Discouraging the Duke by Alexa Aston
Chapter Eighteen
Emery entered the main house and turned not in the direction of her father’s office but the stairs. Ever since Miles had been gone, she had buried herself in work, trying to keep thoughts of him away.
It hadn’t worked. The handsome duke had constantly been on her mind.
Caught up with estate affairs, she had delved into a new project—exploring and cataloguing the attics at Wildwood. She mentioned the idea to her mother, who had been all in favor of seeing what might be stored upstairs since she had never ventured into them. Addy was enlisted to help Emery clean as they unearthed everything from junk to treasures. Three fine pieces of furniture had been taken downstairs already and placed in various rooms. Old linens had been turned into cleaning rags. Trunks of clothes from past decades awaited a good airing and wash before Mrs. Jenson would decide what would be done with them.
As she entered the attics, she saw Addy sweeping.
“Almost done, Miss Jenson,” the maid said. “It’s been fun seeing what’s all up here.”
“I agree.”
Deciding to make a final turn around the massive space to see if anything had been missed, Emery walked the perimeter. Addy called goodbye and left, broom and dustbin in hand.
As she moved through the large area, she wondered when Miles might return to Wildwood. He had been gone two and half weeks. He hadn’t specifically indicated what needed to be discussed at Marblewood and only mentioned in passing he would visit two other ducal estates once he left Suffolk. She hoped Mr. Leavell would finish his work soon and be gone before Miles returned. The artist had made use of the schoolroom on the top floor, noting it had excellent light. He had forbidden anyone from entering, wanting to wait until he completed his work. Emery only hoped Miles would be pleased with the final results.
She came across a large, old-fashioned desk tucked into an alcove and wondered how this had been missed. It was battered and in poor condition, which is probably why it had been relegated to the attics in the first place. Idly, she opened a drawer and found it to be empty. She opened the rest and in the final one discovered a leather-bound book. Curious as to why it had been left inside the desk, she opened it.
Scrawled across the first page in an obvious masculine hand was a name.
Garrick Notley.
Turning the page, she saw a date written under the name, one from the mid-1700s—and began to read the first entry.
They have said all manner of things about me. Much of it wild invention—but a sprinkling of the truth here and there. Frankly, the stories told about me do not tell half the tale. I have lived a life of my own choosing, sowing my oats from young manhood well into middle age. Debauchery has been my closest companion and yet the bane of my existence. I was never close to anyone, not even as a child. I was bred to be the Duke of Winslow and found few and then no friends. Only those who would cling to me if I provided them drink or ready whores.
I finally wed and sired three children. The younger two girls have nothing to do with me ever since they wed many years ago. Only the oldest comes around and that is because I still hold the purse strings. He is my heir and nemesis. My pride and joy and yet I feel nothing but hate for him. He is much like his mother, a woman I cared nothing for. She brought fabulous wealth and beauty to our marriage but she possessed a shrewish nature. We spent very little time together. After getting my heir and two daughters off her, I found I tired of her and thought no more sons were coming. She said it was because I was old—fifty at that point. I let her go. She lived and died in London while I have spent my final years here at Wildwood.
Emery stopped reading and flipped through the pages, seeing the entire journal filled with the bold handwriting. Who knew what family history lay within these pages? Knowing that Miles had a love for history, he would be thrilled to examine her find. She set the journal atop the desk and opened the drawers once more, making sure she hadn’t overlooked anything. They were all empty.
She picked up the journal again and didn’t have a good grip on it. It slipped from her fingers and fell to the ground. She bent to retrieve it and then saw something lay behind the desk. Gently, she lifted the journal and set it back on the desk before taking hold of the corners of the desk and pulling as hard as she could. The piece of furniture was incredibly heavy and it took her several tries to make any headway. Finally, it was out far enough for her to remove what had been hidden behind the desk. Emery slid it along the wooden floor until it was free from the obstacle. An oil cloth covered it. From the size, she guessed it to be a painting.
Lifting the cloth away, she saw it was a portrait turned sideways. She struggled to turn it but when it was set aright, she gasped.
Miles stared back at her.
No, she told herself, not Miles. One of his ancestors. It amazed her how much the current duke favored this relative. The man in the portrait had the same skin-kissed golden brown hair. The exact brow, cheekbones, and chin. The two men’s mouths favored one another as did their general frame. The only difference she could see was that this man had dark brown eyes, where Miles had his mother’s sky blue ones.
Emery studied the clothes this long-ago duke wore from decades ago and decided it was a distinct possibility that he was Garrick Notley, author of the journal she had found. Why had this portrait been taken to the Wildwood attics instead of hanging with all the many other Notleys in the portrait gallery filled with previous dukes?
The answer might lie within the pages of the journal.
It wasn’t her place, though, to read it. She should make sure Miles saw both the painting and the journal upon his return. It would need cleaning, though. Even in the dim light that filtered through the nearby window, she could see the colors had been dulled by time. Fortunately, Mr. Leavell was still here. She hoped her discovery would entice him to do a thorough cleaning of this dead Notley’s portrait.
She replaced the oil cloth and left the attics, immediately running into a footman.
“Mr. Lawrence is asking for you, Miss Jenson,” he informed her. “Says he’s ready to show you what he’s been up to.”
“Come with me first,” she said, bringing the footman back to the portrait and having him carry it down to the schoolroom.
“Place it there,” she instructed and the servant did so before leaving.
Leavell came toward her. “You have brought me something?” he asked, interest lighting his fair eyes.
“I have. A portrait which I discovered in the attics just now. Have a look.”
He lifted the cloth away and gave a low whistle. “It is the spitting image of His Grace.”
“I thought the same.”
Leavell clucked his tongue. “It is so dusty, though. The colors have faded.” He knelt and then drew in a quick breath. “It’s a Julian Glanville.”
The name meant nothing to Emery. “Who is he?”
“Probably the most talented English portrait artist of last century,” Leavell explained. “He died in his early thirties, having only painted portraits of aristocrats for about ten years. A list exists of the ones he completed. That could help in identifying which Notley this might be.” He frowned. “You said this was in the attics?”
“Yes, hidden behind a desk. I found a journal inside it.” She held up the book in her hands. “Garrick Notley’s. He may be the man in the painting.”
“I can consult the list when I return to London,” Leavell offered, “and write to you of which Notley Glanville painted.”
“That would be most helpful, Mr. Leavell.”
He frowned at her. “Lawrence.”
She chuckled. “I think the cat is out of the bag. With His Grace gone and you staying behind, not to mention the smell of your oil paints drifting into the corridor, the servants know who you are. A couple even remembered you from before.”
He shrugged. “Servants seem to know more of what occurs in a household than those who actually own and reside in it.”
“That is very true.” Emery glanced to where two easels stood, both facing away from them. “Might I see your work now?”
“Of course.”
With trepidation, she went to the first easel. Her jaw dropped.
The original portrait of the three Notley sons had the boys placed in a library. She had thought Leavell would merely paint over Ralph and replace him with the bookshelves in the background. Instead, it was an entirely new setting. While Tony still had the wide-eyed look of innocence as before, Miles’ face had been slightly altered. The two boys were now pictured in a garden, standing next to a gazebo.
She turned to the artist, shaking her head in disbelief.
“Do you like it?”
“Very much but . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Speechless. I like it.” Leavell smiled. “This is not the original.” He indicated a canvas placed against the wall. “I decided I couldn’t mar my previous work. If His Grace doesn’t wish to see it, perhaps future generations might.” His lips twitched. “I suppose you could place it in the attic.”
As Emery studied the new portrait, she told Leavell, “I had actually thought of asking you to paint a second one of just the younger boys but I was afraid it would make too much work for you.”
He smiled. “Though I paint for a living, I have never considered it work. My art is my livelihood but also my pleasure and passion. This allowed me to do what I was originally commissioned to create.”
He came to stand beside her. “You see, the duchess wanted the boys painted in the garden. The duke refused, saying it wasn’t a masculine setting. I decided to honor her wishes this time around. I merely copied the youngest boy from the original and placed him on a step so he would be more level with his brother.”
“But Mi—His Grace’s face? It is different.”
“Yes, the difference is subtle yet noticeable to those who know him well. This version is more the boy I saw come to the sitting each day. The one who would then change his countenance and become quite serious, as if he thought that expression would please his father. I believe this second version captures more of the boy he truly was.”
Tears brimmed in her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Leavell. You have given quite a gift to His Grace. His brother died shortly after the original portrait was completed. You have given Tony back to him, in a new setting, one which will keep from reminding him of his older brother.”
Emery brushed away a tear as it fell and then stepped to the second easel. Once again, Leavell had surprised her, capturing Miles as he was now. He portrayed the air of authority. The determination. The casual elegance. The good looks and charm.
“I cannot believe you were able to do this from memory,” she proclaimed.
Leavell went to the table where generations of Notley children had sat and picked up a stack of papers, handing them to her.
“I made several sketches of His Grace before I started work on either of these portraits.”
She flipped through them. Miles entering the drawing room. Sitting at tea. At dinner that night. Sitting at his desk, frowning over the papers to be signed.
And then one which startled her.
It was a drawing that captured his essence yet it revealed a tenderness in his eyes. It showed off his good looks and physique but she was drawn to his face and the look in his eyes.
“Do you like it? I did this one for you. The others His Grace can keep or toss away.”
“For me?” she asked, her throat tight with emotion. “Why?”
“Because it is how he looks at you, Miss Jenson. When he doesn’t think anyone sees. I saw him observe you at dinner that night when you came with your parents.”
She shook her head several times. “No, you are—”
“Wrong? I think not. I believe Winslow has a tendre for you, whether you know it or not.” He paused. “I believe you do. Are there feelings on your part, as well?”
A single tear rolled down her cheek and Emery hastily wiped it away.
“I am not of his world, Mr. Leavell. Surely, you understand that.”
Sadness flickered in his eyes. “Unfortunately, I know exactly what you mean. I paint the members of Polite Society but I will never move freely among them. They clamor for me yet would pass me by on the street without a hint of recognition.”
She saw a faraway look come into his eyes.
“Once, many years ago, I painted a young, beautiful girl on the eve of her come-out. Our feelings grew for one another. They were unspoken, even when we were alone and she was sitting for me—but I could see in her eyes the depth of her love. I know, too, she saw the same reflected in my eyes. Yet I knew nothing could come of it. She was the daughter of a marquess. Destined to wed a man of influence and wealth.”
Leavell paused. “She did. And died giving birth to their first child. I still place flowers on her grave.”
Emery’s throat grew thick with unshed tears and she placed a hand on the artist’s arm.
“Then you understand my position.”
“I do.” He placed his hand atop hers. “And might I give you a piece of advice? You have done something remarkable, giving the duke these two portraits. He will pursue you because of them. You can never be a part of his life, Miss Jenson. Not in the way you—or he—would wish. You should leave Wildwood. It would be for the best.”
He squeezed her hand and then stepped away. “Keep the one drawing for yourself. It will hurt to look upon it, I daresay.”
“But it is all I will ever have of him,” she said, her chest tight.
Leavell cleared his throat. “I must leave for London tomorrow. It is time I got back and prepared for my next commission. I will spend today, though, cleaning the portrait you found.”
“Thank you, Mr. Leavell.”
“My pleasure, Miss Jenson.”
Emery left and went to Miles’ study. She placed the charcoal sketches on his desk, along with Garrick Notley’s journal. Knowing it was foolish, she left with the one sketch Leavell intended for her. She couldn’t take it to the cottage. It would be too easy to find there. Instead, she went to her father’s office. He leaned back in his chair, softly puffing as he slept.
Opening the bottom drawer of her desk, she lifted everything inside and placed the sketch underneath the stack and then closed the drawer. Emery took out fresh parchment and dipped her quill into the inkwell.
She would write to Mr. Fillmore now and see if he could recommend an employment agency to her.
The time had come to leave Wildwood for good.