Vanquished

by Hope Tarr

  Hadrian looked away from Lady Katherine's striking visage, the dark intelligent eyes openly defiant and subtly sad, and thought, you, sir, could be a very dangerous man. "I doubt the lady in question would take kindly to hearing herself described as vulnerable. Lady Katherine is one of the most independent-minded women I've ever known."

  Beneath the overhang of salt-and-pepper brows, Dandridge's wintry eyes hardened to chips of ice. "You speak of female independence as though it is some sort of virtue. Pray do not tell me you are one of those dewy-eyed idealists who would see the vote handed over to a pack of hysterical, ranting women?"

  So Hadrian wasn't the only one set on edge by the suffragist protest in the square. Hoping to steer their interchange toward a possible commission, he shrugged and said, "Politics have never interested me."

  "Yet you must have some convictions, some principles you wish to see advanced?"

  Why a man such as Dandridge should care about the state of his conscience was a mystery to Hadrian but regardless he answered honestly, "I leave principles and convictions to men with the money and time to pursue them. For those of us who must work for a living, the only interest we can afford to serve is our own."

  The lined face relaxed measurably. "So, St. Claire, you are a pragmatist at heart. How refreshing."

  The MP resumed walking about the room, pausing to examine the framed photographs lining the studio walls. Tempted as Hadrian was to inform the arrogant bastard he was closed for the night, he strained for patience. He needed money, he needed it desperately, and if a potential patron with influence and tin-lined pockets had a mind to keep him standing about after hours, there was nothing to be done but bite back his ire, smooth the scowl from his face, and await his pleasure like the lackey he'd sworn never again to be.

  Dandridge stopped before an eight-by-seven-inch platinum print of a female nude lying supine atop a bed of fringed pillows and Oriental carpeting, a cone of chiaroscuro light playing with the shadows framing the curve of one alabaster breast.

  "Very fine," he said at length, his back to Hadrian. "The clarity of the foreground is impressive and the setting shows a far greater attention to detail than one normally sees."

  At least there was no faulting the fellow's taste. The classically inspired scene had been a true labor of love, the fruit of a fortnight of experimenting with various props and lighting effects and poses until he finally hit upon the composition that matched the mental picture he'd been carrying about in his mind. At one time he'd thought to enter it in the Photographic Society's annual exhibition, but now it occurred to him that the picture might be put to a more practical purpose.

  Biting back his pride, he ventured, "If you'd care to purchase it . . ."

  With a shake of his head, Dandridge dispelled any hope of that. Turning to Hadrian, he remarked, "I can't help but notice that your subjects are all females."

  Hadrian shrugged but inside he was wary. "I like working with women for many reasons, not the least of which is that they are generally better disciplined about keeping still."

  "I see. And do they, in turn, like working with you?" When Hadrian didn't immediately answer, Dandridge turned back to the nude, his gloved finger stabbing the spot where her drape dipped to reveal that perfect breast. "That woman must have liked you very much indeed to allow you to photograph her in such a . . . vulnerable state."

  "Justine is a professional model and accustomed to posing for painters."

  "Yet I wonder, has any portraitist before managed to elicit from her such a sweetly dreamy countenance, such unaffected sensuality?"

  Hadrian folded his arms across his chest. "I wouldn't know." He had, in fact, taken the girl to bed on any number of occasions, but he'd be damned before he'd expose his private life to satisfy a stranger's prurient curiosity. At the end of his patience, he added, "It's late, Mr. Dandridge. Perhaps you should tell me how I can be of service."

  "Very well, then. What I have in mind is for you to make me a photograph such as this only I've a very particular model in mind."

  So finally they were to get to the bottom of all this hemming and hawing. The old goat must have a mistress set up somewhere and wanted a nude portrait of her. Feeling on firmer footing, Hadrian walked over to his pine worktable. "If you'd care to take a seat, we can discuss the specifics of--"

  "I want the most damning photograph you can possibly make. Beyond that I shall leave the details in your capable hands."

  Hadrian halted from pulling out a chair. "If this is meant to be some sort of joke . . ."

  "It's no joke, of that you may rest assured. I want the subject stripped bare, St. Claire. I want her utterly denuded and humiliated, exposed to the world for the filthy slut I know her to be."

  Hadrian shook his head and turned away. "If it's a private detective you want to spy on your mistress, I have a barrister friend who can recommend you to one of the better firms."

  "Damn it, man, I don't want some snitch's blurred snapshot. I want a portrait, a portrait such as only someone with your expertise can make, and I am prepared to pay handsomely for it."

  Desperation warring with decency, Hadrian turned back. "How handsomely?"

  Dandridge's smile would have befitted Lucifer himself. "What say you to five thousand pounds?"

  Five thousand pounds! Hadrian's mouth went dry. To someone such as him, it was nothing short of a fortune. For a handful of seconds, he allowed himself to imagine Sykes's and Deans's crestfallen faces when they learned he'd cleared his debt with Boyle, that they wouldn't have the pleasure of carving him up after all. He glanced down at his hands, still stained with the silver nitrate solution that never seemed to come entirely off, and considered all he might accomplish if he could afford an assistant to help with developing the exposures and maintaining the apparatuses and generally keeping the shop in good order. Who knew, but perhaps down the road he'd even bring on another photographer to handle the commissions too small or too mundane to interest him.

  Finding his voice, he said, "That is a very large sum, Mr. Dandridge. Even if I agreed, what makes you think the lady in question will consent to sit for me at all, let alone disrobe to do so?"

  Dandridge raked his gaze over Hadrian as though he were assessing goods at Fleet Market. "Don't be overmodest, St. Claire. You're devilishly handsome, and you have a certain rough charm that is not without appeal. I'd wager you can be persuasive indeed when it serves you. If even half of the rumors circulating about you are true, you'll have the slut spreading her legs for both you and your camera within a fortnight. Unless, of course, she fancies girls--some of them do, you know."

  Hadrian tried to ignore the ice water trickling its way through his veins. "Them?"

  "Suffragists." Dandridge spat out the word. "They are like a plague of locusts descended on the nation, a cancer that spreads with the growth of a single cell. And like a cancer, our only hope for a cure is to root them out, starting with their leaders."

  Half-hoping Dandridge would withdraw his offer, he pressed, "And you think to accomplish so much with a single photograph?"

  "Not just any photograph, St. Claire, but the photograph, the one that will take down Caledonia Rivers once and for all."

  Caledonia Rivers! Like exposures brought out in the development process, the impressions took ghostly shape before Hadrian's mind's eye: a tall statuesque form swathed in an old-fashioned coat, a proud head hidden beneath a monstrous hat, the sweet curve of a strong but utterly feminine jaw blurred by a black web of veil. Best of all had been those magical few moments before he'd known who and what she was when ignorance truly had been bliss, and he'd stared at her like a child on the lookout for a falling star, wishing with all his might for the wind to lift up that veil and reveal the woman beneath.

  But if he accepted Dandridge's bargain, he would be exposing far more than the lady's face. "Why must it be her?" he asked, the words sticking in his throat.

  "Caledonia Rivers is young, she is well-born, and unlike her suffragist s
isters, she possesses a reputation that is presently above reproach. As president of the London Society for Women's Suffrage, she is one of three suffragist leaders to meet privately with the prime minister before their infernal bill is brought back before the Commons at month's end." Dandridge paused to take out his handkerchief and mop the sweat from his brow. "Bring her down and you bring the whole bloody Movement down with her. Reveal her for the foul slut she is and any self-respecting Member who otherwise might have been persuaded to cast his vote for extending the franchise will withdraw his support. The bill will die in the House without ever making it to a final reading. But mind you there must be no ambiguity, no uncertainty at all. The photograph must be damning, indisputably so. I mean to see Caledonia Rivers not only ruined but vanquished. Vanquished, St. Claire, I'll settle for no less."

  Callie's aunt-by-marriage, Charlotte--Lottie--greeted her inside the entrance of her townhouse on Half Moon Street. In a single glance, she took in her niece's ruined hat and rumpled, mud-stained clothes, and gave a rueful shake of her elaborately coiffed silver curls. "Good heavens, Callie, you look as though you've been run over by a coach and four."

  Callie looked up from working cold-stiffened fingers out of her gloves. "Now don't fuss, Auntie."

  "But I'm concerned about you, my dear. You work too hard by half. It wouldn't hurt you to take some time for yourself, get out a bit. The new Gilbert & Sullivan operetta is playing at the Strand and the on dit is that it's positively delicious."

  "Honestly, you're as bad as Teddy." Callie reached up to unpin her hat. Glad to be rid of the beastly thing--what had she been thinking to let the milliner talk her into such a monstrosity--she handed it to their maid, Jenny, along with her gloves.

  All brisk efficiency, Jenny set the articles on the hall table and moved to help Callie with her coat. Frowning at the stains, she tossed the coat over her arm. "I'll take this upstairs and give it a good brushing." As she started toward the stairs, a treacherous scrap of white fell from the coat onto the parquet tiled floor.

  Face afire, Callie dove for the handkerchief but Lottie, spry for her age, reached it first. "Oh my, what is this?" Straightening on creaking knees, Lottie looked from the crumpled linen to her niece, her lovely, lined face an open question. "Whoever is H.S.?"

  Feeling like she'd been caught with her hand in the honey pot, Callie found herself babbling, "No one . . . a man . . . I met in the square. Not met really. Bumped into, I suppose you could say." She glanced at Jenny, eyes bright as buttons. "Admittedly I'm selfish as winter is long, but what I'd like most now is to pour a nice cup of scalding tea directly down my throat." Hoping the maid would take the hint, she put an arm about her aunt's slender shoulders and steered her toward the parlor.

  But Lottie was not about to let her off that easily. The older woman had scarcely settled herself on the silk-covered settee before insisting, "Do tell me more about this H.S. How were you introduced? What sort of profession does he practice? Is he in sympathy with the Cause?"

  With a sigh, Callie sank into the overstuffed wingchair by the fire, her habitual spot. "Truly there's nothing to tell. His name is Hadrian St. Claire. He's a photographer of some sort. Apparently he has a studio not far from Parliament Square. We literally ran into one another in the park."

  "Well, don't leave me hanging on tenterhooks, dearest. Do go on."

  Feeling the beginning of a headache building at the backs of her eyes, Callie took off the spectacles, which had belonged to her uncle, Lottie's late husband, and kneaded the bridge of her nose.

  "There is absolutely nothing more to tell. He was kind enough to give me his handkerchief and help me collect my speech and then he was on his way." In the interest of sanity, hers, she saw no earthly reason to mention the very improper invitation to tea which, she assured herself, she never would have accepted.

  Lottie busied herself with plucking nonexistent pieces of lint from her skirts, but Callie could see the wheels of her aunt's mind working fast and furious. "It's only good manners that you return his handkerchief to him. After it's been laundered and pressed, of course."

  "There is no need. He told me to keep it." Recalling the way his tweed overcoat had fitted to his broad shoulders as only fine tailoring could, Callie added, "I'm quite sure he must have a drawer full at home."

  "Even so, I don't suppose there are all that many photographic shops in Parliament Square. I'm sure we could find his without great difficulty."

  Callie thought of his card, presumably still tucked safely out of sight in her coat's other pocket, and sank deeper into the comforting cushions. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Jenny at the door. Grateful for the reprieve, she beckoned the maid to enter.

  The girl approached with the tea tray and handed Callie one of two rose-patterned cups and saucers. "I went ahead and fixed it with plenty of cream and three lumps, just the way you like it, miss."

  "Lovely." Callie wrapped her cold hands about the warm porcelain and sniffed the steam with genuine appreciation. Darjeeling, her very favorite. "Jenny, has anyone told you you're a pearl beyond price?"

  Crossing the room, Jenny let out a laugh. "Can't say as they have, miss, leastways not lately."

  Lottie accepted her cup. Sipping her tea, she waited until the girl had gone before asking, "By the by, how did your speech come off?"

  Only too glad to steer the conversation toward a neutral topic, Callie propped her feet on the needlepoint footstool. "Well enough, I suppose, running noses and racking coughs aside."

  "Theodore was there to hear you, I've no doubt."

  Callie nodded. "Beyond the few press photographers who'd no choice but to show, Teddy was our sole representative of British manhood, I'm afraid"

  "He is undeniably devoted to you, Callie."

  Callie sighed into her teacup. "You know I adore Teddy, truly I do, but I simply don't have those sorts of feelings for him. For all his protestations of undying devotion, every time I've turned him down, I've got the impression he is nearly as relieved as I am."

  To her surprise, Lottie didn't disagree. "Theodore is a dear boy but yes, I expect the two of you would never suit. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there is something . . . oh, no matter." Lottie regarded her niece with serious eyes. "But as that handkerchief you're guarding so closely attests, Theodore is hardly the only unattached young man in London."

  Callie stiffened. "And by eligible you mean marriageable, of course."

  Lottie rolled her eyes. "Shackles of matrimony, instrument of women's oppression, legalized prostitution--is that all or have I left off one?"

  Callie smiled in spite of herself. "Perhaps, but I believe you've touched on the basic tenets."

  Lottie set her cup and saucer on the marble-topped lamp table. "I know you find this difficult to fathom, but marriage to the right person can be a very satisfying experience. My dear Edward, God rest his soul, was a most agreeable companion--and lover."

  "Aunt Lottie!" Callie very nearly spilled tea onto her lap, for despite more than a decade of such frank woman-to-woman talks initiated by her thoroughly modern aunt, she'd yet to feel comfortable discussing such an intimate topic.

  "Well, he was." Lottie settled back against the cushions, dreamlike expression making her look younger than her sixty-odd years. "Sexual congress with someone we care for deeply is one of the highest expressions of our humanity, a precious opportunity to connect with the divine while we're still firmly rooted on this earth."

  Carried back to her own narrow escape from the parson's trap, Callie tightened her grip on her cup's porcelain handle. "Then perhaps you'd explain why it is the sex act brings out the beast in such a great many men."

  The look her aunt cast her conveyed both sadness and pity. "Lovemaking can and should be pleasurable for both man and woman. When passion is tempered with caring and patience, the result can be highly satisfying for both partners."

  Partners, once Callie had thought that was what she and Gerald would be after they'd wed.
Not master and slave, conqueror and conquered but soul mates walking side by side on the journey of life. But those fairytale illusions had been torn away with brutal force, so that now the mere thought of placing herself in such a vulnerable--helpless--position ever again was enough to send a bolt of panic shooting straight through her. Yet there'd been a handful of moments, a blink of time, really, when she'd stared into a stranger's irreverent blue eyes and felt herself carried away from all that.

  "I expect I shall have to accept your word." Knowing it was fruitless to argue the point, Callie pushed aside the stool and rose. "You won't mind if I go upstairs? My speech for tomorrow night's assembly could do with a bit of polishing."

  "Of course not, dear." She had one foot over the threshold when Lottie called her back. "Callie."

  Callie slowly turned about. "Yes, Aunt."

  "You can't hide out behind those spectacles forever, you know. You're going to have to talk about it one of these days."

  "Perhaps . . ." The concern she saw in her aunt's softly lined face almost undid her. Almost, but not quite. "Only not tonight."

  Not tonight--and if Callie had her way, not ever.

  Seated at Hadrian's table, Dandridge unlocked his attache case and removed a string-tied bundle. Sliding it across to Hadrian, he explained, "Press coverage and publications of the Rivers woman from the past year. Familiarize yourself with them."

  Hadrian glanced down at pamphlet topping the stack. Musings from the Mouths of Slaves: A Treatise on the Subjugation of Women. Penned by redoubtable Miss Rivers herself, I see."

  Dandridge snorted. "Miserable radical rot, but you'll have to stomach it if you're to carry out your assignment."

  His assignment. In light of it, Hadrian thought back to the impromptu meeting in Parliament Square, marveling at the difference a few hours could make. Then Caledonia Rivers had been a pretty face to which he'd yet to attach a name, an attractive stranger he'd asked to tea with a mind to taking her to bed. When he'd handed back her papers, she'd smiled at him as though he were a knight in shining armor rather than a scapegrace photographer who'd only reclaimed a few wrinkled sheets from the wind.