What he had not understood was that love could not be eradicated merely by deciding it was over.

And that there was a far worse pain still to come.

The wash of gold r.i.m.m.i.n.g the windows began to be extinguished, room by room, until finally the entire house stood silent and black. Vincent thought of Haydon lying upon a warm bed inside, perhaps with his body pressing against the delicately lush form of the charitable Miss MacPhail, who had so selflessly taken it upon herself to rescue and protect him. He was alive and warm and safe, while Emmaline lay cold and rotting in the ground. The injustice of it was unbearable. Vincent wanted to storm in there and plunge a knife into Haydon's chest where he lay, to see his eyes widen with horror and surprise and watch as the blood poured hot and red across the sheets and onto the floor.

Patience, he told himself silently. You must be patient.

Now that he had found Haydon comfortably ensconced in his false ident.i.ty as Maxwell Blake, husband and father, the mode of his demise had taken a new shape. Vincent had been somewhat alarmed when he had watched him climb into a carriage earlier that day. He had thought that perhaps Haydon was abandoning his masquerade in Inveraray and seeking refuge elsewhere. But after following him to an art gallery where he stayed for well over an hour, he observed Haydon's return to this house. What had intrigued Vincent most was the warm welcome he had received upon his return. The door had swung open and an old man clapped him on the shoulder as if he were a lad, while a jumble of children of a.s.sorted heights and ages had crowded around, grabbing him by the hands as if they couldn't wait to drag him off somewhere.

The memory of Emmaline grabbing at his own hands with her chubby little fingers suddenly filled his mind. She was not quite three years old, and she was pulling upon him as she toddled down the corridor. Where's the puppy, Daddy? she crooned, leading him to the room in which she had hidden one of her stuffed toys for him to find. It was a favorite game of theirs, and no matter how obvious the toy's placement, Vincent would always make a great show of investigating beneath every chair and sofa, picking up cushions and examining beneath small ornaments, huffing and frowning and looking perplexed, much to Emmaline's delight.

He could not remember precisely when he had first pulled his hand away from her. The memory was blurred because she continued to reach for him, day after day, week after week, pleading with him to follow her. Until the excruciating moment when she finally realized that her daddy didn't want to hold her hand anymore-or hug her, or kiss her, or press his cheek to hers and call her his little princess and hold her tight. Or search for her little puppy.

After that she never reached for him again.

He blinked hard, forcing himself back to the present.

Death is too easy for you, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Chapter Eleven.

THE CITY OF GLASGOW WAS A BOISTEROUS, crowded place of exceptional beauty and horrendous despair. The cool waters of the River Clyde ran like a pulsing blue vein through its heart, linking it to the Firth of Clyde and ultimately the Atlantic Ocean. This made Glasgow perfectly situated to accommodate the needs of its rapidly expanding industry. Nearly one hundred textile mills dotted its gra.s.s-and-stone landscape, and the ironworks and coal mines of the surrounding area fed the boilermakers, shipyards, and marine-engineering shops lining the River Clyde. The flourishing manufacturing led to a nearly insatiable demand for cheap labor. Highland Scots swarmed to the city in the hopes of finding work, only to find that they had to compete with equally desperate Irish, Italian, and Jewish immigrants. Extravagant fortunes were made by a privileged few, who celebrated by erecting magnificent homes and public buildings which were then filled with the finest antiques, furnishings, and art. As for the men, women, and children who sweated and suffered gruelingly long hours in the factories, they dragged themselves home at night to the stinking foulness of the slums, where they waged an ongoing battle against hunger, disease, alcoholism, and violence. Yet even with this squalid underbelly, Glasgow was, without doubt, one of the most glorious cities in Europe.

It was the perfect place for the renowned French painter Georges Boulonnais to be introduced to Scotland.

Genevieve stared in fascination at the woman in the mirror, wondering if she had really changed as much as her reflection suggested. The gown she had chosen with the a.s.sistance of Eunice and Doreen was a simple affair of icy gray silk, trimmed with almost transparent layers of cream lace that rippled around the low neckline and fell in softly gathered pleats about the hem. It was not quite the latest fashion, nor was it as lavishly adorned as the other gowns that the woman in the shop had initially presented to her. Eunice and Doreen had swooned and sighed over the elaborate confections of dusty pink, smoky mauve, and leafy green silk, all fancifully beaded and embellished with garish ribbons and bows, ballooning over monumental hooped cages that looked as if they would have knocked over everyone and everything within a five-foot radius.

Years earlier, Genevieve would have delighted in wearing such an outlandish fashion, and would have eagerly antic.i.p.ated the admiration and attention she would have drawn as she sailed confidently into a room. But that frivolous, spoiled girl did not exist anymore. The woman who stood before the looking gla.s.s was an unmarried mother of six who had struggled for years just to keep her young charges fed and dressed and off the streets. The idea of paying an outlandish sum for a ridiculous dress that could be worn only rarely, and never in the same company twice, now struck her as virtually immoral.

Despite its relative simplicity, Genevieve did think her new gown was pretty, and far nicer than anything she had owned for years. The bodice was narrowly molded to her body, creating a slim triangle from her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to her waist, at which point her skirts blossomed into a pearly silk bell that was supported by a modest crinoline.

The hotel had sent up a maid at her request to help her dress, as managing the complexities of her corset and crinoline and the endless row of tiny b.u.t.tons and hooks at the back of the gown would have been impossible on her own. The girl was a pleasant, chatty la.s.s by the name of Alice, who kindly offered to do Genevieve's hair. At first Genevieve protested, thinking she would merely pin it back the way she normally did and hope that it would last reasonably well through the course of the evening. But Alice had pleaded with her, telling her that she didn't often have the opportunity to work with hair as lovely and thick as Genevieve's was, and that she would be enormously grateful if Genevieve would permit her to practice a new style she had seen in a Parisian fashion publication that a friend had sent to her all the way from France. With her request presented so, it would have been almost unkind to refuse her, and so Genevieve relented and permitted the maid to try to tame the ma.s.sive weight of her hair.

By the time Alice was finished, Genevieve's coral-and-gold hair had been spun into a soft bouquet of curls, which were loosely gathered and pinned low against the back of her neck. Alice had threaded a delicate cl.u.s.ter of tiny pink and ivory blossoms above one ear, which had the dramatic effect of adding a soft splash of color to the gray and cream of her gown. At first Genevieve feared the flowers might be a little too showy, but Alice insisted that they were most appropriate for a woman of her beauty and stature, and that as other women were certain to attend the opening wearing flouncy ostrich feathers and ribbons and even jewels in their hair, no one would think her out of place.

Darkness was creeping across the city on silent feet. Genevieve lit the oil lamps in her room and continued to study herself, unaccustomed to contemplating her appearance for any length of time. Her hair did look quite pretty, she had to admit, and while her gown was plain by the standards of the day, she thought it was entirely acceptable. It was her face, however, that interested her most. There were unfamiliar lines sketched lightly across her forehead, and a fan of smaller wrinkles edged the area around her eyes. When had she developed those? she wondered. She reminded herself that she was no longer a dewy-skinned girl of eighteen, but a twenty-six-year-old woman with countless worried, sleepless nights behind her. There were also, she hastened to add, many moments of joy, as she knew no greater pleasure than the laughter her children could bring bubbling to the surface with the smallest smile or funny gesture. She supposed it was inevitable that her face would start to reflect the evidence of her life. It was disconcerting, however, to notice how much she had changed since the last time she had really studied herself. It had been years since she had sat for any length of time before a mirror, when she was newly betrothed to Charles, and had considered herself exceptionally blessed to have won the attention of such a dashing and sophisticated gentleman as the earl of Linton.

Time had pa.s.sed with dizzying speed.

There was a knock upon her door. She rose, made a final nervous adjustment to a wayward strand of hair, and went to open it.

Haydon stood in the corridor, elegantly attired in a black evening coat, immaculate white shirt, neatly tied cravat, and fitted oyster-colored trousers. He did not speak, but stared at her in silence, his gaze taking in every inch of her, from the shimmering coils of her hair to the soft flounce of lace trailing against the dark pattern of carpet beneath her. She felt his eyes rest ever so fleetingly upon the milky swell of bosom rising from her gown, then trail down the tight constriction of her bodice, over the flare of her crinolined hips and up again. Her flesh was heated merely by having his eyes graze over it, making her achingly aware that he had taken her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in his mouth and suckled the tips, had crushed her body against his until she could scarcely breathe, had dipped his tongue into the most intimate parts of her body and filled her with himself, thrusting into the depths of her and holding her fast until she had no inkling of time or responsibility or regret.

She turned suddenly, feeling uncomfortably hot and breathless, although the room was cool and her gown was not overly tight.

"Good evening," Haydon said, regaining the composure he had momentarily lost on first seeing Genevieve. He had always known she was beautiful, regardless of whether she was dressed in one of her faded gowns or lying naked against a rumpled swirl of cool sheets. Even so, nothing had prepared him for the loveliness radiating from her in that moment. Her gown was exquisite in its simplicity, for it made no attempt to compete with her beauty, but merely enhanced it. He entered the room and casually tossed his top hat and cloak onto a chair, resisting the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her.

She is not yours, he reminded himself stiffly. Regardless of the liberties you have so shamelessly taken with her.

"You look absolutely lovely tonight, Mrs. Blake," he said, adopting a lighthearted demeanor. "I have no doubt that every man in the gallery will be staring at you in awe. I can see I shall have my hands full trying to keep them at a respectable distance."

His manner was joking, but his eyes told Genevieve that he really did find her appearance pleasing. Perhaps the lines she had seen on her face were not quite as deep and distracting as she had imagined.

"I must confess, it has been so long since I have attended an affair of any social merit, I had quite forgotten all the attention that must go into dressing for it." She made a self-conscious adjustment to her gown, which suddenly seemed entirely too low cut. "Fortunately the hotel was able to provide me with a maid who was able to a.s.sist me with my gown and my hair."

Haydon imagined plunging his hands into the soft swirl of daintily arranged curls, plucking the pins loose and dragging his fingers through the fiery-gold silk until it spilled across the snowy mounds of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. As for that gown, he felt reasonably certain he could have it unhooked and slipping down the curves of her delectable body within mere moments.

Disconcerted by his thoughts, he looked away. "There is just one more thing needed to make your ensemble complete." He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small crimson box. "Here."

Genevieve stared at him in surprise. His expression was masked. Hesitantly, she took the box and ran her fingers over its velvety surface, enjoying the rare delight of mystery and antic.i.p.ation. After a moment, she slowly opened it.

Resting upon a satin cushion lay a gleaming gold band with a small ruby stone embedded in its center.

"It is not nearly as grand as what you deserve," Haydon said, his voice slightly taut, "but I'm afraid it was the best I could do on such short notice, with rather limited funds. I did think it was about time that Mrs. Maxwell Blake had a wedding ring."

Genevieve stared in silence at the glowing circle.

At the time of her betrothal, Charles had given her a heavy, ornate ring with a trio of enormous diamonds in its center. It had been a family heirloom, he explained to her gravely at the time, and had graced the hands of three Linton countesses before her. He had then rambled on about who they were and what their accomplishments were, which mostly included stoically bearing children and being glorified hostesses. At the end of this pompous dissertation, he had informed Genevieve that she could take pride in the fact that he had chosen her above countless other potential candidates to wear this ring, and that he was certain she would do the piece justice by making him proud and never giving him cause for embarra.s.sment. Of course, he had angrily demanded it back when their betrothal was broken, as had been his right.

She had never worn any jewelry since.

"It's lovely," she said softly.

"Here." Haydon removed the ring from the box and took her hand in his. Her skin felt silky and cool against his palm, and as he leaned closer he was suddenly aware of the delicate scent of orange blossoms. He slipped the ring over the third finger of her left hand. "I'm afraid it's a little big," he apologized. "We shall have to have it sized when we get home."

The word "home" fell easily from his mouth. He knew the moment he said it that it was wrong, but he did not correct himself, for fear of drawing them into a discussion in which they had to face the impossibility of their situation. He was well aware that he could not go on pretending to be Maxwell Blake forever. He had a life to reclaim, however empty and indulgent and meaningless it was. Moreover, he was an escaped murderer and his very presence posed a constant danger to Genevieve and her family. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her again, pushing those thoughts aside. Tonight they had an art exhibition to attend, in which the cream of Glasgow's art world would cast its eyes upon the work of the artist Georges Boulonnais and determine whether or not they thought it had merit.

"Come, Genevieve," he said, gathering her evening cloak in his hands and draping it over her slim, bare shoulders. "There is a carriage outside waiting to take you to your premier exhibition." He retrieved his own hat and coat and opened the door before gallantly offering her his arm.

There would be time enough to face the stark reality of their lives in the morning.

MR. BLAKE! OVER HERE!" ALFRED LYTTON FLUTTERED a skeletal hand in the air as he fought to negotiate his way through the crush of people surrounding him.

"Mr. Lytton," said Haydon when the bespectacled art dealer finally managed to emerge through two bodies, "it seems your gallery has attracted something of an audience. My dear, you know Mr. Lytton, do you not?" he continued, turning to Genevieve. "I believe you mentioned that your father had bought some paintings from him years ago."

"Yes, of course," said Genevieve, overwhelmed by the crowd of people staring at her paintings. The canvases had all been set in heavily carved gold frames, which gave them a far greater look of import than they had borne while strewn about her cellar. She had no idea if the people currently gaping at them loved them, hated them or were merely indifferent. "How are you, Mr. Lytton?"

"It's a madhouse!" Mr. Lytton burst out excitedly, gazing about. "An absolute madhouse! My a.s.sociates had invitations delivered to our regular clientele, but because it was such short notice, we also decided to print a small advertis.e.m.e.nt in The Herald, thinking that we might lure a few more interested parties. Well, Mr. Stanley Chisholm, the esteemed art critic, happened to see the advertis.e.m.e.nt, and he decided to come by the gallery yesterday while we were still making preparations. It is no exaggeration to say that he was quite taken with the work. Quite taken indeed. So much so that he wrote an article for today's Herald, hailing Monsieur Boulonnais's work as exquisite and saying that anyone with an interest in seeing paintings of rare sensitivity must not miss this exhibition. He also happened to mention that the reclusive artist just might be making an appearance here this evening, which seems to have had the effect of rousing people's curiosity." He bobbed his head about nervously. "Do you know if Boulonnais is here?"

Haydon pretended to search the room, which was filled with elegantly attired women and men who were laughing and sipping champagne. "My wife and I have only just arrived, so I cannot be certain. If I see him, I shall let you know immediately."

"I do hope he decided to make the trip. At last count we had already sold thirteen of the twenty paintings-and the evening has scarcely begun! The Duke of Argyll purchased five of them before we had even shipped them here from Inveraray, but I told him they had to be included in the exhibition. He did not mind, of course. The exposure will only have the effect of increasing their value."

Genevieve's eyes widened incredulously. "You have sold thirteen paintings?"

"And I don't mind telling you, after we saw how glowing Mr. Chisholm's article in The Herald was, we adjusted the prices accordingly," Mr. Lytton admitted surrept.i.tiously. "Your husband's commission on the sales will be even greater than we expected, Mrs. Blake, and of course his friend, Boulonnais, will profit very handsomely as well. I trust he will be so pleased that he will continue to permit our gallery to represent him in Scotland."

Haydon smiled. "I have no doubt that when he finds out how well the work was received, he will be interested in maintaining your representation."

"Excellent. Do forgive me, but Lord Hyslop is signaling to me that he wishes to purchase that painting of the girl with the rose. A magnificent piece, really. So beautiful, and yet there is something terribly melancholy about it. I should have asked more for it." He sighed with regret. "Excuse me." He straightened his spectacles and made his way across the room.

"Thirteen paintings," Genevieve repeated, stunned.

Haydon retrieved two gla.s.ses from a silver tray that was sailing by on the arm of a harried waiter. "Would you care for some champagne?"

Genevieve gripped the stem of the gla.s.s so tightly Haydon feared it might snap.

"Let's have a toast," he suggested. "To the mysteriously reclusive Georges Boulonnais. May he continue to paint and enchant the art world for many, many years." He raised his gla.s.s, took a sip, then frowned. "What's wrong, Genevieve? Don't you like champagne?"

She shook her head, distracted by all the people laughing and milling around her. "I don't remember. I haven't had any since the night my betrothal to Charles was announced. That was years ago."

"I believe you will find it tastes much better when one has something truly wonderful to celebrate. Not that your betrothal to Charles wasn't cause for a drink," he added dryly.

She gave him a mildly exasperated look before cautiously sipping her champagne. A flurry of cold bubbles danced upon her tongue and tickled her nose. She took another sip, and then another. The crowded room was warm and she was suddenly extremely thirsty. Another swallow and her gla.s.s was empty.

"More?" asked Haydon.

She nodded. "Please."

He dutifully retrieved another gla.s.s for her. "Perhaps you should drink this one a little slower," he advised. "Champagne does have a tendency to go down easily, and then all at once make one feel rather lightheaded."

"I'll be fine," Genevieve a.s.sured him, taking another sip. "You needn't worry about me." She turned away so she could watch a group of people who were having an animated discussion in front of her painting of Simon and Jamie.

The champagne and the heat of the gallery had brought a rosy flush to her cheeks, which gave a lovely contrast to the creamy softness of her throat and b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She was easily the most beautiful woman in the room, Haydon realized. What made her even more attractive was the fact that she had no inkling of the effect she was having on nearly every man who laid eyes upon her. He saw their initial pleasure, which transformed into curiosity as they tried to deduce who she was and what her relationship to him might be. He was glad he had had the foresight to give her a wedding band before they set out, or he would have been forced to chase off every fatuous fool who came near. Genevieve was well past the girlish bloom that must have made her completely enchanting when she was first presented to society some eight years earlier. But in that girl's place was a woman of incredible strength and fort.i.tude, who had not only survived hardship and despair, but had constantly given of herself in every way she could so that others could survive as well. It was this combination of beauty, determination, and selflessness that set her apart from every other woman around her.

"Can you imagine that all these people have come here to see my work?" Genevieve was completely awed by the thought of it. "And that they are actually buying it?"

"They would have to be blind not to see the beauty of your paintings, Genevieve. There is a poignant intimacy to your work that touches people. I recognized it the moment I saw your paintings, and I knew others would see it too."

She considered this a moment as she watched a gray-haired gentleman stare with pleasure at her painting of a weathered fishing boat gliding across the leaden surface of a loch.

"If my work does have merit, then it shouldn't matter that the artist is a woman. The work should stand on its own."

"You're right," Haydon agreed. "I hope one day that prejudice changes, but until it does, you must maintain your ident.i.ty as Georges Boulonnais. As long as you can keep painting under his guise, you might be able to support yourself and your family. I realize it is unjust, Genevieve, but I hope that your financial success will be enough to counter the frustration of not having your talent recognized under your own name."

Of course it was enough, Genevieve realized, overwhelmed as she contemplated the magnitude of what Haydon had done. Haydon had orchestrated nothing less than her family's survival. He had not done it by giving her money and demanding something in return, the way Charles might have done, or for that matter any other man she had ever known. Instead of giving her charity, Haydon had found a way for her to stand on her own. She would be able to earn a living for herself and her family by doing something that she loved, which was expressing herself through her paintings.

It was by far the greatest gift that anyone could ever have given to her-the gift of self-sufficiency.

She raised her eyes to his, wanting to tell him how grateful she was. He regarded her steadily. He was unbearably handsome in his evening clothes, with his black hair curling against the fine fabric of his evening coat and his jaw cut firm and strong in the soft blaze of light afforded by countless oil lamps and candles. He seemed so refined and at ease amidst all the fashionable beauty and wealth floating about them, it was obvious to Genevieve that this was his world. And yet there was something about him that set him apart from every other man in the gallery. There was a menacing quality to him, a faint hint of danger that suggested he was not as civilized as his attire and manner suggested. It was this that was attracting the attention of many of the women in the room, who were stealing glances in his direction, trying to determine just what his relationship was to Genevieve. She felt a stab of jealousy.

Haydon frowned, wondering at the change that had suddenly come over her.

"Good G.o.d, Redmond," called an astonished voice from somewhere within the crowded room, "is that really you?"

Genevieve's breath froze in her chest.

Haydon stiffened slightly, then forced himself to affect an air of utter calm. Inhaling deeply, he slowly turned to greet the fiery-haired young man hurrying toward them.

"h.e.l.lo, Rodney," he said, smiling. "Fancy meeting you here. Permit me to present you to Mrs. Maxwell Blake. Mrs. Blake, this is an old friend of mine, Mr. Rodney Caldwell."

Genevieve fought to restrain her panic. Her champagne gla.s.s gripped tightly in one hand, she graciously raised the other to the handsome man, whom she judged to be about thirty. "How do you do, Mr. Caldwell?"

"A tremendous pleasure, Mrs. Blake." He pressed a brief kiss to the back of her hand. "I can see the marquess still has an affinity for keeping company with the most beautiful woman in the room." His manner was friendly and teasing. "Haydon, you sly wretch, just where the devil have you been? We heard about some nasty business concerning a murder trial. They said you had been hanged, but clearly those stories were shamelessly exaggerated." He laughed.

Haydon sipped his champagne, looking faintly amused. "So it would seem."

"Well, I'm glad that mess is all straightened out. Just an unpleasant misunderstanding, was it?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Thank G.o.d for that. Everyone up in Inverness had given you up for dead-except for me, of course. I knew whatever sc.r.a.pe you'd gotten yourself into, you would somehow manage to squeak out of it. I can tell you, they'll be positively tickled when I tell them that I saw you gadding about Glasgow, drinking champagne in the company of a beautiful woman at an art exhibit."

"Really, Mr. Caldwell, you flatter me too much," protested Genevieve, forcing herself to smile. "Lord Redmond, would you mind escorting me back to my husband? If he sees me standing here talking to two such handsome men, I've no doubt that he will become insufferably jealous. You will excuse us, won't you, Mr. Caldwell?" she asked sweetly.

"Of course, Mrs. Blake." He tilted forward in a small bow. "It was a pleasure to meet you. How long are you planning to stay in Glasgow, Haydon?" he asked, turning to Haydon. "I'm here for the week. Perhaps we could dine together one evening, and you can tell me all about how you managed to escape the hangman's noose." His tone was jovial.

"Unfortunately, I'm leaving tomorrow."

"That's a pity. Are you heading for home?"

"Not directly. I expect to return within a few weeks," Haydon said evasively.

"Business matters, I suppose?"

"Yes."

Rodney sighed. "I regret to say it's the bane of us ne'er-do-wells, Mrs. Blake. We are forced to actually work occasionally so that we can go on playing in the style to which we have grown accustomed. Well then, Haydon, I suppose I shall have to wait until we are both back at home before you can regale me with your sordid tales about how you escaped your execution. I can tell you, I'm most anxious to hear all about it."

"I shall look forward to that." Haydon offered his arm to Genevieve. She obediently laid her fingers lightly upon the fabric of his sleeve. "And now, if you will excuse us, I must deliver Mrs. Blake safely back to her husband. Good night, Rodney." He smiled and turned away.

"We have to leave," he said tautly as he steered Genevieve through the crowd. "Now."

Genevieve maintained a frozen visage as Haydon retrieved their cloaks. She saw Mr. Lytton hurrying toward another prospective buyer, who was involved in an animated discussion with his wife over the merits of one of her paintings. She was vaguely aware that she had probably sold another one. People were still drinking and laughing and talking loudly. Nothing had changed in the room.

She shivered as Haydon laid her cloak over her shoulders.

Neither spoke during the carriage ride back to the hotel. Once they were safely ensconced in the privacy of Genevieve's chamber, Haydon bolted the door and leaned heavily against it, trying to think.

"Is this Mr. Caldwell a good friend of yours?"

He shook his head. He had no good friends.