Wallflower Most Wanted--A Studies in Scandal Novel

by Manda Collins

  “Can I call for some refreshment, Mr. Morgan?” Ben asked once they were alone. “Tea, or perhaps something stronger? I believe I’ve got a bottle of brandy in the sideboard.”

  But Morgan shook his head. “What you can do for me, Reverend Lord Benedick, is to use your influence to ensure that the upcoming art exhibition in our village is safe from the polluting influence of a Miss Sophia Hastings’ work.”

  Chapter 8

  Ben rocked back on his heels at the other man’s mention of Sophia.

  “I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” he said with a mildness he didn’t feel.

  “I have been assured by someone very close to her that Miss Sophia Hastings plans to place three highly improper paintings in the exhibition,” Morgan said with a scowl. “One, in fact, depicting a common whore, and another showing a child on the brink of death. I do not know the subject matter of the third one, but I have no doubt it will be equally repellent.”

  The vicar could see that Morgan was not the sort to listen with any seriousness to an explanation of art and the role it played in pushing for social change. Or, for that matter, to discuss the fact that some of the most explicit and disturbing paintings he’d ever seen were religious in nature. This was a man who merely needed to hear a few words of describing the painting’s content to determine its unwholesomeness.

  That the artist in question was Sophia Hastings, whose very presence in a household of lady scholars was questioned by some in the village, was not lost on him either.

  Still, as the minister to the whole of Little Seaford, he had to do what he could to see things from every point of view—even those that made him itch to abandon his clerical collar and challenge the holder of said opinion to a fist fight.

  “I’m not sure what you wish me to do about the paintings to which you refer, Morgan.”

  “You must use your office as the spiritual leader of this village to keep that woman from exposing not only my wife but all the gentle ladies of the district to such filth. The innocence of our wives and daughters must be protected at all costs.” Stifling his instinct to plant the other man a facer, Ben pretended puzzlement. “I’m not sure I see what the problem with Miss Hasting’s work is. Is the fallen woman depicted in the nude?”

  Morgan scowled. “Not that I’ve heard,” he conceded, “but it needs only the implication that the woman in the painting makes her living on her back. I want no daughter of mine looking at such a person. Even on canvas.”

  “But surely you’ve read about Mary Magdalene in the gospel, Mr. Morgan. If our Savior can bring a woman who once plied that trade into his flock, then I don’t see the harm of showing another such lost soul in art. Knowing Miss Hastings, I have little doubt that the painting will be quite tasteful, and will likely carry a moral message. She might be a bit unconventional, as are all the ladies at Beauchamp House, but she is hardly a purveyor of indecency.”

  “Jesus also consorted with lepers, my lord,” said Morgan tightly, “but that doesn’t mean I wish my family to do so. It is my job as their protector to keep such ugly facts of life out of their purview. And as a leader in the village of Little Seaford, I extend that protection to all the innocent ladies and children of the town.

  “As for Miss Hastings, my lord,” he continued, “I find it difficult to believe a woman who looks like she does is unfamiliar with the sort of scenes she shows in her art. Her father is barely a gentleman, I think. She would do well to preserve what reputation she has instead of flaunting the proprieties as she does. I cannot think either she or her sister will escape their time in that very unconventional household without ruining themselves.”

  Vowing silently to ask Kerr or Maitland for a bout of fisticuffs as soon as he extricated himself from this interview, Ben clenched his jaw against a string of profanity.

  Still, he wasn’t required by his vows to allow men like Morgan to speak ill of ladies, no matter how unconventional their circumstances might be.

  “I should be more careful about what I said about the very dear friend of both the Duchess of Maitland and the Marchioness of Kerr, sir. You may have your opinions about the suitability of the Misses Hastings, but I can assure you that they are not without friends. And I believe any attempt on your part to slander them with such musings in public would be met with a very sharp rebuke from both the houses of Maitland and Kerr. Not to mention, that I myself count the Hastings sisters as friends, and have never seen a hint of the character flaws you suggest.”

  As he warmed to his subject, he felt his temper rise. Who was this uncouth lout to cast aspersions on Sophia’s reputation solely because she’d been gifted by God with a beautiful face and a curvy figure? Was Morgan’s own wife—whose looks, to be honest, paled in comparison—to be considered virtuous because she was plain? Good character wasn’t determined by one’s physical beauty or lack thereof.

  “I also cannot see how you are able to determine the morality or immorality of Miss Sophia’s paintings without having laid eyes upon them yourself.” He could see that Morgan wished to respond but wouldn’t let him get in a word. Not yet. “I understand you may not be all that familiar with art, sir. However—”

  There Morgan cut him off. “I am actually quite familiar with art, Lord Benedick,” he said with a sniff. “I have the pleasure of acting as the patron of a very talented young man whose work is what art should be—uplifting, moral, beautiful and entirely appropriate in mixed company. Mr. Thomas Ryder is everything that Miss Sophia Hastings is not. And I intend to see to it that his work is given a place of prominence in the exhibition.”

  Ah, Ben thought. So Morgan was worried that Sophia’s paintings would eclipse those of his protégé’s. It was quite possible that the man was indeed as worried about protecting the fragile sensibilities of Little Seaford’s ladies as well, but it was far more likely that he was trying to eliminate competition from Sophia. That he had suggested the Hastings sisters were no better than they should be in order to elevate his favorite was despicable, however.

  “And who is this Thomas Ryder you’ve taken under your wing?” he asked aloud, unable to keep a hint of skepticism from his tone. “A local fellow?”

  The exhibition was intended to be a showcase for the artwork of local painters and the grand prize—an exhibition in a very influential London Gallery, which had been secured by the head of the artist’s colony at Primrose Green—had the potential to bring the winner to national prominence.

  “He is a young man I have brought with me from Yorkshire,” Morgan said grudgingly, as if he knew exactly what Ben was thinking about the exhibition’s intent. “But as he resides with my family now, he is a local. And since Miss Hastings is only a latecomer to Beauchamp House, I cannot think that you would consider the matter of length of residence to be a problem.”

  He had a point, Ben acknowledged, with a nod of his head. Still, there was something havey-cavey about this business. Deciding he’d had enough of Morgan’s bluster, Ben gave him a friendly but cool smile. “As you may have guessed, I cannot support you in this matter. I would encourage you to wait until Miss Hastings’ work is unveiled before casting aspersions on it, but I can see that advice would fall on deaf ears. I see nothing about the subject matter in general that would endanger the souls of my congregation, and in fact, I can only think that seeing how the less fortunate among us live would do a bit of good.”

  He offered his hand in a gesture of goodwill, but was not surprised when Morgan ignored it and stomped to the door. Wrenching it open, his large frame filling the doorway, he turned to glare at Ben. “You’ll regret this, vicar,” he said with a scowl. “I am an influential man in these parts. And I have friends in the church. When the Archbishop of Canterbury hears about this, you will find yourself in a much less convivial post.”

  Since the archbishop was his mother’s first cousin, Ben had no worries on that score. Whatever influence Morgan thought he had, it was far less than that the Lisles wielded. He might dislike the politics of his pos
ition, but that didn’t mean Ben was unwilling to use them when necessary.

  Especially when it was in support of his innocent friends who were being targeted by a bully.

  “I hope I’ll see you Sunday, Mr. Morgan,” he said to the man’s retreating back, unable to stop himself.

  When the front door closed behind him, Ben heard Freddie come downstairs and into the parlor.

  “What. An. Ass.” His brother said in his wry way.

  Though Ben didn’t disagree, he wasn’t quite so comfortable dismissing the man altogether. He’d clearly got it into his head to ruin Sophia’s reputation. And that was something Ben wasn’t going to stand for. Not because he was attracted to her, he told himself, but because what Morgan was doing was both unfair and wrong.

  “I very much wish that Peter Morgan was one of the men you overheard at his ball,” Freddie said emphatically. “It would be quite satisfying to see him in manacles being hauled off to jail.”

  Ben didn’t disagree. It was perhaps unchristian of him to wish the other man ill, but he was human. And his sense of justice demanded that Morgan see some sort of ramifications for his unfairness toward Sophia.

  “I just can’t be sure,” he said aloud. But silently, he agreed. It would be eminently enjoyable to see Morgan get his comeuppance. Not Christian, perhaps, but every man had his trials.

  Even vicars.

  * * *

  By the afternoon, thanks to Dr. Holmes’ tight wrapping of the joint, Sophia’s ankle was feeling improved enough to make her chafe at the restrictions of her injury. The physician’s manipulation of the joint had shown it to be only sprained, not broken, and he’d assured her that it would be much more the thing in a week or so. For the pain, he’d suggested laudanum, but Sophia disliked how it made her feel, so as an alternative he recommended willow bark tea. And with the assurance that he’d look in on her again in a few days, he left her to take a much needed nap.

  When she woke several hours later, she felt better, and the swelling in her ankle had abated considerably.

  She tried to keep herself occupied with a book, but soon the dullness of the sickroom got the better of her.

  A short time later—having endured the indignity of being carried bodily up to the third floor by a footman—Sophia found herself settled comfortably on the settee in her attic studio.

  Upon her arrival at Beauchamp House, after paying a visit to the magnificent library with its gilt trimmed shelves and intricately patterned recessed ceiling, her next priority had been to see the studio space Lady Celeste had spoken of in her letter. Taking up what might have originally been intended as a nursery, the open room ran the width of the house and its wall of windows overlooked the manicured gardens, the rolling green beyond, and finally the cliffs and sea beyond that.

  Sophia had yet to enter the room without a sharp intake of breath at the sight. In the daytime, the view of the countryside leading to the sea could be bright with sun and blue skies, or more often, gray with roiling clouds and hints of rains to come. At night, especially when the moon was visible, the view was just as compelling.

  But it was the natural light that streamed through those windows into the chamber that made it special. As any artist would surely agree, light was a chief consideration for anyone who put brush to canvas. And whoever had designed this room—no doubt Lady Celeste—had known that better than most.

  Without the wall of windows, the shape of the chamber would have put Sophia in mind of a barn. Especially with the peaked roof. But the skylights in that roof, coupled with the plethora of windows, not to mention the smell of turpentine and oil, marked it as exactly what it was. A magnificently appointed artist’s studio.

  And it was all hers.

  At least for the next six months.

  She and the other heiresses hadn’t discussed what would happen if all four of them managed to remain in Beauchamp House for the full year stipulated in Lady Celeste’s will, and therefore inherited equal shares in the house. Ivy and Daphne had remained in spite of their marriages to titled men who had multiple houses of their own. But both Kerr and Maitland had been nephews of Lady Celeste, so therefore had sentimental attachment to the house itself. There was little chance at this point that Beauchamp House would become the sole property of any of them.

  The studio, however, Sophia secretly thought of as her own.

  With its multiple easels and ingeniously devised rolling walls that could be hung with works in progress and used to form smaller rooms within the large one, the studio was more perfect that she could have ever imagined for herself. And stocked as it was with canvas and supplies and everything she could possibly need, it was as close to heaven as she would get on this earth.

  Now, however, thanks to her ankle, she was unable to put the room to its proper use. At least not for painting. She had instructed the footman to move one of the rolling walls—hung with her three paintings for the exhibition—to a spot where she could sit back and examine them as a critic might.

  The first, which she’d titled “Fallen” was of a scene outside the entrance to a theatre. In the foreground, black carriages disgorged their wealthy occupants who paused in mid-laugh, mid-step, amid the chatter of the haute ton seeing and being seen, entirely at home in their world—its confines as real as the carriage interior they’d just stepped out of, if invisible. Lamps hung on either side of the wide doorway, paling in comparison to the almost blinding light of the entryway. And just to the right of the steps leading into the theatre, in a small recess between the stair rail and the iron gate of the next building, lay the crumpled figure of a woman. Her shiny gown, its bodice too low for propriety, was rucked up a little to show her calf. And thrown out to her side, her hand was open, relaxed. In the palm rested a shining gold guinea. Sophia had purposely left the woman’s face in the shadows, because women like that are so often unseen by the type of people who are blithely walking past. It was perhaps a bit too literal a symbol, but she thought it worked. At least she hoped it did.

  Her stomach clenched at the idea of unveiling it for the residents of Little Seaford to judge. In the time since she’d come to the seaside village, she’d come to, if not love the residents, at the very least respect them. They might not be quite comfortable welcoming her or the other bluestockings into their bosom, but neither did they hold the heiresses in contempt, in part because despite her eccentricities, Lady Celeste had been a favorite among them.

  This painting, Sophia knew without consulting them, would not be something they immediately understood or appreciated. It was, she feared, a bit ahead of its time. And would cause a bit of a stir among her neighbors. But it was the other percentage of Little Seaford’s inhabitants—the artists at Primrose Green, the local gentry, and the educated, somewhat cosmopolitan few—she hoped to speak to. That contingency might not like the painting, but they’d appreciate its technique, and might even agree with its message. Hopefully, it was these visitors to the exhibition who would also serve as judges.

  The thought of the exhibition reminded her of the overhead conversation and once again she felt a pressing need to find out whose life was in danger. And to warn him. Even if the man was a forger, he didn’t deserve to die for it.

  She cursed her injured ankle again and rested her head against the back of the settee with a sigh.

  Which is when she heard the knock on the door of the studio.

  “I hope you don’t mind the disturbance, dearest,” Gemma said as she stepped into the room, followed by Ben and a man who could only be his brother Freddie. The two men weren’t enough alike to be twins—Ben’s hair was slightly darker, and curlier, and his build was a bit less lean—but they had that general similarity that couldn’t be pinpointed but marked them as having emerged from the same set of parents. “Lord Benedick and his brother, Lord Frederick Lisle. They said it was a bit urgent.”

  Sophia was surprised to receive a second call from the vicar in the same day, naturally, but her sister’s mention of necessit
y gave her pause.

  “What is it, my lord?” she asked, attempting to sit up straighter. “Has something happened?”

  Sophia didn’t miss the hesitation before Ben said, “Well, not precisely … that is to say…”

  “It’s no worry,” she assured him with a smile. “My sister told me some of what you overheard at the ball last evening. But I’m off to work for a bit now. I’ll leave you to it.” To Sophia she said pointedly, “Do not overtire your injury. You may have bullied the footmen to carry you up here, but they can just as easily be instructed to take you back to your bedchamber.” And with that admonition, she left them. Leaving the door of the attic rooms ajar for propriety’s sake.

  “You told your sister about what we overheard?” Ben asked with a slight frown.

  “I was in pain and needed some distraction,” Sophia told him baldly. “And Gemma is trustworthy. She won’t tell anyone. Not unless I tell her she may.”

  “Don’t be a stickler, Ben,” said Lord Frederick, stepping around his brother to take Sophia’s hand in his and kiss it. “I’m the handsome one, Miss Sophia,” he said with a wicked grin. “I regret, however, that I’m taken, so you should dampen any pretensions you have toward my very handsome person.”

  “If Leonora heard you say that she’d have your guts for garters,” Ben said wryly. “And stop flirting. It’s quite true that you are taken and you should stop raising expectations.”

  “If I may be so bold as to speak,” Sophia cut in, “I am in no danger of succumbing to your charms, Lord Frederick, powerful as they are. Though I do thank you for exerting yourself on my behalf.”