“I believe that.” She groped for a nearby chair and fell into it, her eyes glassing over. She clutched the scrolled arm of the charm with one hand and waved the other hand at him. “Your face is too stony.”
“The stony nature of my face is neither here nor there.” He sat across from her. “Now, tell me what sort of art you produce so I can find a suitable patron for you, one interested in your talents.” Then they could sell the damn house and be partway to solvency.
She squared her shoulders, met him with chin high. “Nothing.”
“I’m in no mood for games, Lady Cordelia. Your housekeeper stripped me to my shirtsleeves. Do not play with me. Tell me now what your medium is.”
She laughed, falling forward and burying her face in her palms, her shoulders shaking. Had she gone mad? Hell. Should he leave? Call a doctor? The housekeeper at least. Did she need… tea? Just when he parted his lips to call for some (it was better than nothing, at least), she breathed deep and stood.
“Follow me, Lord Theodore. I will show you my masterpieces.” She swept into the hallway, and he followed her up the stairs to a tiny room nestled at the back of the third story of the house. Its walls were lined with paintings and shelves, on which rested various statuary, silhouettes, and pieces of jewelry.
She held an arm out wide, inviting him in. “Take a look, my lord. Behold my many talents.”
He studied the paintings first. “You did these?”
She stood beside him. “Oh yes. Delightful, aren’t they?”
The watercolors were of a… street? With horses, no… dogs? Pulling carriages?
“They look as if a child drew them,” he said.
“And by that you mean they have an air of irresistible innocence about them, yes? A polite man would say so.”
“I’m not polite, and no I do not mean that. I mean they show no understanding of perspective or anatomy or, even, of how watercolorswork.”
“I’m aware.” She strode to the shelves. “Would you like to view my ceramics?”
He joined her. Hell. Worse and worse. “Is that a…”
“Soldier riding a horse? Yes, of course it is.”
“I meant to ask if it was a likeness of a giant pile of horse sh—”
“No.”
He tapped the top of the ceramic. “It’s remarkably like it.”
“I wish I could say it was. Now come see my silhouettes.” She nodded to a nearby shelf and stepped to the side to allow him to better see its contents. “Here’s one of your dear father. And one of the king.”
They looked like pigs, the both of them, with snouts where noses should be and hair turned up at the top like floppy, pointy ears. What odd hell was this?
“What do you think?” She batted her lashes at him, all innocence.
“I think you’re playing some elaborate joke. My father would not have taken you on had you no talent. All the artists he supported were geniuses, had already won fame. I assumed the only reason your name is not a household one is because you’re a woman.”
“You do not mince words, Lord Theodore.”
“Why should I?”
She made her way toward the only window in the room, a small one, curtainless. She leaned her body into the frame and stared outside. “He hoped I would develop a talent.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “Do you really know nothing of my story? Your mother knew. She visited several times, first to help me settle into the house and then to check on me. Once.”
“I knew nothing at all of your existence until our solicitor gave me a list of the artists my father named in his will.”
“He named me? To deed me this house?”
“No. To ensure my brother did not stop funds flowing to you until we’d found a suitable patron to replace his support.”
She slumped against the window. “He said the house would be mine. Promised me.”
