Page 17 of Memories Made At Midnight

All the better, for he intended to converse with Beatrice while he worked. She stirred his curiosity, and the more he knew about his patrons, the more authentic replicas of their likenesses he could create.

He discovered from asking around Brighton—discreetly, of course—that Beatrice had been in the earl’s care since a toddler and there was a scandal surrounding her birth. Her mother had run off with an Italian lace merchant only to return less than three years later, ill, unwed, and with a small child in tow. Seraphina Fairfax had died within a month of arriving in Brighton.

Society didn’t treat those born on the wrong side of the blanket kindly, and clearly, Lord Highbury resented his niece, rather than cherishing her.

Cassius glanced over his shoulder.

With a ginger biscuit in one hand and tendrils of steam spiraling upward from the cup of tea before her, Millborn picked up a gossip rag. She would be content for some time.

“Tell me about yourself, Miss Fairfax.”

Propriety forbid him from addressing her by her given name—yet.

He steered Beatrice toward the seascape, covered with a cloth. “Have you any hobbies? Likes? Interests? Do you draw or paint?”

Shaking her head, she gave a little self-deprecating laugh.

“I confess my drawing skills are d-dismal at best, Lord Cassius. The only ability I possess is a knack for caring for injured animals. I rescued Nala and Teddy. I also have other pets who were too injured to return to the wild.”

Her kindness and tender heartedness didn’t surprise Cassius. She possessed a gentle spirit.

He’d sensed it from the beginning, for he did too. Of all the eight Westbrook siblings, he was the most sensitive.

“I also want to travel someday.” A faraway look entered her eyes. “To warm, exotic places.”

Like Italy?

Despite Constanza’s betrayal, he still loved the Mediterranean country.

After uncovering the seascape, he stood back, arms folded. “What do you think?”

Normally, he didn’t let anyone see his work before completion.

“May I?” She flicked her hand toward the canvas resting on the easel.

“Of course.”

Beatrice approached the painting. A finger on her dimpled chin and head tilted, she studied the artwork. “I feel the storm’s power.”

She slid him a sideways glance, and he gave her an encouraging nod.

“Go on,” he said.

“I see wrath and fury, but also a wild, uncontrolled beauty.” She hadn’t stuttered at all.

Did tension and anxiety bring about the disability?

“The light isn’t quite right.”

Why had Cassius told her that?

“Really?” Forehead puckered, she returned her attention to the painting. “I think it’s stunning. It feels alive. I can almost hear the waves crashing on the shore, the rain p-pelting the rocks, the wind howling, and even smell the ocean’s salty tang.”

Suddenly feeling foolish, he grunted.

“We should get started.” His abrupt change in tone caused a flicker of uncertainty in Beatrice’s eyes and a pinch of guilt too. “We can finish the tour another day.”

“Certainly.” She approached the blue velvet chair and, after sending her chaperone a swift glance, lowered her voice. “I t-think it only fair to t-tell you that I am an unwilling p-participant in this venture.”