Fair Cyprians of London Boxset: Books 1-5: Five passionate Victorian Romances

by Beverley Oakley

  “I dare not hope to think I will be.”

  “No need to be so modest. Everyone agreed that your skills were far superior to your two competitors. If you win, you will be a rich man.” She looked meaningfully between Faith and Crispin. “You will be free to do as you choose, surely?”

  Faith blushed at the lack of subtlety, and also the fact that Lady Vernon was fishing for words Faith did not wish Crispin to offer. The last person she wanted to know that she already had a marriage offer was Lady Vernon.

  “My father is always my first consideration, Lady Vernon.”

  Faith let out a slow breath. That was the answer she’d hoped for.

  And she told him so when they met each other in their attic room.

  “We will get married in secret, darling,” she whispered as she stepped into his arms. “Like you suggested. I don’t want my parents knowing beforehand and coming to you for handouts. They will, you know. Far better that we slip away quietly to Germany with no one the wiser. We can tell them when….”

  He tapped her on the nose, then kissed her on the lips as he tightened his hold on her in the centre of the small room.

  “I want my father to be there to bless us and to congratulate us with true joy,” said Crispin.

  Faith stepped out of his embrace and looked at him, puzzled. “You’ve changed your mind? Why?”

  The need for Crispin to proceed in secrecy struck her anew. She’d realised, with frightening clarity, that the love letters and the marriage proposal she had in writing must never fall into Mrs Gedge’s hands. Faith must appear to her to have failed. Lady Vernon had no idea to what extent it had progressed. She’d witnessed the occasional longing look, that was all.

  She tried not to appear as anxious as she was.

  Faith’s bargain was predicated on the exchange of such evidence for a fee of five hundred pounds. Well, she would forgo the money. Of course, she would have to if she were to gain the loving future that was more important now than anything.

  Crispin stroked her cheek. “My father’s approval is important to me. I want him to love you as I do.”

  Faith sent him a wry look and he smiled back, adding, “Perhaps not quite as I do, but I know he’ll appreciate the qualities I’ve recognised in you. I do believe he would come to see that your intelligence is an attribute that trumps the fact you have no dowry.”

  “Or illustrious connections. Your father will not want you allying yourself with a nobody, no matter how quick-witted she might be, or indeed how independent you might become through winning an illustrious art prize. No Crispin, there’s not enough time. Please, my darling. We must marry quickly. And in secret.”

  Still, he demurred. “Faith, sweeting, we can have it all—the society wedding that gives you the acceptance you need and deserve. I would far rather that than have us sneaking away with whispers and innuendo.”

  “Oh Crispin, we may have to get married in a hurry.”

  Faith put a hand to her belly, though she was reasonably confident the precautions she’d been taught precluded any possibility that she might have conceived during their week of passionate couplings. Ten times. And now she was about to initiate another. Her body was on fire, and although she was disquieted by his talk, she was also confident she could persuade him of what was required.

  She rested her cheek against his chest and raised her hand upwards to cup his cheek. “Tomorrow your painting will be delivered, and the following night it will be judged. You will win, Crispin, for it is a rare show of true talent. It’s not because I’m biased that I say it.”

  And it wasn’t. She truly was proud of his talent. He was a gifted painter, and it was wrong that his father didn’t recognise how far his son could go in this direction if he didn’t force Crispin to follow the diplomatic path to the exclusion of his art.

  But Crispin wasn’t attending to any talk of talent. Understanding, and now full of remorse, he kissed her full on the mouth then regarded her with an intent look. “I’m a fool for not taking more account of the lack of time we may have,” he murmured. “I thought of it at the beginning when I was determined to marry you, and any consequence was a boon. But since your acceptance of my proposal, I’ve thought only of how to make this marriage one in which you are given the respect and public acknowledgement you deserve. An elopement is a shabby, shameful thing, and I’d do anything to prevent you enduring the disgrace of it.”

  “And I would do anything to be married to you at the earliest possibility. There’ll be a whole lifetime to prove the naysayers wrong.”

  Trailing a line of kisses across her brow, he murmured, “You want to make your family proud, I know you do, despite you warning me they’ll be at the gates looking for handouts. I want my father to be proud. Let me look after this, Faith.” He kissed her nose. “Trust me, Faith. I’ll make sure our future is wonderful; gilded with hope and possibility.”

  His words filled her with foreboding as his lips found hers, and when she shivered at the dangers he knew nothing about, he thought she was angling for a closer connection.

  So he whisked her into his arms and lay her on the bed, joining her there where they quickly divested each other of their clothes.

  And Faith put all thoughts of what might go wrong out of her mind, because for too long she’d been weighed down by fears of the future, and for just for these wonderful few days, she wanted to believe that the man who returned her love would be able to navigate the terrain.

  Of course, with the clear light of a new day, she was again mistress of her own destiny, and the only person who could possibly know the extent of the perils that lay ahead. Faith knew only one course was possible—elopement.

  Crispin was nervous as he oversaw the loading of his painting paraphernalia in the trunk that was strapped to the back of the carriage that would take it to the train station. Faith wanted to squeeze his hand in comfort, but Lady Vernon’s brooding presence precluded that. Faith was not relishing the thought of being confined with the old woman for the journey to London. Crispin would follow an hour later, as suggested by Faith, to preclude the possibility of their feelings for one another becoming too apparent.

  Tonight, they’d see one another amidst the throng of artists and an eager and appreciative public. Faith hoped she’d be well received as the innocent muse, and to secure a modicum of respect and acceptance in advance of a marriage announcement.

  So, Crispin accompanied them in the carriage only as far as the station for his intention was to proceed into town where he maintained he had business with a solicitor.

  When they reached the station, Lady Vernon boarded first and found an empty carriage while the footman loaded their trunk. As Faith prepared to join her, the steam rising about her in such a fog tempted her to take the risk of a quick kiss, though of course such fancies were swept away by common sense. Faith had lost her heart, but she’d not lost the clear-sightedness that ensured her wits were undimmed by emotion when it was necessary.

  “In a few hours, you may be declared the winner of a prestigious prize and find yourself in possession of a fortune, Crispin. Will you still want me?”

  “All aboard!” The station porter walked down the platform, slamming doors. He’d reach Faith in a moment, and she hung on his answer.

  “This is no infatuation, if that’s what you fear,” he told her. His eyes were warm. “I want to shout out to the world that I am so very proud to make you my wife. We will do this properly, Faith.”

  “I’m afraid,” she said, admitting the truth. “I want us to be married soon and quietly. If you truly love me, you’ll forget about the fanfare, Crispin.”

  The previous night she had tossed and turned fearing for the consequences of doing things the way Crispin would have them done.

  “Please, Crispin. I love you; I adore you.” Again, she touched her belly. “What if you are caught up by the consequences of tonight, and our wedding can only take place six weeks hence. Or, what if your father tells you he’ll give us
your blessing only if you wait six months. Yes, it may be with all the acceptance and pomp and ceremony you would like, but what about me? Think of the shame I would bear if I were to bear a child less than eight months after our wedding day?”

  The guard was nearly upon them. She gripped his hand, her expression pleading.

  Finally, he nodded. “All right, we will marry secretly, and we will plan a second ceremony as if we’d never contracted the first. Does that satisfy you?”

  “Train’s leaving, Miss. Please board now.”

  Faith smiled her relief at him. She’d not thought of such a possibility, but it was eminently pleasing—clearly, to both of them. She stepped inside the train, and Crispin gripped her hand briefly through the door that was about to be slammed shut. “I’ll organise a special licence. We shall marry in secret tomorrow, or if it can’t be managed, the day after. Does that satisfy you? We will marry at the earliest because I love you and I want to prove it.”

  Faith exhaled on a sigh of relief. “You’ve proved that a thousand-fold. Thank you, Crispin,” she whispered, reaching forward to touch his shoulder before the conductor slammed the door. “I look forward to seeing you tonight. I think it will be a night to remember.”

  “Lover’s parting?” Lady Vernon asked as Faith seated herself.

  Faith sent her an ingenuous look. “Mr Westaway and I have become friends, as is to be expected under such unusual circumstances. He cannot marry me, Lady Vernon; I explained that before.”

  “We all knew that from the beginning. Your job was to entice him into changing his mind. What progress on that front? Mrs Gedge will want to know. She’s parting with a lot of money to ensure matters progress as she would have them.”

  “Mrs Gedge must have a very cold heart if she’s spent three years plotting vengeance against the poor man.” Faith couldn’t help herself. “But I’ve not exactly been steeped in softness thanks to my less than tender upbringing. I want my freedom too. And I shall have it.” She sent Lady Vernon a level look. “You are my minder, not my confessor. Nevertheless, you may rest assured we will all get what we want; you included.”

  A beautiful gown beyond Faith’s imagination lay upon her bed when she returned to her lodgings at Lady Vernon’s, for it had been deemed too risky to return to Madame Chambon’s while she was in the public eye.

  “Courtesy of Madame Gedge. She says it’s her parting gift…on top of the five hundred pounds she anticipates handing over before too long.”

  Faith liked the fact Lady Vernon seemed uncertain about the undercurrents between Faith and Mr Westaway. Well, she’d not enlighten her. The old cow could claim her reward, and Faith hoped never to hear from her again once she and Crispin had left the country.

  All they needed to do was slip away to marry in secret, and then they’d be in Germany before anyone thought to look for them. There, Faith had no doubt she could cement her new husband’s affections to make up for the untruths he believed about her.

  “It’s beautiful.” And it was. Made of midnight-blue silk with a froth of a train decorated with pink bows and an abundance of velvet flowers, it showed off her hourglass figure to perfection. Once she’d bathed, Lady Vernon’s personal dresser helped Faith step into the skirt that was held close to the front of her body by tapes, pushing the fullness all to the back. Low cut with a décolletage trimmed with tiny pink silk roses it was a fairytale dress.

  Little wonder she garnered so much attention when she was admitted to the Royal Society of Artists’ gala.

  Her painting was already on display together with the others, but Crispin’s superior talent was apparent. Faith could hear it in the whispers around her. Whispers that included reference to her bountiful assets, also. Tonight was the culmination, almost, of her greatest desires, and her heart felt very full. Crispin would be honoured, as was his due, but she, too, was worthy of honour in her own right. Even if it were only for her beauty, Faith was still proud to claim it. The penniless daughter of a violent, alcoholic farm worker had come far indeed.

  But how much further she intended to go. She would extirpate her roots; her past. The time would come when Crispin would ask more about her family, but she would navigate that difficulty as she was navigating tonight. Nothing was insurmountable. If necessary, she could pretend a different family. She’d find the right help. She’d claim her parents wanted nothing to do with her. That she’d been unable to admit such a thing when she first met him, for how could any man marry a girl disowned by her parents?

  “Miss Montague, Sir Albion is asking for you.” There was Crispin, smiling, encircled by admirers, and now drawing her and Lady Vernon into a gathering that included the patron of the society and his wife. They welcomed her warmly, reiterating their earlier words.

  “You have succeeded very nicely in unleashing brilliance from this gentleman’s brush, Miss Montague,” said Lady McKinley. “There is no doubt about tonight’s winner.” She waved her hand at the three paintings lined up side by side on the dais. “Perhaps you will not go to Germany after all, Mr Westaway.”

  Faith glanced at her husband-to-be. Much as she wanted him to have the opportunity to devote his career to his art, Germany factored importantly in her plans.

  “A shame your father is not here to see this.” Sir Albion’s nod encompassed the gathering as a whole. “He would understand that the public admires an artist in the same way they appreciate their need for a clever diplomat.”

  “I hope my father will come to understand that, too. But alas, he is not here, and I have not yet won the prize.”

  It was only a matter of time, of course. Only a matter of time before a hush fell upon the crowd as Sir Albion ascended to the dais and made his pronouncement.

  It was about to become real. All that Crispin had dreamed of would come to pass. All that Faith had ever dreamed of would come to pass also. She had to cling to that belief, or she’d have nothing. Crispin loved her, and she loved him. They were young, good for each other, and free to marry.

  Her thoughts had been running over this like a mantra, when she became conscious of the buzz that swept through the room. She felt a surreptitious squeeze of her bare arm, above her long gloves and below the puff of her silk and chiffon sleeve as Crispin passed her, signalling his excitement, his connection with her before cutting a swathe through the room on his way towards the stage.

  Dear lord, he’d been declared the winner.

  People congratulated him, and Faith felt an empathetic surge of excitement to see him so recognised. As she stared at the scene from the centre of the room, amidst strangers and well-wishers, the lovers and scions of the art world, and society as a whole, a feeling of the most intense desire swept over her. She wanted to belong.

  She wanted Crispin more, but to belong to Crispin, to have his heart truly and completely, she needed to belong and be accepted by this world.

  Crispin addressed a hushed crowd. Proudly, Faith heard him convey his thanks for the support he’d received; his pleasure at the fact the crowd endorsed the judge’s choice and finally, with the room erupting into polite but enthusiastic congratulations, she intercepted his look from over the top of the heads of the throng.

  Brief, but intense. Yes, they would marry in secret tomorrow. Nothing could stand in the way of their love. And when he boarded the packet for the first leg of his journey to Germany, she would be there too. Unobtrusive and veiled, certainly, but discretion was essential if they were not to be hounded by those who believed a penniless debutante was not good enough for him. No, nothing would part her from his side.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you, Miss Montague.” Once back at her side, he bowed over her gloved hand and kissed the back of it. Sensation speared her like a physical lance.

  “I just did my job, Mr Westaway.” She smiled and was about to say more when they were interrupted by a familiar American accent, mid-Atlantic, as Faith had heard it described. “Please tell me how you would define that, Miss Montague. Your job, I mean
.”

  Miss Eaves arrived in their midst, her expression eager as she held a pencil poised above a notebook. Her gown was plain but expensive; however, she clearly had a penchant for incorporating birds in her headwear for tonight six ostrich plumes waved in her coiffure as she moved.

  “I hope you don’t mind my interrupting, but my uncle has tasked me with writing up the story of tonight’s win for Artist’s Magazine.”

  Faith glanced at Crispin who seemed unperturbed, still buoyed up by his success. “Of course not. It’s a great honour and a great surprise, both to receive the prize and to be mentioned in such an illustrious publication. But your question was directed at Miss Montague.”

  Having been given licence to speak freely, Faith said, “I perfected the art of stillness sufficiently for Mr Westaway to recreate the fiction that I was floating, drowned, in a lake. Other than getting a little cold and bored at times, I really didn’t do anything.”

  Miss Eaves scoffed at this. “No need to be so self-effacing, Miss Montague. I’m sure the physical trials caused more irritation than cold and boredom. I’m here to write the real story. Once I’ve heard from you exactly how cold and bored and filled with discomfort you were, and then added how elated, or otherwise, you must feel now, I shall turn my full attention to Mr Westaway.”

  The young woman rolled her shoulders as if she couldn’t wait to start scribbling, and Faith and Crispin shared a smile over her bent head once she’d scratched a few notes.

  “Is this your first piece, Miss Eaves?”

  Miss Eaves shook her head. “I’ve found a variety of pieces with which to fill the magazine over the past three weeks. But this is my first important piece. The size of the prize and the secrecy surrounding its benefactor has had the art world agog. Is that a word you English use in polite society?” She looked unperturbed, rushing on without waiting for an answer. “My uncle calls me brash and likes to edit my stories himself, but I’m the reporter on the ground. There aren’t too many of us. Women, I mean, doing this kind of work, but the world is changing, and whereas a few years ago I’d have been a curiosity, now that is not the case. At least, not where I come from.”