Fair Cyprians of London Boxset

by Beverley Oakley

  He wondered now at the wisdom of asking Miss Montague to be his model for the painting he intended entering into the prestigious art competition that had so stirred his blood a few short days ago.

  For today, languid in the sun, he had no urge to do anything very much except rest completely. His brain was tired; his body was tired. In the three short weeks before he was due to board a packet to France and begin his journey to the country that would be his home for the next few years, perhaps he should simply rest.

  He’d have to compensate Miss Montague for her time, of course. He’d been fired up by the idea of furthering her acquaintance, but over the past few days, her image had dimmed. And over the past day and a half spent lazing in the lovely cottage garden of the small manor house that had been given over to his use by his aunt and uncle, all his desires and ambitions had quite drained away.

  He was drifting off when he heard a clear voice say, “The History of a Crime. I enjoyed Victor Hugo’s essay about Napoleon III's takeover of France, though I did find it heavy in parts.”

  He opened his eyes, astonished to find himself staring at Miss Montague, dressed simply in white and flanked by the funereal-looking Lady Vernon.

  “When did you read that?” he was startled into asking, before good manners came to the fore, and he removed himself from the hammock and ushered the ladies to a garden bench nearby.

  “As soon as it was published. I love anything by Victor Hugo though my papa feels he’s unsuitable.”

  “Unsuitable?”

  “Yes. Do you think it’s unsuitable for a young lady to read Victor Hugo? And if so, why?”

  He hadn’t expected she’d be so direct when given the chance to converse with her beyond the confines of the ballroom.

  “Unexpected, perhaps, is a better term. It was recommended reading by my papa in view of my imminent posting. I must admit I find it heavy going too. If you gleaned anything from it, you’ll have to impart your insights when you pose for me.” He studied her covertly while pretending to arrange the cushions in the chair upon which he sat opposite her. Her hair had the look of newly threshed corn. There was a golden glow about the rippling tresses that immediately had him envisioning his palette of oils.

  “It would be a pleasure. I’m very good at keeping still, but the time passes more quickly if we’re discussing something interesting. That’s if your concentration is up to it.”

  Crispin smiled. Her transformation was astonishing. She looked much more at home in the colourful summer garden in the country discussing an intellectual topic than when she’d been so obviously on display in a public arena.

  And, the more he thought about it, the way the sun glistened on her beautiful hair made him long to run his fingers through the ringlets that fell over her right shoulder in preference to painting it.

  The thought startled him, and he made a mental note to beware of any similar urges.

  Miss Montague was a penniless girl sent here to model for him, and he was off to the Continent in just under a month for a posting of many years. He had a career that couldn’t include dowerless potential brides, no matter how entertaining and easy on the eye, while she was on the lookout for a husband. Her godmother had already admitted that Miss Montague could not afford to be discerning if she were to escape her fate as a governess.

  No, Crispin was expected to do much better than Miss Montague when the time came.

  Nevertheless, the interested way she was looking at him now was having a rather tumultuous effect on him.

  “I’ll enjoy testing your knowledge and reporting back to your tutor,” Crispin said with a levity he did not feel for, in truth, his fingers were just itching to seize a paintbrush and stand in front of a canvas while his senses directed him from there.

  That’s what he loved so much about being a painter. The ability to let his mind wander at will. It was something his father had deplored in his dreamy young son, insisting that learning and application led to a future based on merit.

  Lady Vernon cleared her throat. “We are putting up at the White Swan for this week. It’s convenient as it’s only a short walk, and the weather looks set to be good for the next few days. When will you want Faith for her first sitting? And what should she wear?”

  Crispin laughed and immediately apologised. He was not used to being asked for his advice on a lady’s attire. Suddenly, the situation in which he’d been thrust seemed ludicrous. And yes, as the sun fell across Miss Montague’s sweet, smiling face, quite delicious.

  At his hesitation, Lady Vernon went on, “The title of the work that is to be painted is Lady at Sunset, if you recall, Mr Westaway. How would you like to direct Faith? Do you have a location in mind? Or will you paint her in a studio and do the setting later?”

  Good lord, this woman, oh yes, the girl’s godmother, knew what she was about. Crispin hadn’t given a proper thought to the requirements of the piece. He didn’t expect to win. Perhaps he wouldn’t even enter the work. However, as an opportunity for a week or two of idleness, or rather indulgence, doing what he loved most, he was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. As long as his father had no idea what he was actually doing, Crispin could look upon this week as a necessary holiday before the hard work of his career began.

  “Whatever Miss Montague wishes,” he said, remembering she had little in the way of a wardrobe. And as Miss Montague would look lovely in whatever she chose, he didn’t want to embarrass her over her impecuniousness.

  “And when would you like us to return?”

  Crispin felt like a ten-year-old, the way he was being spoken to. He hoped Lady Vernon didn’t always insist on being present, though he supposed it was necessary. He certainly didn’t want to be responsible for anyone casting aspersions on Miss Montague’s good character. In fact, he rather liked the idea of aiding her in her quest to find herself a better match through his painting. A painting that would advertise her beauty to the world. A noble cause.

  This would be a week of wicked indulgence for him when painting had been long forbidden. But it would be a means to elevate Miss Montague’s chances in the world.

  An image flashed through his mind of the dead girl. Miss Montague would be his chance to atone for the past. He could improve her future prospects, and hopefully, because of him, see her enjoy prosperity and happiness rather than a cruel and impoverished destiny.

  “Tomorrow.” He flexed his fingers, remembering how deft his hands were when he had a project that fired him up. “At noon.” He closed his eyes briefly and imagined the leisurely morning he would have constructing the scene in his head that he would paint. “And bring something warm. It might be a long evening.”

  He would have to scout out a suitable spot by the lake in which to paint her. He’d have her in position when the sun went down, burnishing her hair with gold, while the long shadows turned her skin to toasted alabaster.

  Chapter 11

  The White Swan was a comfortable and respectable country inn. Fortunately Faith had her own bed chamber and had slept surprisingly well before she was disturbed by the knock on the door that heralded the start of her mission.

  However, she was suitably docile as Lady Vernon selected her wardrobe. In fact, she barely troubled herself with any of the decisions associated with her sojourn as she sat up in bed reading the final of Victor Hugo’s essays. She’d found them instructive, even compelling reading, and was rather looking forward to discussing them with Mr Westaway. That is, if he’d really read them. Many times she’d caught out a gentleman in a lie. In her younger days at Madame Chambon’s when she’d served the girls refreshments as they’d entertained gentlemen in the drawing room, she’d overhear some pink of the ton boast of a literary accomplishment, only to discover, upon listening further, that it was likely he’d never truly read the book.

  She tried to stifle her fears for the future. For any possibility of failure.

  Now that she’d progressed to the stage where Mr Westaway wanted to paint her, and she
’d be in his company for at least a week, she had to play her cards right.

  Overcoming any physical barriers on her part would not be a problem. She was confident she liked him enough to do what she needed to.

  Overcoming any gentlemanly restraint on his part would be the challenge.

  Yes, she’d seen the admiration in his eyes that she was confident could be attributed to enthusiasm for his project on a number of fronts. But would he be easily persuaded to kiss her?

  If she could manage just that, then she hoped matters would progress as Mrs Gedge required.

  Her ugly encounter with Lord Harkom had put things into perspective. He was a violent brute.

  Therefore losing her virginity to Mr Westaway didn’t trouble Faith too much if it meant she gained her freedom.

  Having heard the primal grunts and cries of release through the thin walls at Madame Chambon’s for so many years, the sexual act held little interest and certainly no appeal. It was simply a means to an end.

  A way for Faith to gain her independence and be free of Mrs Gedge and Madame Chambon.

  And that detestable cockroach, Lady Vernon.

  “The blue, I think.”

  She could hear Lady Vernon muttering under her breath as if the decision were of the utmost importance. “The colour of forget-me-nots. An innocent colour; a simple yet alluring gown. Ah, my dear, he won’t be able to keep his hands off you.”

  This brought Faith’s head up with a jerk. When Lady Vernon turned back to her, her minder was all innocence herself, as if she’d never spoken of Faith in such terms.

  “Are you ready? No, ten minutes longer, I think. We need to keep him waiting. Increase his impatience because you need to trade on every advantage. You are the supplicant, after all. The penniless creature who needs his good offices, yet you need to shore up your power. Impatience is the way to play the game, my dear, though I’ve no doubt Madame Chambon has taught you all the tricks of the trade.”

  Faith stretched and put her feet on the floor but made no answer. The less she told Lady Vernon the better, and besides, she was hardly about to divulge such matters of a personal nature. That yes, for years Madame Chambon had included Faith in the regular sessions that acquainted her girls with a myriad of ways to whip up a man’s desire. Innocent things like the feather-light touch of fingertips grazing exposed flesh, a flare of promise at odds with demurely lowered lashes.

  Once, Faith had been required to sit in on a lecture-like session involving a handsome, well-built young man, who’d reclined on a bed and exhibited to the newest and most innocent of Madame Chambon’s recruits the astonishing ways in which a man’s body reacted to certain stimuli.

  Intrigued and horrified in equal measure, Faith, fortunately, never had to return to a similar lesson after she’d communicated her disgust to Mrs Gedge one afternoon tea at Claridges. Clearly, Mrs Gedge considered she was behaving with proper moral rectitude by simply housing Faith without requiring her to be a participant in the less savoury dealings of the household.

  Mrs Gedge was biding her time for when she needed Faith and Faith’s pristine innocence to do her bidding.

  Finally, it was time to go, Faith feeling like an obedient little lapdog, beautifully brushed and prepared for her afternoon encounter.

  They found Mr Westaway in the garden, all impatience as he grasped his paintbrush and paced back and forth by the rhododendron bushes staring at the sky.

  “Lady Vernon, Miss Montague.” He swept them a bow and then led Faith to an arbour amidst the trees and bushes where he invited her to sit. She could sense his urgency for something which he believed was purer than it was. She saw, also, Lady Vernon’s secret smile of satisfaction, but all Faith could recognise in Mr Westaway’s manner was his desire to fulfil an artistic challenge. Nothing more.

  Concerning. She’d have to use everything she had at her disposal to change that.

  “I’ve laid out a blanket and a cushion for your comfort though I’ll paint them out in the final rendition.”

  Faith shrugged. “I don’t mind doing without such comforts if it’ll make your life easier.” Easy to please. She’d start with that.

  “You may need to remain still for up to three hours.” His brows arched as if surprised by a thought that hadn’t occurred to him. “I’ve been told you’re practised at keeping still for long periods of time, Miss Montague?”

  “Three hours is a trifle,” she assured him though secretly horrified at the prospect. But if this was necessary to please Mr Westaway, she’d gladly start with three hours of boredom.

  Except that it wasn’t the kind of boredom or discomfort she’d expected. Yes, bees buzzed a little too close sometimes, and the odd beetle crossed her flesh and made her cry out in surprise, but that just lightened the mood unexpectedly. And soon she and Mr Westaway were laughing companionably as Lady Vernon snored gently in a chair beneath the overhanging branches of an ancient elm tree.

  “Stay! Just like that!” The sudden imperative was out of keeping with the earlier tone, but Faith recognised artistic passion when she heard it. She also proved adept at complying just as her benefactor had obviously wished judging by the gleam in his eye. Faith lay prone, relaxed upon the grass, her head resting on her arm and supported by her elbow, her expression enigmatic. Yes, enigmatic was what he wanted and apparently Faith did it well.

  “Keep looking like that,” he murmured, moving away from his easel and kneeling at her side to tweak a fold of her forget-me-not skirts that the breeze had moved slightly. His expression was intense, his frown of concentration when he got closer suggesting that what he was about to do was of the greatest import.

  To touch a fold of forget-me-not cotton twill?

  A surge of pique made her shift position though she hid her frown.

  He was not looking at her. She was an object. Not an object of lustful desire as Mrs Gedge would have her but upholding the same degree of value to him as if she were inanimate. A Sèvres vase, perhaps?

  She was more discomposed by the realisation than she’d expected. After all, it wasn’t as if she desired to be desired. She didn’t. Yet, nor could she fail at her task.

  Her task to make him fall in love with her.

  But there was nothing in his eyes to suggest she might even come close.

  As his fingers smoothed a fold of her skirt, she gasped, as if stung, and rolled onto her back and away from his hand while he blinked in surprise and said, “I suppose I should have warned you I was going to touch you.” He reddened. “I mean, touch your dress. Make it look exactly as it did before the breeze disturbed it. I beg your pardon, Miss Montague. I meant no disrespect.”

  “None taken,” she murmured, reddening also. How interesting that she could simulate these innocent responses when she didn’t feel embarrassed in the slightest. Merely a little frustrated that she was taking so long to elicit from him any kind of interest. She pressed her lips together. He was still on his knees beside her as he tried to explain. “I truly am sorry. Something happens to me when I paint. And it’s been so long I’d forgotten how intense I can be.”

  His laugh sounded forced as he rose and returned to the easel where he spent a long time mixing paints and staring at the result, as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. Finally, he glanced at her from around the canvas. “It’s probably why my father detests my passion. He sees I can have no sensible thought in my mind when I am so preoccupied.”

  “What does he consider sensible?”

  “The security of England. The possibility of a threat from Germany. Assessing that threat. Mitigating it. Diplomacy.” Now his laugh was more genuine, though self-effacing. “None of the kinds of things a young lady like you would trouble herself about.”

  Faith closed her eyes and raised her face to the sun while all the book learning she’d acquired floated through her mind. She’d been surprised to discover how much she loved history. Her tutor had loved politics, and the result was that she was often engaged in a serie
s of spirited discussions on various topics in the old man’s musty little study in Maida Vale. Including the increasing threat posed by Germany.

  “Your father was a diplomat, wasn’t he?” Faith didn’t want to look at Mr Westaway while she formulated her words. If she couldn’t impress him with her beauty, Mrs Gedge’s hope was that Faith would interest him with her mind.

  “He was, and I am to follow in his footsteps.”

  “He wants you to be just like him?”

  There was a silence, and Faith opened her eyes to see him looking intently at her. “Yes.” He nodded slowly. “He does.”

  Clearly, Mr Westaway wasn’t enamoured by the idea.

  “I daresay you discuss these matters with him,” Faith went on innocently. “France’s shattering defeat by Prussia a few years ago, for example. Do you think that means that France has been supplanted as a threat by a new potential enemy? Should we be worried?” She gazed at Mr Westaway with her most disarming half smile. Some men couldn’t resist the combination of a young girl’s innocent desire to impress, at the same time as be educated, she had learned.

  He opened his mouth to reply but she wanted to push her advantage while she had it, going on quickly, “Germany is efficient, militaristic, ruthless, and ambitious. Of course, we should be worried, shouldn’t we, Mr Westaway? Your job is to reduce the risk to our country through gathering information, but of course you have to be discreet. Your father would want you to be as vigilant in your attention to detail as a diplomat as you clearly are as an artist.”

  * * *

  Crispin nearly dropped his paintbrush. Was this the same young woman whose quiet, artistic posture had first attracted his interest? She’d stood out from the many other debutantes that night on account of the plainness of her attire, which contrasted with her beauty. She had been unleashed upon society in the hopes of finding a husband who might see her looks as compensating for her material deficiencies, and Crispin had taken pity on her for no other reason than that she made a good model when he suddenly had the opportunity to paint.