A barking dog outside; a quarrel between a couple on the pavement, and the crackling fire were the only sounds as Faith waited for Crispin’s response. When she glanced at him, his sloped shoulders and bent head as she stared into the flames suggested he was as deeply aggrieved as any man could be.
But when he turned suddenly to face her, there was a glow in his expression that was so at odds with the dire scenario Faith had conjured up, that her heart leapt with hope.
“Do you love me, Faith?”
She clenched her fists. “More than I love anything on this earth.” And it was the truth.
“And you would marry me if I had nothing? Nothing, that is, other than prospects. I mean, would you love me if I were disowned, for example? If my father cut me out of his will?”
Faith hadn’t considered this possibility, but it honestly didn’t matter for the fact was, she would. She’d grown up with nothing, and while her expectations had been altered by the events of the past three years, she didn’t suppose Crispin meant that living in a hovel was a likely outcome.
Nevertheless, she’d do even that, if she had to.
But she said, “As long as you had enough to feed me…and our family, it would be enough for me.”
Tensely, she waited.
Then in two long strides, Crispin was holding her tightly in his arms, and his mouth was on hers as he communicated so very thoroughly the extent of his love.
Chapter 20
He had nearly everything for which he’d ever dreamed. His hard work, conducted for so long in secret, then put on hold while he obeyed his father’s strictures, had now made him a sensation.
And his love for the woman who inspired his creative impulses, and filled him with joy and the greatest desire to protect her from anything at all unpleasant in the world, was returned.
So, when he received news that his father intended travelling to London the following day, Crispin should have felt in a strong position to defend his decision to pick up a brush and paint.
Unfortunately, he had every fear that his father would question at what cost to his real career this ten-day hiatus had taken.
As he directed his valet on what to pack in the trunk that would go ahead to Germany, his chief fear was that his father was about to burst into his townhouse in his usual bombastic manner and do his best to destroy his hopes and dreams.
He would not succeed. No, Lord Maxwell would not destroy Crispin’s future happiness. Crispin’s future was his own to decide.
Which was all the more reason to make tonight the night he whisked Faith off, so they could be secretly married in advance of whatever objections Lord Maxwell might have to his son’s choice of wife.
It would not be a marriage that could be publicly disclosed.
Well, they were both in agreement on this point. They’d travel on the same packet, but not as husband and wife. Crispin would take up his posting, and in the weeks that followed, they’d contrive an excuse whereby she could be introduced as a suitable contender for his suit.
He’d been dismayed by her revelation; there was no doubt about that. She’d portrayed herself as someone she wasn’t, and yet the essence of her was pure and true, and that’s all that mattered to Crispin right now.
Now that he thought about it, perhaps it was better that she had divorced herself so completely from her peasant roots. She could pass as the finest lady in the land, and that’s what was required if she were to be accepted by society as a diplomat’s wife.
Besides, having such a fine actress might very well suit Crispin’s purposes, he thought as he nodded for the first trunk to be sealed shut. It was pushed against the wall of his bedchamber and, like a dozen others currently stored in a spare bedchamber, it would travel ahead and be in situ when he reached the handsome dwelling in Leipzig that had been bespoken on his behalf.
Crispin moved about his room, staring at the familiar objects that made it so masculine. He imagined a lady’s dressing table by the window; its mahogany surface littered with feminine objects. A silver-backed hairbrush like the one Crispin had already bought for Faith. A row of little bottles whose contents he couldn’t begin to imagine though he could imagine the setting. He’d like to paint the beautiful Faith seated at her dressing table, having her hair done, perhaps.
A surge of great affection edged with desire made him straighten and try to cast his mind back to what he must do. The fact that Faith’s apparent shyness concealed a sharp intelligence and keen observation powers might indeed make her the perfect helpmate.
He certainly had no doubts about the wisdom of marrying her. However, with so much to do in so little time, he had to put aside his desire to spend every moment possible in her arms.
“Benson, do you suppose my father will go riding before he gets in his carriage to come down to London and give me a verbal whipping?”
“That would depend if he wants to take the edge off his mood, sir.”
Benson could be relied upon to be honest.
“And do you suppose this mood you speak of will be predominantly prideful or…not?”
Benson rose with difficulty having secured the strap buckle. He gave the wooden trunk a firm pat for good measure.
“Knowing his lordship, sir, I’d say the latter were more likely. Not that it’ll be of consequence, for soon you’ll be departing for foreign shores, so there’ll be little more that your father has to say that will greatly impact you, sir.” He gave a short bow. “If that’ll be all, sir.”
“No, that is not all, Benson. I need your opinion on whether I will cut a more sartorial figure in the green or burgundy striped waistcoat.”
“If you wish to impress the gentlemen, I would suggest the burgundy.”
“And if it is not the gentlemen I wish to impress?”
Benson smiled a little. “Then I shall lay out the green waistcoat for you this evening, sir. What time will you be going out?”
This time it was Crispin’s turn to smile. How could he not as he contemplated the happy outcome of this evening’s wilful escapade—certainly wilful in his father’s eyes. For the first time in a long while, he felt ridiculously confident that Faith would win over Lord Maxwell.
When the time was right.
“I shall leave here at eight this evening. Don’t wait up for me.” No, he and Faith would want a leisurely time to consummate the marriage that he had absolutely no qualms about contracting now.
“Very good, sir.” Benson bowed and backed up a few steps to the doorway where Crispin was surprised to see Carter, the butler, hovering in the passageway before the older man moved on. Crispin moved back to the trunk, turning to glance back through the open door, for the two servants remained outside, apparently conferring with each other. Crispin was about to turn back to his work when his attention was caught by the expression on Carter’s face.
Carter was the archetypal impassive retainer while Benson, the younger man, enjoyed a bit of levity.
There was no sign of levity on Benson’s face now, however, as Carter whispered in his ear. In fact, in terms of disgust and horror, it very much resembled Carter’s.
And that’s when he noticed what it was that had occasioned such altered behaviour as he straightened and took a few steps towards the door.
The two men had their heads bent over a newspaper.
“I think, sir, you ought to see this.” Benson cleared his throat and placed the newspaper upon Crispin’s writing desk.
His hand shook.
And a great premonition swept away Crispin’s perplexity as he glanced at the headline—The Elaborate Ruse of the Painter’s Muse.
Dear God, someone had discovered the fact that Faith was not the penniless debutante whom all those who believed it thought. The truth was out, and now those well-upholstered society matrons who decided who was acceptable, would be conferring right now as to whether to allow a former servant into their rarefied domains.
He felt sick. Faith had so perfected her role as a well-brought
-up lady, that she could have been accepted, without question, anyway.
And now this.
He put his hand over the newspaper article and looked at Benson. “I don’t need to read it for she has told me of her past,” he said gravely. “Nevertheless, I refuse to hold it against the lady, or to judge her harshly, though I’ve no doubt my father will.”
Benson blinked. In fact, his mobile face betrayed such surprise at Crispin’s words that Crispin was angered. He’d not thought the young Benson would be so easily shocked.
“I see you have your own opinion,” he said, drawing back his shoulders. “Yet I would suggest you judge her over harshly when she is guilty of no more than your own sister.”
This brought a sound of such apoplexy from both Benson and Carter that Crispin’s ire was fairly whipped up, but before Crispin could speak, the young servant burst out, “With all due respect, my sister does not even know that…such establishments exist, and if she did, she’d hardly be one to step across the threshold—with all due respect, sir.” Benson’s nostrils flared and his colour heightened. “And considering your father’s long-established enmity with Lord Harkom...well, I can’t imagine what he’s going to say!”
“What on earth are you talking about, Benson?” Crispin was more confused than angered by the young man’s feisty response. “And what’s Lord Harkom got to do with any of this?”
Crispin had no doubt Benson’s sister had stepped across the threshold of many a dwelling as humble as the one in which Faith had been brought up.
And yet even as this thought registered, so too did a kernel of fear that he had missed a fundamental piece of what was under discussion.
Carter cleared his throat and tapped the newspaper. His bald pate was sweating. “I think, sir, that as you clearly have not read in its entirety the published facts, it is not my place to acquaint you with what will come as a great shock and perhaps disappointment.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and his breathing was laboured. He looked nervously at Benson who said, in halting tones, “Given the fact, sir, that I surmise the green waistcoat was to have been worn to impress the lady in question.” His elegant finger tapped the newspaper article that Crispin now pulled more closely towards him, while he considered whether to reprimand Benson on such an appalling impudence as Benson went on, “I think we should perhaps retire and allow you to…digest what has recently come to light.
Clearly, Benson was outraged by the fact that Miss Montague had insinuated herself so thoroughly with the rich and titled.
But Lord Harkom?
Crispin had little liking for Harkom, whom he considered a devious, self-serving creature, and the fact that Faith’s name had obviously become mixed up with his to the extent that it had made it into print, was deepening his concern.
“Like my sister I, myself, naturally have not stepped over the threshold of this…this…” his colour heightened “…Madam Chambon’s, and nor am I suggesting that you know anyone who has, sir.” He sent a pointed look at Crispin. “But that a…creature…who has been indentured to the woman who owns such an establishment, who has carried out her evil designs in order to entrap a good man such as yourself…should have insinuated herself into your good offices and become your muse, well, sir, I cannot bring myself to utter the extent of my horror and outrage.” His shoulders rose and fell as he struggled to control his feelings while Crispin stared at the two men, confounded. “But she has been exposed. She and Harkom will no longer be able to carry out the devious plan they no doubt were hatching to cause you ill. Yes, I would go so far as to suggest that you were her quarry from the very beginning, sir. In fact, it is Mr Carter’s opinion that this was her very plan, hatched in concert with this…Madame Chambon and Lord Harkom, no less. Why, the photograph of the two of them together in that very house says all that needs to be said.”
And indeed, after Crispin had pushed away Benson’s hand in order to properly make out the photograph that went with the text so damningly summed up by his valet, a great pounding in his ears left him with a feeling akin to being shaken by a monstrously large and glossy cat whose meows of self-satisfied relish indicated his lowliness in the great order of things.
There was his Faith, wearing the simple gown she’d worn when he’d first met her those few short weeks ago, in the arms of a gentleman who looked as if he would like to devour her on the spot. It was little consolation that Faith was looking serious. As if she wanted to be elsewhere. Lord Harkom, as Crispin could now distinguish him, was leering, proprietorial. Like he’d come to the house—yes, Madame Chambon’s nunnery—in expectation of securing a great conquest.
And he’d secured Faith.
“You may go now, Benson,” Crispin said, tracing the picture with his forefinger, lingering on the damning title of the article which had been penned, he now saw, by Miss Eaves.
Meddling, interfering Miss Eaves, who’d come to London to establish her future at the expense of Crispin’s.
The fact that Faith had been ruined in the process was, at this very moment, immaterial. For, in the intensity of this moment of discovery, the enormity of her crimes was laid so bare as to reveal the fact she could have had no real feelings for Crispin.
And that she probably never had.
There was room for one more dress in her carpetbag. Not that Faith had many that would be appropriate for the life she’d soon be living. How would the wife of a diplomat, a future British envoy, be expected to dress? Something modest would be appropriate in the interim, but after that?
Well, Faith was excellent at research. She’d researched everything that would make her beguiling and differently exciting in Mr Westaway’s eyes. Fortunately, it hadn’t been hard to find herself excited over international politics while she’d had to stop herself from overdosing on intrigue. The relationship between Germany and Great Britain at the moment was volatile, to say the least, and she was confident she could be a great asset to Crispin.
She could hear Lady Vernon issuing orders to a servant in the passage. Faith dropped in her tooth powder and brush, a thrill of excitement rippling through her. Lady Vernon planned to whisk Faith away later this evening, but by then, Faith would have been whisked away by someone far more exciting. Yes, Crispin had accepted the truth of her altered situation in his eyes. She’d told him the truth of her humble beginnings, and he had still accepted her.
“Mrs Gedge is looking forward to handing over the cheque you so deserve, Faith.” Lady Vernon stood in the doorway looking like a smudge of something unpleasant, thought Faith as she glanced from the grey-pallored creature with her yellowing teeth, to the smooth line of her own fashionable princess-line pelisse.
“I’m sure she is. I’ve done her bidding thoroughly. Mr Westaway will be bereft.” Faith’s gaze didn’t linger on Lady Vernon’s face. She returned to her packing and wondered why Lady Vernon still lingered in the doorway. Was she Faith’s gaoler now? Faith tried to keep her face impassive. If Lady Vernon wasn’t going to let her out of her sight, then Faith would have to climb out of her bedchamber window in the middle of the night to escape. She would do whatever she had to.
“I believe you still have a few gowns and pieces to collect from Madame Chambon’s.”
Surprised, Faith looked up to see Lady Vernon studying her with interest. “I would be careful of crossing that threshold in daylight. Or any time, for that matter. Perhaps you should send for your possessions.”
Faith pretended to consider the option. The term possessions really encompassed only a few trinkets and a ring given her by her grandmother. In total, they were worth very little, but they were all she had to remind her…of a past she wanted to forget.
The only reason she’d especially want to visit would be to say farewell to Charity. The only other real connection she’d made in her life was with Crispin.
He’d opened her heart and poured music into it. She’d become the person she’d always wanted to be: alive, interested, allowing her intelligence free rein.
However, if she were being allowed to leave the house alone to go to Madame Chambon’s, it was greater good fortune than she could have hoped for.
“Yes, of course I’ll be careful,” she said. She glanced through the window at the sun dipping in the blue sky. Before nightfall, Faith would be out of here. Away from Lady Vernon and her life of pretence and subterfuge.
Soon she’d be with Crispin and, if he entertained any doubts, she’d prove to her new husband that a girl brought up in poverty truly could be worthy of a respected diplomat and a celebrated painter. She relished the challenge. She would be the best, most devoted, most educated wife he could wish for.
A little later, Faith stood up from her chair and faced Lady Vernon across the three feet of Aubusson carpet that separated them in the old lady’s spartan townhouse.
“It’s growing late. Perhaps I should make a quick visit to Madame Chambon’s.” Her trunk was packed in her bedchamber, ready to be carried into the carriage that would be called later this evening to take her to Mrs Gedge’s, and thence on to an unknown location for an unspecified waiting period. Faith hadn’t asked too many questions for she’d never intended travelling that route.
Lady Vernon’s change in plans, in that she was no longer visiting a friend and was now going to remain indoors, meant Faith would have to arrange to have her trunk collected later. She had a brush, a change of linen, and a few necessities in a small carpetbag so this would have to suffice.
“Send my regards to Madame Chambon.” Lady Vernon looked up from her tatting. “And don’t be too long, my girl.”
Faith shook her head. This would be the last time she’d see Lady Vernon. And what a relief that was.
“Oh, do give her this now that I’ve finished with it. It might entertain her.” Lady Vernon brandished a newspaper as Faith passed her chair. “Don’t stay talking too long. Half an hour is the limit. You’re to come right back, for at eleven o’ clock tonight you’re going on a different journey.”
Keeping Faith Page 20