Page 35 of Obsession: The Unspoken Sin
Denbigh consulted his timepiece, then stuffed the gold chain back inside his jacket pocket. He swapped it out instead forthe turquoise ribbon that had previously held Alice’s letters together. Rather, his letters to Alice, the ones that had gone unopened and returned.
In the time since his duplicity had caused him a broken heart, a self-inflicted wound so grave as to never be recovered from, he’d actually come to find solace in the blue scrap that was fading with time. He’d come to appreciate it in more ways than he ever had. It was a piece of Alice he carried with him still. As long as he had the scrap from long ago, he’d have something that she’d touched with her own fingers, reverently tied, and affixed to those boisterous curls. There was solace in this. Having a piece of her still, though it was a small, insignificant material piece, was something of her, and he’d take anything he could get.
In the absence of his tardy man of affairs, Denbigh—ribbon in hand—took a slow walk about the studio, equipped to comfortably allow thirty artists space enough for them to each work on life-size canvases.
There had only been Alice whose advice he wished to have, but in the absence of that, he’d enlisted help from the Baroness Bolingbroke.
At first, when he’d arrived for an audience with the lady and presented himself for a meeting, she’d been coolly distant and rebuffed his attempts at an audience.
Why shouldn’t she have? Through familial connections, she was closely linked with proprietors of not only the Hell and Sin Club but also the Devil’s Den. Dynevor and Wakefield had made it their place to notify anyone they suspected Denbigh would reach out to in support of his suit for Alice.
In underestimating Denbigh’s character, they’doverestimatedthe lengths he would go to secure a meeting with Alice. And when he’d been adamant and clear that his venture and his role in it was to remain a secret to society, he’d easily secured the help.
The Baroness had provided different avenues for him to consider. She’d provided him with eight options and her opinions on each. Denbigh selected the largest, most elevated structure that was most exorbitant in price but in need of the least work.
He paused at the large north-facing windows and stared out. The property situated at the end of Charles Street, a solitary residence, provided the townhouse with expansive grounds and gardens that stretched for several miles.
The gardeners who tended the space put in by Capability Brown himself meticulously maintained the grounds. The land possessed a hint of overgrown wildness, but upon closer inspection, the high hedges and carefully manicured London planes and tall English oaks were set off far-enough back and around the perimeter to keep out prying eyes.
There were gardens and graveled paths set off far enough from the property and the trees positioned in a way that did not obstruct sunlight to the residence. Horse chestnut trees and sweet bays, along with roses and lilac and boxwoods and hydrangea, left the landscape a magnificent, bucolic place with which to provide serenity to thinkers and artists.
This particular art space, positioned at the north-facing windows as it was, allowed sunlight to be diffused and ensured consistent lighting and no impediment of shadows which would hinder artists’ drawings and paintings. The equally high ceilings were conducive for large easels and canvases. The open floor was of more than nearly one hundred feet long and some fifty feet wide. The room had even been fashioned with a central dais, since converted to a model stand.
Alice would love it.
At least, that was what Lady Bolingbroke had assured him. Not the space was a gift, but rather, Alice and any artist would appreciate the room as an ideal art space.
Denbigh took in a shaky breath.
It was done. His venture.
That was if Alice ever opened his letter and decided to take over ownership of the establishment as he offered. He’d made it clear that he didn’t desire to offer her the academy as a chore, but rather as a choice. And if she was not interested and instead wished to remain employed by the Devil’s Den and reside there, she had absolutely no obligations to the venture he’d funded. It would be privately managed by a board comprised of those he trusted and respected; among them would be Exmoor.
He’d sent that note to Alice days ago, and there’d still been no response.
His shoulders sagged.
Nor would there be.
“God, you have always been more headstrong than any girl who ever wore a bonnet,” he said, his voice hoarse from weeks without sleep. His laugh emerged rusty. “But then that is just one of the things I love about…”
Denbigh’s words trailed off as, from through the gleaming crystal windows, his gaze alighted on a delicate figure reflected behind him.
She’d discarded her cloak upon entrance. Whereas Dynevor kept Alice attired in drearily dark fabrics, the lady had arrived in a soft, floral pink-and-yellow patterned gown that put him in mind of a dress she’d worn long ago.
With his heart in his throat, Denbigh turned around slowly. He feared that if he moved too swiftly, she’d vanish like the cool morning mist.
It turned out, Denbigh needn’t move at all.
Alice glided towards him. More she floated like a benevolent specter; her steps as graceful and elegant and languid as the light steps of a delicate reel.
Then she stopped.
A ray of sunlight bathed the cherished lines of her delicate face. “You were saying?” Alice softly asked.
Denbigh tried to figure out what he’d been thinking before he’d caught her visage in the windowpanes, but came up empty.
Alice cocked her head. “That is one of the things you loveabout…?” she murmured.
