Read Online Deadly Affair: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance) by Lucinda Brant - Free Book Online
Authors: Lucinda Brant
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reclusive life at Ellick Farm. Talgarth would not have been at all surprised had he been accused of conjury. He could not wait to refute the doubters. His sister would support him, for it was she who had given Miranda Bourdon a home.
He scanned the faces in the crowd, eagerly awaiting their praise, yet none was forthcoming. Their expressions confused him. They looked dismayed, some were angry, someone at the back of the room wanted to know what the painter meant by such barbarity. Another shouted abuse. Talgarth looked to his fellow painters but all three had turned away, and in so doing had disassociated themselves from him and his wonderful painting.
Selina took Talgarth’s hand, wide-hooped petticoats a protective barrier between her brother and the outraged crowd. “How could this have happened, Tal?” she whispered, eyes brimming with tears. “It’s monstrous .”
Talgarth Vesey wondered at his sister’s distress. “I don’t understand. Why don’t you like it, Lina? You must like it!”
As he said this he turned. What he saw was incomprehensible. It was his canvas. It was his painting. But there was nothing beautiful about it. Nothing to show for the long loving hours spent mixing just the right hue of flesh-toned paints and the blues of the stormy sky, each stroke of his brush carefully pondered. Thick red paint, or was it blood, had been splashed across the canvas from gilt-edged corner to gilt-edged corner, smeared with hand or fist over blue sky and silken gown in what looked to be a frenzied, hate-filled attack. More horrifying, the face of the reclusive beauty had been slashed out of existence. Where once radiated from the canvas the exceptional youthful beauty and kindness in a perfect oval face, now remained only the shredded remnants of painted canvas. Her young daughter too had suffered a similar fate, perhaps even more savagely treated than the mother, for her entire image had been hacked out from the picture. Only her small bare toes remained as visible evidence that she had once existed. The defacement was so viciously wrought that it was no worse had mother and daughter been murdered before the shocked eyes of mute onlookers.
The painter dropped to his knees and wept.
Alec was in no mood to see Sir Charles Weir. He had just spent an hour in strenuous fencing practice, leaving him hot, sweaty and craving the scented waters of his bath. His house was in a state of upheaval preparing for his uncle’s departure for Bath; portmanteaux were stacked in the hall to be loaded into the travelling chaise the following morning. He had a hundred matters to attend to and a mountain of correspondence to read before the arrival of his man of business from his estate in Kent.
He was about to give his excuses to the waiting footman when his butler appeared, deftly side-stepping the servant mopping up the sweat from the Gallery floorboards. Alec tossed aside the bath sheet he was using to wipe his face, neck and bare forearms and looked at Wantage with annoyance. The butler picked up his master’s frockcoat and offered it to him, saying that Sir Charles had stressed it was most important he have five minutes of his lordship’s time.
When Alec rejected the frockcoat, Wantage said meekly, as he carefully laid the coat over the back of a ribbon back chair, “Sir Charles was most imploring, my lord.”
“Five minutes,” Alec stated as he sat on one of the window seats with its view of the Green Park and rolled down his shirtsleeves.
The butler refilled the tankard with the last of the ale and placed the empty carafe and tankard left by the fencing master on a tray and hovered.
Alec met his butler’s gaze with stony silence and waited.
After what seemed an inward struggle as to whether he should speak or not, Wantage said, “Shall I have Jeffries assist with your morning toilette, my lord?”
“I am capable of dressing myself.”
The butler bowed. “Very good, my lord. I thought perhaps with Master
He scanned the faces in the crowd, eagerly awaiting their praise, yet none was forthcoming. Their expressions confused him. They looked dismayed, some were angry, someone at the back of the room wanted to know what the painter meant by such barbarity. Another shouted abuse. Talgarth looked to his fellow painters but all three had turned away, and in so doing had disassociated themselves from him and his wonderful painting.
Selina took Talgarth’s hand, wide-hooped petticoats a protective barrier between her brother and the outraged crowd. “How could this have happened, Tal?” she whispered, eyes brimming with tears. “It’s monstrous .”
Talgarth Vesey wondered at his sister’s distress. “I don’t understand. Why don’t you like it, Lina? You must like it!”
As he said this he turned. What he saw was incomprehensible. It was his canvas. It was his painting. But there was nothing beautiful about it. Nothing to show for the long loving hours spent mixing just the right hue of flesh-toned paints and the blues of the stormy sky, each stroke of his brush carefully pondered. Thick red paint, or was it blood, had been splashed across the canvas from gilt-edged corner to gilt-edged corner, smeared with hand or fist over blue sky and silken gown in what looked to be a frenzied, hate-filled attack. More horrifying, the face of the reclusive beauty had been slashed out of existence. Where once radiated from the canvas the exceptional youthful beauty and kindness in a perfect oval face, now remained only the shredded remnants of painted canvas. Her young daughter too had suffered a similar fate, perhaps even more savagely treated than the mother, for her entire image had been hacked out from the picture. Only her small bare toes remained as visible evidence that she had once existed. The defacement was so viciously wrought that it was no worse had mother and daughter been murdered before the shocked eyes of mute onlookers.
The painter dropped to his knees and wept.
Alec was in no mood to see Sir Charles Weir. He had just spent an hour in strenuous fencing practice, leaving him hot, sweaty and craving the scented waters of his bath. His house was in a state of upheaval preparing for his uncle’s departure for Bath; portmanteaux were stacked in the hall to be loaded into the travelling chaise the following morning. He had a hundred matters to attend to and a mountain of correspondence to read before the arrival of his man of business from his estate in Kent.
He was about to give his excuses to the waiting footman when his butler appeared, deftly side-stepping the servant mopping up the sweat from the Gallery floorboards. Alec tossed aside the bath sheet he was using to wipe his face, neck and bare forearms and looked at Wantage with annoyance. The butler picked up his master’s frockcoat and offered it to him, saying that Sir Charles had stressed it was most important he have five minutes of his lordship’s time.
When Alec rejected the frockcoat, Wantage said meekly, as he carefully laid the coat over the back of a ribbon back chair, “Sir Charles was most imploring, my lord.”
“Five minutes,” Alec stated as he sat on one of the window seats with its view of the Green Park and rolled down his shirtsleeves.
The butler refilled the tankard with the last of the ale and placed the empty carafe and tankard left by the fencing master on a tray and hovered.
Alec met his butler’s gaze with stony silence and waited.
After what seemed an inward struggle as to whether he should speak or not, Wantage said, “Shall I have Jeffries assist with your morning toilette, my lord?”
“I am capable of dressing myself.”
The butler bowed. “Very good, my lord. I thought perhaps with Master
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