Page 116 of The Rogue's Last Scandal
“Yes.”
“Your mother was killed on the coast? Is that where your country estate is?”
“No. She had a cottage on the coast where she went to meet with my father, when he could come back. We think she had just left from meeting with him, after...” He looked up at her, his eyes burning.
Graciela watchedthe tension rise in him again. He’d had as chaotic a childhood as herself, and he’d lost a mother in the same horrific way, the sins of the husband visited upon the wife.
Had the children been threatened also? It would explain the fortress mentality of the household.
The thought of someone going after Charley sent chills through her.
Charley’s gaze narrowed. “What I’m about to tell you, the others don’t know, well perhaps Bakeley knows, but not Perry. Will you promise me you won’t share this with them?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Before my parents’ last meeting, Father had just escaped from the French. He’d been taken prisoner.”
A pain whipped through her. “And tortured?”
“No. At least, not much. He was treated relatively well by his captor. He was in Spain, near the border.”
“Pamplona,” she said. That’s what he had meant.
“Yes. His captor was a nobleman who wanted a painting as ransom.”
“A painting?”
“Yes.”
“Not money.”
“No.”
“But that makes no sense. What was this painting? Some valuable masterpiece?”
“I suppose it had value, though I always found it dark and depressing. My father had given it to Mother early in their marriage. Where the devil he got it, I don’t know, but I’m making guesses. In any event, his captor had learned the painting was in my mother’s sitting room at our country estate, Cransdall.”
The private fortress of the Shaldons had been invaded by a spy. “A servant betrayed you.”
“No. Or, rather, likely not. An exuberant friend of my mother’s got wind, and it was mentioned in a news sheet.”
“Who is the nobleman?”
Charley’s frown deepened.
“Dios. The Duque de San Sebastiano,” she whispered. “But no, he was in Mexico terrorizing the people there.”
His hand clamped over hers and he turned in his chair. “Was he there ten years ago, Gracie?”
Ten years ago, she’d been but a child. “I don’t know. I could believe him capable of holding an English earl for a ransom of pride, but I would expect your father to have killed him by now.”
He nodded. “Father plays a long game.”
She knelt beside him. “I think my father must do so, also.” There was so much left unsaid. And nothing made sense. Who would demand a mere painting for a man’s life, in the middle of a war? “What was this painting, Charley?”
He grimaced. “The martyrdom of Saints Perpetua and Felicity.”
“What?”
