Free Secret Hearts by Alice Duncan

separating the grounds of the Pyrite Arms from the prying
eyes of the rest of the community and almost collided with Sergei Ivanov.
           Sergei,
a portrait artist and resident of the Arms, had been occupied in glaring
at an empty canvas. When Claire uttered a stifled shriek and skidded
to a stop, a hand pressed to her hammering heart, Sergei’s glare transferred
to her, and he lifted his paintbrush in a sinister manner.
           Claire
stared at him, her thoughts instantly congealing into a scene of riveting
intensity.  
       As
the ferocious brave fell dead at his feet, Tom swirled around to behold
yet another peril. A villain stood over Miss Abigail
Faithgood, his dagger poised threateningly.
       “Stop,
fiend!” Tom demanded.
       “Never!”
the miscreant retorted. “Not until the wench agrees to give up her
foul sheep!” He grabbed Miss Faithgood by her flowing tresses, eliciting
another scream from her ruby lips.  
           “Claire?
Miss Montague?”
           Her
attention thus jerked back to the here and now, Claire realized Sergei’s
attitude had changed from one of belligerence to one of concern. Pressing
her forehead, momentarily disconcerted, Claire said, “I’m so sorry,
Sergei. I got lost in a fog there for a minute.”
           Turning
to resume glowering at his canvas, Sergei muttered, “Fog is to be
chosen over a tarnished soul.”
           Since
Claire didn’t know how to respond to Sergei’s cryptic utterance,
she chose to say instead, “I see you’re beginning work on another
project, Sergei. Who will be honored by your artistry this time?”
She gave him as sunny a smile as she could manufacture.
           With
a gloomy sigh, the artist said, “Mrs. Humphrey Albright.”
           “Mrs.
Albright?” Triumph replaced despair in Claire’s breast. “Why,
Mrs. Albright is one of Pyrite Springs’ leading citizens, Sergei.
What a wonderful achievement for you.”
           Scowling
at his canvas, Sergei said darkly, “A tarnished soul will out, Miss
Montague.”
           Her
sense of triumph diminishing rapidly, Claire said uncertainly, “Do
you mean you believe Mrs. Albright to be the possessor of a tarnished
soul?”
           His
slanting look rubbed the rest of the shine off of Claire’s moment.
“Oh, dear, Sergei. Are you absolutely certain? I’m sure she’s
a very nice lady. I can’t believe her soul can be so very tarnished.”
           Another
darkling glance from her friend assured Claire that while she might
not believe such a thing, Sergei certainly did. “Well, Sergei, you
must remember that there are many people who prefer to keep their soul’s
imperfections to themselves. Are you sure you must paint them?”
           Sergei
scowled at her as if she’d just suggested he sell his firstborn. “I
paint what I see, Miss Montague. I will not prostitute my art for fools.”
           With
a sigh, Claire said, “No, I suppose you won’t. Well, just don’t
be surprised if Mrs. Albright objects. You remember the ruckus Mr. Gilmore
kicked up.”
           Throwing
his head back, Sergei barked out a short, “Hah! Barbarians!”
           Claire
decided to leave Sergei to his dark reflections. Shaking her head, she
made her way up the gravel path to the front door of the Pyrite Arms.
With a brisk tug at the bell pull, she pushed the door open and called
out, “Mrs. Elliott, it’s just Claire. Is Dianthe in?”
           A
harassed-looking woman scuttled through a door on the other side of
the hallway and smiled at Claire. Waving in the appropriate direction,
she said, “She’s in the parlor, Miss Claire. Creating a dance to
go along with that dreadful picture Mr. Sergei painted last month.”
           “Thank
you, Mrs. Elliott.”
           “Think
nothing of it, dearie. Why on earth anybody would