Odds on Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 5) by Carvic Heron

Author:Carvic, Heron [Carvic, Heron]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780993576348
Publisher: Farrago
Published: 2016-06-30T04:00:00+00:00

Then it dawned on her: this was the young man at breakfast, Derrick, in fancy dress. “Beheaded on Tower Hill for treason in 1684,” said Lord Kenharding, and he moved away, followed by the reluctant Miss Seeton.

She delayed involuntarily before—yes, unmistakably—a Rubens. Next, dwarfing it in size but not overshadowing it, was a huge canvas by the same master’s pupil and one-time chief assistant, Van Dyck. From the full-length portrait Deirdre’s face smiled at her, framed in side ringlets, while the figure in its low-cut bodice edged with pointed lace appeared, from the swirl of the dress, only to be at pause before leaving the picture. Miss Seeton hurried to join Lord Kenharding in front of another large frame: a young man by Gainsborough, and the youth, as she had known it would be, was Derrick again; Derrick in powdered wig, lace ruffles and knee breeches, lounging in graceful artificial ease against a stone pillar improbably placed amid the roots of an overhanging tree, of which, typically, neither twig nor leaf had the temerity to throw a shadow on the face.

“Hanged for murder at Tyburn in 1782.” Lord Kenharding walked on toward the end of the gallery. Disregarding the rest of the pageantry, even to ignoring the lure of Reynolds, a Cosway miniature and—no, no, she couldn’t look, but yes, she was practically certain—a head by Rodin, Miss Seeton trailed in his lordship’s wake.

She was confronted once more by Derrick’s pretty, rather than handsome, face; the innocence of the too widely spaced eyes again belied by a sly effect in the expression; the petulant, sensual mouth; the obstinate weakness of the jaw. A Sargent, surely? And there was something in the way that the slight figure was turned back toward the artist that reminded her of . . . Of course. The Graham Robertson portrait—though this one was of a later date. So curious that while England was still indulging in the sentimental droop of Watts, Burne-Jones and Rossetti, the only portraitists of stature to emerge were both American—Whistler and Sargent. Though, admittedly, Sargent had been born in Italy of expatriate parents and had never been more than a visitor to the land of . . . Her reverie was broken by Lord Kenharding.

“Out of consideration for his younger brother, my father, who inherited, the telegram from the War Office read: ‘Regret to inform you Captain Lord Kenharding killed in action the Somme September 20.’ He was shot in the back by his own men while attempting to desert to the enemy.” He swung to face her. “Does this answer your question in the garden about the young being taught, made stronger, through involvement?”

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