Passion Wears Pearls

by Renee Bernard

  “You mean, if we are instruments of the Maker looking to capture truth and beauty on canvas, how is it our reputations are so wretched?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I cannot say. Something to do with society’s dismay at our proximity to naked women for endless hours.” Josiah recrossed his arms. “Granted, it’s acceptable to look at a painting and appreciate a womanly form for a few fleeting moments, so there’s the irony. It has something to do with the limits of time.”

  Rowan laughed. “So if I look at a painting of a naked nymph cavorting about, I’m an art lover. But if you spend weeks creating that same painting, you’re a pervert?”

  “Precisely.” Josiah deliberately held his ground, waiting again for Rowan to either reveal his true purpose or give up the game and leave. “Are you here to commission a portrait or just to harass a friend?”

  “The latter. I can’t stop a growing concern about you from crowding my thoughts and—”

  “You’re newly married, Rowan, and blissfully so, if even my stern Mrs. Escher has heard tales enough to make her sigh about the house. Your thoughts should be completely occupied by your new wife, unless I’ve misunderstood the institution.”

  Rowan was a man on a mission. “Even so, Josiah, I’m not oblivious. Something’s wrong. You didn’t come to the wedding.”

  “I sent flowers.” Josiah briefly wondered if he should call for Escher to force Rowan’s visit to come to a close. “Travel doesn’t agree with me these days, and I had things to do in the city.”

  “Travel doesn’t agree with you? Are you ninety? Josiah, you’ve not been yourself and it’s hardly like you to—”

  “Go back to your bride, Dr. West.”

  “I’ll go when I’m ready, Hastings. When we returned to England, you were as cavalier as Ashe and as easygoing. But something has changed. You’ve become guarded and reclusive.”

  “I haven’t been in the mood for company. It’s not a crime.”

  “Josiah. I brought my bag. Let me have a look at you.”

  The world seemed to hold its breath with Josiah as he realized that his dear friend was not backing down. “No.”

  “Whenever we gather, you’re … tired. You lay about and cover your eyes as if your head is troubling you, and I would think you’d overindulged in some bacchanalian artistic frenzy, except that isn’t like you. And you’re not hung over.”

  “Aren’t I?”

  “No. I’m a physician, Hastings. I can spot a drunkard from fifty paces off, and you—I think there are monks that have more vices. You aren’t hung over, but you’re pretending to be whenever the others are around. What in the world would make a man do such a thing and risk his reputation so callously?”

  “I’m an artist, Rowan. We just established that my reputation is already forfeit.”

  “Even now, you won’t look me in the eye. So, let’s have it. Are you ill?”

  “It’s none of your concern.”

  “It is very much my concern. You are not some distant acquaintance I’m going to abandon, and with so much at stake, we can’t afford to ignore any critical detail as events unfold. So, is this really some sort of artistic malaise?”

  “And if I say yes? Will you leave the subject and tell Michael to stop hovering?”

  Rowan shook his head slowly. “Only if you let me take a look at you.”

  Damn it. Josiah felt cornered, like a child caught in a lie. Pride was not something he wanted to relinquish. It was his last defense and the only shield he had against the inevitable. “If you examine me, then you are my physician, Dr. West. Friendships aside, you’d be bound to hold my confidences to yourself, would you not?”

  “I would.”

  “I have your word as a gentleman?”

  “I just gave you my word as a physician, Josiah, but if you need a formal oath—”

  “No, that was rude of me.” Josiah walked to the windows and crossed his arms, composing his thoughts before he got into some ridiculous ramble. He’d imagined telling Rowan or even Michael, but in his daydreams, it had been some sort of brave exchange exemplified by its brevity in which he’d been in complete control and then merrily gone on with his day.

  The reality, with Rowan in the room, was proving a bit more daunting. He turned back to slowly face his friend, the glare of the candles dancing like fireflies between them. “It’s nothing. I’m not dying, Rowan. You have my word. Would that suffice?”

  “No.”

  Hell, there’s no diverting him! I’ve practically conceded that there’s something, so now he’s like a terrier with a rat. He’ll shake it out of me if he has to. …

  “I don’t need an examination, Dr. West. It’s nothing.”

  “All right, let’s hear of this nothing, then, or let’s have your shirt off and begin.”

  “I’m going blind.”

  “Hellfire!” Rowan exclaimed, the curse soft but heartfelt. “Are you certain?”

  Josiah nodded curtly. “Ever since we returned to England, it’s been getting steadily worse.”

  “How bad is it now?”

  Josiah shrugged. “It’s just good old London fog in my peripheral vision and a gray wash over the world. Like I’m looking out a dirty window, but I can still make out a room and faces and navigate the streets. Sometimes the fog solidifies into black spots in my vision that float about. I’m told that they’ll only increase in size until it’s all fog and darkness.”

  “My God!” It was almost a whisper, but Rowan took a seat as if all the air in the room had vanished. “And to think I was dreading diagnosing you with consumption. …”

  Josiah smiled. “Poor man! Well, I’m glad to have spared you the agony.”

  “You’re making awfully light of this, Hastings!”

  “Appearances are deceiving, Rowan. It’s a matter of time before the darkness wins and whatever life or achievements I thought to have will be lost. We escaped the pitch-black of that dungeon, but I somehow carried it with me, can you imagine? Embracing freedom only to realize that there are all kinds of prisons in the world? I’m not bemoaning it anymore. I control what I can, Rowan. The only difficulty is not knowing exactly how much time I have left.” He shifted back to his canvas, hating the awkward weight of the air in the room while Rowan assimilated the news. “I manage well enough and I don’t need you sighing over the tragedy of it.”

  “You’ve been examined by a professional? You’re absolutely certain?”

  “You’re sighing, Rowan. Yes and yes. And, no, there is no cure or treatment and, no, to answer your next solemn inquiry, I am not going to waste time and energy seeking one.” Josiah busied himself by rearranging the familiar objects on his worktable, unwilling to watch his friend’s reaction. “If this is your best bedside manner, Dr. West, you’ve room for improvement.”

  “The mismatched buttons … I should have guessed it.”

  “Damn it! Why is everyone so determined to pick on a man for the state of his coat?”

  “Hire a valet, if it bothers you.”

  “No! I don’t need anyone else in the house! It’s hard enough to concentrate as it is, and I’m not an invalid that I need someone else to tie my cravat or pull up my pants!”

  Rowan smiled. “So the humble life of a disowned artist suits you. …”

  Josiah began to smile, too, the tension easing as the humor of Rowan’s line of conversation and his self-imposed poverty became clear. “I suppose so. Here I am, with fortunes to spare, and I’d rather see to my own buttons.”

  “At least you can afford as many candles as you’d like.”

  “There! You see! There’s the silver lining!” Josiah waved off the bittersweet bite of self-pity that threatened to slip into his thoughts. “Now, leave me to my painting, Dr. West, and see that you latch the door on your way out. An artist requires privacy while he works.”

  “Josiah. There’s not a man among us that isn’t going to want to be supportive or offer a hand if you—”

  “No, thank
you. I don’t doubt their friendship or their character. I don’t have any questions about their loyalty, Dr. West. It’s pride. I’m too proud and it’s a sin, but I want to stand as an equal in the eyes of the Jaded for as long as I can. I don’t want pity. I just want to be myself and paint and enjoy what’s left me. I walk about London each afternoon and I am my own man, Rowan.”

  “It wasn’t pity.”

  “No, but you’d coddle me all the same, if I allowed it.”

  “I wouldn’t presume.” Rowan stood to gather up his bag and coat. “I’ll keep your secret as long as I can, Josiah. But if it comes to the safety of the Jaded …” Or your safety. It was unspoken but understood between them.

  “I’d have expected no less, Rowan. Thank you.”

  And then, true to his word, he left Josiah to his paints and candles without a word of pity.

  Chapter

  2

  Eleanor slipped the tip of her finger into her mouth, drawing off the pain from what might have been the hundredth pinprick it had suffered in a single day. Exhaustion wasn’t a helpful ingredient when it came to fine handwork.

  “You’d best take a break, miss,” Maggie whispered, tucking a warm roll into her friend’s pocket. “You’ve not eaten and don’t say you have. And pulling out them stitches is like to have me in tears, so be kind and just go stretch your legs to—”

  Madame Claremont interrupted them. “The storeroom needs straightening, Miss Beckett.”

  Eleanor stood up from the worktable. “Yes, madame.”

  “I can lend a hand to make quick work of it,” Maggie offered quickly, also starting to rise from the sewing table.

  “No. You’ll have that lace finished, Maggie. Miss Beckett will manage nicely alone, won’t you dear?”

  “Yes, of course.” Eleanor headed for the storage room at the very back of the shop, glad for the bread in her pocket and any task ahead that didn’t involve embroidery.

  Since yesterday’s fiasco, her spirit was still bruised and battered. Despite the lucrative appointment with the Lawsons, Madame Claremont’s mood had never improved, and by the time the infamous red velvet dress had been laid out for Mrs. Carlisle’s inspection, Eleanor’s worst fears had manifested. A day on her feet racing to work on the dress in between other tasks had gone unrewarded. The gown had failed to capture Mrs. Carlisle’s fancy and Madame Claremont had blamed Eleanor’s rushed stitch work for it. So instead of getting paid like all the others, she’d received a scathing lecture at the end of the day and had an evening gown deducted from her wages as punishment.

  I should be comforted to think if I starve to death I’ll have the wardrobe of a queen at the rate I’m going.

  The storeroom was quiet, and Eleanor found a box of tangled ribbons to sort to give her an excuse to sit down and eat the roll. Her situation had gone from bad to worse, and Eleanor marveled that a person could apparently work herself into such staggering debt. Between her room and board and all the “penalties” she’d incurred, she was a breath away from having nothing. As it was, all she had to show for her efforts was a tin box with her last few shillings and a strand of pearls her mother had given her on her eighteenth birthday.

  Horror stories of the fate of a woman unprotected on the streets haunted her every heartbeat, and the specters of the workhouses or even debtor’s prison added to her fears. She turned her hands over for a moment to study the pads of her fingers, still bruised and sore from her labors. My hands are starting to show the worst of it. Odd to remember how my mother used to fuss about what a lady’s hands reveal about her. All those creams and ointments to keep hers as white and soft as possible … I wonder what she’d say of mine if she were here.

  “Miss Beckett?” a male voice inquired, and Eleanor jumped up from her stool in shock. “I hope I don’t interrupt and didn’t mean to intrude. Perhaps you remember me? I was in last week with my sister, Mrs. Sherbrook.” He was as unfamiliar to her as the man in the moon, but she wasn’t sure how to reply. His expression was keen as if he absolutely expected her to recall him with enthusiasm.

  “Mrs. Sherbrook? I don’t think I waited on her. Perhaps it was another—”

  “I was here to escort my sister, but I confess, it was you who caught my rapt attention. You were with another customer dawdling over fabrics, but I could have sworn you noticed my glances.”

  Eleanor’s confusion was complete. “I beg your pardon? Is Mrs. Sherbrook here for another appointment?” She couldn’t imagine what had brought him back to the cluttered storeroom or why any man would begin a conversation with a complete stranger with such odd declarations. She shoved the bread in her pocket and tried to recover her wits. “Was there … something you needed?”

  “Yes, quite urgently.”

  “Why don’t you wait in the front room, and I’ll be with you shortly.”

  “I much prefer a chance to speak with you privately, Miss Beckett.” He closed the storeroom door firmly behind him, turning the latchkey with an ominous click. “Or may I call you Eleanor?”

  “I don’t … think that it would be proper, sir. I don’t …”

  “Don’t be coy, though I swear it suits you to play the shy little girl. From the first moment I saw you, I saw a woman who deserves only the finest things that life can offer—not living the life of a glorified servant.”

  Her mouth popped open in stunned surprise. He was speaking like a villain out of a penny novel and she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

  “I am Edmond Perring. Thanks to a large interest in a cartage company, I am a very wealthy man. And you are just the sort of woman that I can benefit! I think you’ll find me very generous, Miss Beckett, and a very attentive patron.”

  Shock gave way to anger. “I do not need a patron, Mr. Perring, nor am I the sort of woman to seek one! You have overstepped! Kindly cease this unseemly conversation and leave this room immediately and I will say nothing of the incident.”

  He smiled, a slow, satisfied look that chilled her to the bones. “Your spirit does you credit, Miss Beckett. A little show of temper gives a man a glimpse of the passion you are capable of—and makes me look forward with greater anticipation to experiencing more of you.”

  She shook her head. “Do not mistake this for a demonstration intended to arouse your interest! I want nothing of you!” He took a step closer and fear intermingled with rage. “Leave, or I’ll scream!”

  Edmond put his hands up, palms out as if to demonstrate how harmless he was. “I apologize. A beautiful woman, like yourself, has every right to set her own price. Name your heart’s desire, Miss Beckett, and you shall have it. Your own carriage? Jewelry and fine clothing? Or does the lady think to ask for a house of her own?”

  “I desire you to leave. I am not a thing to negotiate for and—”

  “Oh, there will be no negotiation! I shall give you whatever you ask for, without quibbling. But I will not leave empty-handed, Miss Beckett. May I call you Eleanor?”

  “No! And you’ll leave with a scratched face if you insist on it!”

  “I prefer a willing minx, but if you would rather come scratching and clawing, who am I to deny you your traditional virginal protest?”

  It was a nightmare. Eleanor became far more aware of how close he was, how there would be no getting past him if she wished to reach the sanctuary of the showroom, and worst of all, how all the fabric bolts and piles of boxes muffled all the sound in the tight space to null out any screams for help. It was almost a perfect trap.

  Except for the delivery door that opened out into the alley.

  She bolted for the door behind her, screaming in horror when he was almost as fast to reach her, his breath hot on the back of her neck and his arms strong, encircling and bruising her ribs, as he tried to pull her back.

  “Come, miss! Let’s have it easy!”

  He tried to cover her mouth, but she twisted her face to avoid his hand. At the same time, Eleanor drove an elbow back with as much force as she could muster, pushing aga
inst the doorframe for leverage, and was instantly rewarded with Mr. Perring’s grunt of pain as he loosened his hold on her.

  She fumbled with the bolt lock, blinded by unshed tears, but was rewarded at last. When it gave way, she wanted to crow in victory at the sight of a slice of gray sky and narrow alley, the cool air on her cheeks promising sanctuary. It never occurred to her that the alley didn’t signify freedom or an end to his assault.

  At least, until he was at her back, and this time pushing her down the steps and propelling her down the alley toward the street and his waiting carriage.

  “You wouldn’t want to make a scene on the street, would you?” he growled in her ear. “You’re a good girl, Miss Beckett. So let’s not have any more trouble, agreed?”

  For a single footstep, she quieted, her brain marveling that this monster knew her so well, knew she hated to draw attention to herself, and knew she wanted nothing in the world more than to be a good girl.

  But that step was followed by another and her outrage returned in full force.

  “No! No! No!” Eleanor kicked out and then relaxed her legs, becoming an impossible ungainly weight for him to maneuver. Mr. Perring growled in frustration but fought back, pinning her arms against her sides and gathering the leverage he needed to carry her down the alley.

  She began to scream, wordless and mindless, like a terrified animal, and the sound of it frightened her more than anything else. Because Miss Eleanor Beckett, formerly of the Orchard Street Becketts, was not the kind of woman who faced rapists or lost her mind with panic.

  And she was losing this fight.

  The day was bitterly cold, but Josiah ignored it and tried to savor the energy of the market streets. Since he’d revealed his secret to Rowan, he’d been more restless than usual and anxious—as if speaking of a thing aloud made it more real. Hell, I’m not any more blind today than I was yesterday! And there’s still not a single smudge on that damn canvas. …