Rogues Like It Hot

by Tamara Gill

  Silence reigned in the room. Too late, Stone regretted his harsh words. In Miss Blackburn’s gaze, the curtain that hid the darker side of attaining peace had been raised. Hardly the courtly words he’d intended to ply her with. Geoffrey would have roasted him for such a sad attempt at attracting her attention.

  “I’m sorry if I have disillusioned your perceptions,” he said, feeling completely wretched. He rose clumsily to his feet. “I did not intend to spoil your fun.”

  “Pray, stay, my lord,” she said in an earnest voice. “My interest in war extends to all its aspects, good and bad.”

  “My daughter, Lord Ashford,” Lady Blackburn said with a tender look, “is exceptional in her outlook on life. She does not cringe from its unpleasant side.”

  He tilted his head studying her mother. “You do not object to this?”

  Lady Blackburn chuckled and her glance toward her daughter was filled with love. “Whether I mind or not has little effect on my daughter. I have learned to bend to her wishes in this, as she bends to mine in other areas.” She gave a daughter an approving nod.

  Stone grew curious as to what it was that Miss Blackburn had bent in to accommodate her mother.

  Still standing, he turned to the young lady only to find her trying unsuccessfully to hide a mischievous smile. He wanted to kiss those sweetly curving lips that trembled with humor and perhaps taste the lighter side of life.

  Her gaze swung up to meet his and stilled, as if startled by his yearning look. She blinked, appearing set aback. Wishing everyone else in the room to perdition, he could not look away as he drowned in her tender gray eyes.

  “My lord?” Lady Blackburn said, breaking into their preoccupation.

  Her daughter glanced away first, her cheeks delicately stained. He breathed through the aching tightness in his body, and realized that this time, it was from the result of shock and desire, not pain.

  He bowed to mother and daughter and bid both of them a hasty goodbye.

  * * *

  After the earl’s visit, a gem of an idea grew in Pauline of how she could fashion the exhibition. She had finally obtained both the information and inspiration she needed to begin her work.

  She informed her mother that she needed to stop attending various functions and start her work. Her mother did not complain because Pauline had apparently adequately settled her debt to her parents in that regard.

  Pauline returned to Ashford and began by first sketching what she had in mind for her statue. The image she came up with took her breath away. It was exactly what was needed. She immediately sent word to the mine where she had purchased the Alabaster to inform them that she would need another piece, of similar size and quality as the one already delivered.

  Once she began to carve, she labored at a feverish pace, her passion to create hammered to life by his lordship’s last blistering words, and then pooling inside her at his hot longing glance. The memory warmed her through and made her want to please him in many ways. Since the only thing she knew he wanted was the sculpture – that was all she wished to work on.

  English Alabaster was the softest and easiest of stones to carve and it had a translucent quality that she enjoyed molding. First, she roughed out the shapes, slowly approaching the particular elements she wished to capture. Next, came the detailed carving with a soft steel hammer and chisel. Later, would come the finishing stage with rasps and rifflers, and finally, the sanding and polishing, the most strenuous part of the work. Something with which both Lucy and John could assist her, under her guidance.

  A few days after she’d begun, the second piece of English Alabaster arrived. Pauline had it positioned beside the first. Then she began roughing out the shape for that sculpture as well.

  On Lady Blackburn’s strict instructions, Lucy dutifully brought Pauline meals at regular intervals and refused to allow her to return to work until she had finished every last bite.

  Aside from those breaks, Pauline rarely took time off, working from sunup to sundown. During the day, while the curtains were wide open to let in the sunlight, John kept watch outside. In the late afternoons and evenings, when the natural light became scarce, for the sun had moved too far from the south-facing home, the curtains would be closed and candles blazed. The varying lights and shadows gave the developing statues a different and unique perspective.

  While she worked, Lucy would often read out loud the many letters her mother sent her daughter about her numerous admirers petitioning daily at the Blackburn residence for a chance to speak with Pauline. She ignored all those complaints about her absence.

  Once the sun set, Pauline would eat a meal and, if the night was clear, go for a long walk with Lucy. Sadly, never again did she encounter Lord Ashford by the shoreline. She did, however, sense another who matched her footsteps.

  A man in a red uniform kept pace on her lonely treks along the dark shoreline.

  Pauline spent so much of her time during the day thinking about Geoffrey Livingston, picturing him in his uniform, on his horse, and in the battlefield, she supposed it was hardly surprising that she sensed his presence even when she was no longer working.

  If his specter was truly here, why did he come? Did he feel the need to take his brother’s place at her side? Not that she wished him gone. For he was a comforting presence, not a chilling one, as if he had come to guard her. From what, she could not imagine.

  Once, she asked Lucy if she saw anyone else along the shore during their walks.

  “No, miss,” her maid replied. “It’s just us and the seagulls.”

  At last, many weeks later, the two pieces were finished.

  They took up a good portion of the hall for, beside Geoffrey Livingston, Pauline had fashioned a complete war scene with many players. The prospect of seeing his lordship’s response left her shaking with anticipation. She hoped she would not disappoint him again.

  Chapter Five

  Soon after Stone’s visit to Miss Blackburn home, word came that she had dropped out of circulation. He sent a note to her mother, apologizing for his outspokenness and asking to do so in person. The response said her daughter had left on an extended country visit and would not be available for a long while. Wanting desperately to speak to her, if naught else than to apologize for his outburst, he asked his inquisitive valet to track down her whereabouts.

  Within a day, his valet reported back that the head nurse next door had it from the upper housemaid two streets down, who was married to a coachman whose daughter worked as a scullery maid at the Blackburn residence, that her mistress’s youngest daughter had left for Scotland to visit family.

  Without a second thought, Stone posted north.

  A week later, he crossed the border into Scotland and began his inquiries about Miss Blackburn’s whereabouts. For weeks, he searched from Glasgow to Edinburg to Aberdeen, and then further north, all the way up to Inverness, but found nary a hint of her whereabouts. There were some good outcomes of his fruitless search for the lady. He made an invaluable contact and arranged for shipments of coal from a mine in the county of Fife, to be sent down to London that should see his estate financially well-set for years to come. He also stopped brooding about Geoffrey’s passing, and finally forgave his brother for leaving him. Then one day he received a letter from Patterson to say Miss Blackburn had been seen back in London.

  Stone instantly headed back home.

  * * *

  Her work was completed, Pauline made secret arrangements with the curator for the delivery of the sculptures to the British Museum. Her work would be transported in open air wagons, since they couldn’t locate any closed ones that were large enough. The best she could do was ensure the statues were adequately covered by layers of Holland covers and that the workmen hired to move the two pieces were well paid to stay mum on what it was they transported.

  Despite those precautions, when the statues left the boundary of Kent and entered the outskirts of London, word spread about Town that the British Museum’s new militar
y display was on its way.

  The curator had hired several guards to inconspicuously move through traffic without appearing as if they were there to guard this particular transport. However, once they reached Great Russel Street, news came that soldiers were lining up wherever the two heavy carts lumbered by.

  Pauline, who had made sure she arrived at the museum early to await the arrival of her work, looked out the window and spotted soldiers in uniform standing perfectly still on either side of the street as the covered, horse-drawn carts rolled up. Crowds had gathered behind the uniformed men to watch this spectacle.

  As the carts approached, the soldiers saluted, as if they were honoring the fallen.

  The sight brought tears to her eyes.

  No one had seen a bit of her work yet, as both statues were still well covered. Nevertheless, if the prime minister wanted Londoners to back the war effort, she suspected, without any of the arranged fanfare, and well ahead of schedule, he had just been granted his wish.

  * * *

  Stone arrived in London late at night, exhausted. The next morning, a barrage of knocks on his townhouse door had him rushing from his breakfast table to the foyer to see who was in such a rush to see him.

  When his footman opened the door, Patterson rushed. “They’re here. In London. The statues have arrived.”

  “I know,” Stone said. “I was just reading a letter from the curator of the British Museum that said the work has been completed ahead of schedule. I was about to write back to arrange a private reveal.”

  “Too late for that,” Patterson said. “Mobs have been lining up at the museum doors since dawn. To fend them off, the curator has agreed to a display for the public this afternoon as soon as they arrive at the museum.

  “He did what?” Stone stood there, unable to comprehend what his friend was saying. “What do you mean they?”

  “There are two carts, with two large statues,” Patterson said. “Hurry. We must go now. The carts were travelling down Great Russel Street when I heard and rushed here to fetch you.”

  The curator had been acting contrary for months. Now, to hear that Stone would not be given a preview of the work, set his back up.

  What if the artist had not done a shoddy job of it? What if he hated how Geoffrey was shown or if he wasn’t the main focus? These worries warred with the excitement of seeing the statue. Statues. Could there really be two?

  “I shall meet you at the museum,” he told Patterson and hurried up the stairs to his room to get dressed.

  Although he’d sent Patterson away, Stone had an overwhelming impulse to not go alone. The only companion he wanted was Miss Pauline Blackburn, his Paul.

  He sat at his desk and wrote out an invitation to be hand delivered.

  Within an hour, a response came back that Miss Blackburn had accepted another invitation to attend this very display and that she looked forward to seeing him there.

  Stone’s chest compressed at yet another disappointment. Then he reminded himself that he would see her there. Soon.

  He timed his arrival for when she was scheduled to be present. It was a fashionably late hour which meant the majority of viewers might have had their fill and left by then, so he could view the statues in relative privacy.

  Those hopes were dashed when he arrived at the museum to find the various chambers still crowded. At least the display was receiving solid attention. The bits of conversation he heard as he strolled by sounded favorable of the artist. He stood in the doorway, but the mill of lingering people made it difficult to discern which display was of Geoffrey.

  The curator, seeing Stone, rushed to his side. Effectively cutting a path through the throng, he led him toward the artwork that was stationed around a corner.

  As Patterson had said, there were two pieces, taking up a full portion of the space. Stone sucked in his breath in awe for the mayhem of war was on full display. The good, the brave, and the subjugated. The starving children, the frightened women and the wounded soldiers.

  At the forefront was a soldier on horseback. His chest filled with wonder; Stone gazed up at Geoffrey. The translucent features of the alabaster were so lifelike he thought his brother stood before him. The artist had captured every nuance of Geoffrey’s devil may care character. That look of utter enjoyment of life, which Stone remembered all too well, sparkled down at him. Best of all, by his defensive posture before those in danger, the artist had shown him as the hero Geoffrey had been, fiercely determined to defend the weak and downtrodden.

  The entire depiction took Stone’s breath away. He whispered to the curator, “I must meet him.”

  The man shied away, shaking his head and Stone grabbed him by his cravat and dragged him close. “Take me to Mr. Black. Now!”

  The curator let out a suppressed squeal of alarm and nodded in defeat. “You must not give away who the artist is, my lord. Not to anyone.”

  Stone nodded impatiently and released his grip.

  The curator glanced around, fingers nervously smoothing down his crushed cravat. Stone followed his line of sight, hesitating a moment when he saw Miss Pauline Blackburn looking as lovely as ever. Had she seen the sculptures yet? Did she appreciate it or was she disgusted by them? No, she would have loved the pieces. He must talk to her, later, after he congratulated the sculptor.

  “Where is he?”

  The curator’s wide eyes remained fixed across the room. “You’re gazing in the right direction, my lord.”

  Stone frowned. The only one who had caught his attention was Miss Blackburn. Beside her were her military hangers on. Could one of them be P. Black?

  “Which one?” he asked with impatience.

  “Do you see Miss Blackburn, my lord?” the curator whispered.

  “Yes, but which of the fellows beside her is the artist?” As he said the words, he paused. Blackburn. Black.

  At that moment, she glanced up and looked directly at him. And he knew. He had bumped into her on her way to the museum because she had been rushing to keep her appointment, with him. The soldiers who fawned over her were enticed to help inspire this work. His gaze swung to the curator, who nodded.

  “She’s the artist, my lord. I’m sorry for having deceived you. For the longest time, I, too, only knew her as Paul Black.”

  Stone reared at that first name. Paul. Of course. Before leaving for Scotland, he’d returned to Ashford hoping to run into Paul there. The footman next door never gave him permission to enter. All the while, he recalled hearing the workmen’s activities inside.

  Chip, chip, chip.

  His Paul had been inside. She was indeed Pauline Blackburn. She was also the artist he’d hired. Working away on this magnificent display. While he searched far and wide for her, she had been so close by. Right next door, in fact.

  The rest of the curator’s words drifted away and Stone felt himself withdraw as he recalled his lecture at her home on her lack of depth in understanding war, while she had done nothing but try to console him in his grief. A wave of shame swept over him, and turning on his heels, he quit the room.

  * * *

  Pauline watched the earl leave and shuddered. She rushed to the curator’s side to ask what his lordship had said about the statues.

  “He only wanted to meet the artist,” the curator said, chewing on his already swelling lip. “He said naught else.”

  He began to bemoan the ruination of his career again and Pauline left him, ignoring the noise of the spectators, the compliments that flowed about her work. None of it mattered as much as the dismay she had seen on Ashford’s face when he looked at her. She wished she could curl up into a ball and spend the rest of her life in hiding. Her whole world crumbled around her like a statue smashed by a sledgehammer.

  While the guests began to depart, Pauline stayed behind, wandering around the museum until she arrived at the gallery housing the classical sculpture collection of Charles Townley.

  She sat on a tall chair, not noticing any of the beauty about her, her mind
filled with questions. What could she have done differently? Which strike of the chisel had taken her in the wrong direction? How had she mistaken Geoffrey’s character in her work? Her maid sat quietly beside her as the museum emptied of visitors.

  Much later, the front doors opened and his lordship’s voice echoed in the empty hall and her cold body quivered to life.

  * * *

  The guard on duty let Stone in and he approached the display of his brother, lighted now only by candlelight. He stood silently, entranced by the artfully brilliant sculpture of Geoffrey. All his love for his brother swelled within him. He had returned to the museum because he couldn’t stay away from this piece.

  “Do you like it, my lord?”

  Miss Pauline Blackburn stood in the doorway, alone but for her maid and the anxious curator. The lady appeared much like a graceful Greek goddess cast in marble. He wondered if she knew the effect she had on men, and then supposed not, for he had been entirely mistaken in her character. She seemed as unaware of the beauty she possessed, as of the beauty of her creations.

  “I wanted to be sure the statue was exactly as you saw your brother.” She stepped into the room, looking adorably uncertain, and melted Stone’s heart.

  He strode up to her, hardly noticing his limping gait, and took her hands, kissing each one in gentle homage. “How could you not know that you have given Geoffrey back to me in so many ways? I’m sorry if I upset you by leaving abruptly, but you must not doubt your amazing accomplishment for one moment longer. You’ve portrayed my brother perfectly,” he finished in a gruff voice.

  “My Lord,” Pauline began.

  He laid a gentle finger against her lips. His Paul couldn’t possibly address him so formally. There was only one name he wanted to hear passing her lovely lips. “Would you do me the honor of calling me Robert?”

  She blushed and he wanted to kiss her. A glance to the side showed the maid watching them wide-eyed beside the suddenly cheery curator. The man caught Stone’s impatient head tilt and, with a conspiratorial grin, he ushered the maid out of the room. Though they left the door open, their departure did give Stone and Pauline a semblance of privacy.