Over the mantel—a place of honor. She wrapped her hands around her mug and took another happy sip. “It ought to fit well there.”
“Of course, once we start adorning my walls, we must make an honest go of it. The others will look all the barer, so I suppose you had better paint portraits of Mother and Father. And Philly, if you can convince her to keep her nose out of a beaker long enough.” He shot her that lopsided grin. “Or perhaps one of her with her nose in the beaker, since it is her natural state.”
She attempted a haughty look, but her smile no doubt ruined it. “If you intend to keep me so busy, Mr. Lane, I may have to start charging you a commission.”
“We can negotiate terms later.” His gaze, as he said it, swept down to her mouth and lingered there.
Which set that frisson of heat skittering over her again. And made her wonder, again, if he had somehow caught a whiff of her thoughts when he first arrived.
Well. She had learned to flirt in the drawing rooms of London. She could manage his lingering gaze in an isolated garden. “Why do I get the feeling your idea of negotiation wouldn’t be entirely proper, sir?”
“Me?” Merriment sparked in his eyes. “You are the one setting the terms, my lady.”
And hers the thoughts not entirely proper. She cleared her throat and turned back to the painting, hoping that if she raised her cup to her mouth again, he would think her flush a result of the hot tea. “But I am a gentlewoman, sir, unaccustomed to such base matters as trade. And certainly I have no idea what the going rate is for a masterpiece in such a savage land as this.”
“Careful, Miss Fairchild. Call this land savage often enough, and it may decide to show you how right you are. Though at least you can be sure that I am a gentleman.” He sent her a smile that no doubt deepened her cheeks from rose to scarlet. “Most of the time.”
Her throat went dry, and the drink she took did nothing to help her. Gracious—she had been bad enough at flirting in the staid and chaperoned London drawing rooms. What was she thinking, attempting it in an isolated garden? She swallowed another gulp of tea and faced forward. “You will need one with Jack too, and his father. And perhaps…” She squeezed her eyes shut, knowing, even as the words formed, that she ought not say them. Especially not now. “Perhaps one of Peggy. If you have a likeness of her, or could describe her for me…”
He sighed, but it sounded more resigned than pained. “Perhaps someday, Gwyn. But not for my walls. This was never where she wanted to be.”
“What? But…” She turned to him, ready to probe further and make sense of that. He had never said anything to make her think his marriage had been unhappy, but for its ending. Granted, he spoke of Peggy only rarely, even less than Captain Arnaud spoke of his Marguerite.
But Thad’s eyes were narrowed, not at her but at the painting. He traced it with his gaze as he had the one of her father, as if following her brush strokes one by one. Then he loosed a surprised breath. “There are no shadows in this one.”
Of all the inane—Gwyneth pivoted back to the canvas. “Of course there are. The shadow of the hull on the water, of the sails, and within the clouds. The only one I have not put in yet is yours.”
“No, that is not what I mean. Down here.” He motioned to the edge. “There are no unexplained ones.”
“What in the world are you talking about, Thad?”
“I am talking about—I shall show you.” In one smooth movement, he spun toward the door and grabbed her free hand, pulling her along beside him. He tugged her through the door, into the drawing room, and over to the secretaire where all her drawings were, along with the painting of Papa that Winter had asked her to move back downstairs.
He released her hand, set his mug down, and strode to the windows. A few stiff tugs opened all the drapes and sent morning light onto her work. Then he was back at her side, pointing. “See? Here. And here, and here.” He shuffled from page to page. Then he pulled forward the sketch of Papa’s study and tapped a finger to the bottom. “And especially here. Which is the same one you put into the painting. Your uncle’s sword, yes? That one I figured out.”
She could only blink at the evidence—so clear, yet she scarcely remembered putting it there. She would never have identified it, had anyone asked, as a blade. But obviously it was. The shadow of Uncle Gates’s sword, visible where he wasn’t. “I did not…”
“But these.” He indicated the other shadows. A scalloped edge, darting on and off the paper. “What are these?”
“They are…” She felt like a lazy pupil, unable to solve the simplest equations. Her eyes burned as she shook her head. “I do not know what or why. They are just there. When the images come, they are there in them.”