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

by Beverley Oakley

  “I’m almost sure of it.”

  Aunt Euphemia’s mouth trembled. “And what about you, Max? That’s all very well for Mabel, but now you’ve been abandoned. You’re all alone with no one to love yet you’re in the prime of your life.” She dropped her hands and raised her chin, her look determined. “I shall find you someone, Max. Before I go, and if it’s the last thing I do, I will see you happily settled with a young woman who deserves you.” She squared her shoulders, and an alarming note of enthusiasm crept into her voice as she continued, “The London season is just around the corner. I shall ensure you are invited to every event worth attending. Never mind that you’ve been embarrassed, I shall see that it’s to your advantage—”

  “Aunt, please… no!” Max had to stop her. This was the last thing he wanted. He was off to Africa, and there was an end to it. He’d intended booking his ticket this very day.

  Cut off in midstride, his aunt blinked at him. “But Max, you’re nearly twenty-six. You have family obligations. You must marry.”

  That might be sadly true, but his grandfather was still in good health and had no intention of handing over the reins to let Max manage the estate for a good number of years yet. This was the perfect opportunity for Max to run away to sea or to hunt lions or discover diamonds. His sudden and unexpected release yesterday from the shackles of matrimony had fired him up with renewed enthusiasm for life.

  “But Aunt, I don’t want to be dragged about London ballrooms and drawing rooms in search of a wife.” He’d have to be honest or his aunt would find some way of altering his resolve. She might be frail, but Max knew he’d be dangerously susceptible to agreeing to a night out here and an event there, just because it would please her so much.

  She pressed her lips together and blinked rapidly as if to stem the tears he could see glittering in her surprisingly clear blue eyes. His aunt had never been a beauty, but he could see how her sweet nature would have been appealing to the suitor she’d spoken of so wistfully over the years. The suitor her brother had sent packing because he didn’t have the pocketbook or address Aunt Euphemia’s older and exacting brother deemed worthy of the family.

  “Don’t run the danger of closing your heart off to sentiment just because of what happened yesterday,” she said softly. “I may have been disappointed in love but let me tell you that it’s the greatest emotion a person can feel.” She pressed a trembling hand to her breast. “I would not go to my grave without the knowledge that you’ve been touched by it too, my boy.” She took a shuddering breath. “You’re the closest to a son I’ve had, and you lost your darling mother—and your father—much too young. All your life you’ve been looking for love, Max. Don’t start pretending to me, now, that you don’t need it.”

  “Please, Aunt, that’s not what I’m saying at all.” Max was feeling rather desperate and beleaguered right now. “I simply said I didn’t want to be paraded all about London in search of a wife.”

  “And I’ll not go to my grave knowing you are lonely and still looking for love, Max.”

  “But you won’t. I mean, you’re not going to your grave for a good long time, besides.” He looked down, buttering another piece of toast he didn’t think he could eat.

  “It’s what the doctor says, Max, and there’s the truth. Another winter as cold as the last will see the end of me. That’s why I need to put my affairs in order. Doctor’s orders.”

  She sounded more resolute and accepting than Max could have imagined anyone would be following such a dire pronouncement.

  He swallowed. Not his toast, but the lump in his throat. “Then the last thing you need is to squire me around—if that’s the right term—in the hopes of hitching me up with some worthy female before season’s end.”

  “It is the very thing I need,” she said stolidly.

  “But…but pointless,” Max responded, flailing as he found himself unable to drag his gaze away from her gimlet eye. “Pointless because…because my heart is already engaged to another.”

  “Oh, Max! Why didn’t you say? So it’s not only Mabel whose affections have been engaged elsewhere?”

  Max hesitated. The way her face lit up at the thought that romance might be in the air gave him a jolt of pleasure. But only momentarily. This was one lie he’d have to extricate himself from, so he’d better not get himself in too deep at the outset.

  “Penniless, unfortunately. Totally unsuitable. Grandfather would never countenance it. No more to be said, really.” He began to chew, his thoughts in turmoil, hoping his aunt would be satisfied.

  Of course, she was not.

  “Is she beautiful? She must be if she has nothing else to recommend her. Oh Max, do describe her to me.”

  Max sighed and lifted his teacup to his mouth while he sought for inspiration. “Well, she has milky-white skin,” he began slowly, “and very dark hair and a glorious smile. Oh, and her eyes. Just like sapphires. I know it’s a cliché, but they really are.” He was talking more rapidly now as he warmed to his theme. Really, it was quite easy to paint a picture of a fictional love interest when he could base it on someone real. “She’s quite unaffected in the way most young ladies are. No simpering, saying things just to please a man. That sort of thing, if you understand me.”

  “She sounds very…direct. But penniless, you say. What does her father do?”

  Max pursed his lips. He had no idea, of course, though he must have been a complete reprobate or possibly even unknown considering his daughter did what she did for a living. Not that Max could tell his aunt what the lady he most admired did for a living.

  “What does her father do?” he repeated slowly, while his brain raced to come up with something plausible. “Why, he’s dead. That’s why his daughter has to—”

  “Good lord! The poor girl has to work? Is that what you’re saying? That you’ve fallen in love with a…a serving girl?”

  “Not a serving girl, Aunt. No, a… working girl. I mean a shop girl.” Yes, that could just about pass muster.

  “And what’s her name?”

  “Violet.” That was easy though he was surprised the name came out so readily. The name that matched the description he’d just given Aunt Euphemia.

  “You’ve fallen in love with a shop girl, Max?”

  Max feigned regret, unable to meet his aunt’s eyes in case she called him out on his lie and insisted again on trailing him through a dozen London drawing rooms. She’d really do it, he feared. And he’d not be able to say no to her.

  “I have. Grandfather would be appalled, which is why, naturally, I’ve kept it very close. But…” he looked appealingly at Aunt Euphemia, “that is the reason why of course I have no heart for society. My love for Violet is impossible, I realise, yet I can muster no enthusiasm at this present time for pursuing other, more suitable, potential brides.” He touched his heart and mustered a sad, sympathetic smile for his aunt’s benefit. “Surely you, of all people, understand this, Aunt Euphemia.”

  Aunt Euphemia reached out a trembling hand though her grip upon his wrist was surprisingly strong.

  “Yes, Max. I, of all people, understand.”

  “And you’ll speak no word of it to grandfather?”

  Her fingers clenched at the mention of the brother Max knew she detested. They were of one accord in this, at least. Lord Granville had shown little kindness to either of them in his nearly seventy years.

  “You have my word, Max.”

  Max nodded, his expression serious. “Thank you, Aunt Euphemia.” With relief, he rose, his unsatisfactory breakfast heavy in his stomach, yet the moment he could make his escape through those parlour doors he’d feel a new lightness; he knew.

  “You’re a brick; you know that?” He grinned, his heart lifting at the sight of her smile. The moment he was out of those doors he’d make enquiries of Aunt Euphemia’s doctor as to just what the problem was regarding that cough. Surely it was nothing that a winter in Spain couldn’t fix. He’d hire a reliable travelling companion so she coul
d escape London’s harsh and miserable upcoming winter.

  In the meantime though, he was off to book his passage on the first suitable vessel to Cape Town.

  By the time he passed through the doors of the breakfast parlour he did, indeed, feel a hundred pounds lighter.

  As if his life was only now about to begin.

  Chapter 3

  Violet lay on her bed watching the shadows dancing on the walls as the sun that seeped through her thin curtains grew weaker.

  She was exhausted and not relishing the prospects of what the night ahead might bring. More disappointment. More affirmation that her life was meaningless. How ironic that she could debase herself so much for the sake of dignity.

  “Come in,” she called at the sound of a light knock on the door. It would be Daisy asking why she wasn’t in the drawing room with the other girls.

  And, indeed, it was Daisy but holding a crisp cream envelope, embossed, she saw a moment later, causing her heart to lurch. The only person who would address a letter to her on such fine notepaper certainly did not have her best interests at heart.

  She waited for Daisy to leave before she tore it open roughly. Although no longer did she have the niceties to hand like the silver letter opener her mother used for the invitations she used to receive, the letter hardly deserved to be treated nicely. The handwriting was unfamiliar but had no doubt been dictated.

  “Dear Miss Lilywhite…” it began.

  Yes, it had been dictated, and by someone of exceptional politeness in that the salutation was followed by an apology for the gross lack of manners in being so forward in addressing her with no prior introduction, but that skulduggery of such a nature required a little forgiveness, especially when the sender was motivated by only the best of intentions.

  That was rare in a place like this, Violet thought with a stab of irony, squinting in perplexity once she’d digested the contents of the missive before again being overcome by trepidation.

  Meet at Claridge’s at 4 o’ clock, the writer, a Miss Euphemia Thistlethwaite had requested.

  Who on earth was Miss Thistlethwaite? Quite likely respectable, if the notepaper and language were anything to go by. But what did she want of Violet? No doubt she was an emissary who was being well rewarded for her work. Why else would a respectable woman wish to meet with Violet. Be seen with Violet, for that matter. And, in Claridge’s, of all places.

  Violet’s first instinct was to pen a polite rebuttal for how could she possibly show her face in a restaurant patronised by London’s wealthy and titled? What if she recognised someone? Or, worse, someone recognised her? Though that would be unlikely in a setting so different from the seamy world her clients patronised.

  She pondered her options a moment before picking up a pen.

  So what if recognition triggered mild confusion or even outright horror? It would hardly be to Violet’s detriment.

  A little less than four hours later Violet, dressed demurely in a navy serge princess-line dress with white lace at her throat and cuffs, was led through the double doors of Claridge’s restaurant and, having named the person she was to be joining, towards a table near the window.

  As the personage was facing the street, Violet was given the benefit of sizing up her…adversary? Was Miss Thistlethwaite here to demand more of Violet than she’d already given? Though lord only knew there was little more Violet could give.

  She felt suddenly ill and, to her disgust, realised it was with hope. Since Violet could be reviled no more than she currently was, she could only rise in the world. Perhaps her grandmother had chosen to forgive her on her deathbed? Perhaps Violet had come into some small legacy?

  “Miss Thistlethwaite?” She tried to sound confident. As if she had as much right to dine at Claridge’s as anyone else.

  A pheasant’s feather was nearly dislodged, as the owner of a romantically festooned piece of millinery turned a pair of smiling blue eyes upon Violet.

  “Why, you are exactly what I was expecting,” she exclaimed to Violet’s confusion as she invited her to sit. “Though perhaps, even more of a beauty. But then, that’s hardly surprising. Max always did appreciate beauty of the bolder variety.”

  “Max?”

  “Your secret is out, my dear.” The playful wag of Miss Thistlethwaite’s fingers compounded Violet’s horror.

  “Max…told you about me?” But then, of course, this lady must be referring to a different Max. Not delicious Lord Belvedere from the previous night who’d said his name was Max, and whom Violet must try not to think about again or she’d find all her other clients wanting.

  “He most certainly did.”

  Violet let out a slow breath. Then this Max must have known Violet from long ago. From during the time a gentleman related to a lady like Miss Thistlethwaite would have been happy enough to have claimed an association with Violet.

  The emotion conveyed by Violet’s furrowed brow was, however, mistaken by Miss Thistlethwaite who, immediately upon ordering the sweets trolley to be brought round to their table, said, “Have no fear that I’ll divulge any of this to his grandfather. Naturally, he’s opposed to darling Max contracting a marriage to anyone less than an heiress, but since Max’s happiness is all that matters, I am here to facilitate his happiness and, I trust, yours.” She reached across the table, nearly touching Violet’s gloved hand, before withdrawing it quickly, perhaps perceiving the inappropriateness of such familiarity on so little association. Clearly, Miss Thistlethwaite was a woman who acted on her heartstrings. Rather endearing really, Violet thought with a little tug of her own heartstrings. Her mother had been the same. Not Violet, though. Or Emily. They’d had to learn to guard their hearts when they could only trust one another.

  Now, of course, Violet had no one. No one to trust, though she did like Miss Thistlethwaite with her bright, eager eyes and her birdlike movements. The elderly lady seemed like someone who really did believe that happiness could be plucked from thin air.

  “If you are referring to the Max I believe you are, he was to have been wed to a worthy young lady only last night,” Violet said slowly. Then, at Miss Thistlethwaite’s nod, added, “A much more suitable young lady than I.” For if Miss Thistlethwaite supposed Violet could possibly be a marital contender, then it would be far better to nip such delusions in the bud before anyone was more embarrassed than they need be.

  “Indeed he was. Jilted at the altar. Terrible business! Why, I thought his heart was breaking until I realised it had already been broken.” She pointed an accusing finger at Violet. “By you, Miss Lilywhite. Yes, no need to look so concerned. I’ve already told you I’ve no intention of divulging this to anyone. Not before the time is right.”

  “When the time is right?’ Violet clasped her hands together in her lap to stop them shaking while she thought of gorgeous young Max. Of his strong, muscled young body, his dazzling smile and his…

  She closed her eyes. She must not think of that when she was speaking to his aunt, though the athleticism with which he’d conducted himself still had Violet’s body in thrall.

  “Miss Thistlethwaite, you…you don’t know what kind of girl I am.” She swallowed. There really would be too much embarrassment to follow any wild assumptions on Miss Thistlethwaite’s part being allowed to flourish. “I don’t know what Max has said about me, but he surely hasn’t hinted at what you seem to think.” She couldn’t even put it into words. Marriage? Violet would be lucky to marry one of the burly protectors who lounged about Madame Chambon’s premises to keep the girls safe. More likely, though, she’d be discarded the moment her looks started to fade. Not every girl was as lucky as Charity whose devoted young man paid a small fortune to Madame Chambon to protect the girl he’d met the night they’d both shed their virginity, and whom he was determined to wed when he came into his inheritance in a year’s time.

  “Not to you, perhaps. He was, after all, acceding to duty by wedding his childhood friend until she cried off.” Miss Thistlethwaite looked overjoye
d. “But now he’s free.” She dabbed at her eyes. “You’re both free. When Max told me he’d long been in love with a young lady with absolutely nothing other than her charm and beauty to recommend her, I resolved there and then that I would ensure I would go to my grave knowing my darling Max could marry the woman he truly loved.”

  Violet’s mouth felt very dry. She took a sip of the water that had just been placed in front of her and managed, “I think you have rather jumped to conclusions, Miss Thistlethwaite.”

  “Oh, no need to keep playing the game for my benefit. I see how it is.” The woman’s eyes twinkled. “You both knew Lord Granville would disapprove—as he would, no doubt about it—if you and Max were to marry. But I know what it is to live one’s whole life with the disappointment of being denied one’s true love purely on account of lack of finances, and I’m determined that is not going to happen to Max.”

  Violet frowned. “I’m sure I can’t imagine what Max said about me,” she fished. “Or how you even knew where to find me.”

  Miss Thistlethwaite wagged her finger playfully at Violet once again. “If I’d been born a man, I’d have become one of those special policemen or investigators searching for clues. I’m good at it. Sniffing out secrets. When it was clear Max didn’t want to say any more about you—no doubt fearing I might unwisely tell his grandfather—I simply had John Coachman deliver my letter to the premises Max had visited the previous night. It was very simple, really.”

  Violet spluttered. “So that’s how you found me?”

  Unabashed by the sheer horror in Violet’s tone, Miss Thistlethwaite put a sympathetic hand on Violet’s arm. “There’ll be no shame in Max marrying as soon as he wishes, and I shall do all I can to facilitate it. You and Max can rely upon it. I’ve an independent fortune, you know, and if I want to spend it on a wedding trousseau for the bride of my favourite nephew, that’s my decision to make.”