Page 86 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
He found her in her private drawing room and laid before her a kiss that was an eye, a mermaid from a moat, and another he’d drawn during a lonely midnight when he’d wished Cordelia curled in his arms.
His mother did not speak, but the hand she lifted to her lips trembled. With the fingers of the other hand, she traced the images without touching them. Then she turned and wrapped her arms around him tight, a hug that felt like healing, though it hurt like years of silence, too, years of stony dark.
“You love her,” she sobbed.
And he could not deny it. Would not. To deny his love for Cordelia would be to deny air for breathing. A simple revelation he’d made too difficult in the past days and weeks. It did not have to be, though. It could be like breathing—easy and life giving and oh-so-sweet.
“Can I keep them?” she asked, her tears wetting his waistcoat.
“Yes.” Then his hand slipped away from their hug to pick up the midnight drawing. “But not this one. It’s for her.” He’d be needing to offer it up to the woman he had to win back, a white flag of surrender, a token of his heart.
Twenty-Three
He had been two days in London without seeing Cordelia even though his feet itched to take him that direction. But standing on her doorstep, his palms sweated. His feet had what they wished, his heart, too, but he remained unsure.
Would she be glad to see him? Or had he stayed away too long? Theo had wanted to get Sir George’s latest sketch into the right hands on the Strand. He’d wanted to make sure he had the right words, the right images. Besides that, he’d needed to check with the solicitor to start finding affordable houses, and he’d been busy organizing the Drury Lane house’s purchase with the buyer. The man planned on taking ownership sooner than Theo would like. He had to warn Cordelia, bring her home to Briarcliff until they figured something out for the school.
He leaned on the wall beside the door and glanced up at the window he’d climbed through the last time he’d been in London. Was she up there? Winding her long silky hair into a knot on top of her head? Pulling on stockings over her curvy calves? Or did she meet below with teachers and students? Making lists of potential donors and strategizing?
His heart pounded, and his hand hesitated at the doorknob. He’d never knocked before. He’d just strolled right in, often bellowing. No barging or bellowing now, though. He was trying not to be a gargoyle. So he knocked. Then he knocked again. And waited. And the door never opened. So he tried to open it. No option now but to push through as if he owned the place.
But the door was locked against him.
“Hell,” he breathed. Would he have to climb the window?
The door flew open, and Mrs. Barkley scowled at him. “Lord Theodore. It’s you.Humph.”
“Mrs. Barkley! I’m glad to see you’re home. Is Lady Cordelia about? I must speak with her.”
“No, Lady Cordelia is not here,” Mrs. Barkley answered. “I suppose I can’t keep you from coming inside.” She stepped aside.
Theo entered the cold entryway. “Where are the flowers?” They were always on the long, short table beneath the mirror on the left side of the foyer. “And what has happened to the students?” No strains of violin floated down the stairs, no chatter of eager widows echoed down the halls.
Mrs. Barkley sniffed. “Don’t worry. She’s left all the furniture that was here when she arrived. She’s not a thief.”
“Of course she’s not,” Theo snapped. “And what do you mean she’s left the furniture? Left it to go where?” She stepped to the side to leave him. “Mrs. Barkley.” Theo stepped with her, a necessary dance to stop her retreat. “Where is Cordelia?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?” He couldn’t feel his feet. They’d gone entirely numb while his fingertips tingled, a freezing feeling that spread swiftly up his arms and pierced through the bones of his ribs to attack the softer parts.
“You think I’ll tell you? You come here ranting and raving last time, leaving Lady Cordelia in tears and stomping off again. You’ve been nothing but heartless and coldhearted since you first showed your face here, and—”
“Coldhearted? Coldhearted, Mrs. Barkley? I’m more like a man without a heart, and do you want to know why? Because Lady Cordelia holds it in her clever little hands. And if you don’t tell me where she’s gone, Mrs. Barkley, I’ll—”
“Do you promise not to hurt her?” Her mouth had softened, her shoulders sloping into a less militant shape. Her eyes darted toward the door then back to Theo.
“I’d rather hurt myself,” he assured her.
She smoothed her hands down her apron. “She’s at her new school.”
* * *
Lady Balantine’s townhouse was not as cozy as Cordelia’s own, but it was perfect for her purposes. Formerly a private art gallery, its walls still hung with wonderful paintings, and its tables still were dotted with the most remarkable statuary. They’d removed the ones of a more elicit nature, and now the music room had practical, usable instruments instead of priceless ones, and the upper rooms were filled with easels and paint bladders, chalk and paper and canvas instead of artistic items of a questionable nature.
Lady Balantine had not had the funds to help Cordelia buy an entirely new house, but she’d had a house to rent to her for quite a reasonable price, a price more than easy enough to afford with the donations she’d acquired while at the house party. For the first year at least. And the Castles, lovely human beings they were, had already delivered crates of paint bladders and watercolors with the promise of more when she needed them.
She had her own little bedroom at the top of the house, a small chamber and bare but with a cheerful fireplace. She also had a study on the ground floor.
