No one—not her family or friends, nor society or Max—would ever know her innermost secrets. She was free.
Chapter 5
Portraits… Have you ever considered sitting for one? If you are a member of Polite Society, it goes without saying that your likeness should be preserved on canvas for generations to come. Look no further than this article for a comprehensive list of London’s preeminent portrait artists…
The Beau Monde Mirror: The Fine Arts
Westhampton House, Park Lane, Mayfair
March 28, 1819
“He’s simply gorgeous, Sophie,” murmured Charlie as she sat upon a damask settee, carefully cradling her drowsy month-old nephew, Thomas Nathaniel Hastings, in her arms. A pale shaft of afternoon sunlight filtering through the silk gauze curtains at her back softly illuminated his little face; his chubby cheeks were flushed with sleep, and his brow was squished into a slight frown.
Her sister-in-law, who sat beside her, smiled, and her blue-as-a-midsummer-sky eyes shone with maternal pride and tenderness. “He is, isn’t he? I’m quite transfixed by how perfect he is.”
“While I’d like to think you’re talking about me, I suspect it’s baby Thomas who has you both turned about his little finger,” remarked Nate as he sauntered into the drawing room and winked at his wife.
Looking up as he approached, Charlie couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “How perceptive of you, dear brother.”
“Now, now, you two,” said Sophie, ever the peacemaker. “I think we all can agree that Thomas is a lovely healthy boy and that’s all that really matters.”
“As always, you are absolutely correct, my love,” said Nate, his brown eyes glowing with warmth as he gently ran a hand over the light red fuzz atop Thomas’s tiny head. “Although, I will add that the reason he is so perfect is quite obvious…” His gaze lifted and connected with Sophie’s. “He takes after you, my dear Lady Malverne.”
A flush of pleasure suffused Sophie’s fair complexion. “Won’t you sit down and take tea with us?” she murmured and gestured at the low table by the settee where a delectable array of cakes and sandwiches was assembled along with a fat china teapot and a silver coffee pot. “Charlie and I can hardly eat all of this. And look, I had Cook make your favorite strawberry tartlets with clotted cream.”
“Mmm, I’m sorely tempted,” replied Nate with a lopsided smile that Charlie could tell was meant only for his wife. “But I’m afraid I have an appointment with my man of affairs. Egads.” He scrubbed a hand through his thick auburn hair. “Look what you’ve done to me, Sophie. Turned me into an upstanding fellow who not only takes his responsibilities seriously but tends to them with alacrity. This time last year I would rather have stabbed myself in the eye with my cravat pin than attend such a meeting.”
Charlie had to suppress a wistful sigh before she observed, “She’s effortlessly transformed you into a blissfully happy husband and doting father, that’s what she’s done.”
“For once you and I can agree, dearest sister,” replied Nate. His adoring gaze met his wife’s once more before he leaned down to bestow a gentle kiss on Thomas’s tiny forehead. The babe’s brow wrinkled, he squirmed a little, then he planted his minuscule thumb firmly in his cherub-like mouth.
Nate gave a soft chuckle. “Why don’t you join us for dinner, Charlie? It feels like ages since we’ve had a good tête-à-tête.”
“Oh yes, please do,” said Sophie. “Nate, I can send a note round to Hastings House to invite your father too, if you like.”
“That’s a capital idea.” When Nate rounded the settee then bent to give Sophie a kiss, Charlie had to look away. While she was over-the-moon happy for her best friend and brother, she couldn’t help but feel a small pang of envy whenever they displayed their affection for each other so overtly. It made her own heart yearn to find the same kind of romantic connection and idyllic domestic contentment with someone too.
Someone like Max.
As if Sophie was attuned to her private thoughts, her friend said, “Perhaps we could also invite Max to dinner. It seems like forever since he’s visited us here at Westhampton House.” She cast a sly look at Charlie before continuing, “He would even out the numbers for dinner quite nicely.”
Nate leaned down and picked up a strawberry tartlet. “I’m afraid he won’t be able to,” he said as he dolloped a large spoonful of clotted cream on top of the plump strawberry. “I saw him this morning at Gentleman Jackson’s, and he was lamenting the fact that he’s obliged to attend a dinner party at Devereux House. It seems his mother has arranged it, and we’ve all heard what a virago the dowager duchess can be. Apparently, Lady Penelope Purcell, along with her brother, Lord Mowbray, and their parents, the Duke and Duchess of Stafford, are on the guest list.”
Sophie’s fine black brows dipped into a frown. “Lady Penelope Perfect? Oh, dear. That doesn’t augur well. It sounds like Max’s mama is attempting to matchmake.”
Nate grimaced. “Yes, it would appear so. Poor sod.”
“Well, I, for one, still haven’t forgiven Lady Penelope for publicly insulting you so dreadfully last year, Sophie,” said Charlie with a huff. “And to think that the whole exchange ended up in the Beau Monde Mirror. I can’t believe that his mother would even consider such a match for Max.” Jealousy flickered and fused with a smoldering ember of indignation. “Although Lady Penelope might have a remarkable pedigree and possess a host of accomplishments, she most certainly isn’t perfect. Not by a long shot. Max could do much better.”
“Mmm. Agreed.” Nate popped the strawberry tartlet in his mouth, chewed with gusto, then swallowed. “Delicious,” he said, changing the subject, then swooped down to kiss his wife’s cheek in farewell. “And thank you, sweetheart. You know how much I love the flavor of strawberries. Now I must be off. I promise you that I won’t be late.”
As her brother quit the room, Charlie noticed that the tips of Sophie’s ears had turned bright pink. Even though she wasn’t sure why, she rather suspected it had something to do with Nate’s remark about strawberries.
Best not to think about that.
Little Thomas began to stir and fuss, so Sophie rang for his nurse. As her friend began to dispense the tea into elegant Wedgwood cups, Charlie helped herself to one of the strawberry tartlets and silently concurred that they were indeed delicious.
Her thoughts strayed to what Nate had just disclosed, and she added another tartlet and a cucumber sandwich to her plate. She wasn’t at all surprised, given Max had complained last night about his mother’s machinations. But still, the knowledge that Lady Penelope had been invited to dinner, and that she, Charlie, would never be good enough for Max—at least in the eyes of the dowager duchess and Polite Society in general—smarted.
She released a sigh and nibbled at the sandwich. If only Max would stop looking upon her as just his friend’s younger, bothersome, and clearly far-too-brazen sister. The hope that had sparked in her breast when they’d hidden in that moonlit window alcove at Rochfort House had all but fizzled out by the time he’d dropped her home at Berkeley Square. After she’d handed back his brandy flask in the carriage, he’d become withdrawn and had barely spoken a word to her other than goodnight.
The initial elation she’d felt at recovering her notebook had dimmed too. When she’d been safely tucked up in bed with Peridot at Hastings House, she’d perused the pencilled notes she’d made during the Penriths’ Saint Valentine’s Day masque and realized how futile many of her fantasies were, how silly her list of “Secret Wishes and Dreams”.
So, she must find new dreams and different aspirations, she decided as she added two sugar lumps to her tea and gave it a vigorous stir. Another purpose. Reinvent herself. Fashion a brand-new Lady Charlotte Hastings who wasn’t lonely or bored or ashamed or lovesick. Yes, she was utterly weary of foolishly mooning over a man who seemed determined to leave her in the “do not ever touch” category forever.
If, after all this time, Max Devereux felt nothing at all for her and coul
dn’t view her as a prospective wife, well, he could just jolly well go and jump in the Thames.
“Penny for your thoughts, Charlie?” Sophie said softly. “Is everything all right?”
Charlie hastily swallowed her pique along with a quick mouthful of her tea before she replied. “Oh yes. Never better.” She was pleased that for once her pronouncement wasn’t an outright lie. She put down her cup and glanced at the Ormolu mantel clock. “My apologies for being so distracted, but I need to keep an eye on the time. As much as I’d like to stay until dinner, I have another appointment in an hour. In Half Moon Street, so not far.”
“Oh?” Sophie arched an eyebrow, and her eyes twinkled with mischief. “Something exciting, I hope.”
“Well, yes. It is a little.” Charlie felt her cheeks grow warm with an uncharacteristic blush. “Would you like to come along? I’d value your opinion, actually.”
Sophie beamed. “Absolutely. I’d love to.”
17 Half Moon Street, Mayfair
“Heavens, Charlie, I had no idea that you’d been up to something as exciting as this. I’m quite…speechless. Flabbergasted, in fact. And also in awe.” Sophie gazed with wide-eyed wonder at the series of charcoal sketches fanned out upon the polished rosewood table in the elegant parlor of Madame Louise de Beauvoir, portrait artist extraordinaire. “I mean, how did all this come about? How did you hear about Madame de Beauvoir?” She touched a finger to one of the pictures. “She’s quite talented, isn’t she? You look…you’re breathtakingly gorgeous.”
Charlie laughed. “You’re too kind, my dear friend. And to answer your questions, it was Aunt Tabitha who arranged the sittings. Just before she quit Town.”
Sophie patted her now flat belly beneath her smart walking gown of blue velvet. “Ah, while Nate and I were still rusticating at Deerhurst Park.” She fixed Charlie with a narrow-eyed look. “It seems you’ve been keeping secrets from me.”
To hide her guilt, Charlie gave an arch smile. “Only the most scandalous ones. Now, in all seriousness”—she directed Sophie’s attention back to the sketches—“which one do you like best? I have to make a choice this afternoon so Madame de Beauvoir can begin work on my portrait. I’d like it to be finished before Aunt Tabitha returns to London.”
Sophie sifted through the drawings and chose one in which Charlie wore a low-cut dress and her curls were piled high on her head. “What about this one? The style of the gown suits you well. It’s very Grecian. And with the elegant marble colonnade in the background, and the way you’re balancing that urn on your hip, you could be Circe. Or one of the three Graces.”
“You don’t think I look a little too…Rubenesque? You see, after Christmastide, I discovered I needed a new wardrobe.” Charlie affected a laugh. “You were increasing because you were with child, but I was increasing because I’d eaten too much cake and pudding and too many sweetmeats. In any event, when Aunt Tabitha noticed how down in the doldrums I was because none of my clothes fit properly—particularly across the bust—she dragged me off to the modiste as soon as we returned to London. And before she departed for Bath, she also decreed that I should have my portrait painted à la Lady Hamilton so I could see that I wasn’t as frightfully plump as I thought I was.”
“Plump?” exclaimed Sophie. “What a thing to say! You and your curves are divine, Lady Charlotte Hastings. I’ve only seen a few portraits of Emma, Lady Hamilton—all by George Romney—and while she is pretty, I would venture to say that you are even lovelier.”
“You don’t think these sketches are a little…well, as the French would say, risqué?” Charlie picked up another sheet of parchment. “I mean, this one for instance. I’m supposed to be a water nymph, and I’m not wearing any undergarments beneath my white silk muslin gown. At all.” She’d posed side on, bunching up her skirts so that her bare lower leg was exposed and her toes were pointed, as though she were about to dip her foot into a pool of water. “Madame de Beauvoir also insisted that I rub oil into my skin, then her assistant dampened the muslin so that it clung everywhere.” The side of her breast, the cheek of one buttock, her thigh. “I’m worried it’s a little too salacious…”
Sophie took it from her and studied it. “I like it,” she pronounced after a thorough inspection. “Very much. It’s tastefully risqué rather than ribald like Thomas Rowlandson’s etching of Lady Hamilton. Now that’s the epitome of a salacious picture. She hasn’t a stitch on.”
Charlie raised her eyebrows. “You’ve seen it?”
Sophie laughed. “And more besides. Why do you think a folio of Rowlandson’s etchings was stashed in your father’s library at Hastings House? The folio you brought to our very first meeting for the Society for Enlightened Young Women at Mrs. Rathbone’s academy? It was Nate’s.” A telling pink blush suffused her cheeks as she added, “He reclaimed it long ago.”
“Ah, well, I rather suspected that it might be his.” Charlie gave her friend’s arm a playful nudge. “I told you he was wicked.”
Sophie’s blush deepened but nevertheless she smiled. “Exceedingly. I think that’s why I love him so much. Now…” She placed the tastefully risqué etching back on the table then tapped her chin. “I’ve decided. This one is my favorite. Because we only see part of your profile and you’re looking down, and the way your curls fall across your cheek, it gives you quite an ethereal air. You’re both beguiling and mysterious. It’s cleverly done. If it were featured in the Royal Academy of Art’s Annual Exhibition, everyone would be abuzz with excitement as they tried to guess who the artist’s muse might be.”
“Oh, Madame de Beauvoir is an excellent artist, but this won’t be displayed in any art gallery. Just my private sitting room. And even then, I might have to have it enclosed in a special cupboard,” said Charlie. “Or hide it behind curtains. I hate to think what my father would say if he saw it.” A shiver of horror passed through her. “He might never speak to me again.”
“Oh, stuff and nonsense. The ambiguity of the subject is so marked—your identity so well-concealed—I’m sure you would be able to display it in the entry hall or indeed the drawing room of Hastings House and no one would even raise an eyebrow.”
“Are you certain?” Charlie wasn’t at all convinced.
Sophie gave an emphatic nod. “Most definitely.”
“Very well. I will ask Madame de Beauvoir to paint this one.”
“Wonderful.” Sophie sifted through the other sketches. “You know, I’m feeling a little left out. Considering Arabella is her husband’s muse and now your likeness has been captured so becomingly, I rather think I should have my portrait painted. For Nate.” She glanced up. “How is it that your aunt became acquainted with Madame de Beauvoir? You didn’t say.”
“Ah, that’s an easy question to answer. Late last year, the Mayfair Bluestocking Society invited her to give art lessons to its members. Aunt Tabitha and I both attended, but I’m afraid to report that my efforts were quite woeful. But it was not through want of trying.”
Sophie laughed. “I’m sure my efforts would have been far worse. The art tutor at Mrs. Rathbone’s academy would have happily set fire to all of the appalling abominations I created.”
“But my dear sister, you are accomplished in so many other ways,” countered Charlie. “Aside from being a talented novelist, you’re a devoted wife and mother. Olivia can sing like an angel. And Arabella is clever beyond words and a dedicated philanthropist. Whereas I…” Charlie picked up one of the discarded sketches and sighed. “Aside from getting into mischief, I suppose I’m quite adept at balancing a porcelain urn upon my hip, don’t you think?”
“Oh, Charlie.” Sophie enveloped her in a warm hug. “You’re perfect just the way you are. You bring untold joy and fun and laughter into the lives of everyone who knows you. To my way of thinking, there can be no finer accomplishment than that.”
Devereux House, Curzon Street, Mayfair
“Maximilian.”
Max winced inwardly as he helped himself to a large b
randy from the crystal decanter that graced the satinwood sideboard in the drawing room of Devereux House. “Yes, Mother?” he said without turning around. “I do hope that you’re not going to chide me for my intemperate ways. Because you know I’ll just leave, given I don’t particularly wish to be here anyway.”
“Good heavens. There’s no need to be so rude or dramatic.”
Max turned around, propped one hip against the sideboard, and took a long, deliberately slow sip of his brandy. “I didn’t think I was being either of those things, Mother. Just honest and matter-of-fact. And I’m not in the mood for your sniping.”
“Really, Maximilian.” His mother stalked across the room to the fireplace, her ice-blue silk skirts fluttering and whispering about her ankles. The firelight glanced off the diamonds at her ears and throat as if it wanted to be somewhere else too. “All I ask is for you to behave in a civilized manner tonight”—her cool, appraising gaze slid over him—“even if you don’t dress like a gentleman of your rank should. You should hire a new valet.”
Max scratched the evening stubble on his jaw. “Smedley does a sterling job. And bristles are all the rage, didn’t you know? As are stylishly rumpled cravats and unkept hair. I hear young women are particularly wild about ton bucks who look as though they’ve just stumbled out of someone’s bed. Which is rather the point of this evening, isn’t it? Don’t you want Lady Penelope to be all moon-eyed whenever she casts a glance my way over the roast guinea fowl at the dinner table?”
His mother pinned him with a frosty glare. “There’s no need to be vulgar. And I know why you’re doing this. It’s your rather puerile attempt to put off the Duke and Duchess of Stafford. To ruin your chances with Lady Penelope, even if she’s partial to”—she waved her hand in his general direction— “poorly dressed men.”
How to Catch a Devilish Duke: The Disreputable Debutantes Page 7