by Allison Lane
Portland’s newspaper notice should draw her out.
Fretting accomplished nothing, so Faith turned her attention to Childe Harold.
An hour later she tossed the last of the books down in disgust. The words swam drunkenly before her eyes. Not because of the duke, but because John had taken up permanent residence in her head.
He was still determined to wed her, convinced that he must sacrifice himself to salvage her reputation.
Stubborn man.
Unfortunately, she was weak. If he pressed her long enough, she would succumb to temptation, despite the harm marriage would do to him. If only he’d accepted her refusal! Fabricating a reference would be far easier with his assistance. He might even know of a suitable employer.
He wouldn’t help, though. The little she’d gleaned about his childhood proved his determination. He’d been left in a worse position than she, for he’d had no guardian to care for him after his mother died. Yet he’d convinced a top architect to take him on years before custom dictated. He’d then won scholarships and commissions enough to build a viable practice at an astonishingly early age.
Such a man would not abandon her, even if pursuing marriage was not in his own best interests. So the only way she could protect him was to disappear without a trace. Francine had proved that it could be done.
But she would need a few days to prepare. Fleeing with no money and no destination was stupid. If Portland found the duke before she left, she would re-evaluate her plans. But she couldn’t waste time on dreams. There was no reason to believe the man could help her even if he wanted to. No one knew him.
As for where she would go—
Voices penetrated the closed door, disrupting her thoughts.
“She’s out, I tell you. I can guess where. Up to no good, that one.” The speaker sounded young – probably the brown-haired maid she’d glimpsed before breakfast. The girl looked barely sixteen.
“It’s not your place to judge,” replied Rose, the maid who’d delivered hot water to Faith’s room that morning.
“It certainly is. I’m a good girl, I am. I won’t work in a house with such goings on.”
“What goings on?” demanded Rose. “You won’t find a better employer.”
“Hah! Me mum didn’t want me in a bachelor’s house, and she was right. Immoral monsters, every one.”
“Not this one,” insisted Rose stoutly. “I’ve been here six years and seen nothing I couldn’t tell my youngest sister. And even if the master was in the petticoat way – which he ain’t – you can’t believe he’d choose her. Not with that limp. Only the best could satisfy him.”
“You’d approve?” The girl’s shock was so obvious that Faith could almost see her recoil.
“’Tis his business, not mine. You can’t deny he’s a handsome bloke. Bed him myself if he’d ask. But he won’t.”
“Mum was right,” gasped the maid. “Yer all headed to perdition. I can’t stay here.”
“Leave if you must, but Mr. Treburn won’t give you a character if you go before quarter day. You won’t find another post without one.”
“I’ll find work quick enough when people hear why I left. Fleeing depravity will stand as my character.”
“Rot! You know nothing of the world, Mary,” snapped Rose as they moved away. “No one will hire a maid who criticizes her betters.”
“Yer the one who’ll be sorry! Out on yer ear in a fortnight. Yer precious master will lose his business and his credit fast enough. Cook said the butcher wouldn’t send ’round a joint this morning without cash money in advance. You know what that means. He…”
Faith’s knees gave out. She’d counted on the staff’s self-interest to keep them quiet, but she hadn’t counted on Mary. There was no way to avoid trouble now. Self-righteous, intolerant servants eagerly spread sordid tales to prove they were above such behavior. She had fired one such girl from Westcourt despite needing the help. But the dissension the girl had sown among the staff could not be tolerated.
Rose was right that Mary would never find another post. But her claims would hurt John. If people thought he kept a mistress in his own house, his reputation would suffer, especially after Chester’s claims that he’d seduced a well-born maiden while working in her home. That tale was already making the rounds if today’s cut was any indication. John would be lucky to find any work at all.
So she must leave. Without evidence to support such charges, he might survive.
Thinking about it hurt, but she thrust the pain aside. Loving him didn’t matter. Leaving was right, so she must do it. No one died of grief, as the duchess had proved. The duke’s death had left his wife with unbearable emptiness. Sending Montrose away had made it worse. But the duchess had borne the pain without complaint. Faith could do no more.
It would be best to make the break quickly, which made it imperative to complete her plans. The more she thought about it, the more obvious it became that finding a post would be next to impossible. Even Rose disparaged her limp. What made her think prospective employers might overlook it?
Then there was the bedamned reference. The annual register was the best place to learn about deaths, but last year’s was not yet available, which meant the best she could do was find a lady who had died nearly a year and a half ago. How was she to explain where she’d been in the meantime?
She could always make up an employer, but lies would eventually be found out. And two days of leisure proved that she would be miserable as a companion anyway. A governess post was likewise impossible, for she lacked the accomplishments ladies must learn. And she could never support herself sewing. Nor could she tolerate a brothel, where she would meet too many men like Bitstaff.
Yet in bitter truth, her only hope of supporting herself was to sell her body.
John would wed—
No!
She couldn’t destroy him, no matter what she faced by leaving.
Discussing her journey from India had revived more than the pleasant memories she’d shared with John. During that five months, her indifferent chaperon had let her run wild. There wasn’t a cranny aboard ship she hadn’t explored or a hidey-hole she hadn’t used. Few had paid attention to her, so she’d overheard frank discussions between sailors and more than one lustful encounter involving her chaperon. She’d also barely escaped being assaulted by one of the other passengers. If not for the captain’s timely arrival…
Thus she had no interest in brothels. Yet she had greatly enjoyed her encounter with John. Intimacy was not unpleasant with the right partner. Her defects made marriage impossible, but could she find a protector she could enjoy?
She slipped upstairs and unearthed the Tableau – in her haste to pack, she’d scooped it unnoticed into one of the trunks. Now that she’d experienced such acts for herself, the illustrations were even more powerful, invoking the feel of John’s hands and body and…
Desire soared until she throbbed from head to toe. Such need made life as a courtesan seem acceptable – as long as it wasn’t John who kept her.
Her skin turned to ice at the very thought. Already she loved him too much for comfort. Every day the attachment deepened until the thought of parting nearly destroyed her. Courtesans were never a permanent part of any man’s life. Could she survive the inevitable break after months of enjoying his touches?
Besides, even an official liaison with her installed elsewhere would cause him the very damage she was trying to avoid.
The illustrations left her too restless to sit, so she tucked the book away and prowled the house. The one room she’d avoided yesterday had been John’s bedchamber, but now she stepped inside.
It was surprisingly Spartan. Bed. Shaving stand. Chair. Lamp. All utilitarian. The only color came from three watercolors, probably his own, for the two largest depicted Roman ruins in exquisite detail. The third showed rugged mountains with dense forests tumbling down their flanks and an odd house with an impossibly steep roof in the foreground. Switzerland, perhaps? He was
very good. Unlike the few lackluster landscapes gracing Westcourt, his work evoked a need to see these sights in person.
Not until she turned to leave did she spot the pencil sketch half behind the door. A woman with sad eyes, dated 1797. It must be his mother.
Faith stared hard, comparing the face to John’s. Broad cheeks, small mole, surprisingly straight teeth. John had inherited her teeth, but he took after his father in other respects. Except perhaps the eyes. They were so alive, so…
Guilty over intruding, she left, but Mrs. Lascar’s eyes followed her, begging her to keep John from wasting the sacrifices she’d made. So Faith would leave as soon as she settled her plans. Her inheritance would support her until she found an acceptable protector. If she remained in London, she risked seeing John or Chester. But York would do. It was far away, yet large enough to offer choices.
Assuming she could figure out how one attracted a protector…
Desire returned. And a longing for John’s touch. With her new goal in mind, she need no longer ignore it. She would be gone soon. Lovemaking would not change the servants’ minds in the few days she had left. And honing her skill would prepare her for her new role. John could teach her so much…
Chapter Fifteen
Duty is often unpleasant, but honor demands that I fulfill my vow to keep Montrose safe. Never mind that my heart breaks at the very thought…
Duchess of Westfield, July 4, 1787
John made sure he had time to change before dinner that evening. As they waited in the drawing room for the summons to dine, he avoided any mention of Chester, marriage, Simmons, or Alex’s investigation, despite that Simmons had returned an hour earlier to demand yet another meeting. John had put him off with a promise that Faith would send him a note if she wished to see him again, but it was obvious the fellow was determined to cause trouble.
For once, he’d chosen the right approach. By the time he seated Faith at the table, their social chatter left her more relaxed than he’d ever seen her.
“Is the design for the gentlemen’s club going well?” she asked over the first course.
“I had no time to work on it today.” He shrugged, unwilling to admit that he’d spent half the day reading the duchess’s diary. That topic was sure to stifle her friendliness. “Worthington is still not satisfied with the plans for his town house. Not an easy challenge. He wants an elegant space so he can claim more consequence than he actually has, but his house is second rate.”
“Should that mean something to me?” She stabbed a bit of asparagus.
“Probably not. You’ve never lived in London.” The term was so integral to his business that he’d forgotten the upper classes rarely used it. “The rates were established after the Great Fire and define the size of a town house. Most of the houses around Hanover square are second rate.”
“Did combining two of them produce a first rate house, then?”
He nodded. “Worthington needs more space, but neither of his neighbors wants to sell, so I must reconfigure his interior to make it more efficient.”
“While making it seem bigger and more luxurious.”
“Right.”
Half an hour passed as he explained how to accomplish that feat. He hadn’t planned to regale her with information most ladies found boring, but she asked intelligent questions and stretched his mind by raising possibilities he hadn’t considered. Not until Treburn removed the covers and set out the sweet course did John pull himself up short.
“I should not monopolize the conversation. Forgive me.”
“There is no need. It’s fascinating.”
“Nonetheless.” He sighed. “Did you finish Childe Harold today?”
“About half of it. Those glass pieces you acquired in Italy are more interesting. The longer I look at them, the more beautiful they seem. The colors are so pure. And the glow!”
“I know. They still entrance me after a dozen years. The Italians produce a glass that is clearer than ours, allowing light deep into the piece. It is a remarkable effect.”
“Very. I also noted your watercolors. You painted them, I presume?”
He nodded, hiding his pleasure that she’d invaded his room. It hinted that she was less opposed to marriage than she claimed. “The ruins are spectacular – far more than my poor work can convey.”
“I would hardly call it poor.”
“It is if one wishes to be a painter. That was a boyhood dream, though I knew it was impossible even before Mother died. Others confirmed my judgment. While I can paint well enough to produce the studies potential patrons expect, I am no artist.”
“Perhaps not, but you capture the essence of a subject. That sketch of your mother – I assume it is she.”
He nodded. “I did that about a year before she died.”
“It conveys more than her features. She is weary from unrelenting work, yet she remains at peace with herself and her life. Devotion burns in her eyes – probably for you, as she was looking at you while you sketched her.”
“It’s true that she worked hard and was usually weary because of it. I was so accustomed to her face that I never analyzed it.”
“Then you are more gifted than you believe. Your fingers unerringly reproduce what your eye sees, not what you wish to see.”
“Anyone can do the same.”
“No. The portraits in the Westcourt gallery were painted by two dozen artists over three centuries and display a vast difference in ability. Some images – like the eighth duke and duchess – seem alive, poised to leap from the wall. One would swear they are breathing.”
“Who did them?”
“Reynolds. The older ones lack individual character, conveying nothing beyond eye color and nose shape. It is impossible to tell whether the subjects were honorable or rogues, pleasant or venal. They all seem insufferably dull, though in many cases lusty is a better description.”
John frowned. He, too, had seen lifeless portraits, but he’d not considered why they seemed so. “Not everyone wants their character exposed to future generations,” he reminded her. “And many demand that their likenesses be idealized. I know one gentleman who made his portraitist remove a birthmark from his forehead. And no painter would dare depict the Regent with aught but a pleasing physique, despite that he grows larger every year.”
“You have a point. Yet a good likeness can bring comfort to one’s survivors.”
He offered his arm to escort her to the drawing room for coffee. “I take it you have no portraits of your parents?”
She shook her head, looking away as if to hide tears. “Mother filled several sketch books with family images, but when my trunks arrived at Westcourt, two were missing. I don’t know if her sketch books disappeared en route or were left in India. I was with a neighbor when the house was closed. No one asked which possessions I wanted to keep.”
“You were in shock.”
“I was too young to be consulted – and I suspect many items found their way into other households without compensation. But I wish I had even one of those books,” she admitted, moving away to stare into the fire. “I can no longer recall their faces.”
“Perhaps not every detail, but you undoubtedly remember much. Your mother’s hair, for example.”
“Red. A little lighter than mine, but not much.” She smiled. “Thank you. She was nearing fifty when she died, so it was going gray. Not all over, but in streaks around her face. She used to laugh at the gray spot above her left temple – it had turned fully ten years before anything else. A perfectly round spot about the size of a tuppence.”
“What about your father?”
“His hair was dark. Very dark. It never lightened, though he spent as much time outdoors as the other officers. He was a big man – at least he seemed big to a child. In truth, I doubt he was as tall as you, though sturdier. Mother was small, enhancing the contrast. George took after him in looks, and probably in size, though he was barely twelve when that fever hit. We will never know if that promise
would have held.” Her voice caught.
“Let’s see how much you recall,” he said, picking up a pad. “What shape was your mother’s face?”
She stared, then backed away. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“Why? You already know the memories are fading. You probably locked them away to escape the pain. Why not record what is left?” He wasn’t as certain as he sounded, but he’d done this once before with a fellow student who’d lost his father. It had seemed to help. And if just this once he could tap into that strange dream world for some useful purpose…
“Very well. Her face was oval and rather ordinary, with deepening lines from age and the climate.”
“And grief? She can’t have enjoyed losing her family any more than you did.”
“I never considered…” She closed her eyes. “Yes, there was a hint of sadness about her even when she smiled. But her teeth were the envy of everyone – white, straight, and sturdy despite her age.”
“She must have smiled often for people to notice.”
“True.”
His fingers worked as he kept her talking, drawing out more memories of the family she’d lost. Good ones. Bad ones. Everything in between. They laughed over features gone astray – a misshapen nose, a too-high ear.
And as she grasped his arm to peer closer at the page, it happened. Barely a moment, but the image came to life, imprinting on his mind. So when he finally held up the sketch for her approval, she gasped.
“It’s a marvel.” Her eyes glittered.
He pulled her against his side.
“I don’t need comfort,” she insisted, drawing back. “It is ridiculous to shed tears over someone who has been dead for nearly twenty years, but the likeness took me by surprise. You’re very good.”
“She may have passed long ago, but her death left a lasting sorrow.”
“As did their families’ antagonism,” she admitted. “Poor Mama. And poor Papa, for that matter. Why must parents insist on ordering their children about?”