Extending his free arm, Nick invited Emma to take it.
Silently, she laid her palm on the smooth warmth of his sleeve, aware of the muscled firmness of his arm underneath.
The portrait room, she soon discovered, took up the entire length of the rear, first-floor gallery. Shrouded in a thick, inky darkness, the shadows grudgingly gave way to the light cast by the candelabra Nick held. The chamber was elegant, paneled in walnut and expanses of rich, watered scarlet silk. On the surrounding walls hung myriad paintings with their dozens of oil-rendered faces gazing out from their frames.
One visage in particular caught Emma’s attention. The man had a long, stern face and a Vandyke beard, his eyes the same deep gray as Nick’s. On his head sat an elaborately plumed hat. A black velvet doublet stretched taut over his chest, with the rest of his costume composed of full velvet pantaloons, hose, and pointed leather shoes. His right hand rested on a heavy, bejeweled sword at his hip, the action suggesting that he intended to draw it should anyone be foolish enough to test him.
“I see you’ve noticed the first earl,” Nick remarked as he gazed upon the figure. “Rumor has it he was one of Henry VIII’s secret assassins. Made a career out of stabbing, poisoning, and compiling evidence, truthful and otherwise, that was used to implicate enemies of the Crown and other chosen rivals. They say he interrogated those associated with Anne Boleyn, his actions helping send her to her death. Yet somehow, despite the perilous times, he managed to keep his own head and gain an earldom in the process. Not very nice, was he?”
“No,” she mused thoughtfully, “but attempting to appease kings can sometimes make men do vile, reprehensible things—particularly when the monarch is a law unto himself. Your parliament is a most interesting institution that apparently provides an effective means of curbing the worst of such excesses.”
Excesses that, until the past two generations, had been part of the fabric of her own country’s autocratic monarchy. When her father had ascended to the throne thirty years before, he’d enacted the beginnings of reform, but nothing that anyone would consider sweeping. Two years ago, Rupert had become regent. In that brief time, he had put in place a set of broader-reaching measures designed to bring their country into the forefront of the modern age, including the establishment of Rosewald’s first true parliament. Her father had been a good king, but she knew her brother would be a great one if only given the means.
Nick shot her a curious stare. “What do you mean your parliament? You speak as if it is not yours as well.”
Her mouth went dry as she realized her unintentional error. Thanks to the concealing darkness, though, she didn’t think Nick noticed the momentarily stricken expression that must have shown on her face.
Carefully, she composed her features and her voice. “No, of course not. I meant yours only in the sense that, as an earl, you are a member of the House of Lords, and thus one of the men who helps decide the fate of England. Along with the Commons, of course. They decide too, balancing everything, as it were.”
She closed her mouth at that point, sure she’d said too much and that what she’d said was mostly gibberish. She shot him a quick look, not at all reassured by the continued skepticism on his face.
“I suppose you could look at it that way,” he agreed slowly. “Then again, I have yet to receive my official investiture as the new earl, so I haven’t done much in the way of lawmaking. Truthfully, I have little interest in politics. That was always my brother’s specialty.”
He walked a few steps farther along the gallery, then stopped and raised the candelabra higher. “This is Peter, the man who was born to be the earl.”
Relieved by the change of conversation, Emma moved closer. With sudden curiosity, she gazed up into the face of Nick’s dead brother.
The late Lord Lyndhurst was handsome, but leaner and less physically imposing than his brother; he bore only a slight resemblance to the man at her side. His chin was more rounded than Nick’s, his hair several shades lighter brown. He had an intelligent yet serious face, his expression completely devoid of the devil-may-care irreverence and humor that made Nick so unique, so compelling. And yet their eyes were the same—a deep penetrating gray that was both clever and compassionate with a piercing quality that seemed capable of divining the inner workings of a person’s soul.
She trembled at that knowledge, wondering exactly how much of the truth Nick saw in her.
“He favored our mother,” Nick mused aloud, “while I took after the black sheep branch of Father’s side of the family. There is a highly disreputable great-uncle of whom I am the spitting image.”