Passion Wears Pearls

by Renee Bernard

  Eleanor covered her face with her hands, determined not to sob in this man’s presence. “You mustn’t … say such things.”

  “I think you deserve better, and if you’ll allow me, I can—”

  “No!” Eleanor’s hands dropped and a new fury seized her. “No more offers! I’ll not go from one man’s attempt at generosity to another! I am not a drowning woman, Thomas Keller. Fool or not, I made my own choices and I’ll be damned if I will lean on your arm and wilt in tears and let you think that I—” Eleanor took a deep breath, ignoring the tears that streamed down her face. “All I ever wanted was to live a respectable life and not suffer at the whim of Fate. As much as I hated being hungry and destitute, I thought that if I stayed true to myself nothing could really hurt me. I-I was wrong! But, please—it is too soon to speak of celebrations or my freedom.”

  I don’t want to be free! I’ve lost my heart to a man who wanted nothing more than a figure to paint, flesh and bone—the muse of the moment. Oh, God. From his own lips, to hear myself so dismissed …

  Thomas nodded, saying nothing as she lost the battle to control her emotions. Instead, he quietly averted his gaze to give her what privacy he could until the coach pulled to a stop in front of the inn.

  She recognized the Grove through bleary eyes but wiped her cheeks firmly. “Mr. Keller? Have you ever felt so defeated that you weren’t sure if you could breathe?”

  He looked at her in sympathy. “You are not defeated, Miss Beckett, and I stand by what I said earlier. You are a woman of conscience and I am glad to know you.”

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Keller. And I—wait!” She hesitated with her hand on the coach door. “Why were you there? Why were you in the studio this morning?”

  Thomas’s sober expression became almost pained. “I feared he was mistreating you. I called on him to … assure myself that I was mistaken.”

  She studied him for a moment, unsure of her own reaction to his confession. “You were mistaken, Mr. Keller. He never—never mistreated me.” Her throat closed in agony as a thousand memories of each gentle touch and considerate gesture flooded her mind.

  “He isn’t what he seems, Miss Beckett.”

  “H-how is that?”

  “It’s common knowledge that his family threw him off years ago for pursuing such a … an immoral profession. He has wealthy friends, but I must ask, where do his fortunes come from? If he’s known no great artistic or critical success, then how is it that he possesses the resources that he has? No one seems to know, Miss Beckett. Do you?”

  She shook her head. “It is … none of my concern, or yours.”

  “He disappears into India for several years and then resurfaces without a word to make strangers of almost everyone who knew him beforehand. Hastings is no gentleman, Miss Beckett. He is a pretender and a—”

  “Enough! You sully your own reputation when you say such things and dishonor yourself, Mr. Keller. I will not speak of him again. If I was deceived, then I am well clear of it. In a strange way, I should be proud of my gullibility, Mr. Keller. Like my father, I want to believe the best in people and to see in them the qualities I hold dear. It is not a fault I intend to amend. Good day, Mr. Keller.” Eleanor stepped down from the coach without waiting for assistance and walked into the inn without looking back.

  She was grateful for Thomas’s concern but was sure he’d misunderstood both her character and Josiah’s. Thomas had exaggerated them each in turn as a villain and a damsel in distress, and she didn’t have the stomach to defend either one at the moment. Eleanor surmised that Josiah’s gruff behavior at the Walls’ had misled Keller, and the disastrous encounter today had surely cemented her role as a helpless victim in his eyes.

  As for the source of Josiah’s fortunes, it was the least pressing of her worries.

  Whatever Mr. Keller’s intentions in sharing his fears, it was sordid business that a sober-minded man would wisely stay clear of—and Eleanor did not expect to meet Mr. Thomas Keller again.

  Not that it matters.

  Michael Rutherford was on the first-floor landing, and she blindly ran into him in her haste, tearfully colliding with him and knocking everything he carried out of his hands. A flurry of paper scattered everywhere and Eleanor knelt to help retrieve it as best she could.

  “I’m so sorry!”

  “There’s no need for that!” Michael knelt next to her, reaching for a copy of the Times. “Are you crying? Are you injured?”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Rutherford!” Eleanor tried to ignore him and focus on the papers at their feet.

  Tally must have felt the commotion through the shuffle of their footsteps and came bounding up the stairs to lend a hand. To Eleanor’s surprise, Mr. Rutherford’s reaction to their assistance was not what she expected. He seemed to become more frantic in his retrieval of the scraps, wincing as Tally held out one of the sheets to her since she was closest. Decorum dictated that she avert her eyes before handing it over to Michael, but something made her look. Perhaps it was the flash of fear in Rutherford’s eyes. …

  Jackal. The word caught her attention, and she quickly read it through damp eyes. Jackal’s set for the Thistle. Friday at midnight. Eleanor shook her head. “Here you are, Mr. Rutherford. Do the Jaded often meet in such places?”

  His expression was one of horror as he took the paper from her hand, folding the draft quickly as if to hide it from her view. “There’s no meeting. Tally, here, let me have those.”

  Tally cheerfully handed over the rest of the newspaper clippings and retreated with a bob of his head, unaware of the storm brewing between the two adults.

  “No meeting?” Her cheeks were still wet from crying, but she gave him a look of pure scathing derision. “Can none of you be honest when pressed? Is it even possible, Mr. Rutherford, for even one of your little group to speak with honor? Men! What a worthless lot of jaded fools, if you ask me!”

  She stepped around him as daintily as a duchess stepping around a dung pile and slammed her door behind her.

  Chapter

  26

  On Thursday morning, Eleanor sat quietly in her lawyer’s office. He’d summoned her about what he described as pressing business, and she’d been grateful for the distraction of an appointment after days of listless inactivity.

  “I have the documents here, Miss Beckett, and wished to speak to you in person to convey the remarkable turn of events.”

  “If it’s anything to do with Mr. Josiah Hastings, I won’t waste any of your valuable time, sir. My business with him is concluded and I am loath to—”

  “No, Miss Beckett. This is another matter altogether and quite surprising since we never pursued an appeal. It seems your father’s case has been settled privately.”

  “M-my father’s case? I don’t understand.”

  Mr. Olmstead held out a sheaf of papers for her inspection. “It’s quite official, Miss Beckett, and effective immediately. You are a woman of some wealth now. I have the contracts here from the young Mr. Keller, and a bank draft, which his clerk assured me is only the first in good faith that is due you. Similar payments are to be made in the schedule he has included, and there is a legal document entitling you to a good percentage of all future profits made from Keller’s Gentle Smelling Salts and all pertinent brands and products. I must say, it is an extremely generous offering!”

  “Oh my!” Eleanor surveyed the summary letter and marveled that she didn’t feel more elated. After all, this vindicated her father and restored his legacy. “Why? Why would he do that?”

  “Who can say? A burst of conscience? A moral imperative? Or more likely, his lawyers have uncovered new evidence that would have exposed him to great liability should it have come to light. In any case”—Mr. Olmstead beamed triumphantly—“justice is served and I cannot think of a better beneficiary than yourself!”

  A wealthy woman. All my dreams, dropped into my lap without ceremony, and all I want to do is to cry. The world has righted itself too late t
o save me, and I’m too numb to feel anything but lost. I have the means to go anywhere twice over, but nowhere I care to go.

  “Justice.” She repeated the word, standing to shake Mr. Olmstead’s hand. “Yes, thank you. I shall be sure to send a note of my sincere appreciation to Mr. Keller for this act and …”

  “Was there something else, Miss Beckett?”

  “No. There’s nothing.”

  Josiah tried to paint. His imagination and memory sustained an image of Eleanor in pearls, sitting against a wash of green satin, an offering from Poseidon that any mortal would sell his soul to taste. The shadows were worse today, gray and black clouds that loomed in his peripheral vision and then drifted inexplicably in front of him without warning. But he ignored them and painted with his face so close to the canvas that his breath fanned the oils and coated his throat until it burned to breathe.

  In his mind, the storm raged. The wise course of action was to wait to pursue her until this Jackal business was finished and it was safe. Rutherford had made a point of stopping by to underline the matter. Waiting until after tomorrow night, at the very earliest, was a reasonable and sound decision. But every minute that passed chafed his nerves.

  Pride be damned. I should just tell her. I should just lay my fortunes at her feet and confess everything.

  “You’re painting.” Eleanor’s voice behind him was a stunning revelation. He turned, elated to see her but also surprised.

  “How … ?”

  “Mr. Creed knows me enough not to bother with any alarms, and since you still have no working bell, I didn’t trifle Mr. Escher.” She stepped primly forward. “Your security is quite lax.”

  “Eleanor.” He took a deep breath. “There’s so much I should—”

  “Wait.” She was all business as she opened her reticule and then held out a folded envelope. “I insist on paying you back, Mr. Hastings.”

  We are back to Mr. Hastings? So formal?

  “Paying me back? I don’t understand. You don’t owe me a farthing.”

  “On the contrary”—she moved a little closer, her gloved hand still extended with the paper toward him—“I owe you a great deal. Here. The sitting fee, plus an additional sum for my lodging and any incidental expenses you may have incurred on my behalf. Mrs. Clay’s estimates were clearly fraudulently low, and I couldn’t bear the thought of hurting her feelings by pointing out the obvious, so I hope my best estimation wasn’t too far off.”

  “You’re rambling, Eleanor. I don’t care for a farthing of it. You earned that money per our agreement, and I don’t see why you’re compelled to pay back a penny that you don’t owe!”

  “I have money of my own now, Mr. Hastings.”

  “Money of your own? From what source?” he asked.

  “Mr. Keller voluntarily settled against my father’s legal suit and restored my father’s reputation.” She lifted the paper another inch. “So because of his honorable gesture and generosity, I have money of my own and can now repay you as I always wished.”

  “With Keller’s money, you mean!”

  “I have money of my own, rightfully earned by my father’s hard work. I cannot move forward with my life and be in debt to you.”

  “Debt? Give it to charity if you don’t want it!”

  “You give it to charity, Mr. Hastings. I can’t imagine accepting anyone’s gratitude for something your money has provided. If you wish to become a philanthropist, then by all means! But I am not going to be your first case!”

  “You’re doing this out of spite. I asked you to sit for me for a fee and you agreed. The painting was completed and it was—all that I’d hoped. I’m a man of my word. I don’t want your money.”

  “I’m no longer in a desperate position where I need it! Please … it was always a ridiculous sum and your friends seem quite convinced that you cannot spare twenty pounds.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Something to do with the state of your coats and the paint on your shirts, I’d guess. And even if you have more money than Midas, it doesn’t matter. I want nothing to do with this business. I wish to be free of all of it.”

  “Goddamn it—”

  “Language, Josiah!” She smoothed back her hair out of nervous habit. “I shall leave it on the table, Mr. Hastings.”

  “Then it will rot there. Take the money, Eleanor! I need you to take the money!”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s the—” He caught himself, a wave of hunger for her nearly unmanning him. “Because it’s the only thing I’m free to give you.”

  The words stung like poisoned nettles against her skin, and Eleanor marveled that she was still standing. “Truly?”

  He turned away. “Be merciful, woman, and take the damn money.”

  “Have you nothing else to say to me? Nothing?”

  He had a thousand things to say to her, but he couldn’t imagine a man feeling more muted by fate and circumstance.

  “Then you don’t deserve any mercy, Mr. Hastings. I have already given you too much of myself for too little.” She tried to drop the envelope on the table but missed as her eyes filled with tears. Somehow the sight of her offering pitifully fluttering to the ground was the last straw. “Good-bye, Josiah.”

  She made yet another emotional escape from his presence, resenting the crushing pain this last encounter had caused. She’d vowed not to cry again, or forfeit her dignity, but Eleanor knew that the money had been a flimsy excuse for her visit.

  She’d wanted to hear him say that he’d missed her. She’d wanted him to beg her to stay and admit that he’d made a mistake. She’d fantasized about how he might sweep her into his arms and banish the hurt of these last few days.

  It’s the only thing I’m free to give you.

  Because he could not give her anything else—not his name or his heart, not a single promise of fidelity or a future—not even his trust.

  I failed him somehow. There was something in me that didn’t seem strong enough to him or reliable for the hardships to come. Something … but what else could I have done or said to convey to him how very much I care?

  Or did he speak his mind to Mr. Keller that wretched morning when he said women were interchangeable? That I was nothing to him?

  How could that be true? If he didn’t care, then how could he have been so tender and caring, so generous and thoughtful? How is it that every fiber of my being is so hungry for him, even now?

  After everything that had passed between them, it had all come down to a transaction completed and money in her hands in exchange for her innocence.

  It was over.

  Chapter

  27

  It had been a long, restless, sleepless night, and Friday morning dawned with a biting cold in the air. Eleanor listlessly rearranged the food on her breakfast tray to avoid a long sigh from Mrs. Clay, but finally gave up the attempted subterfuge. She’d made halfhearted plans to go out and look into securing different lodgings. She had money enough to take a home in Town if she wished, but nothing felt settled. I wonder if I could get my father’s house back? Would I want to be there alone now? Or is it haunted with too many bad memories?

  The Grove had become home in the last few weeks, but its association with Josiah was unacceptable. She looked over the pile of offerings from the solicitor’s office that had been deemed suitable. Mr. Olmstead had attached a note advising her of a reputable hiring agent so that she could acquire a staff when the time came. She fingered it and then set it aside. She gathered all the papers into a leather packet and headed down the stairs, only to find Mrs. Clay sweeping out the entryway.

  “Are you off today, miss?” Mrs. Clay asked. “You’ll want to be wearing your warmest woolies, if you ask me. But Mr. Hastings’s carriage hasn’t arrived, so if you’d—”

  “I am not … I am no longer employed by Mr. Hastings, Mrs. Clay,” she said, cutting the older woman off.

  Mrs. Clay’s look was pure surprise. “No? Truly?”

  “Tru
ly.”

  “Well, there’s a turn! I hope it wasn’t—” Mrs. Clay’s cheeks grew ruddier with emotion. “Was he the reason you were asking me about judging a man’s character? Was Mr. Hastings unkind to you, Miss Beckett? Is it even possible?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “No, Mrs. Clay! It’s just that the painting he was working on … is quite finished. It was—unthinkable for me to continue … modeling. I made an exception for Mr. Hastings, but it isn’t a very reputable pursuit for an unmarried woman.” Eleanor winced, disliking the prissy tone in her voice. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “I suppose. I’m too old to keep up.” Mrs. Clay sighed. “He’s a dear man. I’ve always liked him, miss.”

  “As you should, Mrs. Clay. Mr. Hastings is a perfect gentleman.”

  The older woman smiled. “No man is perfect, but Mr. Hastings’s greatest fault only adds to his appeal, don’t you agree?”

  “His greatest fault?” Eleanor asked, dreading the conversation. Josiah was a topic she’d hoped to avoid, but it had taken no less than twenty seconds for his name to take hold. “What flaw is that?”

  “Pride! He’s terribly proud, isn’t he? Before he left for India, he was as poor as a street urchin and I knew it! But he had every tailor in Town vying to dress him and delighted in playing along with his betters. It was all a game for the handsome rogue, but I can spot a man who’s missing a meal. Even so, would he take a dish for charity here when offered?” Mrs. Clay shook her head. “Not once! Not once did he take advantage and ask for a crust of bread on credit. But if ever I needed anything after losing Mr. Clay, rest his soul, there was my artist ready to lend a hand or just bring in his rich friends to make sure my common room was lively and my accounts sound.”

  “Proud.” Eleanor repeated the word softly, absorbing this new perspective while struggling with the feeling that she’d just missed an important clue.