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

by Beverley Oakley

  “And the young lady? Is she in expectation of a marriage proposal?”

  “No. We’ve known one another since we were children, and a match between us was once considered desirable by our parents. I’m sure she’s as relieved as I am that the idea has not been mentioned for several years.”

  “So, there’ve been no other young ladies who’ve…entranced you?”

  Crispin laughed and set her at arm’s length. “I suppose you need to get the full measure of me before you make your final commitment to becoming my wife. All right—the truth…” His expression was suddenly serious. It was as if all the joy had drained out of him.

  “Oh Crispin, there has!” Faith cried, but he pulled her back into his arms, shaking his head, fiercely.

  “There was a young lady with whom you might say I was unwillingly involved a few years ago.” He hesitated.

  Lord, was he referring to Miss Gedge? Faith froze in his arms and willed him to go on without prompting questions that might seem odd to him.

  But he seemed inclined to talk.

  “She was a lovely girl. Bright, golden hair, a little like yours though she had not your serenity, your beauty. In fact, there was nothing serene about her. She was determined to make a catch, and she was…what is the term? Brash?”

  “So, not a shy and sweet young thing from the provinces.”

  “Oh no, she was an American heiress looking for a title. She could have done better than me. Her mother hoped she would. But she fell for me, and it took very little on my part to make her believe we were destined to be together forever.”

  “So, you gave her hope?”

  “Oh Faith, you know I’m not like that. I never believed I did at the time. But then she started writing me passionate love letters. I didn’t know what to do. I told her that I was going to marry my childhood sweetheart. That my father had arranged it years ago, and this is how matters went in our world. I tried to make it less wounding and put the blame on me, but she was persistent.”

  Faith felt him shrinking away from her until he gently extricated himself from their embrace and went to the window. Softly, he said, “She killed herself because of me. You need to know that, Faith.”

  Faith ran to him and wrapped her arms around him, more joyful than she could show, for she believed he was nothing but truthful in his portrayal of the affair with Miss Constancia Gedge. It all made complete sense, now.

  “If it’s so painful to you, please, say nothing more, Crispin.” She squeezed him tight and Crispin kissed the top of her head, tilting up her face to say with concern, “You’re crying, Faith. What is it?”

  “I haven’t been entirely truthful with you, Crispin, and if you truly love me enough to want to run away with me, then I need to tell you something.”

  She felt him freeze, before the inevitable thaw, because of course he loved her, and that meant he trusted her…

  Only, would he still love her when she had come to the end of her confession?

  “What is it you want to tell me, Faith?”

  The tone was encouraging, loving still, but for how much longer?

  She took a breath, struggling for the truth she owed him. “I’m more than just a penniless debutante looking to make a good match.”

  He registered this with a squeeze and a murmur. “No, you’re so much more than that, Faith. Of course, I know it.”

  She heard the rattle of a wagon on the cobbled street below the window and waited for silence. “My family origins are obscure. Far more obscure than I’ve led you to believe. Yes, I have nine brothers and sisters, and parents who will indeed touch you for every penny you might have and that’s because they have nothing. They’re yeoman, country stock. Some would call them peasants, and I would be one of them had it not been for a rich benefactress who gave me an education when I was in service.”

  She pulled away and looked at him, tortured by the extent of what she’d divulged to no one else. What would he think, not only in view of the fact he’d been lied to, but that she was so very humble?

  He looked surprised. His frown and the way he was chewing his bottom lip were not signs she liked.

  “You lied to me, Faith? About this? About your family?”

  Faith twisted her hands together. Oh lord, if he were upset about her lying about this, how would he react to everything else?

  Trying not to cry, she whispered, “When I got the opportunity to be your model; when Lady Vernon persuaded you to paint me, I never thought it would lead to this. I had the right credentials for that. For an artist’s model. I could be silent; I could be enigmatic. What did it matter what else I was or wasn’t? You’d made it so very clear that even if I’d had the slightly more elevated background I’d told you I had, I still could not be considered suitable in your father’s eyes, and therefore not in yours.” She pulled her cloak about her shoulders and began to pace. Would he send her away? She thought she’d die of a broken heart if he did. Quietly, she went on, “I didn’t trouble myself about telling you the truth, because I imagined that if I were to be given more work for other painters my real background would play against me. But then I fell in love with you, Crispin, and you loved me back. I pressed you into showing your real feelings, and then pressed you even more to run away with me.”

  Leaning against the wall, she dropped her head. “I don’t expect that, now. I’m not here to beg you to run away with me because the truth changes everything. I’ve lied to you, and I am not the woman you thought me.”

  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 22

  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 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-to-be 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. He was on the point of returning 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 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 as he stalked past Crispin and placed the newspaper upon his writing desk.

  The man couldn’t seem to meet Crispin’s eye and as Crispin moved forward, a great premonition sweeping away his initial 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 society believed her to be. 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 insin
uated 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 “…Madame 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, as Benson went on, “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.