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

by Beverley Oakley

  The next painting was good, also. A young woman was sitting on a swing holding a bouquet of flowers while a young fawn grazed nearby. It was a gladdening scene, but it had not quite the expertise as Mr Westaway’s painting, of that Faith was certain.

  When the three paintings were revealed, side by side, having been selected from a field of twenty-five, Faith had expected a clear winner was inevitable. But to her surprise, and obviously the surprise of everyone else, Sir Albion stood on stage and announced the unexpected news that these three painters would be pitted against each other in a run-off. A theme had been chosen; the deadline was tight, one week only, after which a clear winner would be announced and would receive an astonishing amount of prize money.

  A great deal of murmuring and a few disgruntled mumblings followed this pronouncement. Mr Westaway looked distinctly discomposed.

  Faith could only stare as she felt her heart pounding in her ears.

  She’d been given a second chance. Mrs Gedge was the anonymous benefactor of this extremely handsome prize, and she’d manufactured a means by which Faith could spend another week in Mr Westaway’s company.

  That is, if Mr Westaway was prepared to risk the tenuous relationship of balancing his desire for recognition in the world of art with managing his father’s respect and expectations.

  She sent him a furtive glance beneath lowered lashes. He was not overjoyed at the prospect of having to produce another painting if he wanted to remain a contender. The tightly pressed lips highlighted the planes of his cheekbones. He looked like a handsome ascetic deliberating over a weighty matter that had repercussions for the world.

  Before they were interrupted by the advancing well-wishers, Faith locked eyes with him, and it was as if the spear of his own agony communicated itself to her for the crucial second it needed for her to subsume her own desires for the justice of his.

  “Don’t accept on my account—if that has any bearing on your decision,” she said quickly. “You have your father and your career to consider.”

  “Mr Westaway, you are a prodigious talent indeed! And this is the young lady? But of course, for you have indeed been faithful to the original, to such superlative beauty.”

  Two whiskered gentlemen and a lady bore down upon them. “The field is narrow, but you will outshine your competitors. I remember your first unveiling, why, five years ago it must have been. And then you disappeared?” It soon became clear to Faith that the lady, who was introduced as Mrs Cannington, the wife of the tallest of the whiskered gentlemen, was an authority and leading force in the organisation. It seemed she also was more than capable of achieving Faith’s purpose, all on her own. “You are concerned you might discompose your father if you follow up on this incredible opportunity?” she paraphrased, or rather, interpreted from Mr Westaway’s brief response. “Why, I understand that Lord Maxwell is not a great patron of the arts, but he is not a philistine. And only a philistine would place such an obstacle in the way of the nurturing of a truly great talent.”

  Faith was amused to see Mr Westaway blush. “Please, Mrs Cannington, don’t blame my father. I’m about to realise his greatest ambition and take up a diplomatic post in Germany. In fact, I sail in less than three weeks, so you can understand the conflict.”

  “But part of the challenge is that the painting must be completed in one.” She looked triumphant, as did the two gentlemen flanking her. As did Lady Vernon, who’d not had to utter one word to see the progression of Mrs Gedge’s plan.

  “It’s not only that the prize itself is considerable, unusually and surprisingly so, but the recognition would be invaluable.”

  “Excuse me, but who is sponsoring the prize?”

  Everyone turned, surprised, to Faith. “Are they known in art circles? A great artist, themselves, perhaps?” She needed to draw out what public knowledge there might be about Mrs Gedge, the kind of person she was and, perhaps even her motives.

  “A wealthy American woman who wishes to remain anonymous,” said Mr Cannington. “A woman who selected these three paintings herself,” he indicated the three canvases with a flourish, “and who’d be exceedingly disappointed if one of her selections did not pursue the challenge into the final round. Now, please reconsider, Mr Westaway. All that’s required is seven days in a pursuit that you have already admitted would give you great satisfaction. Surely there is no obstacle other than your reluctance to apprise your father that you are engaged in activities that do not actively further your imminent career posting.” He checked himself. “I take it the young lady is available to sit for the painting? It is one of the stipulations that the original muse is to be featured in the second painting.”

  Faith nodded.

  “Is it indeed, and is that the only stipulation?” Mr Westaway raised his eyebrows.

  Mrs Cannington simpered. “Our American benefactress has a playful turn of mind. Indeed, at ten o’clock on the morning of the first day when painting is to begin, a messenger will arrive with the canvas, paints, and a bag of props, together with additional stipulations. Each of the three painters will receive exactly the same props and instructions and must complete the work by ten o’clock on the morning of the seventh day, at which time the messenger will arrive to collect the painting and take it back here for judging.”

  Her husband pulled at his whiskers and looked anxiously at Mr Westaway. “Seven days, Mr Westaway. What is seven days in a lifetime? Seven days which, in fact, may change your life infinitely for the better?”

  Chapter 13

  Change his life but not for the better. Faith was uncomfortably aware of this, sitting opposite Lady Vernon as the train pulled into the small country station and she saw Mr Westaway on the platform, scanning the opening carriage doors.

  He’d invited them to be his guests and stay in his house rather than at the inn so that was some small victory.

  When he recognised Faith he looked pleased, which gave her a small jolt of pleasure that was quickly replaced by dread. What must she do? Seven days in which to turn Mr Westaway into putty. Why should Mrs Gedge hate him so much she’d go to such lengths to play this game?

  And why should it worry her? Faith had hardly been nurtured during her lifetime while Mr Westaway had been born with a silver spoon. The transaction between her and this man would be brief—not enough time to do too much damage, surely. Once she’d generated sufficient intensity in their dealings with one another to pass Lady Vernon’s scrutiny, Faith could collect on her transaction, buy her little cottage in the country, and put all of this behind her.

  Still, she couldn’t help asking as the train slowed, “Does Mr Westaway genuinely deserve what we are going to do to him?”

  Piously, Lady Vernon responded, “Mrs Gedge is a mother avenging her daughter who was led to believe by Mr Westaway that holy matrimony would be forthcoming.”

  “Then why didn’t the girl simply sue him for breach of promise? That would have embarrassed the family.”

  Instead, it was Lady Vernon who looked embarrassed. “Matters didn’t proceed down that avenue.”

  “He seduced her?” Faith shrugged. And if he had? But then, it seemed out of character for the man she’d come to know, unless he’d already learned his lesson, in which case, Faith was going to have to work extra hard.

  She sighed and slumped back into her seat muttering, “I really don’t want to do this.”

  Lady Vernon’s tone was snide. “Madame Chambon will be pleased. I hear she is eager to continue to further your career with no return from you and to accommodate you in her comfortable Soho lodgings free of charge as she has done these past three years.” She opened the reticule on her lap and pulled out a letter which she handed to Faith. “Mrs Gedge’s contract, though if you’d rather we returned to London…”

  Faith took the envelope, unsettled by Lady Vernon’s words as a horrifying image of Lord Harkom seared her mind. The only person invested in Faith’s future, and safety, was herself. She needed to play her cards right with Mr W
estaway.

  “Miss Montague, I do appreciate you coming back at such short notice.”

  Mr Westaway was standing before the open door, his hand extended to help her out of the carriage while someone else attended to her bags.

  Faith smiled as she took his hand. It was large and firm and felt surprisingly dependable. Surprising because she hadn’t considered that about him. He was an artist, and they were notoriously unreliable, weren’t they? She also wasn’t used to the feel of a man’s hand—not since the clouts she used to receive when her father returned home, drunk and peevish.

  “If I’m to be honest, this is quite an adventure for me,” she told him as they started to walk towards his waiting carriage, Lady Vernon bringing up the rear. “My surroundings tend to lack variety, though it’ll be an adventure going so far north when the season comes to an end.”

  “North?”

  “Yorkshire. Remember I told you that I’m to take up a post as a governess there when the season comes to an end?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “Yes, of course. But there are still some weeks until that time, and I feel sure that…other options may present themselves in the meantime.”

  “You mean because your painting will make me the toast of the town?” Faith shrugged. “I hope that will be the case. Sadly, I’m no different from most young women in London for these few months, though I suppose it’s vulgar to say so.” She laughed when she saw him colour up. “But it’s true, Mr Westaway. Oh, don’t worry, you’ve made your position very clear, and I hope that we can be good friends. But I won’t deny that if a suitable match presents itself, possibly on account of your efforts with a paintbrush, I will consider my time these few weeks very well spent. There are better ways to while away a lifetime than teaching recalcitrant children or serving ungrateful relatives.”

  “You’re a plain speaker sometimes, Miss Montague.” He helped her into the carriage, smiling at her as he tucked her trailing skirts out of the way of the door. “I keep forgetting that.”

  “But we’re friends now. I feel comfortable speaking plainly to you.” She held herself primly as she clasped her hands together. “We both know where we stand with one another.”

  He laughed again as he leapt up front and took the reins, and Faith thought she could detect a note of friendly relief in his tone as he said over his shoulder, “Indeed we are, Miss Montague. I’d go so far as to say that we understand one another. In which case, the week ahead should progress swimmingly.”

  It was too late to begin painting that evening. Faith was tired after her long journey, and it was genuinely pleasant to relax on the terrace after dinner, enjoying the long daylight hours. The country certainly was a grand place to be compared with cramped and grimy Soho and, of course, the damp, leaky cottage she’d grown up in.

  Both were a world away from where she was now. This lovely, yet extensive country house owned by Mr Westaway’s absent aunt and uncle exuded a simple, relaxed charm. French doors from the drawing room opened onto a wide terrace, and the comfortable wicker chairs in which they sat were surrounded by urns and tubs of orange trees and quince bushes.

  Lady Vernon, bundled up in a blanket, looked like a small, dissatisfied rodent, Faith thought, amused, as she enjoyed some desultory conversation with Mr Westaway. In the lengthening shadows, his pleasant smile appeared more readily during this conversation than previously. Yes, they were getting to know one another without the tension that must result from any possibility of a long-term future between them.

  He was soon to leave on official business, and it was acknowledged by both of them that Faith was not a candidate for the role of anything other than an artist’s muse.

  But…

  How was Faith to execute her duty if they were now to become simply friends? She was surprised to hear him laugh and realised she’d said something amusing. The anecdote about a lady in the street whose wig had been knocked off by a performing monkey had simply tripped off her tongue. As if she were enjoying playful banter with a trusted companion. When had she been relaxed enough to say words that weren’t carefully calculated?

  A whisper of ice through her veins made her shiver. A foreshadowing of something truly frightful held her in its grip for one terrible moment when the words died in her throat, and she must have looked as shocked as she felt, for instantly Mr Westaway was on his feet.

  “I thought you were about to faint clean away,” he told her after she’d regained her equilibrium and waved aside his offers of sending for a warm blanket, though he hovered by her side.

  “I have a few years yet before I’ll have need of such cosseting in weather like this.” She tried to sound light as she indicated Lady Vernon, huddled into her blanket and fast asleep. Indeed, Lady Vernon was smiling as if in the middle of a very pleasing dream and Faith wished she could feel similar contentment for just a small part of her life. Then she remembered that soon, when she was her own mistress and living a life of blissful seclusion in her own little cottage in the country, she would always feel as contented as Lady Vernon looked.

  But that relied on making Mr Westaway fall in love with her.

  Mr Westaway had just begun to return to his chair. Perhaps he felt the evening was becoming too intimate.

  Faith was about to announce her intention to retire to bed too, remembering from her lessons that it was important to foster a sense of loss if one was to keep a gentleman longing for more, when footsteps sounded upon the stone steps at the end of the terrace.

  Sampson, Mr Westaway’s faithful wolfhound, rose warily, tensed, then bounded forward, and Faith heard the bluff, welcoming tones of the elegant, white-haired gentleman emerging from the dusk and coming towards them with outstretched hand.

  “You’re back again, Crispin! I thought I saw evidence it was you and not your aunt and uncle. Sorry I missed you last week but good to see you now, my boy. And how did things go with your painting?”

  It was as Lady Vernon stirred that Mr Westaway’s friend and, apparently, neighbour, realised Crispin was not alone, for instantly he was all apologies as he rectified his omission and introductions were made.

  “And tell me something of the composition of this painting?” asked their new arrival, Lord Delmore, relaxing into another wicker chair that was brought into the cosy grouping on the terrace while the fading light was supplemented by a bracket of candles. “I saw the first one Crispin painted, and I’m not surprised it garnered such acclaim. Though, of course, Crispin’s talent is not alone responsible.”

  He smiled at Faith, but when she merely nodded her head, returned his attention to Crispin while Faith looked on. She was tired and wished she’d seized her opportunity to leave earlier. Still, it was pleasant to fade out of the conversation and observe the way Mr Westaway conducted himself when in the company of someone with whom he could obviously relax.

  It was clear the two men had known each other a long time. Perhaps a little short of ten years, for she’d heard that was when Lord Delmore had bought the house next door. Yes, Lord Delmore knew Crispin’s father from his London club and now made some comment about the man’s ambitions for his only son.

  “My week of painting here is perhaps a little more clandestine that I’d have liked, and I’m in two minds as to whether I want to win,” Faith’s host admitted.

  Faith could tell he’d considered her to have dropped out of the conversation. She pretended to be as sleepy as Lady Vernon whose head had lolled to one side and who was gently snoring.

  “Clandestine? To slip away and paint? You’re in the wrong profession, Crispin. Foreign diplomacy is all cloak and dagger, and I know you hate subterfuge. Your father should have taken your character into consideration before he pushed you into following his footsteps.”

  “And yet, I can’t think what else I would prefer. I have the necessary contacts, the enthusiastic backing of a father who’s spent his life in the thick of it, and I won’t deny there are aspects of what lies ahead that I relish.” Crispin sighed. �
��Ah, to be of independent means but who am I to complain?” He grinned self-deprecatingly as he swept his surroundings with a languid arm.

  After a few more minutes when Faith really was beginning to nod off and had decided there was nothing further to learn, she made a move to rise.

  The two men stood and Lord Delmore, after acknowledging Lady Vernon, said indulgently, “I’m sure you’ll be all the inspiration Mr Westaway needs under the circumstances. I admired the first picture he did last week, and as our esteemed painter says, the composition of the painting won’t be known until ten o’ clock tomorrow morning when the props are delivered, my curiosity is aroused. You’ll not mind if I put my head in at some stage to see the work in progress? I know nothing of how art is made, but I’m a great admirer of it when it’s good. What about you, Miss Montague?”

  “All I know is that I must remain still and quiet, which is really my most important function, Lord Delmore.”

  He laughed. “How beautifully mannered you are. A credit to your parents with such sentiments tripping off your tongue, though I confess that I’m not averse to a lady speaking what is really on her mind. But you are young. That will come in time.”

  Faith liked his initial sentiments but felt a frisson of irritation at the paternalistic tone he adopted when referring to her suitably meek manner. Well, neither of them would ever know what went on in her mind, and what she did treat them to would be uttered with all the calculation of the most supreme diplomat.

  But that was not for these men to know. Far better, right now, to simply blush prettily, bow her head, and say quietly, “I’m sure it will, Lord Delmore. Good night, gentlemen.”

  Crispin poured Lord Delmore and himself a brandy when the ladies retired. There was something cathartic about a balmy evening with non-demanding company—namely not having his father present. Something that invited an ease of speech to which Crispin was unaccustomed.