‘I could give it a try, Papa…’ An answer which surprised them both. While she could draw faces well enough, he was the master of the portrait and she normally respected that distinction.
‘Then please…’ He stood, clearly very put out, and expansively gestured to the stool before brusquely removing his drawing to reveal a fresh sheet of paper underneath. ‘Be my guest. I cannot wait to be taught a valuable lesson in the complicated art of portraiture.’
For the briefest moment, she considered backing down rather than stepping on his sensitive toes, then rejected it. This was such an important commission and she wanted it to be the triumph her father deserved. Lord Eastwood’s expression, the pose and the tone were entirely wrong and if Papa stubbornly refused to see that then she needed to show him.
Trying to ignore dear Papa’s pinched expression of blatant annoyance, she sat down and selected a piece of charcoal from the box on the floor and instead smiled at the man she felt compelled to smile at to put him at his ease.
‘Why have you been awake since two?’ Papa might well prefer silence while he sketched, but she did not.
‘I’ve been saddled with the chore of organising a state banquet.’
‘And for that you were roused from your bed at such an ungodly hour?’
‘Not exactly. That chore was foisted upon me at dawn after I stupidly suggested it. Now, for my sins, I am stuck with it.’
‘That still doesn’t explain why you had to get up at two, my lord.’
‘Unfortunately, the war doesn’t confine itself to town hours.’
‘That’s a very cryptic answer.’
He smiled wryly. ‘Yet it is all I can give you, Miss Brookes. Infuriating, I know, but there it is. Sharing state secrets is a treasonable offence.’ The wryness was replaced by a mock serious expression which completely missed his eyes. ‘And for all I know you could be a French spy.’
‘Very true.’ Faith liked his dry sense of humour. It was subtle but intelligent, much like the man himself. ‘Then while I work out another, more devious way to prise those valuable secrets out of you, I shall disarm you using the distraction of another topic instead. How is Isobel today?’
‘Still precocious.’
‘Yet you love that about her.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ He offered her an ironic half-smile which did nothing to hide his deep affection for his eldest niece. ‘At best, I tolerate it for a quiet life.’ As she had hoped, talking about a safe topic he cared about, like Isobel, instantly lowered his guard and he started to forget to feel awkward. ‘It is her birthday in two days, and I have no earthly idea what to get the brat. Now that she is turning ten, she claims she is too old for dolls, so that’s my first idea blown to smithereens.’
She sketched some bold lines on the paper, trying to capture both the economy of expression alongside the dry humour. ‘And the second idea?’
‘There isn’t a second idea. That’s the problem. And not for the want of searching either. On the way home, I visited Noah’s Ark in Holborn for the second time to hunt for something and left, for the second time, depressingly empty-handed.’
‘But Mr Hamley’s emporium is the best toy shop in London. Surely they had something.’
‘Nothing which screamed Isobel… It is so frustrating. Especially as time is rapidly running out and I shall have to head back there again tomorrow, with no earthly clue what for. A gift should always be special rather than make do…’ He sighed, his gaze wandering to the window for a second before he caught himself and remembered the situation. ‘Should I be sitting straighter?’ He wiggled the fake reins he was still holding. ‘And where do you want my hands?’
‘Just relax them. Sit how you feel comfortable.’
‘I am sat on a saddle, on a trestle table in my mother’s music room, in the middle of the day—under duress, Miss Brookes. What, pray tell, is comfortable about that?’
‘Absolutely nothing at all, my lord, but try.’ She peered at him haughtily over the easel. ‘Or, as a ruthless disciple of Napoleon, I shall make you pretend to gallop and then you’ll be sorry. A fake gallop is brutal on the leg muscles.’
He grinned at that and his features softened, showing her a glimpse of an altogether different Lord Eastwood again. A man who didn’t take himself too seriously or take easy offence when mocked, which was a rare attribute for a man of his ilk. As was caring so very much over a child’s birthday.
Which made Faith wonder again about his character. Would a man who believed a gift should always be special and who agonised over the selection for days really be the same sort of man who could ruthlessly detach himself from a disadvantageous marriage purely to pursue his own lofty ambitions? He did not seem preoccupied with rank or come across as particularly cutthroat. If anything, and to her complete surprise, he came across as extremely likeable now that they had called a truce. ‘Then my poor leg muscles thank you for your benevolence, Miss Brookes, and I shall endeavour to relax, even though I look entirely ridiculous on this bizarre contraption. But I am still not going to tell you any state secrets.’
‘Another fiendish plan foiled.’
He grinned again. ‘You were a little girl once, surely you have a suggestion for a present?’
Faith paused to give it some thought. ‘I have two sisters, my lord, and growing up we all liked to play with different toys. To properly advise you, I would need to know what sort of things Miss Isobel likes to do instead of playing with dolls.’
He let go of the reins with one hand so that he could run it impatiently through his hair, completely destroying the harsh neatness he, or more likely his mother, had prepared for the sitting. It suited him, a little too much. ‘Besides get under my feet?’ There it was again, that feigned air of being vastly put upon when she suspected, where his family were concerned, he was anything but. It was obvious he adored the child. She could see the love shining in his green eyes whenever he mentioned her. ‘She’s always drawing something and covering my study floor with chalk dust in the process.’
Faith focused on his eyes, trying to emulate the animation and emotion in them on the paper without being distracted by the urge to drink in his face. ‘She is a budding artist then?’
‘I doubt the poor maids see it that way when they have to pick the daily dust rainbow out of the parquet.’
‘Chalk is messy.’ She could feel her father’s assessing stare as she quickly tried to convey all that she saw into the sketch, and tried not to allow it to put her off even though he would likely rip her efforts to shreds with his inevitable criticisms. ‘Is it her preferred medium?’
Lord Eastwood’s dark head tilted while he considered it. ‘I think it is her only medium, to be honest. There was a set of paints once, but they were confiscated when she decided to redecorate the drawing room and recolour her sister.’ He chuckled at the memory, managing to look thoroughly sinful in the process as those distracting eyes danced. ‘I believe a moratorium was declared on all paint then by my mother.’
‘How old was she then?’
‘Six…no…wait…’ As his brows furrowed, a tiny, endearing crinkle formed between them. ‘It was before I left for Tripoli, so she had to have been four. I remember now because Elspeth was still in leading strings and the colour she was caked in was such a vivid shade of green that it took a week of baths to get it all out of her skin.’ Faith could tell he particularly enjoyed that memory.
‘A moratorium is not an outright ban, so technically it could be lifted.’ She found her eyes shamelessly seeking his again. ‘I sincerely doubt Isobel would paint her sister now, or the drawing room either for that matter. Maybe it is time the family forgave her for her regrettable early green period and entrusted her with some new paints. If she is a budding artist, then the limitations of chalk will stifle her talent.’
He laughed at that, a low, deep, rumble which came from somewh
ere deep in his chest but which she felt everywhere. ‘I said she liked to draw. At no point did I say she had any talent for it.’
‘Even so, I think she might appreciate some grown-up paints for her birthday.’
He took a moment to ponder it then offered her a smile so devastating she almost sighed aloud. ‘That is actually not a bad idea…thank you. I shall visit the Ark again tomorrow and get some.’
‘Those will be basic children’s paints, my lord.’ In case her father sensed her pulse was bouncing erratically all over the place, Faith forced her focus back to her sketch. ‘For a mature young lady like Isobel, Ackermann’s on the Strand is the best place to go, and if it were me choosing them, I would start her on watercolours first. Oil is a tricky medium and needs some practice. She will tire of it and become frustrated before she gets the hang of it unless she has achieved some success beforehand. Watercolours are much more forgiving and garner quicker results. I could also give her some lessons if you think she would like some?’
He pulled a face. ‘Be very careful what you offer, Miss Brookes, and be quite specific in the parameters if you do, because my niece is a manipulative hellion of the first order and she will make a pest of herself otherwise. Trust me, if you give her an inch, she will invariably take a mile and before you know it, she will have made a new camp in the ballroom and you’ll never be rid of her.’ Then mischief shimmered as their gazes locked again. ‘Which I shall, of course, make no effort to dissuade her from. Because at least I’ll be shot of her.’
‘You’d miss her.’
‘Miss her? I am already considering having some bunting made in celebration of her imminent departure.’
Faith grinned, added one final flourish to her hasty composition, then sat back so her father could scrutinise her work, quietly pleased with the quick sketch.
‘What do you think, Papa?’
To her complete surprise, his long pause was followed by an impressed nod as all sign of her father’s previous bad mood seemed to have evaporated.
‘I think you did a much better job than I did, Faith, and you were right to dispense with the saddle. What say you, my lord?’ He unclipped her picture and held it up alongside his for comparison. ‘Which do you prefer?’
Those intelligent, mossy eyes studied them both and she saw his expression change with obvious approval at hers, then they narrowed in mock affront as they took in her whole composition.
‘I cannot help but notice you have eschewed my noble steed to sit me in an armchair, Miss Brookes.’
‘I did indeed, Lord Eastwood.’ Her lips twitched as she failed to suppress her laughter. ‘I know how wedded to it you are.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
If my sources are correct, gentle reader, then the infamous Lord E. is finally stepping out of the shadows to grace the Renshaw Ball with his maleficent presence…
Whispers from Behind the Fan
March 1814
‘I know I agreed to it.’ After a great deal of browbeating. ‘But I still fail to see why I absolutely have to come tonight?’ The carriage door closed decisively behind him like the lid of his coffin, signalling he was doomed regardless, yet a tiny part of him still clung to the faint hope of a reprieve.
‘Because you were expressly invited, Piers. Because the Renshaws have been our friends for years. Because they have stuck by us through thick and thin and because the Marquis bent over backwards to aid your cause with Parliament.’ All depressingly good reasons to attend. ‘They still want to help, Piers, and both your father and I agree this will be good for you.’
By good for him, they meant they wanted him to venture into society again to begin to repair his shattered reputation, convinced that once he did he could move on, put the dreadful past completely behind him, find another woman and trust her enough with his bludgeoned heart to blithely live happily ever after. As if blithely trusting anyone was even an option on the table when he and his poor heart could personally think of nothing worse.
He wasn’t the same optimistic and idealistic young man who had rushed headlong into marriage, convinced the giddy strength of his love was enough to conquer all. It hadn’t. Leaving him too jaded, too wounded, too cautious and only too aware of the awful consequences of rushing headlong into anything any more. Love, it turned out, hadn’t conquered all, nor had it endured. It had quickly fizzled, died and abandoned him after reality had rampaged over the horizon and trampled it all to death.
‘I’ve always loathed balls.’ Especially nowadays. It was one thing to have his private heartbreak gossiped about openly behind your back whenever you ventured out, another entirely to have to stand in a room of couples stood all alone. He was almost used to being a social pariah, but being forced to display the crushing loneliness in front of a hundred judgemental people… Well, that was another matter entirely.
His mother reached across and squeezed his hand. ‘It has been two years since you came home, darling. You cannot hide from society for ever.’
Yet Piers was prepared to give it a jolly good go! When even extended family gatherings left him feeling raw and uncharacteristically maudlin, exactly as Isobel’s birthday party had only yesterday. There was nothing better for reminding you of all your failures in life than the cheerful presence of your two happily married sisters, one complete with two adorable grandchildren already for his parents to coo over and the other, the youngest of the three of them, on the cusp of giving birth to her first. While he was delighted for both his sisters, he also envied them their happiness and their families. Things he should have had now too had it not been for his own blind stupidity. ‘As far as the outside world is concerned, it has been just six months.’ When he had reluctantly emerged from the blessed obscurity of his sanctuary at Whitehall to set Constança free.
He missed that obscurity and craved it now more than anything. After months of hell, the newspapers had only just left him alone, a state of affairs which would rapidly change in tomorrow’s scandal rags if he couldn’t continue to lie low. ‘My reappearance tonight will doubtless cause rife speculation in the gossip columns. You know already what the stories will say. Now that I have successfully offloaded the first unfortunate wife, I am blithely on the hunt for a replacement…’ Good grief, he didn’t need that too! ‘They will assume I am an eager bachelor about town—and that will only make things more awkward.’ Because Piers might well be a bachelor again, if he pushed his unwelcome and overwhelming new obsession with Miss Brookes to one side, but he certainly wasn’t eager. He had never been one for society before his marriage. Being reserved, dull and staid in nature, he had always found large gatherings hard work. But now—divorced and vilified—they felt more daunting than ever. A feeling not helped by almost two years of determined avoidance.
‘And those that know you and respect you are well aware of the truth of the matter and will pay none of those scurrilous reports any mind. The Renshaws are dear family friends and our attendance at their annual ball is a tradition.’
His father’s tone was kind, but like his mother, they were both ready to take the next tentative steps, believing reintroducing him to society in a friendly environment was the beginning of the inevitable restoration of his good name and reputation, as it would surely remind everyone of who he really was. Over time—an overly optimistic time frame in his humble opinion—they were convinced society would forget the scandal and those unfortunate years in purgatory would all disappear from memory. Piers sincerely doubted it was going to be that easy. Scandals faded eventually, but they never fully disappeared, and his had been so momentous it would always follow him around. But they wanted him to be happy and he didn’t have the energy to tell them they were wasting their time.
‘There is also an argument for giving them something positive to write about, don’t you think?’ His mother had that innocent, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth expression again. ‘Because who cares what they print as lo
ng as it is good news for a change.’
‘And me attending a ball is good news?’
‘Your meeting a nice young lady tonight might…’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake! Not this again.’
Even his father rolled his eyes. ‘Leave the boy alone, Margaret! How many times does he have to tell you he isn’t ready for that? After that witch Constança, it should hardly come as a surprise he is unenthusiastic, and who could blame him either? That woman was enough to put any sane fellow off all women for life!’
A sad truth Piers couldn’t deny. Especially women who came from that same mould. Vibrant, exciting, unconventional women who were absolutely nothing like him. Free spirits—like Miss Brookes. Oil and water could never mix. He understood that now. There was no point in yearning for the exceptional, yet no matter how much he willed it, he couldn’t envisage ever being able to settle for the mundane.
‘Piers is dipping his toe back into society again. Nothing more. Let the boy ease in gently, Margaret.’
His mother turned away stubbornly to stare out of the window. ‘I am merely saying, in the most general of terms, that if one does happen to take his fancy, he shouldn’t allow one mistake to hold him back for ever, that is all.’
Piers would have argued, but knew it was ultimately pointless. His mother wouldn’t be swayed from her belief that it would all come out in the wash any more than he would be swayed from his belief that the stain he carried was just too ingrained. Instead, because he was a predictably dull diplomat to his core, he stared despondently out of his own window and changed the subject. ‘The queue of carriages is ridiculous. They are already snaking down Davies Street. We could be here awhile.’
Which suited Piers perfectly.
‘Didn’t I say taking the carriage to a destination just around the corner was a stupid idea, Margaret?’ His father wasn’t hampered by a constant need for diplomacy. ‘We shall be sat here for a good hour now, when Berkeley Square is less than a five-minute walk from our own house! Why do we always have to bring the carriage to travel around the corner?’
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