“I asked them, and they answered frankly. Not everyone thinks women should remain ignorant.”
“You are not a woman. You are a child.”
“Oh, tosh! Look at me, Eva. Really look at me. Do not let the memories obscure what you see.” Tears sparkled in Rebecca’s eyes. Her defiant expression turned into one of pitiable unhappiness. “I am no child. I will be nineteen soon. Not one man has proposed. Not one. I have not even had a tragic love, like you did. And look at yourself. You used to have dreams of being an artist, but you have only done copies for years now. And I cannot remember the last time I saw you sketch.”
Turning on her heel, Rebecca ran to the house.
Eva gazed over the garden she had known all her life. A memory came to her of playing with a much younger Rebecca amid the shrubbery. Then others flowed, of comforting her little sister when their father passed away.
She dropped to her knees and continued pulling weeds. As her gloved hands yanked the tiny intruders out, her heart accommodated the words with which Rebecca had slapped her, hard.
Her sister did not really want to become a fallen woman. Rebecca just wanted to know she would have some kind of life besides this one. The lack of suitors would weigh on any young woman Rebecca’s age, and cause a restlessness that made her vulnerable.
Her thoughts turned to Charles, the “tragic love” Rebecca had thrown in her face. Not really tragic. Rebecca had been too dramatic. After all, Charles had not died. He had not forsaken her. He had merely gone away as he had planned, only without her because she could not—no, would not—marry him and go too. To do so would mean leaving her brother alone and sick, weak from that pistol wound that forever after affected his health.
That duty had cost her dearly. Marriage, her youth, her art—
She avoided thinking about all of it, because when she did her heart turned angry and frightened.
She almost never thought about Charles anymore. She rarely grew wistful with thoughts of what might have been. She hated that she did now.
She shut the memories away and thought about her plans for the future, plans she did not confide to Rebecca lest they not come to pass. With her sister’s unhappiness, it might be time to embark on that path sooner than intended.
She returned to the house, washed her hands, and mounted the stairs to her bedchamber. She pried up a loose floorboard in the corner, and fished out a little sack hanging on a nail she had pounded into a joist. She sat on her bed and emptied its contents in her lap. The shillings clinked as they fell into a little mound.
Coins entered this sack, but never left. She saved them for a purpose other than security, although they provided that too. With this money, she intended to give Rebecca the better she deserved. She had planned to have more before taking the first step, but now she decided more boldness was in order.
Surely if a decent, established man met Rebecca, he would fall in love and offer marriage despite her lack of fortune. She merely had to find a way for worthy prospects to see Rebecca. She also needed Rebecca to look very, very lovely when they did.
And once Rebecca was settled, Eva would be free to make her own future different as well.
* * *
Gareth surveyed the shelves holding bolts of fabric in Duran’s Cloths, a draper’s store in Langdon’s End. He had already waited half an hour for the proprietor to serve him. From the look of things it would be quite a while longer. The woman commanding Mr. Duran’s attention must have examined every bolt of fabric in the place, and showed no indication of knowing her mind yet.
While he practiced patience, he mentally made a list of the items he needed if he were to spend even one more day in Albany Lodge. That was not the historic name of the property. It actually had none that he knew of. In the will, it had only been called the Warwickshire hunting lodge. On his ride here he had sorted through names until he found one he liked. Considering how he had come to own it, naming it after his mother seemed fitting.
As he anticipated, Albany Lodge had been emptied of almost everything that could be moved and much that should never be. Most critically he needed bedclothes. He had only had serviceable linens the past few nights because he had stopped in Coventry again and, expecting what he would find, begged some off his mother. He should have hired a wagon and cajoled her out of much more.
He needed to purchase pots, soap, flints, kitchenware—everything. Tools, too, he reminded himself. He would hire craftsmen to do the skilled work, but he could manage a few repairs himself. Expensive, all of it. The count’s collection had better make it to Honfleur in time for Hendrika’s ship.
Gareth glanced over to see Mr. Duran, the proprietor, fold some muslin. Thin feminine fingers plucked coins out of a reticule and set them down. He could not see the woman’s face, but something about her feathered at his memory. Then he recognized the pelisse and bonnet. It was the woman he had forced off the road near Albany Lodge. His mind saw her again, her eyes throwing daggers of fire while she upbraided him for carelessness.
She wore the same bonnet and pelisse today. Both had seen current style some years ago. Their brown hues proved unfortunate to her coloring. They turned her into a winter palette that begged for red or bright blue. There were birds whose feathers helped them hide on tree trunks, and these garments had done the same on a road flanked by woods.
He doubted that camouflage was her goal. Most likely she wore this because she possessed little else that was presentable. If so, ruining those shoes had been no small matter to her. No wonder she had cursed him.
Still, even in her dull browns, she was a prime article. All that spirit, and with a woman’s look to her, not that of a young girl. He had looked for a ring that day, and did so now again. Not a wife or a widow, it appeared. A pretty spinster then, with a charming upturned nose and clear, intelligent eyes.
Mr. Duran mumbled something. The woman softly replied. Gareth could not hear either one, but he recognized deference in the shopkeeper’s expression. The man even made a vague bow as the woman took the muslin and turned.
She strode out, her expression determined and her gaze not seeing much in the shop. Definitely not him lounging near the wall. As the door closed behind her, he approached the counter.
Mr. Duran blatantly assessed his garments. The analysis resulted in a toothy smile. “Good day, sir. In need of something for your journey?”
Gareth looked over his shoulder. He could still see the brown bonnet through the shop window. A feather bobbed beside it. She had stopped to speak to someone.
“Do you have something I can write with?” he asked Mr. Duran. “I must visit other shops, and can list what I need and come for it later.”
Mr. Duran produced a piece of paper and pencil. Gareth hurriedly jotted down a list. He handed it to Duran and headed to the door just as the brown bonnet moved away.
* * *
Eva thanked Mr. Duran and turned to leave the shop. As she did, she spotted a blue cape passing the shop window. She hastened out to the lane, lest that cape be too far gone when she emerged.
“Miss Neville and Miss Ophelia Neville, good day to you both.” She blurted the greeting as soon as the door opened.
The two women, one tall and one short, turned and greeted her in turn. They looked much alike with their very fair, long faces that might have graced a Tudor court painting. They also both had extremely fair hair. It possessed tight curls that resisted taming. Ophelia Neville, the shorter, younger sister, tried nonetheless to dress her hair fashionably, even if it, at best, appeared a pale yellow haze around her crown.
Jasmine Neville, the older, taller one, had surrendered to nature’s whim. She let her frizz fly free down her shoulders and back. By adopting an artistic wardrobe of exotic wraps, turbans, and capes, her stylishly eccentric appearance served as a foil to her sister’s conventional one.
“It was fortunate that I met you today,” Eva said. “There is a matter which I need to address with you.”
Jasmine’s lids lo
wered. “Pray tell what that is, Miss Russell.”
“It is about my sister.”
“She is well, I hope.”
“Very well, thank you. However, she visits you too often, I fear.”
“Your fear is misplaced,” Ophelia said. “We are delighted when she visits. She has been given free use of our library, and we love to see her engrossed in the books.”
“You misunderstand. My fear is that her visits are exposing her to ideas unsuitable to her.”
Jasmine seemed to grow even taller. Her head angled back dramatically and her eyes narrowed. “There are no such things as unsuitable ideas to a thinking person. If an idea is ill considered or bad, our intelligence will tell us so when we deliberate it.”
“Some ideas are better saved until a thinking person is an adult, don’t you agree?”
“Rebecca is an adult,” Ophelia said gently. “She is almost nineteen. Would you have her be like so many women, ignorant of the variety of philosophies in the world?”
Eva’s jaw tightened. “I do not speak of philosophies. I am not objecting to your introducing her to tracts by dissenters and radicals, alongside the great classical thinkers. She is sensible enough to make of those what they are worth.”
“I think Miss Russell is referring to more worldly things, Ophelia,” Jasmine said dryly. “Worldly with a capital W.”
“Indeed I am. I must object when you encourage my sister to look favorably upon a vocation as a—as a”—she groped, too vexed to think straight—“as a professional mistress!”
Ophelia’s eyes widened. Jasmine’s narrowed even more. Jasmine took one step closer and became very tall indeed. “We do not corrupt young women, Miss Russell. The insinuation that we do is not to be borne.”
“We really do not,” Ophelia hastened to add. “Rebecca was reading a history in which vague reference was made to a courtesan, and she looked the word up in the library while visiting. The definition surprised her enough that she asked us to explain. We neither of us believe in lying, so, of course, we did explain. Most discreetly and objectively, I assure you.”
“We certainly did not encourage her to look favorably on the profession or life.” Jasmine’s voice rose with each word, until they rang like a sermon spoken from a high pulpit. A man passing by slowed a bit, to hear more. “My sister and I are the last people to want a rare jewel like Rebecca to become some lout’s sexual slave, no matter how great the compensations or how silken the bonds.”
Eva caught her breath. She was sure those last words had been heard for a quarter mile. People across the lane actually stopped and stared.
“Please lower your voice,” she hissed. “I applaud your views regarding women becoming se—se—” She could not say it. “Of becoming slaves of any kind. We are of like mind, but some circumspection in speech is called for. If you talk that frankly to Rebecca, I must prevent her from continuing her friendship with you.”
“Oh, dear. Jasmine, you have shocked nice Miss Russell. You must learn to control your words when you are in high dudgeon.”
“I did not initiate this conversation. I am an efficient speaker, even if Miss Russell is not. As for Rebecca, our door is open to her. If you want to keep her away, find something more interesting for her to do.” With a self-satisfied sniff that expressed her view of that likelihood, Miss Neville turned and walked away. Her sister hurried to catch up.
Face burning, Eva collected herself. Well, that had hardly ended as she intended.
Across the street two women still stared. The poor things had probably never heard the word sexual spoken before. Eva was sure she hadn’t, let alone heard it shouted on a main road in full hearing of passersby. The whole town would probably feed off the story for a week.
She tucked her new muslin against her body and walked on. She hoped Rebecca liked the pattern. This visit to town had cost more than the coin paid for it.
She forced her mind to practical matters. Should she make Rebecca the new dress, or hire a dressmaker?
“We meet again,” a voice said as boots fell into step beside her shoes. “How kind of fate to arrange that.”
She started so badly that she jumped aside, much as she had hopped into a big puddle two weeks ago. The same face looked down at her as had that day.
The careless horseman had returned, looking as handsome and dangerous as ever.
Seeing him up close hardly dimmed his attraction. She took in the details in a daze that created slow motion. The mildest cleft in his chin. The high bones of his cheeks that together with well-formed eyebrows brought attention to his dark, devilishly wicked eyes. The waves of disheveled hair that flattered him more than carefully brushed hair ever could.
He wore a blue coat today and a cravat indifferently tied. He still looked expensive. A gentleman, that was obvious.
“I did not intend to startle you,” he said. “I apologize if my greeting took you unaware.”
His vague smile communicated more than friendliness. He could see how impressed she was. Of course he could, when she gawked at him like a schoolgirl.
“If I am surprised, it is because I am not accustomed to being greeted by men I do not know.”
“Ah, a stickler.” He said it like it was a disease. “Wait here, please. Promise you will not move.” After she nodded, he strode back into the shop, and soon emerged with Mr. Duran. Mr. Duran listened to words muttered into his ear as the two of them approached her.
Mr. Duran cleared his throat. “Miss Russell, may I introduce you to Mr. Gareth Fitzallen. He is new to the region and eager to make the acquaintance of its leading citizens and families.”
Mr. Fitzallen bowed. Eva had no choice but to make a quick curtsy. Mr. Duran returned to his shop.
Eva tried to figure out how to shed the beautiful man who had gone to some trouble to obtain an introduction. Not that an introduction by a tradesman really qualified as a proper introduction. Clearly Mr. Fitzallen was not the kind of stickler to care about that.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir, but I am hardly a leading citizen. If you have settled in the region, I am sure our paths will cross again, however, and I look forward to greeting you next time with more courtesy.” Trusting he would hear the dismissal barely hiding in the farewell, she began walking down the lane again.
Those boots once more fell into step beside hers.
“Do you live here in town?” he asked.
“My home is a half mile or so into the country.”
“What a coincidence. So is mine. I am living in the ruin where we first met.”
That was not good news. “Surely there were better houses to let in the county than that one. I would not think it was even inhabitable.”
“It is barely livable. I came to town today to purchase a few items to help make it more so.”
“I would think a gentleman like yourself would require more than barely livable.”
“I desire much more, but in truth require very little. I will make do with livable for now. I am hoping you will take pity on me and direct me to the shops and craftsmen that can be trusted.” He flashed a disarming smile, one designed to make a woman swoon. “See, there was a reason I accosted you so rudely. I know no one else to ask.”
This man knew how to exploit his natural gifts to full effect. Knowing his game did not save her from succumbing. Her heart danced a jig. A joyful, naughty one. Get hold of yourself, you goose.
“I fear if I help you, it will only encourage you further in what is a bad bargain. I warned you the house was derelict inside, yet you let it anyway. If you did not trust my judgment on that, why should you do so when it comes to shops and craftsmen?”
“I did not let it, as such. It belongs to me, crumbling walls and all. So either I leave it to vagrants and fires, the fate you predicted, or I take possession and attempt to save it. I chose the latter.”
She halted her steps and turned to him. “Yours?”
“Mine.”
She dragged up what
little she knew of that house. “Years ago it belonged to the Duke of Aylesbury, although it is said he last visited fifteen years ago. Has the current owner finally sold?”
“It was left to me upon the third duke’s death. I have not been able to take residence until now.”
Why not? She bit back the question in favor of one less intrusive. “Are you a relative? Expect to be called on mercilessly by every hostess in Langdon’s End if you are.”
“Perhaps you will let it be known that the house will not be suitable for me to receive callers for some time. Except you, of course, since we are friends.”
Friends now. What charming nonsense. As if she would ever call on a bachelor at his house. She assumed he was a bachelor, if he was the person buying drapes and such.
It seemed a prudent moment to continue walking. She paced along with her escort until they came to a red door. “This shop is owned by Mrs. Fleming. She sells sundries and general wares. I need to take my leave now, so I can purchase some thread.” She held up the muslin by way of explanation.
“Is that for a dress? The pattern favors you. It makes your eyes appear very blue.”
More silly flattery. No one had ever commented on her eyes.
He peered through the window. “I will join you. I see some pots in there.”
Pots. She looked in the window and recognized the ones he now spied. “They even stole your pots? How terrible,” she murmured.
“I am grateful they left the pieces of one bed, so I did not have to sleep on the floor. And one chair and a small table.”
One chair.
Mrs. Fleming, a small, frail woman with graying hair, favored simple dresses, big aprons, and severely bound hair. She did not hide her surprise at seeing Eva walk in with a man. Her eyes grew wide as the dashing appearance of that man became obvious. She flushed to her hairline and pretended to sort through the jars on the counter in front of her.
“Good day, Mrs. Fleming. I need some white thread, if you would be so kind.”
Mrs. Fleming opened a drawer and produced the thread. “Three pence.”
His Wicked Reputation Page 4