Portrait of a Scotsman by Evie Dunmore

Chapter 6

Greenfield’s daughter hadn’t fled the room at her first opportunity. She eventually moved out of his field of vision, but he felt her presence all throughout his first personal encounter with Julien Greenfield.

“I hear you recently nabbed a coal mine up in Fife,” the banker said as he shook Lucian’s hand in a practiced grip.

“I have. Drummuir.”

“I assume you know things about it that we don’t,” Greenfield said, “because it certainly looks like a lousy investment from where I stand.”

“I suppose we all have our pet projects,” Lucian replied. “Some in the North, some in the South.”

Greenfield’s eyes squinted when he chuckled. One of those deceptively jolly men. If one were to clothe him in plain brown tweed and remove his golden pocket watch and the heavy signet ring on his stubby little finger, nothing about him would suggest a man of both power and old money. He stood with a slight hunch and was short, rotund, and florid, as though he enjoyed wine overly much. His gaze was diffuse, though doubtlessly this could change in a quick second. He’d mastered the subtle art of having delivered the fatal blow long before the opponent realized it had been inflicted.

They kept the conversation brief—Lucian tactically mentioned his philanthropic plans for the arts and extended an invitation to a gallery tour for next Saturday, which elicited a frown from Greenfield’s wife. The banker, however, invited him to his smoking chamber in return. Usually, Lucian declined to enter smoke-filled rooms, but today he accepted. The moment the Greenfields’ attention was engaged by the next guest, he turned back to the room.

The daughter was still at the buffet, alone, pondering the sweetmeats.

He kept to her blind spot as he approached. With her champagne glass tilting at a precarious angle, she was awkwardly bending over a pastry platter to reach the farthermost chocolates. The position stretched her gown snugly across the generous flare of her hips, hips only a dead man would fail to notice. Heat filtered through Lucian. He had expected to find her changed from the urchin in his reception room, but he had still been taken by surprise when first seeing her here. Harriet Greenfield stood a little below average height, and with her gleaming red curls piled high and her luscious figure wrapped tightly in ruffles and green taffeta, a bonbon had sprung to mind, a fancy piece of French confectionary. If he were to step closer now and graze his teeth against the exposed curve of her neck, he’d probably find her tasting like cream candy.

He halted next to her, close enough to smell roses, and reached for a plate. “Why the Ophelia?” he asked, his voice low.

Pink champagne splashed onto the tablecloth. She spooked easily and like a cat, all four paws in the air.

“Your pardon?” She was keeping her body angled away from him.

“When you were at—”

“Hush,” she hissed, then cringed, presumably for shushing him. He randomly selected a pastry while she composed herself.

“Why the Ophelia?” she then said under her breath. “Because she is a marvel.”

“You’ve seen it before?”

Her gaze was darting around the room, he could tell from the corner of his eye. She was engaging him only to keep him from attracting attention. Undoubtedly, all attention was on them already. It was true that ladies appeared at his doorstep once in a while, and though they wanted what he offered in the bedchamber, at a social function such as this the same women would herd their precious daughters and nieces out of his reach at all speed. His little chat with Miss Greenfield was on borrowed time.

He turned to her just as she reluctantly turned to him. Her face was already familiar; he knew the smattering of freckles across her nose and that her plush bottom lip could taste like sugar. Her eyes were dark and shiny like the chocolates piling high on her plate. He knew the wholesome impishness was a decoy—he’d never forget the impressive slap she had dealt him. She was a southpaw, the only reason why she had managed to catch him, he had reflected later on—he hadn’t expected a blow from the left. He hadn’t expected a blow at all; no one dared raise a hand to him outside the boxing ring. Aoife Byrne would like her for that slap ….

“I have seen prints of the painting,” she said. “In its original color and size, it should be utterly enchanting.”

“Enchanting,” he echoed.

Her chin tipped up. “Dreamlike, of a yearning quality … Pre-Raphaelite. I understand the Ophelia embodies all their best principles. I thought if I looked at her long enough, perhaps I could decipher the brotherhood’s secret.”

“They have a secret?”

She nodded. “Something in their technique that renders a scene lush and romantic but not mawkish; whimsical but not saccharine.”

She talked fast and said things he hadn’t thought real people would say. He imagined characters in a novel spoke like her. “And it doesn’t offend you that Ophelia is about to take her own life?” he asked, far too sarcastic in tone. He meant to lull the girl, not shock her. Her wee perky nose and her naïve enthusiasm about death by drowning were grating on him.

Unexpectedly, her stance eased, as though they were falling into a regular conversation. “I prefer to think of her dying from unrequited love,” she said, “which I find tragic rather than deserving of spite.”

He looked her straight in the eye. “Then you think tragedy enchanting?”

She returned his stare with a small pucker between her brows. “I think everyone should have at least one person they love well enough to die for.”

He gave a soft grunt of surprise. “Ophelia didn’t die for Hamlet,” he said. “She died because of him.” He knew this because he had been dragged along to Shakespeare’s plays by old Graham, who had occasionally felt called to civilize the adolescent Lucian.

Miss Greenfield’s frown had deepened. “I gather you have strong feelings about the difference.”

“It matters not to me either way—no one person is worth dying for.”

She looked at him very earnestly. “I’m terribly sorry this is the case for you, sir.”

He felt winded then, as though he’d abruptly run out of breath. His gaze dropped to his plate, now filled with costly delicacies that he’d never planned on eating.

“Why did you purchase her?” came her soft voice.

He looked up. “Because she will fetch a high price one day.”

Her face fell. The very concept of profitability seemed to displease her, naturally, since she would’ve never known a day without all the comforts money so conveniently provided. Her skin was proof of it: it had the muted glow and smooth texture of milk glass. Such skin had never seen the sun or strain.

“If profit is your only motivation,” she said, “I’m surprised you aren’t protecting the Han vases on your mantelshelf with greater care.”

He stilled. “Why do you think they’re Han vases?”

“I know they are; I studied art history books long before I went up to Oxford,” she said with a small shrug. “One could argue they belong in the British Museum. Or that the Chinese Legation in Portland Place would be pleased to receive them.” She sipped champagne and absently licked her lips.

He dragged his gaze away from her damp mouth. “There’s nothing unusual about keeping one’s Han vases instead of letting them gather dust in a museum.”

“Even if they are part of the long-lost Empress Lingsi Collection?” she chirped.

This unnerved him again, and he couldn’t remember the last time another person had had this effect on him, which unnerved him more. He supposed she had the advantage of being underestimated in her fluffy, glossy, chirpy disguise.

“I had a feeling I had seen the pattern of the relief in the context of Han vases before,” she continued. “I confirmed my suspicions in the Bodleian with a textbook, a fifteenth-century book on ceramics containing copies of old relief patterns. Of course, I could be wrong.”

“You know you’re not wrong,” he said quietly. He had consulted the same book a few years ago and she was correct on all counts. “You are remarkably observant. Contrary to what your aunt thinks, you might well be one of the cleverest people in this room, certainly the one with the best visual memory.” He leaned a little closer. “But what you might find impossible to fathom is that, sometimes, a man will hoard priceless things and yet treat them with no more care than cheap trinkets, simply because it gives him pleasure that he can.”

He knew his words were shocking; more shocking was that she had drawn them out of him.

Her eyes were wide, and very near. “If this is true,” she breathed, “it would be terribly decadent.”

“I can be decadent, Miss Greenfield.”

The warmth of her fine skin touched his cheek, for the distance between them had shrunk to nothing. If he were to lean down, he’d be close enough to taste the corner of her mouth. He wanted to. The room dimmed and blurred as the urge took him, while her face remained precisely etched, down to the last golden freckle.

“Harriet.”

He straightened and stepped back.

Greenfield’s son was next to his shoulder and he hadn’t sensed him coming. The young man put his body between him and the girl, his eyes cold with distrust. At last, here was the vigilant Lucian had been expecting from the moment he had gone to the dessert table. He nearly asked, What took you so long, fool?

“Mr. Blackstone was explaining things to me about art,” Harriet told her brother, her voice a little shaky.

“It was the other way around,” Lucian said.

The hostility in Zachary Greenfield’s gaze only intensified.

Lucian looked past him at the girl. “I recently opened my collections in Chelsea to visitors,” he said, and she promptly turned white as chalk.

“How interesting,” young Zach said coolly.

“I’d like to extend an invitation to the tour next Saturday,” Lucian continued. “And if you like what you see, Miss Greenfield, perhaps I could interest you in supporting my new charity for aspiring artists.”

“Charming, but whether she attends your tours is not for Harriet to decide,” Zachary Greenfield snapped, and clasped a possessive hand around his sister’s elbow. “Harriet, Mother wishes to speak to you before she opens the buffet.”

“Zachary,” Harriet muttered. She was redder in the face than when her aunt had insulted her brains earlier. Seemed like she wasn’t used to being treated like chattel in front of strangers, and she made her displeasure known. Her cheeks were still flushed when she permitted her brother to lead her away.

Lucian ate his luncheon thinking that his one true mission today was to convince Harriet Greenfield’s father to send her back to his house in Chelsea.

An hour later, his mission had been successfully completed in the smoking room, and he was again in a muggy carriage en route to Belgravia. He sifted through the gossip Matthews was reporting from his time downstairs at the Greenfield house and found there was nothing of interest except talk of an imminent betrothal of the youngest Greenfield daughter to a knight.

“As for the public visits to my gallery,” Lucian said.

“Yes?” Matthews was scrabbling for the little notebook and pencil he always carried in his breast pocket.

“Put them back on the list.”

Matthews’s face brightened in the shadows. “Gladly.”

“We’ll have the first tour next Saturday. Also, have a charity set up by then, one that supports aspiring artists.”

His assistant glanced up from the page. “A tour is possible, but a charity—I’m afraid it, erm, will be a challenge to find patronesses of quality on time.”

“Make it known, discreetly, that Greenfield’s daughter will support the charity, and they’ll come flocking.”

Matthews had gone still. His gaze was on the floor.

“Sir,” he eventually said. “Greenfield’s daughter …”

“Yes?”

“Will … will any harm come to her?”

Lucian contemplated him. “If the answer were yes, what would you do?”

The man’s shoulders sagged. “I’m much obliged to you, sir,” he murmured. “But it pains my conscience to abet the demise of an innocent girl.”

“Demise,” Lucian repeated, contempt lacing his voice. He wondered what it would take before Matthews legged it. Murder, he guessed. Matthews couldn’t afford to bite the hand that fed him.

He drew back the carriage curtain and squinted against the glistening brightness outside. A row of identical white Belgravian terrace houses blindingly reflected the sun like fresh snow, and the contours of the street continued to glow behind his eyelids. Belgravia. One of London’s wealthiest districts, now his home. Even these middle-class houses here on the fringes had looked palatial to his eyes when he had first explored the area years ago. The air had smelled of lilac, and the calm and neatness of the place had made his body tense with diffuse alertness. He had stood on the pavement in his fine attire and top hat, feeling strangely outside his own skin, and had half expected any of the gents walking past to see him for what he was and chase him off these streets. His wealth, his new life, had felt brittle, like a soap bubble, ready to burst into oily speckles at the tap of a fingertip. Surrounded by clean white splendor, he had had memories of hunger pangs and a cold that bit to the bone. When passing by this particular row, he still sometimes wondered what his grandmother would have said had he given her one of those pristine homes with two columns holding up a portico. He could’ve set her up in a mansion, but she would’ve refused anything more flash; Nanny MacKenzie had taken pride in making do.

I think everyone should have at least one person they love well enough to die for.The scarred corner of his mouth twisted. What if one’s persons were long dead and gone to dust, Miss Posh Tottie, what then?

He let the curtain go and leaned back into the plush seat. He’d never know what his grandmother would have said to a new home; he had been too late to fetch her. But it wasn’t too late to make good on his other promises: Justice for his mother. Justice for Sorcha. A future for the faceless mass of men whose lives were but cogs in a machine, deemed worth less than one of Greenfield’s stinking cigars. Ironic, that it required him to make yet another vow to another woman.

He glanced at his assistant. “Don’t worry about the Greenfield girl, Matthews. My intentions are entirely honorable.”

Matthews’s eyes widened in shocked comprehension. “Oh dear,” he finally stammered, looking more despondent than before.