A Tarnished Canvas

Chapter 1

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied.

-William Shakespeare

March 1833

Edinburgh, Scotland

I could count on one hand the number of times I'd witnessed a gentleman hanging out of a window, and most of those had been the result of some foolish wager. I trusted my husband's current predicament wasn't due to such idiocy. Though one could never be sure.

Regardless, it was a precarious enough position to give me heart palpitations when I ventured into the nursery to discover whether the odd thwacking sound I'd been hearing was coming from within. It had been loud enough and repetitive enough to pull me from my concentration on the latest portrait I was finishing in my studio at the opposite end of the corridor. I'd dropped the brush I'd been wielding into a jar of linseed oil and set aside my palette, picking up an old paint-splattered rag to wipe off my hands as I went in search of the source of the noise. The sight that had met my eyes upon opening the nursery door had silenced my query before I could even utter it.

Mrs. Mackay, our nanny, stood holding my eleven-month-old daughter as they both stared wide-eyed in the direction of the window. If their expressions hadn't been sufficient to alert me, then Mrs. Mackay's uncharacteristic silence would have. It seemed the only time the good-natured nurse wasn't talking was when she or her charge was asleep.

From this angle, all I could see was Gage's lower extremities spread wide to anchor himself against the frame as he leaned perilously far out the window. I gasped and hastened forward even as the thwacking noise which had drawn me to the nursery in the first place continued.

"What are you doing?" I demanded, wanting to grab hold of him, but fearful that my touch might inadvertently cause his already unstable grip to slip.

"Just trying . . . to dislodge . . . this branch," he communicated between grunts, even as he wielded some sort of boat hook or fireplace poker, thrusting it outward, presumably toward the offending bunch of twigs. It thwacked against the stone edifice of our town house on Albyn Place, ringing with a more metallic clang than I'd been able to detect at a farther distance. His left elbow, I noted, was braced heavily against the stone ledge, and I could only pray the masonry held.

"Just a little . . . farther," he groaned, hooking his right leg around the frame and inching his left hip out.

I lurched forward, grasping onto his pelvis, propriety be dashed.

"Almost . . . there." He gave one last lunge like a fencer, before exclaiming in apparent victory.

A small crowd which had gathered below backed away as the branch tumbled toward the pavement. "Apologies," Gage called with a lift of the poker.

I tugged at the waist of his trousers, eager to have him back inside the window before he issued any other proclamations. "Mind your head," I urged as he ducked under the sash, slithering back into the room.

Once he was through the aperture with his feet planted firmly on the floor, he straightened, closing the window with a satisfied snick. Flush with victory, he pivoted to face us, still brandishing the poker like a saber.

"What were you thinking?" I snapped; my hand pressed to my chest as I sought to slow my racing heart.

"Well, I was . . ." His words petered out as he seemed to note all of our goggle-eyed expressions for the first time. He slowly lowered the poker to his side as he sought to explain. "Mrs. Mackay told me a tree branch had become wedged in the corner of the ledge. It must have blown there during the storm two days ago. That it kept tapping the corner of the far windowpane over the stairwell whenever the wind blew." His gaze flickered toward our daughter, still cradled in the nanny's arms. "That it was disturbing Emma."

That might have been so, but I was quite certain Mrs. Mackay hadn't informed him of this so that he would take it upon himself to immediately remedy the situation by dangling out the window with a fireplace poker. She'd undoubtedly expected him to order our butler to arrange for the nuisance to be taken care of in a safer and more dignified manner.

However, I didn't say any of this. I didn't need to. I could tell from Gage's sheepish expression that he'd already realized this.

Instead, I inhaled a steadying breath and turned to Mrs. Mackay. "Time for a nap?"

"Aye," the nanny confirmed.

Though whether our daughter would settle after the excitement of the past few minutes was anybody's guess.

I offered Emma a reassuring smile and moved close to press a kiss to her cherubic cheek, her golden curls tickling the bridge of my nose.

"It's nearly time for tea," I told my husband as I moved toward the door. "Give me a few minutes to clean up. Then I'll join you in the drawing room."

Where we could continue our discussion of his startling behavior in private.

I hadn't intended to stop painting yet, but Gage's reckless conduct concerned me. I'd known he was feeling a bit at loose ends, but his near obliviousness to the danger he'd just put himself in suggested a problem that ran deeper than mere boredom.

After ensuring my pigments and supplies were sealed and secured, I scraped and cleaned my palette and hung my smock on the hook by the door. The room was cool from the March chill, but I made no move to close the cracked window, knowing the air needed to circulate about the room to not only help the paint dry but also clear some of the caustic fumes. Then I closed and locked the studio door-a precaution I'd first begun taking when I'd lived with my sister and her family after my first husband's death. I'd feared that my nephew or one of my nieces, or a member of the staff, might enter and unwittingly poison themselves from handling some of the toxic substances that comprised my pigments. Now that I had a child of my own, as well as a staff to care for, I'd decided it was best to continue the safeguard.

After a swift detour to the washroom to ensure no stray streaks of paint marked my features, I made my way down to the drawing room. I found my husband, Sebastian Gage, standing before the large window flanked by sage green damask drapes which overlooked Albyn Place, his hands clasped behind his back. He had put his deep blue frock coat back on and repaired his tousled golden hair, presenting a respectable appearance again. Truth be told, I preferred him a bit disheveled, a bit undone. Perhaps because he was so rarely less than perfectly put together, and only in private. But not when that disheveling was the result of him dangling out a window.

He turned as I entered, crossing to meet me before the walnut sofa upholstered in daffodil silk. "Kiera, I apologize," he said as he grasped hold of my hands. His pale blue gaze was earnest. "I never meant to cause you or Emma or Mrs. Mackay alarm." He lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck. "To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what I was thinking."

I coaxed him to sit, though I didn't immediately speak, as Jeffers, our butler, had entered with the tea tray. Ever efficient, he must have been waiting for me to arrive. He set the tray on the low table centered on the Axminster carpet before the sofa and then, sensing we desired privacy, withdrew without a word.

"I am," I declared once the door was shut behind him.

Gage appeared slightly startled by this pronouncement.

"You've been at sixes and sevens for weeks," I continued as I began to pour our tea. "Wandering the house, at a loss for something to do." I noticed a smudge of yellow ochre I'd missed on the underside of my right wrist as I added a dash of cream to his cup. "I take it Lady Pinmore's stolen brooch proved to be not much of a challenge."

For the better part of the last decade, Gage had acted as a gentleman inquiry agent, often alongside his father, conducting investigations for those who found themselves in precarious or difficult circumstances, or in need of more delicate assistance than what could be provided by the police or men like the Bow Street Runners in London. I'd been assisting him in this regard since nearly the moment we'd met, as I'd been implicated in a crime that had befallen a fellow house-party guest. Since then, we'd unmasked a number of murderers, recovered missing artifacts and heirlooms, and foiled half a dozen dastardly plots.

However, I didn't actively take part in every inquiry he undertook. There were instances when my involvement was both unneeded and my interest unpiqued, as I also had my art and daughter to occupy my time. In fact, it had been several months since I'd done more than confer with my husband on the cases he was working on, which had admittedly been few.

Gage's mouth compressed with derision. "Because it was never stolen. She'd merely lent it to her daughter-in-law and forgotten."

"Oh, dear," I replied in dismay as I passed him his teacup, an attempt to mask the amusement quivering in my breast.

Apparently I wasn't successful, for Gage scowled in irritation. "It isn't funny."

"Oh, come now," I countered soothingly, no longer bothering to suppress my smile. "You must admit, it is a little bit. Her ladyship was so very certain one of her scurrilous nephews had taken it."

I'd not been party to his interview with Lady Pinmore, but I'd overheard this strident accusation in her raised voice through the drawing room door.

Gage's expression softened as he appeared to at least consider my point, waiting until I'd brought my own cup to my lips before replying. "That, or one of Edinburgh's criminal gangs."

I sputtered, nearly choking on my tea.

His eyebrows arched. "Perhaps even Bonnie Brock Kincaid himself."

"You're jesting?" I finally managed to respond.

"No, indeed," he answered before taking a sip of his tea.

I frowned at the absurdity of the suggestion. "As if Bonnie Brock would bestir himself or his gang for such a paltry haul."

"Try politely explaining that to a viscountess," he muttered dryly.

As head of Edinburgh's largest gang, Bonnie Brock Kincaid was not only a formidable criminal but also our reluctant ally and friend. I couldn't describe him as anything less. Not after a year ago when he'd saved me and Gage from where we'd been trapped inside the farthest depths of the dank and dark vaults built within the arches of the South Bridge. Not only had we been locked inside a storage chamber, but Gage had also suffered a head injury from our abductors, our lantern had snuffed out, and I had gone into labor. If not for Bonnie Brock, Emma would have been born within the vaults, and it was unlikely any of us would have made it out alive. That is, if we'd ever even been found. The very thought still made me quaver.

"Speaking of Kincaid, I haven't seen him . . ." he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the window ". . . or any of his lackeys in some time."

"I haven't either," I confessed. Though that didn't mean the rogue wasn't still keeping us under surveillance. Perhaps this crop of men was simply better at concealing themselves. Or perhaps he'd given up on the enterprise entirely. We'd long lamented his stubborn persistence in having us watched while we were in Edinburgh, but I had to admit it caused an odd pang in my chest now to think that we weren't. One I had no desire to examine more closely.

"Maybe he finally recognized what a waste of time and resources it is," Gage said, echoing my thoughts. "For it's doubtful he's suddenly decided to take our desires into consideration."

"Maybe," I conceded, wanting to change the subject. "What of Sergeant Maclean? Have you heard anything from him?"

Seeing the deep furrows that creased his brow, I wished I could retract the question.

"No." Gage frowned into his cup. "He's maintaining his distance."

Sergeant Braden Maclean was an officer for the recently established Edinburgh City Police. The former pugilist had worked with us on a number of occasions, even bringing inquiries to Gage's attention that he believed my husband could assist him with. However, a year ago some heated words had been exchanged, and aspersions were made that could not so easily be taken back. Gage and I had soon after been exonerated, and Maclean had made an apology, but matters had not been the same since.

I studied Gage's profile, wishing there was something I could say or do to restore their relationship. But then I also sympathized with Sergeant Maclean's position. He had a wife and children to support, and his superintendent had not looked on us with much favor a year ago, placing great pressure on Maclean to sever his ties with us. I couldn't imagine that had changed in the past twelve months.

The trouble was that Gage wasn't accustomed to so much leisure. He preferred to remain active-conducting inquiries, managing his properties, riding his horse, even building furniture. But currently there were no pressing investigations, his properties were in good order, the weather over the past few weeks had been dismal and not conducive to outdoor pursuits, and the place where he most indulged in his woodworking hobby stood a short distance from the city at the estate of a friend who was currently in London. While Mr. Knighton, no doubt, wouldn't have minded him using it in his absence, I could tell Gage felt awkward doing so, and the blustery weather certainly didn't motivate him to make the trek. I knew he had made more frequent visits to the Royal Academy to engage in bouts under the tutelage of George Roland, the fencing master there. But there were only so many hours a day he could spend at the fencing salle.

I felt a twinge of guilt regarding all the hours I'd been spending in my art studio preparing for my upcoming exhibition, knowing that otherwise we might have spent it together and with Emma. A less honorable gentleman might be driven to alleviate his boredom in less noble pursuits, frequenting gambling dens, cockfights, brothels, and the like. There were plenty of examples of such men throughout Edinburgh and London, as a gentleman was not supposed to sully his hands with work. Gage's activities as an inquiry agent and with woodworking already pushed the boundaries of gentility. Not that I cared. After all, my hands were almost always tainted with oils and pigments. But I was more aware than most of the expectations of society and the implications for those who refused to obey protocol.