by Karen Cogan
The man wiped his hands on his apron. “A maid, you say. I wonder, was she one of the women who stopped here when Lady Katharine was bound for your estate? There were three women in the party.”
He grinned past a missing tooth. “Lady Katharine was very beautiful. I will never forget the color of her hair, bright copper, it was.”
Philip shook his head. “You mean blond hair. Lady Katharine had blond hair.”
“No sir. I mean no disrespect, but she had copper hair. The young maid that ate in the kitchen with the coachman had blond hair. I remember Lady Katharine well. Her companion was a bit choosy, but Lady Katharine seemed a fine lady. A fine lady with copper hair.”
Philip grasped the man’s arm. “Are you sure?”
The man’s puckered brow betrayed the insult he felt at having his memory questioned. “I am very sure. Her companion introduced her by name.”
He went to tend another table, leaving Philip to try and unravel this account. Had Ginny been telling the truth about Lady Katherine not wanting to marry him? Perhaps Lady Katharine had wanted to hide her identity. Maybe she had ordered her maid to trade places with her before they reached the inn and they had deceived the innkeeper. It was either that, or the copper-haired minx had been telling the truth. Though he hated to admit it, the thought brought a faint glimmer of hope to his wounded heart.
His thoughts chased in circles as he absently chewed his meal. By the time he finished eating, the effort to unravel the mystery had given him a headache
He arrived back in London firmly resolved to untangle the mystery surrounding this girl. For he knew now that it was the only way he would ever have peace of mind. And yet, in such a vast city, where would he start?
He began to seek a plan. He must do better than merely finding the girl, for succeeding in this would not fully solve the riddle. He would still have no proof as to whether she had lied. If only he had a likeness of her. He could show it round the city. Surely someone had noticed that copper hair.
Something niggled at the back of his mind. What had she told him when he sat for a portrait? She had said that she sat in while a French painter had completed a portrait of Lady Katharine.
The blood pumped swiftly in his veins. Somewhere, there existed a portrait of Lady Katharine as a girl. If he could get his hands on that portrait, he would know whether Ginny was an imposter.
The anticipation of discovering the portrait nearly drove him mad. He hardly dared hope he would find the artist. Ginny had said that he had come from London. But what if he was no longer in the city?
He decided that the best way to locate and artist was to ask another artist where he might be. He gave the coachman orders to take him directly to the quarters of the man who was engaged to complete his own portrait. Perhaps he would know this Frenchman.
They clattered to a stop in front of the modest establishment.
Philip rapped at his door. After what seemed an eternity, the man answered. He looked surprised to see Philip.
“Why Lord Charlesworth, what a pleasure. Will you not come in?”
“Yes, thank you. I must apologize for arriving unannounced. I have an urgent matter with which I hope you may assist me.”
The small man moved with the nervous energy of a marionette on a string. “Please sit down. I will assist in any way I can. Would you like a drink?”
Philip waved the offer of a drink aside as he took a chair. “Thank you, no. I wish to know if you have heard of any French artists who have been in London for at least a score of years, someone who might do portraits.”
The little man drew himself up straight in his high back chair and leaned toward Philip, “If my lord is not pleased with the progress of his portrait, I am sure that I may yet satisfy him.”
For a moment, Philip was befuddled. Then as understood the man’s meaning, he was quick to assure him, “You misunderstand. It is not my portrait that concerns me, for you are doing an admirable job, I am sure. I wish to find a portrait done of a certain young lady a number of years ago.”
“Oh.” The man’s countenance brightened. “I see. Then, let me think.”
He thought a moment and said, “There are more British artists who go to France than there are French artists here. There is a Monsieur Claude Benoit. He has been here a number of years.”
He hesitated and said, “There is another young man that I have met. But he has not been here long.”
“Where might I find the first Frenchman?”
“Around the corner on Oxford Street. He will likely be in London at this time of year.”
Philip arose. “Thank you. You have been of valuable assistance. I shall go at once.”
“But sir, you must first see the progress of your portrait. I expect to finish the details this very week.”
Philip had little interest in the portrait, for it had been entirely his mother’s idea. Yet, he managed to have the courtesy to stay long enough to view the portrait and lend his approval, though, in all honesty, he thought his shoulders too broad and his chin too square but it was of such little consequence to him that he did not mention it.
When he finally managed to take leave, he went straight away to find Monsieur Benoit. The sign above the door made it easy to find the residence.
He rapped at the door and grew increasing disappointed when it went unanswered. He rapped again. When it was finally clear that the artist was not at home, he turned in defeat and boarded the coach.
He was glad to arrive too late to be summoned by his mother, for she was sure to ask questions about what he had learned. And since his quest had not been satisfied, he was content to avoid her until he had something definite to share.
In the morning, he breakfasted early before setting off again to see Monsieur Benoit. This time, his insistent rapping was rewarded by a bearded man in a bathrobe who scowled at him through sleepy eyes.
“I beg your pardon, monsieur, but I have come on a matter of importance. May I speak with you?”
The Frenchman nodded grudgingly, though a twinge of curiosity showed in his eyes. He smoothed a beard that had once been dark and was now streaked with ample gray and said, “Sit and tell me what is on your mind, s′il vous plaît.”
Philip accepted a seat in the small sitting room and began his second hand tale of the long-ago portrait. As he spoke, the artist watched him, showing little interest. When Philip finished, he waved his hand and said, “That was long ago. I do not believe that I did any such painting.”
Philip felt his hopes dim. “I would be obliged if you could tell me of any other French artists of whom I might inquire?”
Monsieur Benoit drew his brows together. “I cannot help you. I do not remember.”
He studied Philip. “This painting…it must be very important to you.”
“It is. I had hoped that it might provide the clue to a puzzle that I am trying to unravel. I will leave you my card. If you come across any information, I would be happy to pay you for your trouble.”
Monsieur Benoit accepted the card and studied it with interest. It was not every day that he had the opportunity to put a Marquessin his debt. He glanced up as Philip arose.
“I shall take leave now. I am sorry to have troubled you.”
Monsieur Benoit nodded in reply. He watched Philip walk to his carriage before turning and walking up the stairs that led to the large attic above his rooms.
Philip went home, and after he had freshened himself, spent the afternoon at the club. The talk of politics and the economy managed to distract his thoughts from what had preoccupied him during the last two days. By the time he arrived home, he was in a fair mood to accompany Lord and Lady Charlesworth to an evening assembly where he happened to sit at the elbow of Miss Buckley.
The next morning, he took a brisk ride and congratulated himself upon putting the whole unfortunate business regarding the maid out of his mind. He had only just returned to the house when the butler presented him with a message. A Monsieur Benoit had called
and said that it was most urgent that he contact the gentleman.
Philip pondered the message as he ordered the carriage brought round. Perhaps the man had heard of an artist who might have done the portrait. He hoped the man had not returned to France.
When he reached Monsieur Benoit’s residence, he was admitted by a young girl in a long flowing dress. Monsieur Benoit appeared and said, “This is my model, Monique. Monique this is the Lord Charlesworth.”
The girl curtseyed and Philip returned her shy smile.
“Now, if you will excuse us, my chère.”
The girl disappeared and Monsieur Benoit showed Philip into the drawing room.
Philip felt impatient. “You have news for me, Monsieur?”
“Perhaps. I thought about what you told me. Then, I decided to search my attic. I may have found what you seek, but I do not know.”
Philip felt a stir of excitement. “Is it here? I would like to see it.”
Monsieur Benoit nodded. “It is. However, I believe there was some mention of payment for aiding you in your quest. Models cost money and even artists have to eat. I will show it to you for a price.”
Philip felt a rising dislike for the man. “How do I know you will not take my money in exchange for viewing a painting that is nothing like I described.”
The man shrugged. “You do not. You have only my word that it matches what you are seeking.”
Philip knew he could not leave without seeing the painting. “How much?”
“Ten pound to see it.”
Philip produced a ten pound note.
The man pocketed it and said, “If you will wait here monsieur, I will return with the painting.”
Philip fidgeted as he waited. At last, he heard footsteps coming down the hall. Monsieur Benoit carried a blanket-covered rectangle of canvas into the room.
“Are you ready to see it, monsieur?”
Philip sat forward in his seat. “I am ready.”
With dramatic flair, Monsieur Benoit removed the covering.
Philip’s sucked in his breath as he stared into the green eyes of a young girl, shamrock eyes. And she had copper-red hair. Here before him was a perfect younger likeness of the girl he had known as Ginny.
“Please do not be insulted, but I must be sure. The woman who told the story said her maid sat for some of the sitting to spare her mistress the long hours. Are you sure this girl was the daughter of the late Lady Kirby?”
Monsieur Benoit sniffed. “Yes, I am sure. The mamáengaged me to paint her daughter. I delivered a perfect likeness of the child, for that is what I do. I am an artist. I do not lie with my brush. But the mamá wanted me to change the color of the hair and the shape of the nose. I would not do this, for it would have ruined my masterpiece. When we could not agree, I took the portrait and left.”
Philip knew what he must do, though he believed it would cost him dearly.
“I would like to buy this portrait for the young lady for whom it was painted.”
Monsieur Benoit’s mouth curved into a smile which he tried to hide by stroking his beard. “It is dear to me. I have had it for some time. I could not part with it for less than two thousand pounds.”
“Sir, that is exorbitant.”
“I am sorry. It means a great deal to me.”
Philip scowled, doubting that the portrait had seen the light of day for many years and had likely been forgotten until he came to inquire of it. And yet, what was he to do? The man obviously knew that he could afford to purchase the work.
“If you will allow me to take the portrait, I will send my man back with the money.”
Monsieur Benoit narrowed his dark eyes. “I would prefer to give him the painting when he returns, monsieur.”
Philip sighed. “I will return with the payment within the hour.”
“That is very good, monsieur.”
Philip returned home and fetched the money, then returned to buy the painting. He paid Monsieur Benoit and allowed the artist to drape the portrait for the journey in the coach.
He handed it to Philip and said, “I hope it will bring the young lady much joy.”
Philip accepted the painting. He had no wish to linger now that they had concluded their business. “I am sure that it shall. Good-day, monsieur.”
He was glad to rid himself of the shrewd Frenchman. And he was glad to have no more business dealings with the man, for he did not either like or trust him.
He propped the portrait inside the carriage and sat staring pensively at it. His heart convicted him, telling him that he had known from the beginning that there was something special about the girl. How could he have ignored what his heart told him?
And yet, how could he have known the truth when Katharine had taken such pains to hide it? Why had she felt a need to disguise herself from, him? Was he a monster to be escaped at any price? No. He would have loved her and cherished her. He would have done all in his power to make her love him. Yet, she had not given him the chance.
His anger rose at how unfairly she had acted. He had half a mind to leave her to suffer the distress of her ill-conceived plan. Yet he knew he could not leave her to suffer. He would do all in his power to restore her position.
He heard Lady Charlesworth asking for him when he entered the house. Seeing him, she swept down the hall, frowning as she came.
Philip set the portrait in the drawing room and turned to greet her. “How have you been, Mother? Well, I hope.”
“Oh, yes, I am quite well,” she answered impatiently. “But what about that unfortunate business with the girl? Did you find her? And what is in that package that I saw you carrying?”
Philip nodded toward the portrait, which was still draped. “In a manner of speaking, I found her.”
Lady Charlesworth raised a perfectly formed brow. “What do you mean, sir?”
“Ginny told me that Lady Katharine sat for a childhood portrait. I have found that portrait and purchased it.”
Lady Charlesworth looked perplexed. “That was kind of you to do so for her uncle. However, I do not see how that solves our problem.”
“You will understand when you see the portrait, though I fear it may disturb you. Pray, take a deep breath before I lift the covering.”
Lady Charlesworth sat forward on her settee and stared as Philip unveiled the work. “Why that is Ginny, only younger. What can this mean?”
“It can mean only one thing. Lady Katharine deceived us and served as your lady’s maid, and did ill at it, I imagine.”
Lady Charlesworth clasped her hand over her mouth, her face pale. For one of the few times in his life, Philip’s mother was speechless.
After a moment she spluttered, “No wonder she was terrible at arranging hair and not very good at mending or any other skill required of a maid, save reading to me.”
She shuddered. “This is most intolerable. I feel as though I have offended my dear friend. I am glad her mother is not alive to see it. What was the girl thinking?”
“Apparently she objected strongly to her choices of marriage.”
Lady Charlesworth’s shock showed plainly on her face. She worked herself up, so insulted on Philip’s behalf, that she finally agreed that he ring for Lizzy to put her to bed.
Lizzy’s eyes went wide when she entered the parlor and saw the portrait. “Ginny or…Lady Katharine?” she whispered.
Philip gave her a sharp look. “You knew that Lady Katharine was posing as my mother’s maid?”
The girl bit her lip, nervous now that two pairs of eyes were fixed upon her. “Then it is true? I did not really believe her.”
“It is true. Did she tell you where she was going?” Philip asked.
Lizzy stood, wringing her hands in mute misery.
“Speak girl. She is not in trouble. I believe her and desire only to help,” he said.
She met his eyes and searched them. Deciding that he was in earnest, she replied, “I sent her to my aunt, Mrs. Baker on Cheapside. I do not know if she took
her in.”
Philip shuddered. If Mrs. Baker had refused to shelter her, where could she have gone? He shook off the thought, not wanting to dwell on the awful possibilities.
He left Lizzy to care for his mother and ordered the carriage brought round. In less than a quarter hour he was bound for Cheapside.
CHAPTER NINE
Katharine held out a hem for Mrs. Baker to inspect. At first, she had been frightened of her propensity to scowl and her blustery ways. Yet when Katharine had told her that she was fleeing a forced marriage to a cousin and that Lizzy had told her to come, the woman bade her enter. She had proved kind and had found Katharine a small room in the back of her house. It was crowded with sewing supplies, but Katharine managed to stay warm upon a rather saggy cot.