There it was. Finally. All his life, Trev had longed for some hint of approbation from the earl, the slightest crumb of affection from this most emotionally constipated of men. And now that the moment was here, it lay in his belly like a lump of underdone mutton.
“Thank you,” Trev said, more to break the silence that stretched between them than from any sense of gratitude. All he could feel at present was self-loathing.
He’d lost the love of his life. And nothing else would fill the void.
“Of course, the world isn’t privy to your identity as the unnamed hero in this article, but I will see that those who have need to know—men of power, you understand—” the earl laid a sly finger alongside his nose “—will be made aware of the full facts of the matter.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Nonsense, son,” the earl said. “False modesty is also not—”
“Becoming to a Deveridge,” Trev finished for him. The blood pounding at the base of his skull made him light-headed. But the weight of Beddington’s key in his waistcoat pocket anchored him firmly to earth. He placed a protective hand over it now.
“I haven’t the least bit of modesty, sir, false or otherwise.” Trev had certainly proved that when he made the irretrievable error of posing as Artemisia’s model. “But if I am to continue my work, anonymity is essential.”
“Perhaps you’re called to work of a more public nature.”
“I think not.”
“Sometimes we cannot make those choices for ourselves. Some things are thrust upon us.” The earl adjusted the monocle in his left eye and skewered Trev with an assessing stare. “Your birth, for example, compels certain things from you.”
Trev had never envied his brother the title. He knew as soon as he could toddle that one day, he’d have to make his own way in the world. Theobald would stand in their father’s shadow, waiting to step into the earl’s shoes once he vacated them. Theobald was still waiting, but it was time for Trevelyn to move on.
“Which is why I shall shortly be departing for India to continue my work in Her Majesty’s intelligence corps,” Trevelyn said. “There will be little opportunity to send personal correspondence.” Particularly since he’d almost certainly be living under one of his aliases. “However, in the event of my death, I’m sure you would be advised.”
The earl cleared his throat loudly. “That is out of the question. We cannot chance your untimely demise.”
A small flicker of warmth grew in his chest. Appearances to the contrary, perhaps his father did care for him, after all.
“Nevertheless, my path is set,” Trev said. “I shall take a berth on the next available ship for Bombay.”
“I cannot allow it.”
“You have nothing to say about it.”
“The devil I don’t,” the earl said. “Doesn’t a man have the right to protect his heir?”
Trevelyn frowned. Was it possible his father was experiencing some sort of apoplexy? Theobald was the elder. There was never any question of succession.
“It’s time you knew the truth,” the earl said. “The pertinent facts are all documented, sworn statements by those in attendance, in a sealed file in our solicitor’s office. You are the firstborn, Trevelyn, not Theobald.”
“My entire childhood was a lie?”
His father’s lips turned up in a smug smile. “It’s rare for a man to have the opportunity to select his heir, the right of primogeniture being what it is. How often does one see a firstborn who’s an absolute ass and a deserving second son who hasn’t a prayer short of fratricide of inheriting? When we were blessed with twins, I saw a chance to change that.”
“What have you done, Father?” Trev’s gut churned.
“By giving your place to your brother, I was assured the opportunity to name the most worthy of the two of you to succeed me. Given your past performance, it appeared I had made a wise choice. Then you surprise me with this unlooked for display of heroism. It seems the perfect time to reveal your true destiny.” The earl spread his hands in a gesture that proclaimed the matter already accomplished. “Trevelyn Deveridge, you will be the ninth Earl of Warre.”
Trev let that astounding idea wash over him for a moment. As a titled peer, he’d have more power than he’d ever dreamed. He could influence policy in the House of Lords. He might spare the Empire far more needless wars as a Member of Parliament than he ever could as a procurer of information on the Indian sub-continent. He might somehow win back Artemisia’s affection if . . .
His brother’s face rose in his mind.
“I’ve had my entire life to reconcile myself to the lot of a second son,” Trevelyn said. “What of Theo?”
“What of him?” The earl steepled his fingers. “His only accomplishment thus far has been siring a gaggle of daughters. Now, if he’d managed to father a son, one who showed promise—”
“You mean one who was willing to be molded to your liking.”
“Exactly,” his father said with raised brows. “How quickly you’ve grasped the subtleties of my position. It further reinforces that I am correct in naming you my heir.”
“Well, I refuse to be so named. Stop the carriage,” Trevelyn ordered the driver. The clacking wheels rolled to a halt. “You cannot manipulate people, least of all your own sons, in such a cavalier manner.”
“Of all people, you should understand the irony in that. Your work in Her Majesty’s secret service requires you to manipulate and—yes, I’ll say it—lie to everyone around you at all times. However, as your father, I have the right to raise you and your brother in whatever manner I see fit. My ‘manipulation,’ as you call it, has made you a man with far more spine than Theobald.” The earl’s dark brows lowered. “It is my wish to reveal you as my heir and I will have it so.”
Trevelyn climbed down from the carriage. “Then you will be disappointed, Father, because I have no intention of complying with your wishes. Be satisfied with Theo. He lives to please you in ways I never would.”
He slammed the door closed. “You can’t remake people to conform to your notions of what they should be. You can’t slice them up and reassemble them to suit yourself.”
“I’ll not stand such insolence.” The earl’s face turned deep purple.
“Yes, you will, but I promise it will be the last time. You shall not see me again, Father.”
“You ungrateful puppy.”
“Guilty as charged, but unrepentant,” Trevelyn agreed. “However I will offer you some parting advice. If you continue to try to change the people you should love without conditions, one day you will die as you have lived. Alone.”
Trevelyn turned and strode away. How had he come to it so late? He’d tried to change the woman he loved.
And he’d just pronounced his own punishment. Like his father, he too would die alone.
Chapter 35
“Madam, please. You must stop to take nourishment or you’ll fall down in a faint.” Cuthbert’s face was creased with concern as he poured out a steaming cup of tea and laced it liberally with thick cream and two lumps of sugar.
“It’s almost finished.” Artemisia mixed a dollop of umber and brown on her palette. The studio was even untidier than usual, with trial sketches and experimental elements of her work scattered about. She’d forbidden Cuthbert to move anything. There was no discernible system to the disarray, but she knew where every scrap of it was. “Just a bit more here.”
“So you’ve said for days, Your Grace.” Cuthbert thrust the teacup before her. “Please, madam. Stop for only a moment to refresh yourself. One fears for your health if you continue thusly.”
The tea sent an aromatic summons that could not be denied. She put down her palette knife long enough to take a sip. The warm, sweet infusion of spices and cream slid down her throat. Perhaps she could do with a respite, after all.
“Thank you, Cuthbert. It seems you are right.” She lifted her cup and her brow at him. “As usual.”
“One does one’s best,” he said with modesty.
Artemisia sank onto the settee cradling her cup in both paint-stained hands. Pollux leaped onto her lap as if to add his weight to Cuthbert’s desire that she be anchored to the seat for a few minutes. His warmth and rumbling purr leeched out all need for frenetic activity, and she relaxed for the first time in days.
After Trevelyn had left her home, she didn’t have time to mourn his absence, though she felt it keenly. The rest of her life clamored for her attention.
Felix had appeared before her, sober and genuinely contrite for his part in the whole sordid business. He was even willing to confess to the authorities and accept whatever punishment was required, but Artemisia decided it was enough if he allowed her to tie up the estate until his thirtieth birthday. Felix agreed with gratitude and hadn’t given her a moment’s regret since.
Her mother was beside herself, first because Artemisia had been involved in such a scandalous business as espionage. Even if the matter remained undiscovered by the precious ton, it was “too bad” of Artemisia to put them all at risk of such sordid doings coming to light. It wouldn’t do to jeopardize Delia’s match with another unsavory episode. The shame of Florinda running away to Gretna Green with one of the stable lads had already sent Constance into a severe attack of the vapors. She’d only been revived when promised “carte blanche” in arranging for Delia’s grand wedding.
Angus was delighted when he heard Florinda was going to settle in the country with Hector Longbotham, but then Angus was delighted by most everything these days.
Her father’s mind was still stripped down to the barest flashes of normalcy, but his heart was always merry. Artemisia decided that if in the end, one was left with only the ability to feel happy with life, perhaps that was no bad thing.
She, however, did everything in her power not to feel anything at all. She pushed herself beyond normal limits trying to finish Mars. She took advantage of every moment of natural light to do detailed brushstrokes on the central figure of the piece in the foreground and toiled by lamplight on the shadowy background. Now that she had a moment to step back and really look at it, she realized suddenly that Mars was done. Even one more dab of paint would diminish, not add, to the effect.
Whether it was any good or not, she couldn’t decide. It was too dear to her to make that sort of judgment. But more than any other piece she’d ever produced, she’d poured her soul onto this canvas. She was an empty cup, drained to the last dregs. It would take far more than Cuthbert’s remarkable tea to revive her.
As if he sensed her thoughts, her butler pressed a plate of biscuits into her hand and then turned to look at the canvas. He took two steps forward and stopped.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked before nibbling half-heartedly on the crusty pastry.
“Ordinarily, one is of no opinion—”