Page 47 of A Bargain with the Rakish Duke
She quickly ate her breakfast, feeling the urgency of the work ahead.
Once she was dressed, Beatrice made her way to the morning room. The room was bathed in light, the sea visible through the large windows, and she felt a sense of calm wash over her. She quickly changed into a plain dress, one that she wouldn’t mind getting paint on.
Approaching her easel, she felt her fingers itch to create, to lose herself in the world of art where everything made sense. She stared at the canvas she had started, her mind racing with images and shades. Taking a deep breath, she dipped her brush into the paint and began to work, the outline of the cliffs taking shape under her skilled hand.
A few hours later, Beatrice was deeply absorbed in her painting when a gentle knock on the door broke her concentration.
Mrs. Whitfield entered the room, her expression slightly anxious. “Your Grace, there is a visitor. His Grace isn’t here to receive him,” she informed her.
Beatrice blinked, the transition from her world of art to reality feeling abrupt. “A visitor? Who is it?”
“Robert Boydell, Viscount Eastfold,” Mrs. Whitfield replied. “I will help you clean up and change into a clean gown.”
Beatrice nodded, feeling a rush of nerves. She quickly washed the paint from her hands and face while Mrs. Whitfield fetched her a suitable dress. Once she was presentable, Beatrice followed the housekeeper to the parlor.
As she entered, Lord Eastfold rose to greet her. He was a distinguished-looking man with a friendly demeanor and an eloquent manner that immediately put her at ease.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing slightly and kissing her hand after the introductions, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise, Lord Eastfold,” Beatrice replied with a smile. She rang for tea and then turned back to him. “I apologize for my husband’s absence. I wasn’t aware that you’d be visiting.”
“Please, no need to apologize,” Lord Eastfold said, waving a hand dismissively. “I did send a note to His Grace, but I must admit I arrived a bit earlier than planned. I should be the one apologizing for the inconvenience.”
Beatrice smiled warmly. “Not at all. It’s a pleasure to have company. Are you friends with the Duke?”
Lord Eastfold chuckled. “We’re more like business associates, actually. I help him with the curation of his art collection.”
Beatrice’s eyes lit up at the mention of art. “An art dealer? How fascinating! I’ve always had a keen interest in art myself.”
“Is that so?” Lord Eastfold asked, clearly delighted. “His Grace has excellent taste, and it’s been a pleasure to assist him in building his collection. Do you have a favorite artist, Your Grace?”
Beatrice hesitated for a moment, thinking of her secret identity as Eric Westback. “I admire many artists,” she began carefully, “but I’m particularly fond of Turner’s landscapes. His use of the light is simply mesmerizing.”
“Ah, Turner,” Lord Eastfold said with an appreciative nod. “A master of his craft, indeed. His ability to capture the essence of a scene is unparalleled. But tell me, have you heard of Eric Westback? He’s an up-and-coming artist with a style similar to Turner’s that’s been catching quite a bit of attention.”
Beatrice felt a thrill of excitement at the mention of her pseudonym. “I have, actually. I’ve seen a few of his works. He’s quite talented.”
Lord Eastfold leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that made her uneasy. “Indeed. But don’t you find it strange, Your Grace, that an artist of such caliber chooses to remain anonymous? It’s quite rare in the art world, wouldn’t you say?”
Beatrice’s breath hitched, her heart beginning to race. “Perhaps he simply values his privacy,” she suggested, trying to keep her tone casual. “Not every artist seeks fame or recognition. Some prefer to let their work speak for itself.”
Eastfold’s gaze sharpened, his smile taking on an edge that sent a chill down her spine. “Or perhaps he has something to hide. Anonymity can often be a cloak for less savory intentions, wouldn’t you agree?”
Beatrice swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “I don’t think that’s necessarily true, My Lord. Many artists choose to remain anonymous for personal reasons, to avoid the distractions and the pressure from the public.”
He leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. “Personal reasons? How intriguing. One has to wonder what sort of personal reasons would drive an artist to such lengths.”
Beatrice’s heart was pounding now, fear and anxiety twisting in her gut. She knew she had to tread carefully, to not let her investment in Westback’s anonymity show.
“Westback’s work stands on its own merit,” she stated, her voice steady despite the churning of her stomach. “Why should it matter who he is? His art speaks for itself.”
Eastfold’s eyes narrowed, a calculating gleam in their depths. “But don’t you see, Your Grace? The mystery is part of the allure. People are drawn to the unknown, to the idea that there’s a secret to uncover. And I, for one, am determined to uncover it.”
Beatrice felt a chill run through her, a sense of foreboding that settled heavily in her bones. If Eastfold was truly intent on discovering Westback’s identity, it could spell disaster for her carefully guarded secret.
“But why?” she asked, unable to keep the desperation from her voice. “Why are you so determined to uncover his identity? What does it matter?”
Eastfold leaned forward, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Because, Your Grace, knowledge is power. And in the art world, power is everything. Imagine the prestige, the influence that would come with being the one to unmask the great Eric Westback.”
