The Portrait

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

When Jocelyn managed to turn around, it was to find she had gone. The golden-haired vision in pink hidden in the window seat had disappeared, as if she had been a spectre, a phantom from his imagination and his deepest dreams.

His heart sank.

She did not know him – no one knew him. But, after a few minutes of observation, she had guessed more about him than anyone normally discovered. And perhaps she had guessed still more – he wanted to know what her beautiful eyes had seen. Perhaps she was a ghost indeed. Or perhaps a fortune-teller, like the Oracle at Delphi.

Jocelyn tried not to grimace at the tittering of the two girls next to him. It was beginning to grate, the constant giggling. He neither liked nor disliked Lieutenant Forster, who had latched onto him as soon as he had stepped ashore and was anxiously awaiting to hear whether he would finally receive his first command. When Forster explained he had promised to accompany his younger sister to Bath, Jocelyn thought it seemed as good a place as any to sit and think about his fate.

He had thought he would go to London, where he could keep an ear on the news from the Admiralty and pick up any rumours that he was being sought. He almost laughed bitterly but caught himself just in time. The soprano began to inexpertly negotiate a trill and the girls giggled again. Sooner or later, someone would come in search of Jocelyn Avebury. And then the ugly truth would emerge.

But he held a half-hearted belief that he could hide, that he could outrun his pursuers. He wasn’t trying too hard to evade them. He hadn’t changed his appearance or rid himself of the uniform. The uniform – ah, that was the one source of any pride he had ever possessed. He had offered up his life time and again for the sake of His Majesty’s uniform. And not once had God seen fit to accept the sacrifice. He had been returned, sent back over and over again, to the life that he had been given.

For a price, he could leave his London agent and hire one who was more adept at avoiding the law. Then no one would be able to track his movements through watching how he disposed of the vast amounts of prize money he had acquired over the years. But he’d spent barely a penny of it. Money, it seemed to him, was a largely useless commodity: it would never buy honour, or bravery, or truth. And, if you were on the run, it followed you and made it possible for the law to find you. So he had considered handing his business affairs over to a shady lawyer in Portsmouth. He had also considered fleeing to the West Indies, or to the Americas. But it all seemed pointless. The good admiral had tried to do him a favour, but it was only a matter of time before the truth became known. And, had the admiral known the truth, he would not have wanted to stick his neck out for Jocelyn.

Applause was breaking out. He stretched his legs and hoped that the concert had reached its end.

“… splendid,” Forster was saying something. He nudged Jocelyn in the ribs and winked.

“Is it over?” Jocelyn asked.

“Lord, I hope so.” For a moment, they sat, surveying the crowd. The musicians made no move to pack up their instruments, but began tuning and polishing again. Forster groaned.

“John, we are so thirsty. Would you fetch us some lemonade?” Miss Fanny Forster addressed her brother, then leant over to catch Jocelyn’s eye. “Are you enjoying yourself, Captain Avebury?”

“Very much,” he replied. “I’ll go with you, Forster.” He caught the look of disappointment that flashed over Miss Forster’s face, but extracted himself from the chair with relief. The chairs were too small – or his legs were too long. He followed Lieutenant Forster to the refreshment table.

“Bath always has these insipid entertainments,” Forster muttered under his breath. “But it’s the only place that m’father would allow Fanny to come to without Mother.” He cast a disgusted look about the room. “It’s no wonder.”

Jocelyn took a quick look at the high-necked, modestly cut garments on the ladies around him. His mind turned to the vision in pink. Miss Claverton’s gown had been cut quite low, he realised. The exquisite lines set off a porcelain complexion and a long, lovely throat adorned with pearls.

Those blue eyes.

He sipped at his lemonade idly.

“… deathbed.”

“How positively dreadful.”

“But you know they haven’t spoken in years.”

“Yes. He was …” The voice behind him dropped, and he only heard a faint mutter that sounded like “crueller beyond imagining.”

Jocelyn tried to move out of the way. The two conversants elbowed forward appreciatively. Then his ear caught the word “Claverton.” He paused.

“Certainly she will be quite wealthy. But the title will die with the earl. There were, apparently, sons from the earl’s first marriage, but none of them live. Lady Catherine is his daughter by his second wife and they had no other children. It was a disappointment: he needed sons.”

“Pity. No wonder he hated her so much. If only she had been a boy! Such an ancient title, reverting to the Crown.”

There was an unkind snort. “I imagine Lady Catherine won’t suffer.”

“Oh, no! But to have one’s father despise one – it isn’t to be wished for. Even with all the money in the world.”

Jocelyn had heard enough. He pushed through the crowd, away from the table. Lieutenant Forster was chatting with an attractive, dark-haired young woman whose scowling mama stood by protectively. Naval men were not in favour here, apparently.

So Lady Catherine Claverton. Daughter of an earl.

And – like himself – alone in the world.