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

by Beverley Oakley

  For a moment, Faith had no words. Finally, she whispered, “Lord Harkom wrote to me?” The thundering in her chest was almost painful. “Why, it makes no sense at all. Who brought the letter? Where is it?”

  “I can’t remember the young lady’s name. Only that she couldn’t write, so she dictated some words to my maid, Sarah, when she delivered the letter. The young woman was in the district, visiting a family member who, by coincidence, lived nearby, she said.”

  “When was this?”

  “Only a few weeks ago. And, my dear, I’m not sure if I tucked the letter into my portable writing desk or left it in my bureau at home. But naturally, I shall forward it.” His eyes raked her with a look of the old appreciation with which she’d become familiar. “I simply had never expected our paths to cross again.”

  “I don’t want it if it comes from Lord Harkom.” Faith sighed. “And it sounds as if I shall have to start looking for another job if your conscience will smite you for not telling Mr and Mrs Heathcote who I really am.” She clasped her hands together. “And yet, I may still hold out hope for they are decent people. They, at least, would give me a hearing to decide whether I was a good person on balance, rather than condemn me for what five inches of editorial declares is the truth with no refutation from me.”

  Lord Delmore stepped forward and touched her arm. “I shall keep my silence for now, Faith. But only if I am assured that nothing you do will harm or embarrass this family.”

  The censure in the man’s normally kind face cut Faith to the quick. How easily people judged on the basis of nothing more than hearsay printed in a periodical. What about the presumption of innocence? She was just a woman, she supposed. A woman from a poor background with too many enemies.

  “Of course, Lord Delmore.” She inclined her head and turned.

  There was no more to be said.

  Except that Lord Delmore had indeed tucked the letter he’d received all those weeks ago into his portable writing desk, and when he found it the next morning, he delivered it straight to Faith as she was walking the boys along the gravel path by the river.

  “It’s not from Lord Harkom,” she told him in relief after she’d ripped open the envelope before scanning its contents.

  But her relief was short-lived, and by the time she’d come to the bottom, she was breathing heavily and wished she could sit down.

  “What is it, Faith?”

  She shook her head and glanced between the man standing opposite in a copse of trees by the river, then up to the house. “It’s not from Lord Harkom, but it’s about Lord Harkom, and it only confirms his evil reputation. Poor Mr Westaway.”

  Lord Delmore straightened his tie as he smiled. “That’s the first time you’ve mentioned his name. I wasn’t sure if you ever spared our talented painter, or should I say, diplomat, a thought.”

  Faith stared at the man before her and shook her head, unable to fathom the insinuation that Faith felt so little for him. “My lord, he is all I ever think about. That is, when I choose to dwell on the few good things in my life.”

  “And what does the letter say about Lord Harkom? What does your friend know that the rest of society does not? Oh, Faith.” He looked profoundly saddened. “What got you into such a calling? Perhaps I should never have given you a letter if it re-establishes your connection to this dreadful life you once lived.”

  Faith knew she couldn’t expect him to understand. Defending herself would be beyond useless, also. “My lord, we all have to survive, somehow.” She glanced behind her. George was calling her, and he was too close to the river to make her easy. She began to walk towards the boy, saying over her shoulder, “And sometimes we don’t have very many choices. But what we choose to believe about other people—provided we have done our due diligence—certainly is up to us.”

  The letter had been profoundly disturbing. Charity had spoken of vague ramblings and claims Lord Harkom had made after he’d consumed a great deal of whisky and was sufficiently pleased with the way Charity had performed in bed.

  Faith wondered whom Charity had corralled to write such things, for although Charity was intelligent, she’d never been able to form her letters in the right order to make into words anyone could understand.

  Clearly, Charity had been sufficiently alarmed by Lord Harkom’s claims to want to tell Faith, even though she did not know the specific nature of the correspondence Lord Harkom claimed had unexpectedly come into his hands, and that would ruin Crispin Westaway if it were made public.

  The letter, Charity was certain, was contained in an unlocked chest in his bedchamber, but Charity had had no opportunity to look for herself. She’d simply been told the litany that Mr Westaway would never continue in his current diplomatic role after this letter was made public, and all that stood between Westaway and ruin was Lord Harkom’s good nature.

  Charity wrote that his mood had turned ugly, and he’d told her that if she knew where Faith was, she should pass on the message that Crispin Westaway’s future was entirely in her hands. Yes, Lord Harkom demanded a warm welcome from the woman who’d shown so little gratitude towards him for his generosity the last time they’d met; that Faith had an opportunity to rewrite their history, and in return, Lord Harkom would ensure Westaway’s dark and ruinous secret never came to light.

  Of course, in the months since their separation, Faith had followed Crispin’s progress like the girl in love she was. It delighted her when she heard news that he’d impressed his superiors. When the newspapers had finally stopped making reference of his humiliation over the art prize that had been shown to be a ruse in order to entrap him with a common prostitute, a great weight had fallen from her shoulders. At last that was considered old news, and now, both of them had new lives to forge.

  Except that Crispin’s was filled with promise, while Faith felt that hers was like a dull continuum, punctuated by terror that she’d lose even that through exposure.

  All she wanted was security, food, and shelter without having to sell her soul for it.

  She hoped to remain with the Heathcotes until George went to school at Eton, like his father, after which Faith would find another position. Indeed, that was the best a governess in her position could hope for.

  And Faith no longer had high hopes for anything.

  But the letter had jarred her out of the quiet life of acceptance she’d been living. It reintroduced danger into her life, and reminded her painfully of the future she’d thought was within reach. The one that had been based on honesty and trust and hope.

  In her bedchamber, she scoured every line for a hint from Charity as to what she thought Faith should do. Did Charity believe Lord Harkom? It would be easy to manufacture falsehoods in order to lure Faith back to him.

  Yet, why would Charity go to the extremes of travelling hours into the country, if she didn’t think Lord Harkom really did possess dangerous information that he’d not scruple to use against Crispin? Perhaps his information was not dangerous to Crispin, personally, but the policies Crispin endorsed. The policies that ensured Britain keep the peace amidst the turbulence of world politics.

  Just a few words were all it had taken, but Charity apparently knew when a boast contained more than the kernel of truth that threatened to blow up a man’s career like a powder keg.

  Pillow talk. How many men had been brought undone by pillow talk? Perhaps without even knowing it, for they were all too liable to underrate the intelligence of the females they used for their pleasure.

  Nervously, Faith addressed Mrs Heathcote after the boys had had their breakfast the next morning. The guests had left, and her mistress seemed in a particularly satisfied mood for all had gone well and now peace reigned again.

  “My poor Faith. I’m so sorry to hear your mother is dangerously ill. Yes, of course you must go to her.” The young matron looked up from the bench where she was making preserves with one of the maids in a small dark room in the back of the house. Her expression was genuinely sympathetic, and Faith w
ished she’d not had to lie in order to gain a few days. Yet what could she do if Crispin were in danger? If she could have avoided ever seeing Lord Harkom again, she would have.

  “I’m sure we’ll manage for five days without you. My mother can pay us a visit and spend all the time she wants to with the boys without worrying that she’s interrupting their education. There! The matter is settled, and you must think only of what you can do for your family. Family is everything, I know.”

  Mrs Heathcote looked so pretty and so innocent as she stood above the marble countertop, spouting what she knew based on her own fortunate experience of life.

  Faith bobbed a curtsey and thanked her, relieved to have got over the first hurdle so easily.

  What would follow surely had the potential to be diabolical.

  Chapter 25

  The road outside Madame Chambon’s house was painfully familiar, but Faith wasn’t going to step across the threshold, even via the kitchen, so she waited nervously in the narrow side lane. Fortunately, Charity was soon out to greet her, having been sent a message by the bootboy.

  “Faith! I never expected to see you again! You got my letter, didn’t you? I hope I didn’t alarm you, only I thought you might find it important considering what Mr Westaway was to you.” Charity looked striking in crimson, her red-gold hair gleaming as it rippled down her back. Her evening gown was of the finest silk. Yes, Charity had become the reigning favourite during the year Faith had been away, and Madame Chambon saw the advantages in dealing well by those who brought in the greatest names, titles, and, of course, money.

  “I’m so glad I was free to come,” she went on, after a quick hug and a nervous look over her shoulder. “Though I have to meet Lord Stanford in five minutes.” Her mouth curved up and Faith stared, incredulous as she asked, “You don’t mind?”

  Charity shook her head. “I mentioned him before. He’s a regular, and I truly believe he’s going to speak with Madame to release me.”

  “And make you his mistress in your own establishment?”

  “Well, he’s hardly going to offer to marry me!” Charity laughed before her expression grew serious, and she returned to the matter which had brought Faith to London.

  “Lord Harkom’s speech alarmed me greatly. He mentioned enough specifics to make me believe he truly had something to use against Mr Westaway, and yet I have not the slightest idea what it could be. Only that all Lord Harkom’s correspondence is contained in a small leather chest which he keeps under his bed.” Charity touched Faith’s shoulder. “I didn’t want to put you in danger, but I knew you’d want to know.”

  Faith stared at Charity’s gown, and asked, “May I borrow a dress, one of your finest, for just one night?”

  “And a governess doesn’t have such confections in her wardrobe?” Charity’s smile was rueful. “If I had the learning, I once thought I’d prefer to be a governess, though whether that would satisfy me now, I don’t know.” She smiled again, clearly thinking of Lord Stanford. “Of course, I’m happy to offer you my finest gown for the night, but I would urge you to reconsider seeing Lord Harkom in person. He was very angry with you, and vengeance is his natural response. I only told you because I couldn’t hold onto the information. It sounded dangerous.”

  “Lord Harkom will agree to see me, at least.” Faith raised her eyebrows. “If vengeance is his first inclination, I shall be ready to meet him on equal grounds.”

  Crispin wasn’t expecting to be interrupted. During his two short weeks back in England, he had a great deal to do. Right now, he was preparing for a meeting with several ministers, so when he called “Come!” he was expecting the maid to announce Lord Grinwald with whom he would be conducting delicate negotiations.

  Instead, he was surprised but pleased to find himself greeting his old friend and neighbour Lord Delmore. It had been a long time. More than a year, in fact, and as their acquaintanceship had been limited to the time Crispin spent at his aunt and uncle’s home, and it was known that Lord Delmore’s fondness for London was minimal, the gentleman’s arrival was highly unusual.

  “What brings you here? My short tenure here in London is not widely known.” Crispin ushered Lord Delmore to a seat and called for tea, not liking to recall when they’d last been in company together.

  Should he bring it up? It would only revive a time long past when Crispin had shown himself the foolish stripling he’d once been.

  “I’ve heard good reports of your progress through the ranks, and not just from your father.” Lord Delmore seated himself and glanced about the room: at the hunting scenes, the plaster busts, a suit of armour by the fireplace.

  No flowers in vases. No lace doilies. No sign of any feminine touch.

  He didn’t ask the question though. Merely waited until the maid had placed the tray upon the table, poured them both a cup of Darljeeling, and retired.

  “I saw Miss Montague last week.”

  Her name struck home like a well-placed blow to the solar plexus. Crispin hoped he didn’t betray himself. Not by the fiery reddening of his face, which he tried to obscure by taking a judicious sip of his drink, nor by the clearing of his throat, which must surely denote discomfort to a keen observer.

  There were a thousand questions he wanted to ask, but he didn’t know where to start. Didn’t know if he should ask anything, in fact.

  He settled with, “Indeed.”

  “She looked very demure as one might expect. She’s a governess, you know.”

  “Good lord!” This was unexpected.

  “Yes, one would have imagined she’d have capitalised on her notoriety and made herself a fortune while she could. That was my initial thought, too.”

  Crispin put his cup down carefully. It was still too full to risk holding it when his hands were shaking. Strange. He’d found himself quite self-contained during these past months. His father’s disgust, followed by the harsh tutoring he’d received at the hands of his pater had, he thought, cauterised all feeling.

  Except shame.

  And it was curious how that could be wrapped up and put away when hard work was all consuming.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if she plans to see Lord Harkom. I don’t know when, and that is why I’m here. I think you should stop her. Talk to her first, before she does something rash.”

  If everything that had gone before had been surprising, this was the most surprising of all. Crispin was glad he’d not been taking another sip of tea for even without, he still choked on his shock.

  “Lord Delmore, I can’t imagine why her…decisions and way of life should be your concern. They certainly are no longer mine.”

  “I thought you felt a tendre for the young lady. I thought she’d engaged your heart to the extent you were prepared to go so far as marriage, even when you believed her penniless.”

  Crispin shook his head and put up his hand, and Lord Delmore went on, “But it’s not because of your feelings that I sought you out to tell you this.” He sighed heavily. “Lord knows, I’m a man who likes the simple life. The skulduggery that’s your domain now that you’re in the thick of delicate continental diplomacy is not for me. I’d far rather be mouldering away in the country with a good book than breathing in London smog for a good cause.”

  “I’m your good cause? Or Miss Montague? I’m sorry, Lord Delmore, but I fail to understand you at all. You know what Miss Montague was revealed to be. I can have nothing to do with her—especially now. Besides,” he muttered, “I thought she was with Lord Harkom in a capacity that made visiting him hardly a reason for you to come rushing down to London to tell me about it.”

  “I’d have thought the same had it not been for a letter my maid took, or rather transcribed, on behalf of one of Miss Montague’s friends. Yes, one of those ladies of disrepute who are so desirable to the likes of Lord Harkom. It seems he’s been highly indiscreet with a little ladybird who is far more intelligent than he gave her credit for. Even if she’s illiterate.”

  Crispin rose, more
to alleviate the difficulty of sitting still when his agitation was so great he didn’t know what to do with himself. He poured them both a brandy and, without asking, handed one to Lord Delmore.

  “So, what does this little ladybird suggest Lord Harkom has that could be of such interest to Miss Montague?”

  Lord Delmore took a thoughtful sip. “She mentioned something about a letter. Or a couple of letters. I don’t know, exactly. Just that these letters were potentially damaging.”

  “Damaging? To whom?” Crispin shrugged. “I have nothing to hide, yet you obviously give credence to whatever matter of grave import these letters contained. Anyway, why should it concern me? Why should anything Miss Montague does concern me? You know what I risk should it be revealed I have any association with her.”

  Lord Delmore worried his lip as he sent a dark look towards his younger friend. “When I look back on my life, I have far more regrets about the things I didn’t do than those I did. Now, it’s true that I don’t know what these letters contain. Nor would it appear, does the, er, fair Cyprian who made the journey to find Miss Montague. She was simply worried enough by the suggestion of damage Lord Harkom hinted they could do to you, that she felt the need to travel a great distance to alert Miss Montague.”

  “I’m sure there’s nothing further about my private life that can be disseminated to the public that would further embarrass me or discredit me,” Crispin ground out.

  His painting career lay in tatters. His personal standing had taken a very great hit. Thank God, he’d been able to remove himself from London almost immediately afterwards while his father had worked hard to pass it off as less than it was.

  Certainly, less than it was to Crispin. Yes, Lord Maxwell’s boy had been caught up in a vile scam that was to have won him a bride from the ranks of the impure through means of a bogus art competition.