“Good afternoon,” Hugh said, as the instructor halted and changed directions to fall in step with him.
“I suppose you have just left Corbett’s lecture,” his mentor said.
Hugh issued a gruff snort. “Was it my suicidal expression that gave me away?”
Crosby chuckled, the deep sound echoing off the high ceilings of the foyer just before they stepped out into the gray afternoon. They paused within the central vestibule, which separated half the north wing housing the Royal Academy from the other half, which contained the Royal Society. Beyond a neatly kept courtyard, the Strand stretched on, clogged with vehicles coming and going.
“Come now, surely it isn’t as bad as all that?”
Turning to face Crosby, Hugh retrieved the portfolio from under his arm and flipped it open to today’s series of practice sketches. Turning the book so his mentor could study his work, he pursed his lips.
“You were saying?”
Crosby scrutinized the drawing, his bushy, graying eyebrows drawn together. “Hmm…”
The instructor was never short on words, unless he found himself looking upon a piece of art that was complete and utter shite.
“They’re terrible,” Hugh grumbled, pulling the book away and snapping it closed.
Crosby cleared his throat. “They show a marked improvement over your previous attempts.”
“Tell that to Corbett. He told me if I were going to draw hands that atrocious, I ought to consider limiting my work to paintings of bakers so that my subjects are always wearing mitts.”
The old man looked as if he wanted to laugh at that, his face reddening and his pale blue eyes twinkling...but he refrained. “Corbett is a crotchety old grouch. You shouldn’t allow him to upset you.”
“That he is,” Hugh agreed. “But he happens to be right.”
“I’ll have you know it took me years to master hands. They are, perhaps, the most difficult part of one’s body to get just right. Despair not, any improvement, however small, is a step in the right direction. As always, I remind you that an artist’s education is never complete. Even a man of my advanced years could still be considered a student of the arts. True artistry takes time, practice, and patience. If my opinion counts for anything, I think you one of the most promising students I’ve ever had the privilege to teach.”
Guilt assailed Hugh as he realized he must come across as an ungrateful boor. Five years ago he’d stood on the Strand staring up at Somerset House while wishing he had the right connections to be elected as a member of the Academy. Three years ago he’d been a starving artist attending classes before long afternoons of sketching public house patrons for a twopence each just to be able to afford to feed himself.
Now, not only were his pockets flush and his belly full, his education was propelling him steadily toward his greatest dream. Under the tutelage of a man like Crosby, he stood poised to launch himself into the world as an accomplished painter.
“Your opinion counts for everything as far as I am concerned.”
Crosby placed a hand on Hugh’s shoulder and smiled. “You flatter an old man. Now, tell me, how is your painting for the Summer Exhibition coming along?”
Hugh stifled a groan at the reminder of the upcoming event. Each summer saw Somerset House overrun with visitors clamoring to view the pieces chosen by a jury of instructors and artists. Its purpose was to display the work of the most promising students, and many an artist’s career had been propelled by inclusion in the Exhibition. Yet, for each year Hugh had submitted his work he’d been met with rejection—a fact that had seen him fretting over this year’s piece since before Christmas.
“Well enough, I think,” he hedged. “I am taking my time with it to ensure it is fit for submission.”
Crosby nodded, but his expression said he could see through Hugh’s false confidence. “Very good. Perhaps you’d like me to drop in and take a look? I want to see your work displayed this year, but it must be up to scratch. My vote only counts for so much.”
“I would appreciate any help you could offer me. If you are free this evening, perhaps you might come for dinner? I’ll show you what I’ve been working on after.”
Never one to turn down a good meal, Crosby patted his round belly and grinned. “I would be delighted. Shall I see you around eight this evening?”
“Perfect,” Hugh replied. “Until then.”
The two men parted ways, with Crosby going back inside and Hugh making his way across the courtyard. The dreary gray clouds obscuring the light of the late afternoon sun only added to Hugh’s despondent mood. He wanted nothing more than to return home and lock himself away so he could practice sketching hands or put in a few hours of work on his painting for the Exhibition. But, the message Benedict had sent that morning burned hot in his coat pocket, reminding him he must make at least one stop before shutting himself away for the rest of the day.
It could be avoided no longer. His previous keeper had recently broken off their arrangement, so his friend and founder of the Gentleman Courtesans would insist it was time for him to secure another. Hugh wasn’t exactly hurting for funds, having managed his earnings quite well over the past few years. The idea of going into business as a paramour to the ladies of the ton with deep pockets had seemed ludicrous at first, something that ought to have been good for a lark, a few laughs, and a hilarious story or two. However, Benedict’s assertion that the Gentleman Courtesans could become a truly viable source of income for them had proven true.
In the two years since they’d begun taking on clients, Hugh had been kept by three lovely women and had enjoyed their company, as well as the obvious boon of having a warm, willing woman in his bed more often than not. His first lover had let a townhouse for him, so that he could move out of his suite of bachelor’s lodgings and dwell closer to her own fashionable Mayfair address. With his knack for negotiation, Benedict had convinced his second keeper to continue paying the rent once the first had finished with him. The third had taken up where she’d left off, ensuring that Hugh could remain comfortably in the home.
He’d earned enough money within the first six months to pay off his accumulated debts, fill a room in his townhouse with supplies with which to practice his craft, purchase new clothing devoid of holes and tailored to fit him, and procure a phaeton and pair. He no longer worried how far the sale of one painting or another would have to last him, and now lived in relative comfort while pursuing the dream that had cost him his family.
His father cutting him off had not been enough to deter Hugh. Not even when his allowance had dried up and he’d depleted his savings. Not even when his siblings and their spouses had followed the earl’s lead, giving him the cut direct in public and refusing him entrance into their homes. Not even when his father had come to him with an ultimatum: put aside his dream in exchange for being allowed back into the fold.
Since he’d been a boy of seven drawing pictures of horses and trees, all Hugh had ever wanted was to be an artist. The desire to paint, draw, and even sculpt felt as much a part of himself as his dark hair and eyes, as essential to his well-being as water, food, and air. He was nothing without being able to express himself through his art. If giving up the life of luxury and indolence that came with being an earl’s son was what he must sacrifice to live happily, then so be it.
The Gentleman Courtesans had given him the freedom to live as he pleased, while keeping him from life as a penniless beggar in the process. For that much, he would always be grateful.
However, he had to admit to himself—if no one else—that he’d started to grow weary of the entire thing. His fellow courtesans would ridicule him if they knew, asking him how he could ever get tired of bedding wealthy women. But, dependence upon another person was the one thing he’d never wanted. He’d rather die than go crawling back to his father, and he found relying on the generosity of his keepers only slightly less degrading.
In the beginning, he had agreed to Benedict’s proposal thinking that he wou
ld only need a single keeper to save him from starving while he prepared a painting for his first Summer Exhibition. However, the jury had rejected his work, leaving him with nothing to do but set his sights upon the following year’s event. Hugh had been driven solely by the conviction that all it would take was having his work displayed in the Summer Exhibition. If one of his paintings was seen by the eyes of important people, he was certain they would wish to sit for him. All he needed was one person of influence to commission a portrait, and the rest would follow.
But the second year had seen him slapped with yet another rejection, and he’d found himself moving from arrangement to arrangement in an attempt to keep his head above water. He had refused to give up and felt deep in his bones that this year would be his year. He would follow Crosby’s advice to make his painting the best work he’d ever done, and get it accepted into the Exhibition. Then, he would go on to become an artist who could support himself on the earnings from his portraits. He would earn enough to support a wife who would give him children—a family of his own so he could forget the emptiness left in him by the absence of his parents and siblings.
But, no well-bred woman would attach herself to a man who sold his body and carnal talents for money, nor would he want her to. A hopeless romantic he might be, but Hugh had always imagined he’d love the woman he married. He would adore her and want no other lover for as long as they both should live. Which meant remaining a courtesan was not a viable option for him.
As he approached his thirtieth year, he found himself wanting that sort of future more and more. The only thing standing between him and said future was a bloody painting and the approval of the turgid old men who would decide whether to display it in the Exhibition.
This year would be the year...and this new keeper would be his last
* * *
Miss Evelyn Coburn stepped down from her carriage, clasping her hands together to still their shaking. It would not do to allow her anxiety to show. She was only a young woman visiting one of London’s most premier modistes with her hired companion. They blended in with the other chits coming and going from Cavendish Square. Some were walking along while footmen trailed in their wake holding packages wrapped in brown paper, others stepping in and out of their carriages or hackney coaches. No one but Patience and herself knew the true purpose for their visit to the dressmaker’s shop, and no one ever would so long as she acted naturally. After all, whispers of the discreet services offered out of one of the shop’s back rooms were just that…whispers. Only the women who’d ever experienced what was offered knew the truth, and as a group they proved dashed secretive about the entire thing. In order to secure an audience, one must be referred by a friend and follow a very specific set of instructions. Failure to obey them to the letter would result in feigned ignorance on the part of those involved, and refusal into a very exclusive clientele.
It could not come to that. She was determined to see this through until the end.
Catching sight of her reflection in the shop window, Evelyn thought she looked rather pale—more than usual, her porcelain complexion taking on a ghostly pallor. The dark mahogany hue of her hair peeking out from the confines of her bonnet only made matters worse, as did the cheery, rosy-cheeked countenance of her companion. Patience looked like a child despite being several years older than Evelyn, her girlish face framed by a few golden curls laid against her forehead and the soft pink of her own bonnet. While her companion looked as if she were headed into a circus tent, Evelyn felt she looked as if she would soon face an executioner.
The door to Madame Hershaw’s swung open, and two young debutantes came bounding out with a sour-faced matron on their heels. Evelyn stepped aside to let them pass. Patience flashed a wide grin while looping an arm through hers, though Evelyn found it impossible to return the smile. She felt as if she might retch, spilling the contents of her stomach all over the walkway.
“Come, Miss,” Patience murmured, giving her a gentle tug. “Let’s get you inside.”
Evelyn shook herself out of her fearful stupor and forced her legs into motion. If she stood about woolgathering on the street, she’d be sure to draw attention to herself—something that would only make her feel even more wretched. She’d been painfully shy since birth, according to her mother, who had never ceased lamenting having a shrinking violet for a daughter. It was why she remained unwed at the age of five-and-twenty, and why this visit to Madame Hershaw’s proved necessary unless she wanted to die untouched. She did not have the wiles that other ladies seemed to have been blessed with, nor the boldness to go after what she wanted by conventional means. The men of the ton overlooked her as easily as they might a potted plant, making it far too difficult for her to think of them as prospective husbands. At this rate, she’d never be wed, never know the secrets of the marriage bed.
So, there was only this, striding into the shop to ask for a discreet audience while hoping she would not disgrace herself by fainting or vomiting or falling mute.
She took a long, slow breath as they entered, finding themselves surrounded by bolts and swatches of cloth, all standing out in vibrant hues against the stark white silk draping the walls. One lady perused various ribbons, holding them up against her chosen fabric with the help of a shop girl. Another stood upon a raised platform while an assistant worked to hem a creation of decadent maroon satin.
“Good afternoon!” chirped an older woman dressed in black, her graying hair pulled into an efficient bun atop her head. “Welcome to my humble establishment. I am Madame Hershaw.”
She stood taller than Evelyn, with a rail-thin frame and large eyes that peered at them through a pair of brass-rimmed spectacles. The sharpness of her features made it appear as if the tight knot also worked to pull her skin taut, making the angles of her cheekbones and jaw stand out.
Evelyn forced a smile, still clinging to Patience as she addressed the modiste. “Good afternoon. I am Miss Coburn, and this is my companion, Miss Berney.”
The woman inclined her head, sweeping a hand toward several bolts of fabric resting on a nearby table. “May I interest you in a morning gown made of this lovely, hand-embroidered muslin? It is newly arrived from India; the highest quality to be found. Oh, and you simply must inspect this Belgian lace. Lovely, is it not?”
Evelyn smoothed reverent, gloved fingers over the lace the modiste held up for her perusal. Her tongue felt thick and heavy in her mouth as she searched for the words she must speak if she wanted entrance to the back room. Avoiding the woman’s stare, she drew her hand away and stared about her surroundings. The other clients paid her no mind, the assistants busy at their work. She was perfectly safe, as invisible as she’d ever been. No one ever paid her any heed, and she took comfort in that now.
“Thank you, Madame, but I was hoping for something a little...different. Something for wear in the evening.”
The modiste nodded, putting the lace aside and taking hold of her arm to guide her across the room. “But, of course. Tell me, dear, will you wear it to the opera, or perhaps a dinner party, or a ball?”
Evelyn cast a desperate look over her shoulder at Patience, who gave her an encouraging nod. Her companion had talked her into coming here after Evelyn had confided that she’d been considering it for weeks. When Patience latched onto an idea, she became like a dog with a bone, and would not allow Evelyn to back out now. However, it was up to Evelyn herself to go through with it, to say the right words.
“You see, there’s a particular gentleman I wish to impress,” she managed, her voice low and strained.
The modiste leaned in close to hear her, seeming to try to catch her gaze. Evelyn’s face flamed hot as she went on, the words tumbling out now that she’d finally begun.
“It must be daring, unlike anything any other woman in London possesses. When I put it on, I want to feel like the most ravishing woman in all the world.”
Now, she met the dressmaker’s stare, finding that the older woman studied her with a sharp gle
am in her eye, lips pinched. Silence descended between them while the modiste studied her as if making certain she’d heard Evelyn correctly.
Evelyn squared her shoulders and met Madame Hershaw’s gaze, determined not to back down. She had done it. She’d spoken the code that ensured the woman knew she had certainly not come here to have a gown made. Her friend, Samantha, had given her specific instructions so she’d know what to do. Now that she’d managed to get the words out, her anxiety had abated just a bit.
“Material?” the modiste asked, the word falling hard and brusque from her lips.
“Satin,” she replied without hesitation.
Madame Hershaw narrowed her eyes. “Color?”
“R-red.”
Before the proprietress could ask, Evelyn retrieved the slender calling card she had tucked into her glove. It proved a bit damp from being against her sweating palm, but there could be no mistaking the emblem upon its surface. Samantha had implored Evelyn to show it to no one but Madame Hershaw, and never speak of it to anyone.
Upon the white card was printed the letters GC, surrounded by a distinctly masculine pattern of swirls. There was no name, no other marking that would tell its recipient what it was for. This was because only those who knew would ever be able to decipher or use it. Without one’s presence in this shop, or the words Evelyn had just spoken, the card proved all but useless.
The modiste accepted the card, her bright smile appearing once more. “I have just the thing, but only for certain clientele. I can tell that you are a woman of good taste and will appreciate the select fabrics I store in the back for such requests. Come.”
Portrait of a Lady: The Gentleman Courtesans Book 1 Page 3