It is my pleasure to introduce to you Lady Beatrice Pullington, a dear friend.”

  “Lady Beatrice Pullington.” He bowed lavishly, regaining some of his earlier showmanship. “A proper English name, indeed. Yet not so proper as to dispel the glow of beauty, of life, that enchants all about you.”

  Bea’s cheeks grew hot, but she managed a coy tone to match his manner. “You have a charming way with words, monsieur.”

  He threw her a wicked grin. “Not nearly so charming as my way with paints. I am impulsive, oui, but I have learned to trust my instincts. They tell me now that you are the inspiration I have been seeking. A muse, gracing earth in human form. Please, let me paint you.”

  Everyone around them was staring.

  Bea had long ago mastered the art of fitting in, mostly because she had rarely been singled out—at least never in such an overt manner. And yet the temptation to accept this sudden request…an offer most in the room would have paid dearly for, were payment an option…

  “I know not if you are sincere, but if your request is made in earnest, then how could I refuse?” Bea murmured in response.

  Triumph lit his features. “I am greatly relieved, yet hurt to think you question my sincerity. I assure you, I never issue such a request if I do not mean to follow through.”

  “He rarely issues such a request, period,” Charity whispered. “Oh, do it, Bea. You simply must.”

  “I just said I would,” she whispered back, loudly enough that Monsieur Durand laughed.

  Heat suffused her face further.

  “Oh, come now, chérie,” the Frenchman pled. “I’ve no wish to embarrass you—only to have the honor of attempting to capture your spirit on canvas.” He leaned in. “I shall leave you to the salon, for I see you are unused to such scrutiny, but I shall contact you through our hosts for the evening.”

  Bea could only nod.

  “J’espère que nous aurons bientôt l’occasion de nous revoir,” he said with another lavish bow. I look forward to our next meeting. Smiling, he swept off to uncover the next of his still-draped works.

  Bea was still in shock as Charity, face alight with excitement, whirled to face her. “Do you realize you have suddenly become the most envied woman in London?”

  A familiar cane appeared. “The most envied, and, I predict, the most speculated about,” Lady Tanner proclaimed. “You’ve always been a good girl, though. I’m sure your portrait will turn out lovely. Just keep your head about you.”

  Bea forced a smile at the unsolicited advice. Her head had deserted her the moment Jean Philippe Durand had entered the room. Lady Tanner had a point. She would do well to gather her scattered wits before spending any more time with the charismatic artist.

  In spite of overhearing a few jealous comments to the effect of “I don’t see why he found her so special,” Bea was nearly floating by the time the salon ended. She and Charity bid their good-byes, then waited as footmen retrieved the outerwear they’d shed upon arrival.

  A servant held out the rose-colored pelisse that matched Bea’s gown. As she slipped her arm into the sleeve, she brushed against something stiff.

  She paused, felt in the sleeve with her other hand. Yes, there it was. A small rectangle of paper, pinned to the lining of the garment.

  Curiosity set her heart beating faster, but she gave the footman a bland smile as though nothing was out of the ordinary, and he moved off to assist the next departing guest. She glanced around her, but everyone seemed preoccupied with their own matters—no one was, at least that she could observe, paying her any special attention.

  It was a note, she felt certain. And whoever put it there clearly hadn’t wanted to make a public announcement of it. Who would wish to contact her in such a manner? She had no lover to slip her discreet little messages.

  Monsieur Durand had said he would contact her through their hosts. This couldn’t be what he had meant.

  Belatedly, Bea realized Charity was a half dozen paces ahead, nearly out the door.

  Bea hurriedly adjusted her gloves and followed, heaving a sigh as she resisted the urge to extract the missive and read it until she could do so as its sender clearly intended: in private.

  Chapter 4

&n
bsp; As soon as Charity exited the carriage, having been deposited safely at home, Bea tugged up the sleeve of her pelisse and unpinned the scrap of paper. She smoothed out the folds, then held it close to the vehicle’s window.

  The uneven light of the streetlamps afforded her limited visibility, though determination—and a good deal of squinting—allowed Bea to ascertain two things rather quickly: first, the note was written in French. Second, it was not addressed to her.

  For that matter, it was not addressed to anyone.

  How very vexing. She tapped her foot impatiently as the carriage traveled the remaining blocks to her home. Upon arrival, Bea hurriedly shrugged out of her pelisse and thrust it toward the butler, whose stoic, “Good evening, my lady,” gave no indication that he noticed her unusual preoccupation.

  She sped toward the little writing desk in the family salon and lit the lamp. There. She smoothed out the note, translating as she read.

  It is time for the planting of seeds. If properly tended, they should flourish by May, perhaps June. One cannot predict exactly, as the winds are subject to change. The best a gardener can do is plan well, then monitor closely. To that effect…

  Huh?

  The note merely described someone’s intention for planting their flower garden. How utterly odd. Why would someone go to the trouble to pin such a thing inside her sleeve? Perhaps it hadn’t been intended for her after all, though that didn’t answer the question of why a gardening plan necessitated such secrecy. There had to be something more.

  She read a few sentences further, as the author of the note went into detail regarding the proper layout of a garden, factoring growth patterns, which plants best complemented one another, and such.

  Wait. Bea frowned. Was her French that rusty?

  She reread the sentence she’d stopped at. No, that verb was conjugated improperly. And something about the author’s choice of words struck her as…off.