by Erica Ridley
Not just the upper classes, she realized at once. Caricatures were just as popular with the have-nots as the haves. Perhaps more so. Not only were such sketches a window into a life peasants could never experience for themselves, the accompanying biting commentary offered power. A way to mock one’s betters, to laugh right back at the vaulted paragons who had long belittled their “lessers.”
Nora bit her lip. She could see the allure: the commercial value her art might have to a printing house, the impact the money earned could have on her family.
She could also see the danger. Carter claimed the confidential intermediary protected their identities, but for how long? Every published drawing risked the very employment opportunity that made the sketches possible. Every new caricature would be another nail in her coffin if anyone should ever learn the true identity of the artist behind the drawings.
If she were found out, she would lose everything. Her post with the baroness. Any hope of earning desperately needed money.
And yet, it was a way to help her family right now.
The fastest way to help her family.
She leaned back in her chair. The first salary as companion would not be paid until after the first month.
In the meantime, her already overworked brother was stretched beyond all reason until she could return home to do her part. With even more money, he and both grandparents could hire a maid-of-all-work to take over Nora’s duties inside the cottage. With enough earnings, they could all sleep at night without fear of the morrow.
With enough sketches, they could free themselves from poverty.
From your brother with love,
Carter
She lowered the letter to her lap and stared at the crackling fire.
Was it worth the risk? The sole reason she was in London was because Nora and her brother hoped the money she earned as a companion would change their fate. To be able to survive without fretting over every ha’penny.
Her grandparents had built their country home with their own sweat and blood. They loved their farm and never wished to leave it. Not that there was anywhere else to go. Their land was all they had.
With enough money to purchase a crucial quantity of sheep, the farm could finally become self-sufficient. Milk, cheese, wool. A maid for the cottage, a young farmhand or two for the sheep. Carter could finally have a life outside of the farm.
Nora could finally have a life.
And her grandparents would never have to lift an arthritic finger again. They could spend the rest of their lives in much-deserved peace. They could be happy.
She rubbed her face with her hands.
To caricature or not to caricature, that was the question. One potential outcome was anonymity and financial security. The other potential outcome was total ruination and a return to abject poverty. But was it already too late to walk away?
The price of refusal held nebulous returns.
In the best-case scenario, Nora would somehow remain gainfully employed, never once be asked to read aloud to her mistress or commit any other failures that would prove her unworthy of a role as companion, and she would return home ten weeks from now with eighty pounds in her pocket. A respectable amount that would at least cover the purchase of more sheep.
In the worst-case scenario, Nora’s shortcomings as a proper companion would be quickly discovered, her post summarily withdrawn, and herself returned to her family just as destitute as she began.
Neither path held any guarantees. There was no way to see into the future.
Her stomach churned.
Was this how Society gentlemen felt when they wagered the deeds to their unentailed properties on the turn of a card?
She’d sketched ton life as a lark. Not to poke fun at anyone or anything specific, but because it was easier than trying to write a letter. She could dash off a far more eloquent sketch in half the time it would take her to scratch out a single, painstaking, illegible, misspelled sentence.
And she loved to draw. She always had. It had never hurt anything. Even this time.
Once she had gotten over her initial horror at Lord of Pleasure replacing the Earl of Wainwright’s actual name, the baroness’s gossipy friends had quickly pointed out that the infamy only added to his rakish allure, rather than harm his reputation in any way.
It made sense, Nora supposed. She hadn’t been mocking him, but the vapid ninnies who swooned at his very name.
So what if Nora drew vignettes of real people? Did not more celebrated caricaturists do the very same thing? Indeed, was that not the job?
There was no consequential difference between Nora’s anonymous sketches and the infamous drawings of men like Gillray and Cruikshank.
Except for the part about her hopes, dreams, reputation, and future being dashed to bits if her secret ever got out.
She turned over her brother’s letter to hide the dancing, damning words from view.
A tiny drawing greeted her on the other side.
Three circles with sticks for bodies joined stick-hands on the left. A speech balloon emanating from all three smiling mouths read, We love you!
Nora straightened her spine. She couldn’t afford to turn down any opportunity to provide for her family.
If a pair of drawings could garner more money than she could earn in a week, was there really any choice but to say yes and draw as many as she could while she was still here?
She’d already been feeling guilty about not being present to do her share of the chores. This was how she could help. Working as both companion and secret caricaturist would essentially be holding two jobs instead of one, and could earn her far more in the same amount of time.
More importantly, she owed it to her grandparents. Not only had they taken her in when there was nowhere else to go, they were Nora’s only family. Carter’s only family.
She couldn’t bear the thought of a loved one suffering all over again. Nora was determined to do everything in her power to keep her family safe and fed for as long as possible.
Even if it meant assuming a hidden identity as the most infamous caricaturist in London.
Chapter 4
Shrieking from the ground floor wafted all the way upstairs to the guest room.
Nora laid her pencil atop the escritoire and rubbed her temples. It was not Lady Roundtree’s shrill tone that was causing her megrim, but rather the challenge of responding properly to her brother’s letter.
The dozen lines he had written had cost her half an hour to read. She’d spent twice as long attempting to pen a coherent reply. Her stomach was sick with frustration.
If only writing letters was as easy as drawing sketches! In a matter of minutes, she would have been able to explain the need for heightened secrecy, that he should never again mention the business arrangement in his letters to her, and that he should never, ever breathe her name to the intermediary, lest the printing house learn her identity.
Above all, she needed to ensure Carter would not accidentally make things worse. Nora ground her teeth at the few lines she’d managed to eke out. If words were as easy as sketches, she could have already conveyed her inspired plan to—
“Miss?” A timorous maid hovered at the open doorway. “Milady requests your immediate presence downstairs. There’s a… situation.”
Nora leapt to her feet. Of course she would go at once; she was here at the baroness’s whim. It would be a great irony for her to be sacked for dereliction of duty because she was in her guest chamber, failing to write a stupid letter.
Her fingers trembled against the balustrade of the spiral balcony. What if the “situation” below was that the baroness wished for her new companion to read the morning newspaper aloud? Or the latest gothic novel for her book club?
Nora pushed through the fear and forced her feet to march down the stairs. Dillydallying after a summons would be just as bad a crime as borderline illiteracy. Promptness, on the other hand, was a trait she was delighted to display.
Besides,
there might be nothing worrisome afoot. Perhaps Lady Roundtree had decided she no longer trusted maids or footmen, and it would now be Nora’s sole and solemn duty to starch handkerchiefs and fetch fresh pots of steaming chocolate. Or to place pearl-studded pins in the baroness’s hair.
Heaven help them both.
The intricacies of High Society hair styles were just as foreign to Nora as the contents of Debrett’s Peerage. Lady Roundtree’s private lady’s maid was nothing short of a wizard with hair pins and curling tongs. The addition of splints and a wheeled chair did nothing to reduce the baroness’s elegance.
As Nora reached the foot of the staircase, a single sharp bark rent the air. What on—
“Good!” came Lady Roundtree’s voice. “That’s Winfield now. She’ll handle him.”
Nora spun to see a cluster of maids and footmen fanning in a half-circle about the baroness’s wheeled chair.
“Handle who?” she asked.
A flash of golden brown fur shot from behind the baroness’s wheeled chair and disappeared under the hem of a maid’s skirt.
The maid unsuccessfully stifled a shriek. “Help! It’s—”
The bundle of fur darted out from under her skirt and latched itself to the foreleg of the closest footman, upon which it delivered several frantic thrusts of its fawn-colored hips.
“—it’s on my leg,” the footman completed the sentence, his face a mask of pained stoicism.
Nora edged closer. “It’s a dog?”
Of course it was a dog. A pug, to be exact. The adorable curled tail with its little black stripe, the golden-brown coat, the floppy folded ears, the distinctively wrinkled face with patches of black about the muzzle and eyes. From the diminutive size, the puppy could be no more than a few months old.
The only question was what it was doing inside Lady Roundtree’s house. Besides humping the servants’ legs. Had it snuck in somehow? Or was—
“This,” Lady Roundtree informed her proudly, “is Captain Pugboat.”
Nora blinked. “Captain… Pugboat?”
“My new puppy,” the baroness added, in case the situation was unclear. “You will henceforth be responsible for his actions and appearance.”
“I am henceforth responsible for… Captain Pugboat,” Nora repeated faintly.
“Precisely.” The baroness waved a white-gloved hand. “Begin by removing him from John Footman’s leg. He smells of wet dog and must be bathed and dried at once.”
“She means Captain Pugboat,” the closest maid whispered to Nora. “Although by now, all of us smell like wet dog and ought to be bathed.”
The tiny pug snorted in delight as he continued to thrust against the footman’s foreleg.
Nora hurried forward and plucked the bucking puppy from the man’s ankle. Captain Pugboat immediately burrowed against her bodice and gave her bare arms a happy lick. He indeed smelled of puppy and morning rain. Nora could not have fallen more deeply and instantly in love if she’d tried.
The rest of the servants immediately fled before Captain Pugboat could greet them anew.
He was too busy trying to lick the side of Nora’s face.
She laughed and turned toward the baroness. “He’s adorable.”
“That is why I acquired a pet,” Lady Roundtree said with a nervous flutter of her hands. “My husband does not share a favorable opinion. He believes the only useful animals to be horses and hunting dogs. You are to ensure Captain Pugboat does not bother him.”
Nora nodded.
Avoiding Lord Roundtree would be her easiest task to date. Nora had glimpsed the baron only once in the week since she’d been installed in their household, and doubted his wife saw him much more than that.
To Nora, the idea of practically remaining strangers with one’s husband even after years of marriage was baffling. She recognized that the upper classes often wed for reasons far removed from love, but the idea that they wouldn’t try to make the best of things once they’d tied the knot had not occurred to her until she’d seen the phenomenon firsthand.
According to Lady Roundtree, her situation was far from unusual. In fact, many aristocratic men kept mistresses whose company they preferred over their own wives. Not that the wives were much different: once they’d produced the requisite heirs, a few even found their own lovers, although careful to be discreet about it.
There was no way Nora could ever withstand a ton marriage.
Not that anyone was asking.
A delicious shiver whispered down her spine at the memory of Mr. Grenville enquiring whether there was space on her dance card. She had not been able to quit the moment—or the man—from her mind since. All she could think about was what might have happened if she’d been at the ball as a guest. As an equal.
Perhaps he would have begged a proper introduction and stood up with her for a dance. Perhaps a cotillion… or perhaps a waltz. A full quarter hour with nothing to do but be whirled about in his arms amongst all the other dancers.
Not that Nora would have eyes for anyone but Mr. Grenville. He had charmed her so effortlessly with mere words. What would the touch of his hand do? His arm, wrapped about her waist? Her breath quickened. A waltz with him would leave her head in the clouds for the rest of her life.
If she were someone other than Nora Winfield, that was.
She cuddled the new puppy to her chest and turned to the baroness. “Where did Captain Pugboat come from?”
“I ordered him.” Lady Roundtree beamed with satisfaction. “Dogs are fine companions. Addington has one, Underhill has one, even that dreadful Epworth has one. Pugs are the present rage, you know.”
Nora did not know. But she was glad to have a puppy in the house. She had been in London scarcely more than a week, and each hour had seemed even lonelier than the last. The baroness might regard Nora as an employee like any other, but a dog would be delighted to have her around. Already the day seemed brighter.
“Who gave him his name?” she asked.
“I did,” the baroness answered with pride. “Leviston thought I should call him Spot or Goldie. Such uninspired twaddle. I prefer Captain Pugboat to stand out from the crowd.”
Perhaps it was Lady Roundtree who stood out from the crowd. Nora smiled. Anyone who would name a pet Captain Pugboat with a straight face had a clear sense of whimsy. Perhaps the baroness wasn’t as difficult to please as Nora had feared, but rather a lonely woman in search of companionship, wherever she might find it.
Nora curtsied to her patroness. “I think you chose splendidly. I shall be honored to care for him while I am here.”
“I should hope so,” the baroness said with a sniff. “You’re paid to do whatever I desire.”
Nora bit back a sigh. More proof she would forever be seen as an employee, not a cousin. Or even as a thinking, feeling person who loved animals and silly puns and filling her sketchbook with fashionable gowns. Here in London, she would never be worth anything as herself.
She was just as anonymous as her caricatures.
Chapter 5
Under normal circumstances, Heath would have enjoyed a balmy afternoon at the Vauxhall pleasure gardens. The Turkish Tent and the House of Mirrors were both charming, and the Rotunda was a particular favorite.
Today, however, he had not paid for admission merely to join the well-heeled throngs taking in the fresh air along the Spring Gardens. He was not even primarily here to act as escort to his mother and sisters. Not only did the women of his family not require a male gaze hovering about, the task was itself impossible. The moment their half-booted feet stepped free of the family coach, all four women immediately dispersed in opposite directions, leaving Heath standing alone amid the sculpted gardens.
Momentarily alone, that was.
This afternoon’s purported goal was to take his duty to select a bride more seriously. While this direction was new for Heath, the idea of becoming someone’s bride was the obvious intent behind the sea of bright-eyed debutantes throwing themselves into his path, as if she
er proximity would be enough to secure his heart.
Heath’s heart, however, had precious little to do with the matter. He had no wish to be swept away by passion. His reputation, his status, his livelihood, his very future depended upon careful selection of the right woman.
Wealth did not signify. Looks did not signify. The one thing that mattered was strict adherence to unwaveringly proper comportment at all times.
What the determined debutantes with their rouged lips and artfully dropped handkerchiefs didn’t realize was that the very act of brazen flirtation took them quite out of the running. He was the gentleman who quashed gossip and vanquished scandals. He would never align himself with someone likely to become fodder.
Which mayhap explained why Heath was still unwed. Thus far, he had been perfectly content to enjoy his bachelorhood until he met someone who could change his mind. The only woman to interest him had turned out to be a paid companion. But he had sworn never to settle, much less disgrace his family with scandal.
Unbidden, the memory of the pretty, red-haired young lady from the other day sprang to his mind. Miss Eleanora Winfield. She of the flying lemonade and beautiful smile.
Last night, lying alone in his bed, Heath’s thoughts had not been filled with images of pale, insipid debutantes, but rather of sparkling blue eyes and shining red curls. The strict societal rules prohibiting him from asking her to dance had unfortunately done nothing to rid him of the desire. If anything, the thought crept into his mind more and more.
No matter how hard he tried to focus on propriety and duty, the strains of the orchestra would whisper from his memory and suddenly Heath would be right back at the refreshment table.
In the make-believe version of events, he would not have been in such a godawful hurry to sweep someone else onto the dance floor that he nearly mowed down the rosy vision in pink and red. In this version, his time would not be promised anywhere at all. He could spend the next half hour—nay, the rest of the night!—getting to know Miss Winfield. Perhaps coax her into his arms for a moonlit waltz…