Page 40 of Romancing the Artist

With his sisters gone, Edward followed in the tracks of his parents to the study. He meant to remind them of his invitation before leaving, perhaps emphasizing that Miss Clapham’s interest in art piqued his curiosity. He would call her charming, too. Give them reason to fret. He approached the study without making much sound, thanks to his father’s insistence that a long rug be installed in the corridor.

“Servants and people walking about on the floors, always tapping, tapping, tapping, drives me to distraction,” his father had proclaimed the winter before. Now he never heard anyone coming or going—a thing Edward and his sisters had used to their advantage a time or two.

As Edward silently approached the study, he heard his parents talking but didn’t listen to their actual words, until he raised his hand to knock.

His fist stilled an inch before making contact.

“I hope you know what you are about, husband,” his mother said, her tone somewhat irritable. “When one person has the ability to make our entire household uneasy, he doesn’t deserve an invitation to visit.”

“I had my reasons,” Mr. Everly responded, voice low and grouse-like. “And Claude knows what’s expected of him. He will behave himself, so long as I fulfill my end of the bargain.”

No. Edward had to have misunderstood. His parents hadn’t invited Claude, had they? He only caught the smallest part of their conversation. And it wasn’t gentlemanly to eavesdrop on his own parents.

A long silence followed before Edward heard his mother ask, “What is it you aren’t telling me, Samuel?”

Edward lowered his fist to his side, puzzling over his parents’ conversation. It sounded as though—but it couldn’t be, surely—his parents had invited Claude to stay with them? His father had even made some type of arrangement with Claude to ensure his cooperation on some secret matter. Perhaps if he were to go in and ask…?

His father spoke in a tone that closed the subject. “Nothing you need worry about. Old, unsettled business. Claude is exactly like his father. He thinks only of his own pleasure and entertainment. What he wants is more important to him than the family name. After this visit, I doubt we will see him again.”

The carpet muffled Edward’s backward step, taken in surprise and uncertainty.

Claude had been invited. By Edward’s father. The letter that had come—it had been in response to something his father sent, something his father had asked of Claude. Then his cousin had made demands in turn, which his father had agreed to, and such was their arrangement that it involved Claude’s late father.

He ought to walk through the door and reveal that he had heard what was said. Then demand an explanation. Edward drew in a deep breath, prepared to do just that.

Except…except Caroline had said something that came back to him in that moment. “You must do better this time, Edward. Prove to your family, and yourself, that your cousin cannot goad you into anything. Not poor behavior, and not into taking a wife as a means only to disinherit him.”

Though tempted to barge into the study and get answers, Edward checked his impulse. Poor behavior, indeed. Listening at doors. Letting his temper guide him. No. He could do better. He would do better.

There were not many reasons his parents would have Claude to stay. Caroline had noted that Claude’s presence would bring up everything his parents feared would happen if Edward didn’t marry and provide himself with an heir.

He backed away from the door another step.

Had his father purposefully brought Claude Everly to their doorstep with the purpose of making those fears more tangible to Edward? Was his cousin simply a pawn in Mr. Everly’s game to make Edward see reason and wed sooner rather than later? And wed the person approved of by Edward’s parents, most likely.

The obviousness of the plot made Edward grind his teeth together.

His parents thought him unintelligent enough to not see through their scheme. And perhaps he never would have, had he not overheard just enough to make it obvious.

Cursing himself as every kind of fool, Edward withdrew from the corridor in silence. He had to think. And he had to plan how best to endure his cousin’s visit as well as his parents’ duplicity.

There was no reason for him to linger at home.

The countess’s invitation in his pocket drew him away, and he departed with relief. Putting his father, mother, marriage, and Claude out of his mind.

Sadly, Everly Refuge hadn’t been a haven for him in a long time.

Chapter 13

The library at Inglewood was modest compared to libraries found in similar households, but it still awed Caroline every time she stepped inside. Today, the curtains at the tall windows were drawn open, letting in bright afternoon sunlight. Lady Inglewood led Edward and Caroline to the room’s center, where a table waited with books already upon it.

“Here we are.” The countess gestured to the chairs around the table. “Please, sit, both of you. I told Caroline yesterday, Mr. Everly, there are not many artistic representations of Atlas of which I am aware, and I have seen even fewer of them in person. I gathered what I could here.”

She moved a large book of maps toward them and turned to the first illustrated page, which featured a black and white woodcutting of a man bent forward, toward the viewer, with a globe upon his back.

“Most of what I have seen is like this,” the countess went on. “Not detailed work, but more the impression of the Titan.” She moved a larger book to them, one tied with a ribbon. “These are sketches from a holiday my husband and I took three years ago. We were in Rome for two months, and I visited a house with several beautiful sculptures.”

Caroline opened the book when Lady Inglewood gave her a nod, then gently turned several pages of charcoaled and penciled sketches until she came to the one the countess wanted them to see. Atlas, bent down to one knee, both hands above his head to support a globe, with the sphere pressed into the place between his shoulders. The sculptor had left the statue nude, except for a robe or cloak wrapped around Atlas’s left forearm that draped behind him, over his left side.