Fair Cyprians of London Boxset

by Beverley Oakley

  “I think you’d inspire such chivalry from anyone who met you, Miss Montague.”

  Faith caught the surprised look Lord Delmore’s words received from Mr Westaway and was emboldened. “What about you, Mr Westaway? I’ve heard that the focus of the true artist would not be torn away by anything.”

  “Except losing the very thing that keeps him focused.” He grinned as he looked up from the canvas. “I suppose I’d have no choice but to rescue you if I wanted to finish my painting.”

  “Well, I prefer Lord Delmore’s response, even though it’s a relief to know I’d be saved in both instances. Am I floating artistically enough?”

  Faith had adjusted to the water temperature and made sure her hair fanned out about her and the folds of her dress looked suitably artistic.

  “It’s perfect.” Mr Westaway nodded.

  “Will she have to go into the lake every day, Mr Westaway?” Lady Vernon asked. “There are logistical concerns with seeing her dress is dry when she puts it on each day only to then have to float in it for as long as it pleases you.”

  “Today will suffice, Lady Vernon.” Mr Westaway barely looked at the old woman, but he smiled at Faith. “I promise not to sacrifice you, Miss Montague, to my artistic pursuits. Today I only need to sketch in the background and get a general composition.”

  Faith, who’d been floating for as long as she could manage, stood up. The water reached mid-thigh, and as she glanced down, she could see the outline of her corset beneath the fabric of her gown. She decided to remain standing for a while and pretend to be unaware.

  “Perhaps she’ll need a new dress,” Lady Vernon went on. “Faith, get back in the water this instant!”

  “Only if Mr Westaway says I must,” Faith countered. “He’s the artist.”

  She saw the way his eyes lingered on her just a moment too long before he agreed with Lady Vernon, the pause and the obvious reluctance in his tone music to her ears.

  Faith lay back down in the water, but after another few minutes, her task really was becoming difficult. The chill was starting to seep into her bones.

  When she could take it no more, she rose suddenly, but her feet stuck fast in the mud and she stumbled and fell to her knees. Her hands went out in front of her, and now her knees were sinking in sludge while the water was too high for her head to remain above. Her corset cut into her, and she couldn’t move properly. Panic was swift. She truly was trapped. With her clothing too constricting, she could neither rise to her feet, yet nor was she agile enough to roll onto her back so that she was again floating with her face to the sky.

  By the time a pair of hands gripped her elbows and hauled her to her feet, she was choking on the water she’d taken in, shaking with nerves and on the edge of tears.

  “I have you, Miss Montague. A nasty fright, that’s all.” Lord Delmore led her to his chair, his tone fatherly, his concern making her want to cry even more. There’d been precious few people in her world that had ever spoken to her like that. “There, there, Miss Montague,” he soothed, patting her shoulder. “Open your eyes, here’s my handkerchief.”

  Mr Westaway had barely registered until it was all over, it seemed, for he was blinking at her over the top of the easel, and she seethed inside at the injustice of losing such an opportunity to play to his concern.

  “I won’t cry,” she said between gritted teeth, and it was as if she were six years old again and her father was berating her for letting the cow run away, bringing the willow switch across her shoulders in a series of violent outbursts. Little matter that he had left the gate unlatched plenty of times and that the cow had always either returned home for milking or been brought back by one of the neighbours. “I won’t cry. I won’t cry.”

  She’d said those words so often as a child and she never did cry. Nor did she cry, now, but clearly the combination of hunched shoulders, stiff jaw, and defiant mantra was not the usual reaction of damsels in distress.

  “You’re very brave.” Mr Westaway was on one side and Lord Delmore, standing on her other, was wrapping a towel about her shoulders. Lady Vernon was blinking dispassionately at her, not having bothered to rise from her chair, but she didn’t count. Faith could bask in the attention from two handsome men and believe for a few minutes they genuinely did care she’d been frightened.

  She relaxed her shoulders and smiled suddenly. “I won’t do that again.” Mr Westaway’s brow was creased as if he didn’t know what to say, so she saved him the trouble. “I’m sorry I spoiled things, Mr Westaway. I hope I was there long enough for you to get the sketch you needed at least. But I’m ready to go back again, if you’d like.”

  “Of course not!” Lord Delmore was quite vocal in defence of Faith having a reprieve. “Ten minutes is more than enough time for a gently nurtured young lady to float in a swamp. I wouldn’t hear of it, and I’m sure Mr Westaway wouldn’t, either.”

  * * *

  “Gad, but she’s a rare jewel,” Lord Delmore declared as he accepted the brandy Crispin handed him before taking a seat opposite him in the library. The long balmy evenings of sitting outside were gone since the summer days had given way to a dreary grey, with a decided chill in the air. “I wonder what her plans are when this is all over. Don’t suppose she has her eye on you, do you think?”

  “It’s something that has already been aired between us,” Crispin said, stretching his long legs towards the fire. She’s very aware of my situation as I am of hers.”

  “And that is? Yes, yes, I know you told me she’s penniless and looking to make a marriage.” Lord Delmore seemed surprisingly agitated, which was uncharacteristic.

  Crispin put down his empty glass and stared at the longtime friend of his aunt and uncle. A man of another generation. One he admired, certainly, but whose life and future seemed settled and predictable. “Are you suggesting you might make her an offer, Lord Delmore?”

  Crispin had heard his uncle’s old neighbour voice his disinclination to change his widowed status on many occasions.

  So when Lord Delmore responded, “If you’re not going to, I just might follow her to London and see how matters progress,” Crispin couldn’t have been more astonished. He was also astonished at the lurch of dismay that lodged in his chest cavity and hardened into a feeling he was quite loath to identify. For he really had been on his guard not to let the beautiful and engaging Miss Faith Montague get under his defences.

  Perhaps Crispin’s expression betrayed him for immediately Lord Delmore said, “Naturally, you have the superior suit, Crispin. You and Miss Montague make a good match, to my mind, and if I were standing here as your father, I’d be encouraging you to consider the merits of aligning yourself with a young woman with a lively intelligence and sharp wit, not to mention a good solid backbone. They’re few and far between in my experience. Lord, don’t I know it having been married so many years and rearing a daughter frighteningly similar to my wife, God rest her soul.”

  “You think I should make her an offer?” Crispin was incredulous.

  “You won’t, of course.” Lord Delmore stared at the hearthrug, his expression wistful. “She’d make you a good wife, but if you loved her like she deserves, then you’d disregard your father’s strictures entirely. But I know you, Crispin. Ever the dutiful son and you couldn’t be happy if you’d displeased your pater, as I see it.” He hesitated, raised his head and said very seriously, “Give it another few days, my boy, and if you haven’t fallen head over heels, then I hope you’ll agree that all’s fair in love and all that. In which case, if Miss Montague is indeed prepared to marry without love on her side, then I’m sure I could make a good case for her considering me a good prospect.”

  Faith? Lady Delmore? Living as neighbour to Crispin’s aunt and uncle? He tried not to grimace. To keep a cool head. What Lord Delmore said about Crispin’s reverence for his father’s word made him sound more like a kowtowing schoolboy than a young man of integrity who was of one mind when his pater spoke only common sense regarding Cr
ispin’s need to prioritise his career over his marital concerns.

  “I’m sure she’d consider you very favourably, Lord Delmore,” he said carefully, hating the way the words sounded yet knowing he could never make the young lady a similar offer. And wasn’t it just as well he’d kept his distance and not allowed free rein to the feelings inside him that might have escalated beyond his control?

  “You think so?” Now it was Lord Delmore who sounded like the schoolboy.

  Crispin nodded and smiled weakly.

  * * *

  “Not so clever, Faith.” Lady Vernon sucked on her gums as she took a turn about the gravel path that surrounded the house. Her head was lowered and her sharp nose, in silhouette, looked like a miniature scythe. Faith knew Lady Vernon would not hesitate to stab her in the back if it profited the old woman. In truth, her own desperation was rising for Lady Vernon was right. Yet again, Faith had failed to strike the right note.

  Yesterday’s episode by the lake had elicited Lord Delmore’s chivalry, but left Mr Westaway unmoved. He’d barely registered what had occurred though he’d been all solicitude in the drawing room, later. However, he’d deferred all evening to Lord Delmore, who’d paid Faith all manner of compliments and engaged her in light conversation. His attention had been enough to convince both Faith and Lady Vernon that the older man was interested.

  “And don’t think you can set yourself up with a peer and not have to account to the rest of us,” Lady Vernon now muttered, echoing Faith’s innermost thoughts. For what if Lord Delmore did surprisingly pursue her and offer her the respectability that would secure her future, and ensure she didn’t ever land up in a gutter selling herself for a few pennies? She knew of enough girls who shared that fate, and she’d always considered she was clever enough for it not to happen to her.

  No, Faith had believed she could secure her heart in a completely ironclad box so that the decisions she made to safeguard her future were entirely quarantined from any fanciful notions of romance. Love was not going to make a fool out of her.

  So why was her disappointment that Mr Westaway seemed happy enough to let Lord Delmore pay court to her so acute? She was piqued from a distinctly personal point of view that had nothing to do with the greatest conundrum that must be faced—unless she carried out Mrs Gedge’s orders she’d be out on her ear. Lady Vernon would see to that at the very least.

  “I’m not going to encourage Lord Delmore, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” she muttered, head bent against the brisk breeze, feeling on the back of her neck a spattering of raindrops from the branches of a monkey puzzle tree they passed under during their walk.

  “Because you’re in love with Mr Westaway?” the older woman asked. “It’s been fascinating to watch, and I can’t make up my mind whether you actually are a better actress than I’d given you credit for, or whether you’ve allowed yourself to be moonstruck by impossibilities.”

  “What does it matter?” Faith raised her head. “You’ll get your cut, Lady Vernon.”

  “I will.” There was a distinct smugness to her satisfaction, which made Faith wonder if Lady Vernon in fact had more belief in Faith’s eventual success than Faith had. After a pause, the old woman said, “Tomorrow is the day you’ll win him. I know what needs doing.”

  “Do you, Lady Vernon?”

  She nodded.

  Faith wasn’t sure what to think. Lady Vernon had proved in the past that she could provide the impetus to get Mr Westaway to act in a more tender manner towards Faith. Even if he did withdraw immediately afterwards.

  Lady Vernon had stopped and regarded Faith carefully.

  “For such a well-tutored professional, you really don’t know what to do when you’re in love, do you?”

  “I’m not in love.”

  “No?” Lady Vernon’s look was ugly in its assessment. She shrugged. “Well, that’s neither here nor there, is it, when you won’t be able to claim him. But tomorrow he will realise he loves you and he has to have you. After that, there’s no going back. Not for him, anyway. As for you, well, my girl, you have no choice but to do what you were engaged to do.”

  Faith turned towards the house and caught a glimpse of a face looking down at her from through the diamond-paned windows on the second story. Mr Westaway’s bedchamber? Was that where she’d find herself tomorrow night?

  She wanted to be there.

  And because she wanted to be there, so much…with him...she realised that perhaps the only way to avoid disaster was to scupper Lady Vernon’s plans.

  Because, now she suspected there was more to this than simply making Mr Westaway fall in love with her only to break his heart.

  No, there was something far deeper at play than she’d given credence to, and unless she ended this charade right now, she’d be the one paying the penalty for the rest of her life.

  She was sure of it.

  Chapter 17

  Faith woke to the sound of rain beating against the windowpane. She opened one heavy eyelid and stared out into a grey sky. The tree branches scraped and scratched at the glass, and the wind sighed through the branches.

  She sat up and reached for her poor, worse-for-wear cuirass-bodice and skirt that she’d worn the past two days for the painting and which Lady Vernon had arranged to be dried by morning.

  But as her hands closed about the fabric, she encountered something light and unfamiliar.

  These were not her clothes.

  She put her feet to the floor and stood up, holding up the frothy, flimsy gown that was the right length for her but was not hers. She recognised it as something semifamiliar, an alternative fashion that eschewed the heavy corsetry, flounces, and swathing of the traditionally upholstered gowns of today’s fashion.

  As she held it up against her, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor.

  Dear Miss Montague – she read – Perhaps this will be easier to wear for the remaining days you are required to work for me. I certainly believe it will suit you, and so anticipate the pleasure I will have of brandishing my brushes to do justice to your beauty.”

  Mr Westaway had bought her a dress. A light, flowing, delicious confection in white voile with flounces and furbelows that required no corsetry. A dress she could put on herself without the help of a dresser or lady’s maid.

  She stepped into it, wishing her heart did not beat so, and that her hands didn’t tremble as she fastened the hooks and eyes.

  Surveying herself in the mirror, she saw that the effect would be eminently desirable from a painterly point of view. She put her hands around her waist and smoothed the fabric over her hips. A perfect hourglass figure precluded the necessity of an undergarment that would impinge upon rapid undressing. She would be the creature in the medieval gown floating in the stream that was the stuff of Mr Westaway’s imagination.

  But she would not entice him.

  No, her plans had changed. She would no longer play the temptress in the knowledge that her actions would lead an innocent man to his downfall.

  Regardless of the contract she had with Mrs Gedge, she couldn’t condemn the man she was afraid she’d grown too fond of to a future filled with dangers unknown.

  * * *

  “Miss Montague, you didn’t sleep well?”

  Faith shook her head and offered Mr Westaway a rueful smile while wishing Lord Delmore was on hand in the small bathing room. The piercing, soulful eyes of handsome Mr Westway plucked at her heartstrings in a way they had no right to.

  He smiled sympathetically when she shook her head. “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t either.”

  He positioned himself behind the easel but put his head around to ask, “And what do you think of the gown? I know Lady Vernon’s arthritic fingers make it difficult to help you with your ordinary dress. Besides which, this will create the effect I’m after.” He seemed to falter. “I hope you don’t consider me too forward in choosing your wardrobe.”

  “You’re the artist, Mr Westaway. I would wear a hessian sack if
you required it.”

  “You would?” He ducked back in front of his easel to grin at her. “I should like that.”

  “I shouldn’t like it, though. However, you’re paying me.”

  His smile vanished. The dampening effect of her response had created the desired effect, but it hadn’t made Faith happy to see him so effectively checked.

  With a sigh, she shrugged her shoulders. “Forgive my being so out of sorts, Mr Westaway. You’re right; I had an abominable night’s sleep, and I’m not an angel when I’m not well rested.”

  “Despite looking like one. I’m glad you’re wearing the dress. I think it will free both of us.”

  He was back in professional mode, not thinking of the double meaning of his words. In the tiny bathroom, Lady Vernon sat on a chair by the window, silent like a bird of prey, the great tub of steaming water beckoning Faith to submerge herself. Such a contrast to the dreary outdoors. On the water’s surface floated rose petals while beneath, the flame from a dozen candles kept the water at a pleasant temperature.

  “This is somewhat more enticing than yesterday’s escapade into the icy, murky depths of your local fishpond,” she said, and he laughed.

  “Yesterday, I sketched the reeds and the clouds above and the billowing folds of your gown, Miss Montague. It was the beautiful outdoors that will be writ large when the painting is exhibited and there was nothing wasted.” He craned his head forward as if to study the planes and angles of her face.

  “Now, I just need to render the perfection of my subject at close quarters,” he seemed to stumble over his last few words, “so that the painting’s viewers will appreciate the exquisite definition of my Lady of the Lake.”