Surely Annabelle would not be able to complain about that?
They began to walk along the canal until they found one of the barges being loaded with bags and boxes and dressed timber, and made some inquiries. The deal was quickly done and by the time they headed back toward the inn Terry felt his old self again. Indeed his step was quite jaunty, and Lizzie, squeezing his arm and smiling up at him, appeared merry, too.
Maybe, just maybe, he told himself, everything was going to turn out right after all.
Chapter 31
Lord Ridley’s narrow boat was a long low craft, designed to move easily through the narrow waterways, with their aqueducts and locks and bridges. It was painted in bright blues and yellows and reds, and as Eugenie picked her way down the stairs into the inside of the vessel, she found it quite pleasant and roomy. The captain, known as Johnno, was a short wide man with tattoos of mermaids on his forearms, who informed them he had once sailed the oceans but after one shipwreck too many had decided the inland waterways were far safer.
“Rufus will get you to Wexham,” he said, nodding to where a large feathery footed shire horse stood on the towpath, tethered to the boat by the length of the tow rope. Rufus would pull them along the canal while his master steered.
“As long as we make good time,” Sinclair said brusquely.
The captain gave him a look and a nod. “Never you mind. Lord Ridley has given me me orders, Your Grace.”
Why didn’t that fill him with confidence? Sinclair asked himself, as he went below. Uneasily he glanced about at his surroundings. The interior of the narrow boat was very luxurious, almost dangerously so in the circumstances. They were on a mission to rescue his sister, after all, not taking a holiday.
“I knew this was a mistake,” he said. “At least I know where I am with horses.”
“You hated that coach, remember?”
“We could have had my uncle’s coach.”
“We’ll find them,” Eugenie soothed, feeling the need to say something positive when he looked so dour.
But Sinclair was no longer listening to her. He was staring at a small pencil sketch hanging on the wall. He took a step closer, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, and then with a curse he swung around and caught Eugenie’s arms, hustling her back toward the stairs.
“What is it?” she cried nervously, trying to see behind him. “Sinclair, whatever is the matter?”
“We can’t stay here,” he muttered.
“Sinclair, what are you talking about? We have no choice. Stop it!”
He did stop, and met her eyes, and she saw that there was something in his that was close to fear. It struck her as so unlike the Sinclair she knew that she pulled away, stepping around him, and making her way purposefully toward the framed sketch.
“Please, Eugenie. Don’t.” He made another grab for her, but she avoided him, and then she was standing before the sketch.
It was a drawing of a naked woman, standing by an open window, her hair unbound and curling about her hips. Eugenie didn’t consider herself a prude, and there was nothing obscene about what she saw now, but it was very sensual. There was the sense of something, or someone, beyond the window who had caught the subject’s attention and the fact that she was standing naked led Eugenie to believe whoever was outside was the woman’s lover.
Sinclair had followed her, and was standing behind her. He was very still, almost as if he was holding his breath. She understood then that it wasn’t fear she had seen in his eyes, but vulnerability. She saw it now in his stance, in his expression, as his dark eyes searched hers as if waiting for an axe to fall.
“Whatever is the matter?” she said. “Sinclair?”
And then she remembered the conversation she’d had with Robert Coachman and she turned again to the framed sketch and searched for the artist’s signature at the bottom. Just as she’d thought: S St. John. This was one of Sinclair’s works from his brief career as an artist.
“You did this?”
He nodded his head, but his eyes remained on hers, searching, as if he was desperately uncertain of her reaction. As if her opinion mattered. Of course he would feel like that after his mother’s attitude to his art, but he should have known Eugenie would never destroy his confidence in such a way.
“Sinclair, it’s beautiful,” she said gently. “Really beautiful.”
His shoulders relaxed, his mouth twitched into a relieved smile.
“Although of course I disapprove of you having naked women in your company. Who was she?”
His eyes gleamed with humor. “A model I hired. I didn’t know any young women willing to undress for me then.”
Eugenie tilted her head, examining the sketch again. “Why did you stop?” she said blithely, as if she didn’t know.