Page 9 of Lyon of Scotland
“I have never misled Charles. He is my friend.”
“Huh! He is smitten. I see it. Talks of you at dinner. Influenced by a Scotswoman—I will not have it. I told the boy to study law, but he wanted to paint pictures. No ambition! So he must make a success of things here.”
“He is very talented and does excellent work. You should be proud of him.”
“I would be proud of him if he had enough gumption to become Garter someday. He will inherit my title and estate, but he will make a mess of things unless he straightens up. The last thing he needs is a Scottish wife diminishing his reputation.”
“You dislike Scots that much?”
“There’s no reason to respect them,” he muttered with a sideways glance.
Some English were like that, she told herself, a learned habit through family and social opinion. “Well, you are wrong about Charles. He will do great things someday.”
She felt sympathy and friendship for Charles, but no deeper attraction. Nothing like the intense pull she felt toward Lord Lyon. When he had appeared this morning, she had felt thatdelicious spin inside, the weakening of the knees that only he caused in her. He only spoke politely and met her gaze for a moment, and she had felt a rush of—relief, she thought. Hope, longing. Love—or some desperate desire to be swept away from here.
But he had not come to London for her, nor did she want him to know about her embarrassing dilemma. She was on her own in this.
“I am not wrong. The boy is weak. Nonetheless, keep your distance, and I will give you a few more days.”
She ought to thank him, but she only stared at him, wishing she could summon enough courage to tell him what she thought of him.
Then the door opened, a welcome interruption as Charles Dove entered. She smiled, silent, as he went to his desk, skirting his father and avoiding his glance.
“I will leave you to your work,” Sir Frederic said. “Charley, we will talk later. Sir George has an important guest today, so I will be back if the visitor wants to see your little paintings. Good day, Miss Gordon.” Turning on his heel, he left the room.
Sinking to her stool, Hannah raised a shaking hand to her head and tried to regain some calm. Important guest—Strathburn! She had to compose herself if she was to see him again today.
Trembling, she took up her pen to resume her work, and a dark blot fell mercifully on the desk, not the page. She wiped it away even as she tried to erase Frederic Dove’s threats and the bitter memories that had brought her to this juncture.
Last summer, she had such hopes, believing she was in love. Too soon, she saw Whitworth’s darker side—cheerful had been replaced with criticism for her and others; and at times he was stumbling drunk, late for visits and social events but unwilling to explain. Then he had left London without warning, sending aterse note to her cousins’ house.We were both mistaken. I hope your father will help you. I am sorry—J. W.
When she had gone to his rented rooms with her cousin Georgina, they found him gone, leaving nothing behind. Then Frederic Dove, whom she knew only as the lawyer for the College of Arms, had sought her out, claiming she owed him money. He’d produced a document she had never seen before, one that claimed she’d taken on Whitworth’s debt. He told her that Whitworth was a habitual gambler with a penchant for liquor, laudanum, and women. Shocked, devastated, she had wanted to flee back to Scotland. But Dove had started to pressure her.
Then Cousin Oliver had introduced her to Charles Dove and Sir George Naylor, and she felt hopeful. Naylor had seen her sketches and miniature portraits at her cousins’ home, and offered her a position.
He had all but saved her life that day. Hannah had written to her father and sisters saying only that Whitworth had broken off their engagement and left London, but that she would stay with her cousins for a while. She explained that she had been invited to work at the prestigious College of Arms to prepare for the coronation. She made it sound exciting, a pleasant remedy for heartbreak.
What a mess she had made of her life. And now Lord Strathburn had arrived. Secretly thrilled, she wondered if he would carry back a report to her family and friends in Edinburgh. He was unlikely to talk about her, yet it was still possible.
Her cheeks burned to think of how much she secretly cared about him, about his good opinion of her. She had to give the appearance of happiness and success here.
Picking up her pen, she resumed her work. Each pen stroke soothed her spirit, and her focus pushed away the tumbling thoughts as the nib scratched over the paper.
Chapter Two
Dare entered theart room with Naylor, recognizing the space where Hannah Gordon had ducked earlier. Flooded with sunlight, the large room was lined with shelves and cupboards along the walls, with tables and work desks filling the central area. Two artists, a young man and a young woman, sat working at slant-top desks.
Hannah Gordon looked up and smiled, sunlight glinting over her blonde hair and illuminating her deep blue eyes. Dare nodded, but she glanced away shyly.
“An excellent space for artists to work,” he told Naylor.
“It is. Let me introduce you,” Naylor said. “Lord Lyon, this is Mr. Charles Dove. His father is Sir Frederic Dove, who handles legal claims and disputes for us. Lord Lyon, King of Arms in Scotland,” he told the young man, who stood.
“Sir, it is a privilege,” Dove said.
“And this is our newest painter,” Naylor said. “Miss Hannah Gordon.”
She looked up, one hand resting on a page that showed a meticulous design of a lion, a harp, and a horse on a shield with a crown above. She stood quickly, gracefully.
