His Wicked Reputation

by Madeline Hunter

  Other patrons toured the walls, strolling past the abundance of pictures. She and Rebecca stopped now and then at ones they especially liked. Eva scrutinized a few to see how some effect was achieved with the brush. She was doing that when Rebecca gripped her arm.

  “Eva. Over there. Isn’t that—”

  Eva straightened and looked where her sister pointed. On the wall facing the door, right in the center, a still life hung at eye level. No one would miss it. Her gaze swept over the glass goblet depicted, and the blue porcelain dish, and the ripe fruit.

  Her heart pounded so hard that her head throbbed too. She knew that composition very, very well. She had painted it four months ago in her library.

  “It can’t be,” she whispered.

  They scurried over to look more closely. Much like a signature—an artist knows her own hand at work. This was indeed hers.

  Eva felt sick. “I do not understand.”

  “Don’t you?” Frowning, Rebecca looked around the chamber, then marched over to a man standing in a corner. She spoke to him, and pointed at the still life. He in turn opened a pamphlet and pointed to a page in it.

  Rebecca returned with the pamphlet. “It will not surprise you to learn that your name is not listed. According to the auction house, this is a work by the Dutch artist Cuyp, who lived two hundred years ago.”

  Eva examined the page in the pamphlet. “I must be a better copyist than I thought.”

  “Is that all you can think about? Eva, Mr. Stevenson is cheating you. I thought he acted most suspicious when he gave you all that money. But he is giving you ten shillings, then sending them here to be sold for many times that amount. That man said they expected this to get knocked down—I guess that means sold—for at least three hundred.”

  Three hundred pounds? Eva had trouble swallowing the idea. When she did, her stomach turned again.

  “Rebecca, it will sell for that much because it is being sold as a picture by Cuyp. Not me.”

  “But you painted it. You should see more than ten shillings out of it.”

  Rebecca was missing the bigger quandary. The moral one. If they walked away without a word, someone would be cheated at the auction.

  “Are there any others?” She turned to look at the wall they had not yet visited.

  “None that I can see.”

  “Perhaps this was a mistake.”

  “Ha.”

  That ha echoed her own thoughts. Dear Mary Moser, I write to thank you for your kind reception and advice. Unfortunately, I now find myself in Newgate while I await trial for theft through fraud after being implicated in a scheme to sell counterfeit pictures by the great masters . . .

  She walked over to the man in the corner. He greeted her nicely, but his gaze shifted at once to Rebecca when she came up alongside.

  “I need to explain that a mistake has been made.” Eva pointed to the picture, then to the pamphlet. “That is not by Cuyp.”

  “We are quite sure it is. A fine example of his art too.”

  “No, it is not. I am more sure it is not than you are sure it is, because I painted that picture.”

  He made a polite smile. Amusement sparkled in his eyes. “I’m sure you did, Miss.”

  That was it. Nothing more. He did not believe her, but he would not insult her by disagreeing, so he just smiled and smiled. Which left her standing there like the addled fool he thought she must be.

  She took Rebecca’s arm and strode into the middle of the chamber. What to do?

  “He thinks you could not paint it because you are a woman,” Rebecca said.

  “No, he thinks I could not because he believes Cuyp did.” She faced the painting. “It does look very good there, in that light. Far better than it ever did in our library.” An inappropriate glow of pride flushed her.

  “Perhaps if you told Mr. Fitzallen, he could convince them.”

  “What would I say to him? That the most amazing course of events has occurred? That I took a painting out of his property without permission, copied it, sold the copy in Birmingham, and now, lo and behold, it was for sale at a London auction as the original? Why should he believe I was not complicit and made the copies for this purpose in the first place?”

  “Because you are his friend? And because you are telling him the truth?”

  “The magistrate who is called will not be my friend. Don’t you see how this looks? I made those copies in secret. No one knows about them except you. Even that will be suspicious now.”

  “Do you suppose the others that came to London are likewise being sold as originals, elsewhere?” Rebecca asked.

  The thought of that caused Eva’s stomach to turn dangerously nauseated.

  Rebecca gave her a little embrace and patted her shoulder. “It is just one painting that we know about for certain. Whoever buys it probably has a huge collection that includes other forgeries, and will never know. Especially if the original stays in that attic. You probably should never tell Mr. Fitzallen about the pictures up there, however.”

  They went to the door. Eva looked back at the painting. It glowed in the light, casting its own radiance. That goblet appeared so real one feared it might break.

  Despite her concern over the painting’s misuse, pride lifted her heart. Maybe Jasmine Neville was correct, and women were not taught to have sufficient ambition. Perhaps she, Eva Russell, possessed more talent than she gave herself credit for, and should aim not only to improve, but also to excel.

  In the least, one thing could now be said. If Christie’s listed her picture as a Cuyp, she was not only a middling copyist. She was a damned good one.

  * * *

  Gareth made his way out of London, then kicked his horse to a gallop. The speed gave some release to the frustration building in him. He had endured yet another restless night, tempted beyond reason to wind his way through the house to where Eva’s chamber lay.

  He had not expected to mind so much how things now stood between them. She was of an age to be curious, aggressively so, and he had chosen to show her and teach her. If she had turned her back on pleasure sooner than he expected—or wanted, he admitted—it should not bother him the way it now did.

  The truth was, he regretted arranging Eva’s invitation to the DeVere ball. When he did so, he anticipated her delight at his gift, and a pleasant night watching her bedazzlement. It had never occurred to him that other men might compete for her attention. Not because she did not deserve such attention, but because, he had to admit now, in his head she still belonged with him. To him.

  Whitmere’s bald admiration of her made it clear just how bedazzled she might become. That ball would be full of lords and heirs. Gentlemen all, with strong lineage and extensive properties and titles. Oh, yes, it would not do to forget the titles. A title trumped everything, didn’t it?

  He pictured the sons of the nobility lining up, asking Eva for dances, seeking favor with her. In that ballroom, among those people, being a bastard would matter as it rarely did in his life. Nor could he warn them all off the way he had done with Whitmere.

  He had never envied his brothers before. At least not much. Not with the surly edge he did now as he came close to cursing his birth. The guilt that provoked in turn only fed his bad mood. All his life he had hoped he might one day claim his half brothers as true family in spirit if not in law. Today Lance had, without thinking twice, taken a big step toward that. I sometimes forget you are a bastard. Just remembering those words now moved him to where he reined in his mount and sat still with his thoughts.

  Damnation, he could be an idiot at times. Only a fool wasted his life angry over what might have been. Nor had his circumstances left him impoverished or obscure. He might be a bastard, but he was a recognized one. With Percy gone, already his brothers had drawn closer. He turned his horse and rode back to town at a slower pace. He handed off his horse and entered Langley House. When he asked if Miss Russell had returned, the butler said she had, and was currently in the garden.

  At
the back of the house, he looked out a window. Eva sat on a terrace bench facing the back of the garden. It appeared she was sketching.

  His mind saw her in her own garden. Forced to do a servant’s labor by necessity, the artist in her found joy in it, not humiliation. He guessed the gentry woman had too. In preserving that garden, she also preserved the woman she had been born to be.

  He opened the door and went out to sit with her.

  Eva turned at the sound of steps approaching. When she saw him, relief softened her expression. “Oh, it is you.”

  “Did you expect someone else?” He sat beside her and angled his head to see what she drew.

  “Mr. Geraldson. He sent up a note asking to speak with me here before dinner.”

  “Lance’s secretary?”

  “I know it sounds odd, but—” She set her sketchbook down on the bench between them. “This morning, an invitation came to Miss Russell. There is a ball next Tuesday. I think it was intended for my sister, but—”

  “It was not. It was intended for you.”

  “Did you arrange this? So I would have a grand night?”

  “I did. Also, so I could as well. I will escort you, if you are agreeable. I trust you accepted.”

  “I have not yet. I really did not come to town prepared for such a thing. Even Sarah’s wardrobe cannot make me suitable. Anyway, when I returned to the house today, Mr. Geraldson sent up a note asking to meet me out here regarding the DeVere ball. Is the duke going too?”

  “Neither brother will attend, due to being in mourning. I believe Mr. Geraldson is going to bestow a gift on you, of a new ball gown. My brother mentioned you might decline because you did not bring the necessary wardrobe.”

  “That is extremely generous of him, considering I have only seen him once in my life, and then for only a few minutes.”

  “He has a generous heart. I would not be surprised if Mr. Geraldson will propose that you have a gown made, and that you send him the bill.”

  “I am not sure that is proper.”

  “Being a stickler again, are you?”

  She laughed, then nodded.

  “Aylesbury is not even going to be present that night. He is not going to dance with you, and he certainly is not going to act like you owe him something in return for the dress. In a way it is not even a gift from him, Eva. Think of it as a gift from the House of Aylesbury.”

  She thought that over, half-convinced. “You do know how to tempt a woman, Gareth.”

  “I should hope so. However, it is your choice. I will be proud to have you on my arm no matter what you wear.” A part of him, the part still carrying some of the annoyance that had led him to take that hard ride, hoped she would refuse the dress. If she appeared unfashionable, that should remove half the men from the line he imagined.

  “I will think about it.” She looked away, into the garden. “Gareth, do all dukes have men like Mr. Geraldson, who broach matters like this for them, so the dukes do not have to do it themselves? Matters that might be seen as somewhat inappropriate, or even very much so?”

  “I expect so. However, this gown is a small thing, and considering the circumstances, it will not compromise you. Now, if a man offers you a carriage, a house, and carte blanche in spending on jewels, then you might well suspect that he is trying to buy you.” He made a joke of it. Eva laughed, but her gaze turned serious.

  “Is that how it was done with your mother? A Mr. Geraldson presented a proposal.”

  “It was. Better if my father had gone himself. His man was no match for my mother. She knew her worth, and drove a hard bargain.” He imagined Eva tucking the information away in her head. Ever curious, she probably found the protocol fascinating.

  “Did you have a nice day?” she asked, turning the subject. “I did. Well, part of it. I visited Mary Moser, the famous painter. Miss Neville gave me a letter of introduction. Can you believe she received me?”

  “I was not aware she still lived in London.”

  “I regret to say she is very ill. She was able to hold a conversation, however. We talked about art. She gave me some advice, again. She had some years ago when I wrote to her. Sensible advice, I realize now.”

  “What sort? Work hard, draw daily, keep your brushes clean?”

  She gave him a playful nudge with her elbow. “Not nearly that boring. She told me I needed to draw from life. Do you know what that means?” Her eyes glistened with naughty humor.

  “I do indeed. Perhaps you can bribe your sister to—”

  “Oh, that won’t do. I must draw the male form from life. I can never fulfill my potential otherwise.” She crossed her arms and tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I wonder who, and how could I convince him? Erasmus? A few coins should win him over.”

  “Or Mr. Trevor, the architect. I think he would be happy to do it and get in your good favor.”

  “Because of the property, you mean.”

  “Because of the scandalous possibilities.”

  “Mr. Trevor? What nonsense. Nor is there anything scandalous about it. It would be like looking at a statue. Or a fountain. Or a vase. An artist just studies the form and does not engage in sensual speculations when working from life.”

  “How do you know if you have never done it?” He did not believe for a minute that artists never were aroused by their models. That part of a man did not disappear when he picked up a brush.

  “I just know. I have had the experience of drawing other things, and how the mind works while so engaged.”

  “What other advice did Mary Moser give you?”

  “She reminded me that marriage and art do not go well together. She had written as much to me when I was a girl, and I did not believe her. I was sure it would be different for me. Then, when I had to care for my brother— I did less and less with my art, and eventually stopped. I was too busy. I had no time I felt was my own. It is the same when one marries. Duty crowds out all other ambition.” She did not appear at all sad. “Whoever thought my singular state would be advantageous to my plans.”

  The way she embraced Mary Moser’s decree did not sit well with him, for reasons he could not name. “Surely, it could be different, the way you thought when a girl. With the right man it could be.”

  “I hope you are not going to suggest Mr. Trevor again.”

  “Heaven forbid. He would probably give you ten children and no servants, and be jealous of your talent. It would have to be a man who knew your plan, and accepted it.”

  “You sound almost serious, Gareth, and quite sentimental for a man so cynical about marriage and its purpose.”

  He did sound sentimental.

  “There are few men such as you describe. Moreover, if I chanced to meet one, he would have to be very wealthy in order to relieve me of the duties most wives know, except the rich ones.” She raised her face to the lowering sun. “Even then— If you think about it, the women with the most freedom for art are women like your mother. She had no duty except making your father happy, and even that was not all the time.”

  Clever lady. She was correct, of course. For a woman looking for both security and independence, being the mistress of a wealthy man was an ideal situation. Not that he intended to agree with her. Not after the damned Earl of Whitmere spoke of needing companionship after meeting her.

  “I do not think you would be happy in such a life,” he said. “You are too much a stickler, and too afraid of the risks, which, I am sure you remember, include accidents such as me.”

  She gave his hand a squeeze. “I do not think any parent would regret an accident like you.”

  A quiet cough from behind interrupted them. He released Eva’s hand, then turned and saw Mr. Geraldson standing back near the house, discreetly positioned not to overhear.

  Eva turned too. “Do you think he will talk down to me about this gown, or treat it as charity?”

  “Neither. He will be correct in all ways, very formal, and respect will flow out with each of his words.” Gareth stood.


  “I am of two minds still. I am not sure what to do.”

  Left on her own, pride would make her refuse. That would spare him, but make the night poorer for her. “I will decide for you,” he said. “Accept the gown and go to the ball in style, Eva.”

  CHAPTER 20

  The week passed in a whirlwind. Eva barely had time to sketch, what with excursions into the City and visits to the dressmaker.

  Madame Tissot, the fashionable modiste recommended by Mr. Geraldson, normally expected several weeks to complete a ball gown. For a duke, however, she made exceptions. Three of her seamstresses were put on the gown as soon as Eva chose the style and fabric. At the daily fittings she watched the ensemble come together.

  Sarah and Rebecca insisted on accompanying her each time. Their excitement exceeded hers. She realized that they all would be attending that ball, she in person, but they in their imaginations.

  She did not see Gareth very much. He escorted them to the theater one night, and his brother Lord Ywain joined them. He arranged for them to visit the magnificent library of a marquess he knew, and the art collection of an earl. One evening they all went to Vauxhall Gardens and sat in a little box eating ham before strolling the grounds and watching the entertainment and fireworks. Some days, though, they only met at dinner.

  Finally, the day before the ball, she found some time for herself. After returning from Madame Tissot’s and the final inspection of the gown, she begged off further shopping with Sarah and Rebecca and returned to the house. Up in her chamber she drew the drapes back as far as possible so the cool northern light would saturate the chamber.

  She collected some objects into a still life that she posed on a table near one of the windows so the light hit the composition from the left. Settling down, she began to draw.

  Soon her observations absorbed her, and the smooth movements of her crayon on the paper entranced her.

  “Has it come?”

  She looked up. Gareth stood near her shoulder.

  “The gown? Is it here? I had hoped to see it.”

  “It will be delivered tomorrow morning.”