Free River Of Fire by Mary Jo Putney Page A

number of ideas for improving crop yields without having to invest much money. The tenants and laborers are impressed with his good sense. Sutterton seems a different place from when it was run by the old bailiff.
    Beth went on to describe Davidson's suggestions. All were clear proof that his friend knew more about agriculture than Kenneth. If Sutterton was saved, he hoped Jack would stay on as steward permanently.
    He refolded the letter and tucked it into his coat. Beth's buoyant tone assuaged his guilt over leaving her so soon after returning to England. But his good mood faded when he left the shop. Even the knowledge that he was working to save Beth and Sutterton could not mitigate his distaste for what he was doing.
    As soon as Rebecca entered her father's studio, she saw that he was on the verge of a major explosion. Society knew Sir Anthony as one of its own, an aristocrat of impeccable wit and dress who happened to have a gift for painting. Only his closest associates saw the fiercely disciplined, intense artist that existed beneath the surface.
    As a girl Rebecca had once sketched her father as a smoldering volcano on the verge of boiling over. He'd laughed in rueful acknowledgment when she showed it to him. When Sir Anthony encountered problems with a project he cared about deeply, the volcano erupted. Rebecca always tried to avoid him during such episodes.
    The state of his dress was a good indicator of his mood. Usually he was as elegant as if he had just stepped out of a St. James club, but today his coat was tossed on the floor, his sleeves rolled up, and his graying hair disordered. All were dear signs that she should leave before he noticed her.
    But it was too late. He set down his palette and brush and snapped, "Where the devil is Wilding?"
    Resigned, she entered the studio. "I believe he went out this morning," Not that she had seen the captain go, but she'd noticed that the house felt different when he was home. More charged with energy.
    Her father went back to glaring at the large canvas propped on his easel. "What's wrong with this damned picture?"
    Though she'd watched the painting develop from sketches to nearly finished oil, Rebecca dutifully approached and studied it again. The last of her father's Waterloo series, it showed the Duke of Wellington on horseback, standing in his stirrups and waving his cocked hat forward in the signal for his army to advance against the French. The heroic figure of the duke dominated the canvas, with battered regiments in the background.
    It was a good painting. Nonetheless, she understood her father's dissatisfaction. In some indefinable way, the picture lacked soul. But she knew no way to remedy such a failing.
    Since an answer was expected, she said hesitantly, "There is nothing really wrong. It's a fine likeness of Wellington, and the battlefield looks very convincing. The forward sweep of his arm is very dynamic."
    "Of course the composition and likeness are good— mine always are," her father said with exasperation. "But it's not a great painting—merely a good one." He frowned at the canvas again. "Maybe Wilding can tell me what is lacking. After all, he was there." His voice turned querulous. "Why isn't he
here
?"
    "I'm sure he'll be back soon." Seizing the excuse to leave, she continued, "I'll tell the footman to send the captain up as soon as he comes in."
    Before she could start for the door, it swung open and Captain Wilding entered. His blue coat and buff breeches were subdued, yet he drew the eye as surely as if he were dressed in a scarlet uniform. He nodded to Rebecca and set a parcel on the table. "Here are the pigments you ordered, Sir Anthony. Since I was near the colorman's shop today, I picked them up myself."
    Instead of taking the opportunity to leave, Rebecca stepped back and scrutinized the newcomer, trying to analyze what gave him that air of command. His aura of physical strength was part of it, but only a small part. Intelligence was also