Fair Cyprians of London Boxset: Books 1-5: Five passionate Victorian Romances

by Beverley Oakley

  Grace lowered the needle a fraction. “Yes, but what did you propose … exactly?”

  Silence.

  Furiously, Grace stabbed the needle into his shoulder, raising it above his eye once again as he yelled with pain.

  “All right, I threatened I’d show your mother the letter I’d found in Grace’s drawer.”

  “Which letter?”

  “The letter about going to Florence.”

  Grace saw cognition register in David’s unseeing gaze as he asked, slowly, “So Grace agreed to let you photograph her provided you kept my secret?”

  Laurence nodded but David couldn’t see. “Answer me!” he said harshly and Laurence burst out angrily, “Grace came to my studio and I arranged her as I would any other model.”

  David obviously saw where this was going. Angrily he said, “Only you coerced her to remove her clothes.” The bitterness in his tone grew. “And she did because she thought it was the only way to keep my letter … my secret … my hopes safe from my mother.”

  Laurence’s silence was answer enough.

  Holding her breath, Grace watched David battle the silent fury within before he screamed, “And then you raped her!” Seizing his cousin by the shoulders he raised him with unnatural force and slammed his head into the floor.

  Grace watched the violence with grim satisfaction, Laurence crying out with pain as David continued to shout, “You raped her and made her pregnant! Mama dismissed her. She had nowhere to go. Her life was destroyed because of you! All our plans were destroyed because of you!”

  “David, stop!” Suddenly Grace was frightened by the extent of his rage as he continued to pound Laurence’s head upon the floor. His strength was being channelled from forces greater than any of them could control and Laurence’s life was in danger unless David could be calmed.

  The sound of the door grinding open and Mrs Willowbank’s shocked cry made David drop his hands.

  “My God, what is happening?” Mrs Willowbank rushed forward as David rose from Laurence’s chest. With a cursory glance at Grace she spat, “And you … Miss Fortune or whoever you are, get out! You’re the cause of this, aren’t you? I paid for a high-class prostitute, not a common whore.”

  “How dare you, mother?” David warned in a low voice.

  Mrs Willowbank spun round. “I want the slut out of here.”

  “She’s not going anywhere.” David had risen. He stood, tall and straight. Confident. He took a challenging step forward and reached out for Grace, who stepped forward, relief making her shoulders sag as she felt his protective arm go round her. “This is not Miss Fortune and you will treat her with respect.” A flicker of emotion crossed his face. There was a fraction of a second’s uncertainty as he glanced across at Grace, almost as if she might object, before he pushed back his shoulders and said, “Miss Fortune is going to be my wife.”

  “Your wife?” Mrs Willowbank gave a shout of hysterical laughter. “Have you taken leave of your senses? She’s addled your brain. Why, this creature has walked off the streets—”

  “Where you and Laurence condemned her.” David’s voice shook but there was a hard, threatening edge that made even his mother flinch. “Laurence forced himself on her then you dismissed her. I hope you’re ashamed. Yes, this is Grace who used to work at Barton Manor and as today I came into my majority and can do what I like, I am going to marry her. Just like I promised all those years ago.”

  Chapter 7

  Six weeks later

  Standing behind Grace as she leaned back against him, David smiled as his seeking fingers traced the delicate pattern around her eyes. A gentle breeze stirred the open shutters as they gazed out over the city.

  “The sun is making you squint. I can feel its warmth on my skin,” he murmured.

  Grace shivered with pleasure. She felt lazy and peaceful. A little over a month ago she and David had sought comfort in each other’s arms in David’s London bedchamber just after Laurence and Mrs Willowbank had tried to direct their lives once more. They’d both been shivering, on that occasion, too. From fear.

  The silence that had followed his mother’s departure after David had again declared his intention to marry Grace had been a welcome contrast to the earlier shouting and shrieking, but it had been ominous, too. Grace already knew to her cost how unyielding—and unforgiving—Mrs Willowbank could be.

  But David had held her close and reassured her—of his feelings and his unwavering devotion and honourable intentions. “There was something about you that felt so right from the moment I touched your hair,” he’d whispered, nuzzling her neck. “I’d dreamed about you so often, I just thought it was me imagining you in a different guise.”

  Not for one moment had Grace imagined they were to enjoy a happy-ever-after. Men like David did not marry girls like her.

  But David had refused to let her leave him, declaring she’d slink back into the underworld where he’d be unable to find her—which was just what Grace had intended.

  Instead, David had helped to lace Grace back into her corset and put on her clothes so that by the time Mrs Willowbank had returned with a barrage of uncles and others she’d brought along to shore up her arguments, she could face her detractors with dignity.

  She’d not even blushed when she’d recognised the family lawyer as a client who regularly enjoyed the offerings of Madame Chambon’s salon though he’d turned crimson when she’d sent him a knowing smile. With her perfectly modulated vowels, her gracious bearing and her cool self possession, Grace could have passed for any of the fine ladies Mrs Willowbank might have introduced to her son, so David told her.

  He’d told everyone else that Grace was infinitely more preferable to him than any of the fine ladies Mrs Willowbank had ever introduced to him. Not that he needed his mother’s help to choose himself a wife—or her approval—he’d added. He’d done that for himself and as he was twenty-one with an independent fortune, he could do what he liked.

  He’d made the most of his authority.

  As the fine linen curtains of their honeymoon villa billowed about them, Grace exhaled gently, twining her hand up behind her to cup David’s beautiful cheek. “In the distance I can see the Basilica di San Miniato al Monte. There are rolling hills—”

  David stopped her words with a gentle finger upon her lips. “A mountain behind, and the red roofs of the village in front. You don’t need to tell me, Grace, for I carried this scene in my heart and my head every day I was in Cambridge and dreaming of when you and I would come to Florence to take up Señor Borteli’s offer.”

  “And now we are here.” She twisted in his embrace to rest her head upon his chest. A strong, muscled and comfort-inducing chest that belonged to a young man who knew his mind. He’d made that clear before Mrs Willowbank had departed with the uncles and lawyers and goodness knew who else.

  And he’d made Grace his wife.

  “Come in,” Grace now called out in reply to the soft rap upon the door.

  “Señor Borteli is here to see you and he’s brought a friend…a sculptor.” The little maid curtsied. “Shall I send them up?”

  Grace drew in her breath and squeezed David’s arm. “A sculptor? Is there something you’ve neglected to tell me, David?” She felt ridiculously gratified to see the light dancing in David’s sightless eyes as he enveloped her in a hug. It was so easy to read him. He’d been keeping this secret until he knew he’d not disappoint her.

  David nodded slightly as he turned towards the maid who was awaiting orders. “I think your mistress needs just a moment to prepare herself, Maisy,” he said. “You’ve always known just what she needs for every occasion so why don’t you fetch the jewels you think she should wear when she sits for the portrait that will make her the toast of Florence.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grace smiled. Maisy had been invaluable in assisting them in their flight from England. While Madame Chambon’s exorbitant fee had been settled by Mrs Willowbank in advance, Grace knew her employer woul
d not release her without a battle, so Maisy had bundled up Grace’s most valuable belongings and met the eloping couple secretly at the docks. Naturally Grace had been in need of a lady’s maid and the girl had been overjoyed to step into the role.

  “So, not only is my portrait to be painted by Italy’s most famous portraitist?”—Grace cupped David’s face and touched her lips gently to his—“I am to be modelled in clay by the city’s most eminent sculptor?”

  David gripped her wrists lightly, his lips parting in a smile, his eyes alive with warmth and love. “That’s what I hope to become by the time I’ve been properly instructed. And you, my darling, will forever more be—as you were in the old days—my muse.”

  The End

  Forsaking Hope

  Chapter 1

  Wilfred Hunt

  If there was a name to tip Hope into the abyss of despair, she was hearing it spill from Madame Chambon’s lips now as the older woman directed Hope to take a seat in the reception room, presumably so Madame could loom oppressively over her.

  With her hands on her ample, expensively padded hips, Hope’s benefactress—procuress, employer, and gaoler were other monikers—sent Hope a beetling look that needed no interpreting. Regardless of Hope’s true feelings, Hope must project the required show of warmth and delight at being the chosen one.

  Madame patted the side of her faux curls. Years of hot irons had reduced her hair to the texture of wool, but her crowning glory these days was supplemented by the lustrous locks of those girls who dared cross her—before they were thrown back into the street from where most had come.

  Nevertheless, Hope had to make her resistance clear. Surely Madame, who knew her history, would understand her loathing for this man, above all others. “I shan’t do it,” she whispered. There was little evidence of the wilful child and wild adolescent who’d been the despair of her family. “I won’t—”

  Outside, the noise of the traffic rumbling over the cobbles and the shrill calls of competing vendors settled upon the tense silence. Madame Chambon’s other girls, ranged around the sumptuously appointed room on red velvet upholstered banquettes, watched the exchange with prurient fascination. Hope knew it had been a calculated ploy of Madame’s to conduct her interview in public so that Hope would serve as an example to them.

  No one crossed Madame Chambon.

  The shrill cry of a fishmonger caused Madame to look pointedly out of the window. With something between a smile and a sneer, she smoothed a tangerine Marcel wave. “Is that where you plan to return, Hope? The gutter?” Her nose twitched, and in the sunlight that filtered into the room, the grooves chiselled between mouth and chin were thrown into harsh relief, highlighted rather than hidden by the thick powder she used to conceal her age.

  Madame Chambon’s comfort, now and into retirement, depended on obedient girls. Hope knew that as well as anyone. She’d had to bury her rebellious streak just to ensure food in her belly.

  The Frenchwoman raised a chiselled brow and began to pace slowly in front of her girls. A painter with an eye for beauty would have been ecstatic at capturing such a spectacle on canvas. The discerning young man-about-town who visited 56 Albemarle Street frequently admitted to being overwhelmed by the range of delights Madame Chambon's girls offered in addition to the visual.

  “You forget yourself, Hope. I put a roof over your head and deck you out as handsomely as Mr Charles Worth ever did for his most discriminating customer.” There was acid in Madame Chambon’s tone. “But for me, you'd be starving and glad of the pennies you could trade for a grubby stand-up encounter in a dark alley.” Madame Chambon thrust out her bosom and breathed through her nose, her response a calculated warning to the other girls, arranged in various languid poses about the ornately decorated reception room, that intransigence would not be tolerated.

  “Mr Hunt has requested you.” She paused, and when Hope remained silent, though her stance and expression left no one in any doubt as to her horror regarding this enforced assignation, went on. “Remember what I told you—what I tell all my girls when they first come here? The past must be forgotten the moment you step over my threshold. You are reborn, remodelled, refashioned into the most exquisite delectation of womanhood. A marquess, a prince, is well recompensed for the tidy sum he hands over in order to enjoy your sparkling wit, to converse with you in French, or if he chooses, on philosophy…to enjoy your charms…and,” she added significantly, “your gracious hospitality and tender ministrations to his needs. That is our agreement, and you are no different. If Mr Hunt wishes you, Hope, to attend him at his residence, then you will go.”

  Faith, one of the kinder girls, patted Hope’s arm in silent solidarity. Hope didn’t expect any of them to speak up in her defence. Not when they all relied on Madame Chambon as much as she did to provide them with the necessities of life. Anything more than that was part of a strict contract that indentured a girl for life, unless she was able to secure a generous benefactor to settle Madame's severance bill. The fine clothes were part of the charade, necessary to entice a more elite clientele. Hope’s exquisite wardrobe did not belong to her, though she'd have forsaken all the Spitalfields silk and Valenciennes lace for the freedom of the gutter and to be mistress of her own destiny—and her body—if she could only be sure of a plate of gravy and potatoes every second day.

  Closing her eyes, she hung her head, the carefully coiffed curls that fell forwards brushing against her tear-streaked cheeks. It was as well that they not be in evidence. Tears, weakness, vulnerability were like a red rag to a bull where Madame Chambon was concerned.

  “How long…do I have to prepare myself?” She was not so stupid she couldn’t admit defeat when there was no alternative. Obduracy was beaten out of one, but tears ensured a girl got the very worst next assignment. Their clients weren’t all marquesses and princes, though they did require a very fat pocketbook.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow.” Hope repeated it in a leaden tone, and stared at her hands clasped in her lap; white-knuckled. As white as the rabbit-fur that edged her fashionable black-and-white striped satin cuirass. Hope had the tall, slim figure suited to the scandalously tight tie-back skirts that were all the rage, the back flowing into a train adorned with elaborate swags and trimmed with bows. She'd turned heads the length of Oxford Street as she’d promenaded along the pavement following a walk through Hyde Park earlier that afternoon. In fact, for the first time in two years, she’d almost felt happy as she’d pretended a sense of freedom in the afternoon sun, blocking her mind to the prison to which she was returning.

  She drew in her breath and forced herself to be brave, knowing the punishment she’d invite for daring to speak her mind. “Please tell Mr Hunt I will see him again under sufferance.”

  Madame Chambon’s voice was surprisingly caramel. “Well then, now that you have made your objection clear, Hope, you will be pleased to hear that Mr Hunt’s desires are not only motivated by fond memories of your no-doubt mutually satisfying congress. I believe he wishes to acquaint you with news of your family.”

  Hope hid her shock. “I have no family.” With care, she modified her tone so it was as leaden as before though emotion roiled close to the surface.

  “Not even a sister?”

  Hope raised her chin. Here was the chink and Madame knew it. The woman did her research.

  Aware that the other girls who surrounded her were tense with anticipation, Hope struggled not to respond. Camaraderie existed at surface level, but one never knew when it might profit one to have the dirt on a fellow prostitute. It was, clearly, another reason Madame Chambon had chosen to make this conversation public.

  “Mr Hunt will see you at nine tomorrow evening,” said the so-called Frenchwoman who, it was whispered, was from the gutters of Lambeth, not Paris. “At his apartments in Duke Street. Now go and prepare yourself for Lord Farrow who is pacing the drawing room in anticipation of how you might entertain him this evening. Married to a monolith like the venerable Lady
Farrow, he likes his girls vivacious and free-spirited. There’ll be less coin in your pocket if you sully the transaction with that long face, Hope.”

  Chapter 2

  Hope was received in the drawing room of his lodgings.

  He was as handsome as she remembered, though it was a dispassionate observation. Wilfred Hunt’s striking Adonis looks were not all that distinguished him, Hope knew.

  “You look well, Hope. The new style suits you.” He indicated the princess-line bodice of blue velvet over the striped blue and white bustle hobble skirt. Hope had been aware of his undisguised appreciation as his gaze followed her progress from the doorway after she’d been announced, to the Chippendale chair upon which he’d invited her to sit.

  She inclined her head and he lowered himself onto a delicate chair opposite her, resting one elbow on the writing desk beside him as he leaned forward, his expression searching. They might have been two old friends and he was favouring her with a confidence.

  “But not in a talkative mood, it would appear, so I will get to the point.”

  Hope steeled herself not to blink. She’d not give him the satisfaction of showing she cared anything for what he might have to say; much less that she was afraid.

  “You are acquainted, of course, with our old friend, Felix Durham.”

  She stared. Why state the obvious?

  “He’s in London.”

  That was hardly surprising.

  “I thought he’d like to see you.” Wilfred’s tone was falsely conversational.

  “Why do you suppose that?” With an effort, Hope kept her voice neutral. She was giving nothing away.

  Wilfred studied the half-moons of his fingernails as he shrugged. He was testing her. Trying to needle her. “You’re right, of course. You were on good terms with his sister, though, were you not? Letitia?”