The Portrait (free review copies available, just message me!)

Chapter 3

When Jocelyn managed to turn around again, she was gone. The golden-haired vision in pink hidden in the window box had disappeared, as if she had been a specter, a phantom from his imagination and his darkest dreams.

His heart sank.

She did not know him—no one knew him. But in a few minutes of observation, she had guessed more about him than anyone had, ever. And perhaps she had guessed still more—he wanted to know what she saw with her beautiful blue eyes. Perhaps she was a ghost indeed. Or perhaps a fortuneteller, as in the Oracle at Delphi.

Jocelyn tried not to grimace at the tittering of the two girls next to him. It was beginning to grate on his ears, the constant giggling. His acquaintance, Lieutenant Forster, had latched onto him as soon as he had stepped off the ship in port. He neither liked nor disliked the man, who was anxiously awaiting news of whether he would finally receive his first command. But Forster had promised to accompany his younger sister to Bath, and it seemed as good a place as any for him to sit and think about his fate.

He had thought he would go to London, where he could hear news of the Admiralty and keep his ear tuned for any news of whether he was being sought after. He almost laughed bitterly, but caught himself just in time, as the soprano began to inexpertly negotiate a trill. The girls giggled again.

Sooner or later, someone would come in search of Jocelyn Avebury. And then the ugly truth would emerge.

But he still maintained the half-hearted illusion that he could hide, that he could out-run 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 pride that he had ever possessed. He had given his life time and again for the sake of his Majesty's uniform. And not once had God seen fit to accept the sacrifice. Back he had been returned, 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 the vast amounts of prize-money he had acquired through the years. He'd barely spent a penny of all that money. Money had seemed to him to be a largely useless commodity. It would never buy honor, 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 switching his business affairs over to a shady solicitor in one of the port cities. He also considered fleeing to the West Indies, or to America. But it all seemed quite pointless.

The good admiral had tried to do him a favor, but it was only a matter of time. If the admiral had known the truth, he could not have wanted to stick his neck out for him.

Applause was breaking out. He stretched his legs and hoped that the concert was over.

"—splendid," Forster was saying. 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's movements. The musicians made no move to pack up their instruments, but were tuning and polishing again. Forster groaned.

"John, we are so thirsty. Would you fetch us some lemonade?" Miss Fanny Forster leaned over to catch Jocelyn's eye. "Are you enjoying yourself, Captain Avebury?"

"Very much so," 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, in fact. The well-tailored lines set off a porcelain complexion and a long, lovely throat adorned with pearls. Her fine, straight blonde hair was pulled back into a simple style.

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 "crueler beyond imagining."

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

"Certainly she will be quite wealthy. But the title will die with the earl."

"Pity. This is why he hates her so much. If only she had been a boy—all that land, reverting to the Crown."

There was an unkind snort. "Lady Catherine won't suffer, I presume."

"Oh, no. But to have one's father despise one—it isn't to be wished for. Even for 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 favor here, apparently.

So. Lady Catherine Claverton. Daughter of an earl.

Had she meant to keep this a secret?

Apparently—like himself—she was alone in the world.

***

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