Fair Cyprians of London Boxset

by Beverley Oakley

  She rose. “Mrs Gedge might have believed I stole her daughter’s bracelet, and she might be filled with bitterness over losing Miss Constancia, but she cannot blame me for that.” She shook her head. “No, she cannot be so evil that she’d see me sold into slavery because of what happened three years ago. Because I chanced to be holding up the bracelet that Miss Constancia promised would be mine if I helped her enter Mr Westaway’s bedchamber. I was barely fifteen years old. I’d never seen something so valuable. I’d never ever laid eyes on Mr Westaway. I only discovered that Mr Westaway was the man Miss Constancia had killed herself over when he told me so himself.” Faith shook her head again, her desperation rising. “It makes no sense. It’s out of all proportion for a woman like her to do something like this.”

  “Like what, Faith? You’re looking around my office in a very disdainful manner. Almost as if you felt yourself my superior. Or were the wife of a diplomat. A person who would never deign to step over my threshold. In fact, who may not know what comforts a house like this offers a husband like the one she’d surely neglect if he failed to give satisfaction. Very easy to do when one has such high expectations.”

  Faith struggled to breathe. “Mrs Gedge would not have paid for my education for three years, and a roof over my head, and food and clothes…all very great expenses…merely to see me forced to work in a…brothel!”

  “What a terribly unsavoury term to use for my high-class establishment. However, you’re quite right, Faith. Of course, Mrs Gedge never embarked upon a singular scheme against a blameless country girl. And nor did she. She was very willing to hand you a handsome cheque seeing Mr Westaway so unhappy, but matters took a surprising turn. Indeed, we were all taken aback: Lady Vernon, myself, Mrs Gedge who, as a token of her goodwill, insisted that I give you this.”

  Faith was halfway to the door when she turned, and her horrified gaze fell upon the glittering bauble Madame Chambon was holding out to her.

  “You’d realise, of course, that the stones are really not worth much, though no doubt at fifteen you imagined the piece a king’s ransom.” Madame dangled the pretty piece of jewellery enticingly in front of her as she looked from Faith’s mutinous expression to the bracelet that Miss Constancia had promised her three years before.

  “You can keep it,” Faith muttered, her hand upon the doorknob.

  “Oh, my dear, that’s very kind of you, but I would hate to fall foul of Mrs Gedge…or Lady Vernon, for that matter. And they have insisted it be a memento for you to keep…to remind you of their generosity towards you these past years.”

  “I’m not staying here, and I don’t want it.”

  “Well, that’s your decision, of course, Faith. You are perfectly at liberty to leave.” She smiled sweetly. “So, you’re going to seek refuge with your young man, are you? Or with one of your many friends? Perhaps your family, though I’d gained the impression there was little love lost between you. Nevertheless, your room is made up for you, and there are a few fine gowns hanging in the wardrobe that I anticipated you’d need. And I’ll give this to Charity for safekeeping until you change your mind.” She rose. “Good night, Faith. It’s been a lovely little chat, and I’ll be sure to pass on any messages that come for you.”

  Chapter 23

  “Some may call it talent, but look where your intransigence has led you?” Lord Maxwell sent a derisive look at the half-finished painting upon the easel in Crispin’s study. At this time of day in the city, the location offered the best light.

  The fact that the painting was a study of Faith in languid repose, her resplendent hair framing her exquisite face, only shored up his father’s argument. Unsurprisingly, no sooner than the news had broken back in his home village, Crispin’s redoubtable pater had leapt upon his horse in order to cover the distance to London in a fraction of the time it would have taken him by carriage.

  Thus, Crispin had had no warning of his lordship’s arrival, which too quickly followed his own discovery of the day’s damning news splashed across the newspaper which Lord Maxwell now brandished.

  “You have been made to look a credulous fool!” his father now shouted, when Crispin made no reply to a statement that could not be refuted. “You were set up from the start, my boy. The cunning plan of a procuress and her sidekicks is providing society with unimaginable titillation. Just as you’re about to step onto the world stage supposedly as a diplomat, a figure synonymous with tact, cunning, and strategy. Christ, boy, but you’ve disappointed me!”

  He slammed down the newspaper and began to pace, while Crispin remained in the chair behind his desk where his father had found him contemplating a world that had quite literally shattered about his ears.

  “I’ve always disappointed you, Father,” he muttered. Strangely, uttering this particular truth was not nearly as painful as learning the extent of just how greatly he had been set up by Faith and Lady Vernon; two seemingly artless women he’d invited into his house. Women to whom he’d offered friendship and…

  Love.

  He’d offered Faith his heart, and he’d honestly believed in her sincerity when she’d claimed to have reciprocated. Maybe she had grown fond of him, and maybe she was saddened at the way matters had gone. That was the best he could hope for since there was nothing anyone could say or do to refute the cold, hard, indisputable facts. Faith had been one of Madame Chambon’s girls, and Lord Harkom, his father’s arch nemesis, had been her protector.

  His father ignored him. He was muttering as he paced the floor, and for the moment, he looked entirely absorbed in his own thoughts until he swung around and ground out, “I’m damned if I know how we can paint this in a way that doesn’t make you appear a complete idiot, boy! Yes, an idiot! I wouldn’t be surprised if the position for which you’ve worked so hard all these years is withdrawn, and you never set foot in Germany to make the mark that—”

  “That you have so longed for, Father,” Crispin interrupted him with more energy as he raised his head. “Yes, you! This has always been what you wanted. My desire to paint was nothing as far as you were concerned, and yet I’ve just won a prestigious art prize, and my talents have been recognised—as I have always wanted them to be.”

  “Ha! What value is that when you were set up to win! Yes, I know that part is not yet confirmed, but who is this mysterious benefactor, eh?” He nodded fiercely to corroborate his theme. “No one knows, do they? Suggesting that this was the very means by which you have been made a laughing-stock. Yes, a laughing-stock on all counts. Why, you’ve succumbed to every lure cast your way. And yet, you are to be a diplomat! Yes, and you will be!” His father went on, hastily, “Because there is nothing else you can do. Your art certainly won’t bring you the financial rewards you need to live the life of a gentleman. I don’t know of any suitably connected, well-dowered young lady who would want anything to do with you for a few years. No, my boy; the only thing for you is to go quietly off to Germany with your tail between your legs, and pray that the press isn’t having a field day in Leipzig as they are over here!”

  A knock on the door interrupted his angry tirade, and Carter put his head around the door.

  “Young lady here to see you, Mr Westaway.”

  “Unaccompanied?” Lord Maxwell barked before throwing back his head with a laugh. “My, my, what a brazen little piece your jezebel is. Persistent, too.”

  “Please leave, Father.”

  “Certainly not! I shall stay quietly here in this chair in the shadows by the window, and you can introduce me when it’s timely. Carter, bring the young lady in.”

  Before Crispin could move out into the passage, Carter was ushering Faith through the door, and Crispin’s heart was in a tumult he could not begin to explain. He’d thought rage and disappointment would be his chief emotions, but longing trumped them all.

  A waft of lavender heralded her entrance, and he longed to clasp her to him.

  “Crispin, I’m so sorry! Not everything is the way it’s been portrayed in the newspape
rs!” She hurried forward like a breath of spring sunshine and gripped his hands, and he couldn’t help holding them as he ground out, “Faith, how can you refute the fact that you lied? You targeted me in order to set me up. Isn’t that the truth?”

  Tears glistened on the edge of her lashes as she tipped her face up to his.

  “I lied to you at first, but I confessed. Crispin, I never meant to hurt you. I certainly never meant to humiliate you or damage your career.”

  “But that’s what you’ve done.” He dropped her hands and turned his head away, acutely conscious of his father in the corner whose expression communicated his disgust. Faith, who had her back to him and so had not noticed they were not alone, went on, “Crispin, I have never been one of Madame Chambon’s ‘girls’ as the newspaper claims. Nor have I ever been…kept! Not by Lord Harkom, not by any man! I was a…a virgin when I gave myself to you.”

  Perhaps she could see that he was not as moved as she’d wish. As he might have been had his father not been present.

  Her voice took on a greater note of desperation. “Crispin, you must at least believe the truth of that! Why, the evidence was there. Whatever my sins might be, the fact is that I swore I would never give myself to a man I did not love. And then I met you. Yes, I fell in love with you, even though it was against my better judgement. Even though it was not as others would have wished it. I would confess all, if you would only say you still love me. That you want to still love me. I can prove the lies that are in that newspaper. Please, Crispin!”

  There was nothing Crispin wanted more than to hold Faith against his chest and at least hear what she had to say. But a movement from his father suggested this would not be wise. Lord Maxwell would make the situation so much nastier if he made his presence known and Crispin had to protect Faith from that, at least. He’d hear her out when they were alone.

  But for now, he’d have to show his father that he was not susceptible to her pleas. Perhaps there really was some explanation that could paint her in a less damning light, though, God help him, the picture of her in Harkom’s arms surrounded by a group of harlots could hardly be explained away.

  Still, she deserved an audience.

  Alone.

  “Faith, you’ve said all you need to.” Putting his hand upon her shoulders, he turned her towards the door, careful to block any view she might have of his father. “I’m sorry.” He lowered his eyes, careful not to look at her trembling mouth for fear he might lose control and just kiss her with all the disappointed passion that still burned within him. “Goodnight, my dear. I’m sorry it’s come to this. I wish you well for your future.”

  A soft chuckle from Lord Maxwell was his reward when the door had closed behind Miss Faith Montague—the only woman he’d ever loved.

  “Hardly masterful, my boy, but I’m glad to see you’re not a complete slave to that soft heart of yours, which was always going to be your downfall.” He rose and pointed to the desk with its pile of papers. “Now, read this latest report on the situation in the Black Forest. Meanwhile, I shall go and see what I can do to minimise the damage your foolish exploits have done to your reputation.”

  * * *

  “No passionate leave taking? Or did you decide not to stay with Mr Westaway, after all.? Why Faith, it’s barely eleven o’clock.” Madame Chambon was waiting in the shadows when Faith returned to the house in Soho. She couldn’t look at the woman; her defeat was so enormous. A great sob threatened to reduce her to a quivering wreck at Madame Chambon’s feet, unless she could make her escape and throw herself onto her bed in the privacy of her room.

  Her old, hated iron bed with its aged, dusty quilt. It represented so much that was wrong with her life, but right now, she had nowhere else to go. Lady Vernon would not be welcoming her back in a hurry. No, Faith had outlived her usefulness to the old termagant; Madame Chambon had made that clear.

  She was about to pass Madame Chambon on her way to the stairs when she hesitated. It had taken her a long time to untangle the few facts she could about her altered situation.

  “Mrs Gedge didn’t hate Crispin Westaway as much as she hated me, did she?” She swallowed painfully. “Why? I never hurt her? I never stole from her? And yet…yet everything she’s orchestrated has resulted in my ruin. Granted, Mr Westaway’s reputation has suffered, but I…I have been ruined so much more effectively.”

  Madame Chambon put her hand on Faith’s shoulder and walked her to the bottom of the stairs. For just a moment, she sounded as if she sympathised.

  “There’s no room for sentiment in this business, Faith,” she said. “Money is the only currency, and everyone has to pay their way. I don’t think Mrs Gedge set out to destroy you, Faith.” She brightened. “And, when all is said and done, she has endowed you with so much you would never have had as an ignorant servant.”

  “As I stand, I am in her debt.” Faith began to tremble. “But after tonight? What happens to me then? Would…would she take me back as a servant? Would that satisfy her? For I would do anything rather than stay here with all that entails.”

  The pressure of Madame Chambon’s fingers increased, and her smile became cloying as she steered Faith along the corridor. “I suspect Mrs Gedge would be unmoved by your loyalty, Faith. To have you under her roof would only remind her of everything she has lost. Do you not think that, perhaps, her feelings for you changed as she saw you grow into the beauty you have become…while her daughter lies mouldering in her grave?”

  Faith suddenly understood. Jerking herself from Madame Chambon’s grasp, she picked up her skirts and was about to take to the closest flight of stairs, when a masculine chuckle by the door of the drawing room made her whip her head around.

  “It’s been too long, Miss Montague.” Faith recognised the voice before the face. Panicked, she searched for escape, but Madame effectively blocked her way to the stairs or the door to the street.

  “Come, Faith, no need to be churlish.” Madame’s fingers dug into her arm as she propelled her towards one of the private entertaining rooms. She opened the door and pushed her in, Lord Harkom following close behind.

  Now, Faith was standing opposite his lordship was turning the key in the lock. He stood facing Faith, arms akimbo, a speculative smile upon his thin lips.

  “Let’s get down to business, Miss Montague. My intelligence has it that you’re all alone without husband or protector.” He closed the distance between them and took both her hands in his, raising them to his lips. “So, I am here to offer you a solution.”

  Faith felt like a trapped canary. No one would come running to her aid if she screamed, but violence might be the result if she offered resistance.

  Forcing herself not to reveal her terror or revulsion, she regarded him steadily.

  “It is true; you have caught me at a disadvantage,” she admitted, gently extracting her hands and making her way leisurely to the sofa in front of the fire. “Perhaps you’d pour us both a drink,” she suggested, indicating the decanter on the sideboard as she sank against the cushions. “I do not come cheaply.”

  “You are not actually in a position to make too many demands, my dear,” he reminded her as he poured them both a brandy before seating himself beside her, so close that his thigh was pressed against hers.

  Faith managed not to flinch. “Thank you, Lord Harkom,” she murmured, taking the brandy from him while she sought desperately for a means to play her cards so that she was not his victim—his plaything. At his mercy in any way. “Mr Westaway knows that to his cost.”

  Lord Harkom let out a bark of laughter. “Who played who for a fool? No, don’t even try to make me think that you ever had the upper hand in that little affair, Miss Montague. Faith.” He stilled and, with his eyes fixed on her face, ran the forefinger of his right hand gently around the edge of her décolletage. It was such a bold, proprietorial, and insulting action but Faith dared not move. She could not risk insulting him when she had no idea how to play this game. Lord Harkom was dangerous. One miss
tep on her part and he’d tumble her here and now. He’d force himself on her, and not a single person would come to her aid. Not only that; the whole world would consider she deserved it. That was perhaps the most painful reflection of all. She had not a single person she could depend upon. No friend. No lover. No family. No one would defend her honour. Everyone believed she was a liar and a whore.

  “Mr Westaway paid a high price to enjoy me.” She stared back at him, steadily, trying to still her breathing and keep her bosom from rising against his wandering fingers. “What price are you offering me, Lord Harkom? I do not work on a one-night, rotational basis. And while I have always brought value, I don’t come cheaply. As I said.”

  Two small lines appeared between his eyes as he seemed to weigh up her words. Perhaps see her in a new light? As less of the victim than he’d come here believing?

  “I don’t know what Madame Chambon has told you, but this plan to humiliate Mr Westaway has been three years in the making. Do you know what care and consideration goes into achieving such a public fall from grace? Yes, two days ago he was society’s darling for the talent that saw him carrying off the greatest prize money ever offered in an art competition. Now it’s been revealed he was set up from the start. Brought down by the beautiful muse he fell in love with and was going to run away with. And that the art competition was rigged!” A tremor of self-disgust ran through her to even utter the words, but he seemed to be paying attention.

  Good. She needed him to redress the power balance, even just a little. She needed all her wiles and cunning; all that intelligence about strategy and human behaviour that she’d honed over the past three years, to come to her aid.

  “Why are you here, Lord Harkom? Surely not for a quick rutting to enjoy the spoils for just one night only. I thought you were playing the longer game. Given the enmity between your two families, I thought you’d come here to offer me something that I would consider attractive, and that would strike at the heart of Mr Westaway and his father’s ability to enjoy peaceful nights.”