He wanted to paint her seated, straight backed but leaning slightly forward, gazing directly out at the viewer as though she were about to speak or laugh at any moment. He wanted her face slightly flushed, her lips slightly parted, her eyes bright with eagerness and . . . Ah, the eyes were to be the key to the whole thing, as they often were in his portraits, but more than ever with her. For everything about her suggested light and cheerfulness and the joyful expectation that life would bring her good things and an eagerness to give happiness in return. Even the eyes must suggest those things, though they must do a great deal more than that. For he must not give the impression that she was just a pretty, basically shallow girl who knew nothing about life and its often harsh realities. In the eyes there must be the vulnerability he had sensed in her, the wistfulness, the bewilderment, even the pain, but the essential strength of hope in the power of goodness to overcome evil-or, if perhaps those words were too strong for what he sensed in so young a girl, then the power of light to overcome darkness.

Had he sensed correctly? Were there the depths of character in her that he thought there were? Or was she just a sweet girl who had suffered some sadness in the past few months? He had talked with her for a number of hours. He had made numerous sketches. He had observed her last evening at dinner. He knew a lot of facts. But ultimately, as always, he must sketch and paint from intuition and trust that it was more true than all the facts he had ama.s.sed. Facts missed a great deal. Facts missed what lay beneath the facts. Facts missed spirit.

He felt a great tenderness for Abigail Westcott-as he did for all his subjects. For there was nothing like the process of painting someone's portrait to help one know the person from the inside, and knowing, one could not help but feel empathy.

He had just finished the sketch and taken a step back from his easel in order to look upon it with a little more objectivity when a knock sounded upon the door and startled him back to reality. He had no idea what time it was, but he did know that when he became immersed in his work, hours disappeared without a trace and left him feeling that surely he had started only minutes ago. His stomach felt hollow, a sure sign that he must have missed a meal by more than an hour or two. Perhaps it was Marvin or Edgar, come to rescue him and drag him off to eat somewhere.

It was neither. The man who was standing outside his door was a stranger, an older man of firm, upright bearing and severe, handsome countenance. He carried his hat in his hand. His dark hair was silvered at the temples.

"Mr. Joel Cunningham?" he asked.

"Yes." Joel raised his eyebrows.

"Your neighbor below answered the door to my knock," the man explained, "and suggested that I come up."

What Edgar ought to have done, Joel thought, was call him down. Obviously he had judged the man to be respectable enough to let in.

"I explained," the man said as though reading his thoughts, "that I am a solicitor and have personal business of some importance with you."

"On a Sunday?" Joel said.

"The matter is something of a delicate one," the man said. "May I come in? I am Lowell Crabtree of the legal firm of Henley, Parsons, and Crabtree."

Joel stood to one side and gestured the man in. He led the way to the living room and offered him a seat. He began to have a horrible premonition.

"I am the solicitor in charge of the estate of the late Mr. Adrian c.o.x-Phillips," Crabtree said. "I understand that you have already been apprised of his sad pa.s.sing yesterday morning."

"I have," Joel said, sitting opposite him.

"It is my usual practice," the solicitor said, "to read a will to the family after the deceased person has been laid to rest-on Tuesday in this particular case."

So soon? Joel frowned. He had decided last night that he would try to find out when the funeral was to be and attend, though he would not make himself known to any other mourners. He did not imagine that Viscount Uxbury would take any notice of him.

"It was Mr. c.o.x-Phillips's wish," Crabtree explained, "that he be laid to rest as quickly as possible and with as little fuss as possible. He has . . . three surviving relatives, all of whom are currently staying at his house. Two of them have been particularly insistent that I not wait until after the funeral to read the will. They need to return to their busy lives as soon as they have paid homage to their relative."

Joel read some disapproval into the stiffness of the man's manner.

"They have insisted that I read the will tomorrow morning," Crabtree said. "My senior partners have seen fit to persuade me to agree, though Monday-especially Monday morning-is an inconvenient time, coming as it does after Sunday, which I have always observed quite strictly as the Sabbath with Mrs. Crabtree and our children. However, Monday morning it is to be. Mr. c.o.x-Phillips extracted a promise from me when I conducted business with him a few days ago. He instructed me to find and speak to you privately before I read the will to his relatives."

Joel's sense of foreboding grew stronger. "To what end?" he asked, though the question was doubtless unnecessary. Having said so much, the solicitor was hardly about to stop right there and take his leave. "Although related to Mr. c.o.x-Phillips, I am merely the b.a.s.t.a.r.d son of his niece."

Crabtree drew some papers out of a leather case he had with him, rustled them in his hands, and looked with solemn severity at Joel. "According to his will," he said, "generous pensions are to be paid to certain of his servants who have been with him for many years, and similarly generous payments are to be made to the others. A sizable sum has been left to an orphanage on Northumberland Place to which he has made large annual donations for almost thirty years past. The rest of his property and fortune, Mr. Cunningham, including his home in the hills above Bath and another in London, which is currently leased out, has been left to you."

There was a buzzing in Joel's ears. It had never occurred to him . . . Good G.o.d.

"But I refused," he said. "When he offered to change his will in my favor, I refused."

"But he changed it anyway," Crabtree said. "I cannot put an exact monetary value on your inheritance at the moment, Mr. Cunningham. This has all been rather sudden and I will need to work upon the matter. I suggest you come into my office one day this week and I can at least give you some idea of where your investments lie and what their approximate worth is likely to be. But it is a sizable fortune, sir."

"But my great-uncle's relatives?" Joel asked, his eyebrows raised.

"I believe," the solicitor said, a certain note of satisfaction in his voice, "that Viscount Uxbury, Mr. Martin c.o.x-Phillips, and Mr. Blake Norton will be disappointed. It is altogether possible that one or more of them will contest the will. However, they will be further disappointed if they do. Mr. c.o.x-Phillips was careful to choose six highly respectable men to witness the signing of his new will. They included his physician, the vicar of his parish church, and two of his closest neighbors, one of whom is a prominent Member of Parliament, while the other is a baronet, the sixth of his line. Yet another is a judge whose word not even the boldest of lawyers would dream of questioning."

Mr. Crabtree did not linger. Having delivered his message, he rose, shook Joel by the hand, expressed the hope of seeing him soon at his office, wished him a good day, and was gone.

Joel locked the door behind him, went back into the living room, and stood at the window looking out but seeing nothing, not even the departure of the solicitor along the street. No, it had not once occurred to him that his great-uncle would go ahead with his plan to cut his legitimate relatives out of his will even after he, Joel, had told him in no uncertain terms that he had no wish to be used as a p.a.w.n in a game of spite.

He had done it anyway.

His great-uncle had been contributing to the orphanage for almost thirty years. Twenty-seven to be exact? That was Joel's age. Why? His grandmother had always supported him there.

Was it just spite against those other three that had determined him to change his will in Joel's favor?

Why had he not made himself known a long time ago?

Shame?

Why had he summoned Joel to tell him about the planned change? And had he just made up that story of wanting to thumb his nose so to speak to three men who had never shown any affection for him apart from his money? Had his real reason been a wish to leave everything to a closer relative, grandson, albeit an illegitimate one, of his sister, of whom he had clearly been fond? At the very end had he not been able to resist taking a look at Joel just once before he died? Joel remembered standing for what had seemed a long time in that shaft of sunlight while the old man's eyes moved over him from head to foot, perhaps looking for some likeness to his sister or his niece.

It was too late to ask the questions. There was the soreness of unshed tears in Joel's throat.

His first instinct had been to repudiate the will, to tell Crabtree that he still did not want anything, that he would not accept what he had been left. Would it have been possible? The answer did not matter, though, for he had found on more honest reflection that after all he did not want to refuse.

That house was his. Apparently there was another in London. He did not know the extent of the fortune he had inherited, but the solicitor had said it was sizable. Joel had no idea what sort of amount comprised a sizable fortune, but even a few hundred pounds would seem vast to him. He suspected there would be more than that. Thousands, perhaps?

He was rich.

And who did not, in his heart of hearts, wish for a windfall to come his way just once in his lifetime? Who did not secretly dream of all he could have and all he could do with an unexpected fortune?

He and Anna-and the other children too-had played the game numerous times during their growing years. What would you do if someone gave you ten pounds, a hundred pounds, a thousand pounds, a million pounds . . .

And thinking of Anna led him to thinking of Camille. And suddenly he felt the overwhelming, almost panicked need to see her, to tell her, to . . . He did not stop to a.n.a.lyze. He grabbed his hat and his key and left his rooms without looking back. He remembered when he was crossing the bridge that she had been going up to the Royal Crescent this afternoon to visit her mother. Would she be back yet? Would she stay there for dinner? Perhaps for the night?

She was nowhere in the orphanage, and no one knew with any certainty when she would be back, though she had said nothing about not returning tonight. He paced the pavement outside for a few minutes, wondering if he should go up to the Crescent to speak with her there or just go home. It would be thought most peculiar if he went up there, and he might miss her if she came home by a different route from the one he took. He was still undecided when she turned onto the street. Joel hurried toward her, not even noticing that she was not alone.

"There you are," he said, his whole being flooded with relief. "At last."

Eighteen.

"He took no notice of what I said," Joel said, grabbing both of Camille's hands and squeezing tightly. "He did it anyway."

Camille looked her inquiry while she returned the pressure of his hands. But, strangely, she knew exactly what he was talking about.

"He has left everything to me," he blurted, "apart from a few bequests to faithful servants and to the orphanage, Camille, to which he has been donating annual sums my whole life. Good G.o.d, he has left me everything." At which moment he became aware of Avery, who was standing quietly beside her. "I beg your pardon. I did not see you there."

"Dear me," Avery said faintly. "Am I to understand that you have just inherited c.o.x-Phillips's fortune? Allow me to felicitate you."

"You do not understand," Joel said, his hands sliding away from Camille's. "When he informed me at our first meeting a few days ago that he intended changing his will in my favor, I refused the offer quite adamantly."

"c.o.x-Phillips informed you? You refused his offer?" Avery said. Inevitably his quizzing gla.s.s had found its way into his hand, though he had not raised it quite to his eye. "Rich and powerful men do far more telling than asking, my dear fellow. In many cases it is why they are rich and powerful."

"It did not occur to me," Joel said, "that he would not take me at my word."

"Joel," Camille said, "I am so sorry."

Avery's quizzing gla.s.s swung in her direction, all the way to his eye this time. "Extraordinary," he said. "It must run in the family. You refused a share of your father's fortune a few months ago, Camille, as did Harry and Abigail; Anna would have refused the whole of it if she had been able; now you are commiserating with this poor man because he has just inherited a fortune. It is enough to make me quite rejoice that no Westcott blood runs in my veins-though some will in my children's veins, I recall."

"I beg your pardon," Joel said again. "Had I seen you, Netherby, I would not have blurted my news as I did."

"And I have the distinct impression that my continued presence here as my stepcousin's escort would be decidedly de trop," Avery said. "I shall a.s.sume she has been delivered safely home and take myself off." He proceeded to do just that without another word, returning the way they had come.

"It must seem peculiar," Joel said, frowning after him, "that I did not even notice he was with you."

"I am flattered," Camille told him. "Avery usually draws all eyes wherever he goes. It is that extraordinary sense of presence he has cultivated. Everyone else might as well be invisible. But that's not what's important now. Joel, how do you know about the will?"

"Those three kinsmen of my great-uncle's have insisted that the will be read tomorrow morning," he told her, "even before the funeral on Tuesday. But he left specific instructions that his solicitor seek me out beforehand and inform me privately of the contents of the will rather than summon me to the official reading. Perhaps he hoped to spare me any unpleasantness my presence might arouse."

"One could only wish," Camille said, "that my father's solicitor had exercised similar discretion."

"Mr. Crabtree-my great-uncle's solicitor, that is-came to my rooms this afternoon," Joel told her, "even though it is Sunday."

"So the other three will not know until tomorrow morning," she said.

"No." He frowned. "I do not imagine they will be thrilled. But Crabtree a.s.sured me that if they try to contest the will, they will not succeed."

"I do wish I could be hidden somewhere in that room tomorrow," she said, "as Anastasia was hidden in the branches of a tree in Hyde Park on the morning of the duel. I wish I could see Viscount Uxbury's face when the will is read. Are you very unhappy about inheriting?"

He hesitated for a few moments. "I am almost ashamed to admit it," he said, "but I do not believe I am."

Anastasia grew up at this orphanage, Camille thought, glancing ahead at it, and had recently discovered that she was sole heiress to great wealth. Joel grew up here and had just discovered that he was sole heir to a fortune. What were the odds? They must be millions to one-perhaps billions. Or perhaps not. It was, after all, an orphanage at which a number of the children were supported by rich benefactors, mothers, fathers, or other relatives. It had happened, anyway. She, on the other hand, had gone in quite the opposite direction. But she was not about to sink into self-pity.

"Then I am happy for you," she said, even as she realized that everything would change now, that she was probably about to lose this newfound friend whom she had only just begun to think of as such.

His eyes searched her face. "It has turned into a lovely day after all," he said, glancing upward at blue sky, from which all the morning's clouds had disappeared. "Shall we go for a walk? Or have you walked enough already? You have just come from the Royal Crescent, I suppose. But . . . along by the river? It is not far and there are some seats there."

"Very well," she said, and they made their way past the orphanage. But instead of crossing the Pulteney Bridge when they came to it, they turned down onto the footpath to stroll beside the river, past the weir, which was like a great arrowhead across much of its width, in the direction of Bath Abbey. The sun sparkled off the water and beamed warmly down upon them. A few ducks bobbed on the surface of the river. Children darted and whooped along the path, their accompanying adults coming along behind them at a more sedate pace. A couple of children on the other side were pulling a toy boat on a string parallel to the bank. Two elderly men occupied the first seat they pa.s.sed. One of them was tossing bread crumbs to the ducks. A middle-aged couple vacated the next seat just before they reached it, and they sat down.

"You really are quite happy with what has happened, then?" Camille asked, almost the first words either of them had spoken since they had started to walk.

"It is very base of me, is it not?" he said. "I rejected what I thought was an offer a few days ago because I did not want to be used as a p.a.w.n in a game of c.o.x-Phillips's devising and because I abhorred the idea of allowing my affections to be bought when I would have given them freely and gladly all through my boyhood. He left everything to me anyway. I do not know why, and I never will know now. My first reaction this afternoon was horror and denial. But I must confess it was only a momentary reaction. Then reality struck me-I was rich. I am rich. At least, I believe I am. Crabtree could not tell me how large the fortune is, but he a.s.sured me it is sizable, and it includes that mansion on the hill and even a house in London. How could anyone resist a fortune when it is thrust upon him? I keep thinking of how it might change my life-of how it will change my life."

He was leaning forward on the seat, his forearms resting on his thighs, his hands dangling between, gazing at the river, his expression intent. Camille could sense his leashed excitement and felt somehow chilled despite the heat of the sun. Yes, his life would change, and he would change. There was no doubt about it.

"I could live in that house if I chose," he said, "with servants. And with a carriage of my own. I could go to London. I have a house there, though it is leased at the moment. London. I could see it at last. I could go to Wales or Scotland. I could go to Wales and Scotland, and all over the world. I could cut back on portrait painting and paint more landscapes just for myself."

"You could buy yourself a new coat and new boots," she said.

He turned his head sharply toward her as though he had just remembered she was there. "You resisted a fortune," he said. "Or one quarter of a fortune at least. How did you do it, Camille, when the alternative was penury?"

It would not really have been taking charity, would it? Her father had made a will after Anastasia's birth but had neglected to make another during the twenty-five years that followed. He had always acted as though they were his legitimate family, Mama and she and Harry and Abby, though he had never displayed any real love for any of them. Perhaps he had come to believe it. Surely he had intended to see them well provided for. Perhaps he had forgotten the earlier will. Or perhaps he had always meant to make another but had never got around to doing it. Or . . . perhaps he had deliberately enjoyed the joke of what was bound to happen after his death. Who knew? But surely Anastasia was being fair, not merely charitable, in her belief that the four of them should share the part of his property and fortune that was not entailed. They might have accepted without feeling unduly beholden to her.

"I was not the only one concerned, you see," she said. "Harry lost far more than I. He was the Earl of Riverdale, Joel. He was fabulously wealthy. He had been brought up to just the sort of life he had begun to live. He would have lived up to his responsibilities even though he was still sowing some rather wild oats. Everything, the very foundation of his life, was s.n.a.t.c.hed away. And my mother lost far more than we did. She had married well and fulfilled her duties as countess and wife and mother for more than twenty years before everything, even her name, was taken away. And, quite unfairly, she had to bear the guilt of having given birth to three illegitimate children. She was left with nothing, though she did tell us today that the dowry my grandfather gave my father when she married has been returned with all the interest it has accrued. She will be able to live independently, though modestly, after all. I suspect it was Anastasia rather than her solicitor who thought of that way of helping us. Even Abby lost more than I. She was to make her come-out in society next spring with all the bright prospects that would have offered for her future. Instead she has had her youth taken from her and all her hopes."

"Hope is something that lights her eyes from within," he told her. "She has not given it up, Camille. Perhaps she is fortunate to be so young. She will adjust her hopes to her circ.u.mstances. And youth has not been taken from her. She exudes youthfulness."

He was looking very directly at her, his head turned back over his shoulder. She was going to miss him, she thought, and berated herself for having allowed herself to become attached to him in so short a time. Was she that needy? Of course, there was the complication that she had lain with him and that she had enjoyed the experience and that he was powerfully attractive.

"You are an incredibly strong person, Camille," he said. "But sometimes you build a wall about yourself. You are doing it now. Is that the only way you can hold yourself together?"

She was about to utter an angry retort. But she was feeling weary. Her feet were sore. "Yes," she said.

His eyes continued to search her face. "Yet behind the wall," he said, "you are amazingly tenderhearted. And loyal hearted."

A little boy dashed past at that moment, bowling a metal hoop and making a great deal of noise. A woman-his governess? his mother?-called to him from some distance behind to slow down.

Camille felt a bit like crying. It was becoming an increasingly familiar feeling, as though the tears she had not shed from the age of seven until a week or so ago were determined to make up for lost time.

Joel sat back so that his shoulder was touching hers, and looked out toward the river. "Or," he said, "I could sell the houses, invest all the money somewhere, and forget about it. Would it be possible? Would it always be there, beckoning and tempting me? Or I could give it all away. But would I then forever regret having done so? What do you think, Camille? Do you ever regret having said no?"

Did she? She had never allowed herself to think about it. But the thought had seeped in anyway, specifically the realization that she had turned her back on more than just the money. She would not easily forget that fleeting look of yearning on Anastasia's face earlier when Camille had congratulated her on being with child. And she would not forget Avery's scold as they walked down the hill on the way home-and that was what it had been. And she would not forget Alexander's suggestion that she allow herself to be loved. Was that what the money meant to Anastasia? Love? Was that what she, Camille, had rejected?

Joel turned his head again when she did not immediately answer. Their faces were very close-uncomfortably close. His eyes looked intensely dark beneath the brim of his hat. "An honest answer?" he said.

"I do not regret this road of self-discovery I am on," she said, "though it is incredibly painful."

"Is it?" His eyes dropped to her lips.

"You will feel pain too," she told him. "Being forced out of the life one has always led without any great deal of introspection is painful. Most people never have to do it. Most people never really know themselves."

"And you know yourself now?" His eyes smiled suddenly beneath the brim of his hat. "You did not on the day we went to Sally Lunn's. You told me so."

She knew something then with mind-shattering clarity, and it was something that would have shocked Lady Camille Westcott to the core. She wanted him to kiss her even though they were in a horribly public place. She wanted to go to bed with him again. Was this self-knowledge? Was she promiscuous? But no. She had never wanted any such thing with any other man and could not imagine ever doing so. And what did that tell her about herself?

"I am learning," she said.

His gaze did not shift. It was most disconcerting, but she would not lean away from him or look away either. She was no longer that prim, oh-so-correct aristocrat. It was a beautiful day and she was sitting by the river on a public path with a man she desired in a most shocking way, but she would not feel either shocked or ashamed. Even though he was going to change and move into a world where she could not follow. She had guarded her feelings all her life, and where had it got her?

His lips touched hers very briefly before he seemed to remember where they were and sat back again, his shoulder against hers. The boy with the hoop came roaring back along the path, the same female calling plaintively to him from behind. A mother duck was gliding across the river, five ducklings coming along behind her in a slightly crooked line. An infant squealed with delight and pointed at them while she bounced astride her father's shoulders and her mother held a hand behind her lest she pitch backward.

"Joel," Camille said, "take me home with you."