Before he could make any remark to this, she indicated the bed. “Faith lived in the attic like one of the servants. She didn’t have a bed for entertaining.”
“But she lived here for…how long? Three years?” He didn’t care what she made of his scepticism.
“Yes, Madame had instructions to teach her how to entice a gentleman, but Madame was instructed that she was to be kept pure.” Charity sighed. “It was difficult for Faith. Some of the girls were resentful of her because she was so beautiful, and because she didn’t have to do the things they had to do for money. They saw that she had lovely clothes, and that she was given learning from a tutor, and that she went to tea at Claridges once a month. She didn’t have many friends.”
Crispin held up his hand. “Who made these instructions concerning Faith?”
“Mrs Gedge. I remember the name only because Faith made up the saying that rhymed, “Working for Mrs Gedge was like living on a knife edge.”
“Mrs Gedge.” Crispin rolled the name over his tongue as a bitter taste filled his mouth. “What did she look like?”
Charity shrugged. “I never saw her. I only heard that she had bright-red hair. One of the girls saw her when she came in her carriage with Lady Vernon.”
“Lady Vernon came here?”
“Often. Though she always came in disguise. Sometimes she’d bring girls to Madame Chambon.”
“Good lord.” He looked about him, horrified. “Lady Vernon brought girls here?” He couldn’t begin to imagine the humpbacked dowager stepping foot in a place like this. “And one of these girls was Faith? When was this? When did Lady Vernon bring her here the first time?”
“About three years ago. I wasn’t here, then.”
“But why was Faith brought here?” Crispin stared at the counterpane which must have seen so much action, then through the windows at the church spire outside, and tried to assimilate his thoughts. “If she wasn’t one of you, and if she lived in the attic, what possible reason did she have for being here?”
Charity settled herself more comfortably on the end of the bed, tucking her knees beneath her chin as she looked at him. “You do ask a lot of questions. I hope they’re going to help Faith.” She raised her eyebrows and went on, “Faith had been a servant for Mrs Gedge, who accused her of stealing. She hadn’t, of course. Faith was always honest; I hope you know that. Always true to her word. But when a fine lady accuses a servant of something, whose word is going to be believed? So, after Mrs Gedge accused Faith of taking her daughter’s bracelet, she brought Faith here because she said Faith had to work off her debt to her.”
“What proof did this Mrs Gedge have against Faith?”
“None, of course. She simply found Faith holding her daughter’s bracelet in her daughter’s bedchamber, and when Mrs Gedge challenged her, Faith said the young lady had promised it to her for showing her a secret passage into a gentleman’s bedchamber.“ Charity shrugged again. “Being here wasn’t all bad, of course. Faith got a good education, and she loved her lessons in art and in history and politics. She used to teach some of us more interested girls, both because we liked to learn, but also because it helps pass the time with the gentlemen who don’t always want to do things in bed. And, then Faith got to go to smart places. Like I said, sometimes she’d take tea at Claridges with Mrs Gedge.”
“Did you say Mrs Gedge was American?”
Charity nodded. “It’s hard not to miss an accent like that. I never heard her but Grace, one of the girls here, said she heard an American accent coming from the carriage the night Faith was brought here. And Faith said the lady she’d worked for was an American.”
“Do you remember Faith ever talking about Mrs Gedge’s daughter?” A tingle of apprehension ran all the way down Crispin’s legs as he thought of the life of indenture Faith must have lived within these walls.
“Yes, but the girl died. Killed herself, Faith said. Not that she knew her well as Faith had only been working for Mrs Gedge, or rather, Miss Constancia, for a little while before this grand house party.”
“So, Miss Constancia asked Faith about a secret doorway?” He’d always wondered how the young woman could have slipped into his room without him knowing it.
Then slipped into his bed.
Lord, he’d never forget his horror. He’d overreacted though. He saw that, now. But to find a young woman, naked in his bed in the middle of the night in her own house, had been beyond traumatic.
Charity sighed. “And then the young lady did herself in with the young gentleman’s razor in his bathtub. They found her in the bath. Not a sight one would forget, I imagine.”
No, it had not been. Crispin’s stomach churned at the memory. But he’d hardly known the girl. Met her on only a few occasions before she’d set her cap at him.
Crispin rose. It was too difficult to have to think about, though the vision of a young woman floating dead in his bathtub, her red-gold hair spread out about her, her face serene and deathly white in contrast with the blood-red water, often returned to haunt him.
“Mrs Gedge was not only Faith’s benefactress; she was the anonymous benefactress of the grand art prize.”
The prize that was to place Faith under his roof with instructions that she must make him fall in love with her.
Why? So she could break his heart, of course.
And what choices other than to obey would be available to a vulnerable young girl with a threat of prosecution hanging over her head?
“Where will I find her?” he asked, and Charity cocked her head.
“She’s gone to see Lord Harkom, of course. I thought you knew. But, I suppose you had to be told that Faith’s not the girl you thought her, otherwise you’d not want to rush over there now. Which you really ought to do.”
“She’s with Harkom? By God, I ought to—!” He raked his fingers through his hair. “She’s with him…now, you say? Why not tell me this earlier!?”
“I just told you, Mr Westaway. You came here believing Faith used you as an opportunity to better herself. You didn’t believe she loved you, which I assure you, she does. Otherwise, she’d not risk herself with Lord Harkom in order to salvage those letters he says are so damaging to you.”
Crispin shook his head. “I have nothing to hide. No love letters that I’ve ever written which run the risk of sullying my reputation. I can’t imagine what Lord Harkom thinks he can hold over me. Unless…!” He moved quickly to the door. “Unless he was using it as a ruse in order to lure Faith to him. She refused him before so…”
Charity fidgeted with her necklace. “Lord Harkom doesn’t like to be turned down; it’s true. So maybe what you say is right. But nor would it have been right for me to say nothing if there really was something to those letters.”
“But why wait so long? Why did you not write immediately, if that was your fear?”
“I’m not stupid, sir, but the letters do have a way of mixing themselves up before my eyes. And no, Faith was careful that no one knew where she was so as not to put me, or her friends, in danger. Besides, I was hoping I’d see you myself so I could tell you about Faith. Like I’m doing now.”
“How unlucky I missed her if she was here earlier tonight!” He strode to the door. “Thank you, Charity. I shall go there now. I just hope to God I’m not too late.”
Faith looked at the prone form of Lord Harkom with satisfaction. Sprawled on the sofa, arms outstretched, legs splayed, he did not look the kind of specimen she’d consider worthy of her, for all he was handsome in a cruel, effete kind of way. And rich.
He would have set her up, nicely.
If she were that kind of girl.
Carefully, she assessed her opportunities. She could only trust that Charity had been right.
She hurried to the large bed and went down on her knees to scrabble underneath. The light was too dim to see, so she rose and quickly carried the lamp to aid her search, going down on her belly to feel about in the dark.
Perhaps Charity had mistake
n the chest for something else?
Perhaps Lord Harkom had moved it?
Lord Harkom made a loud snoring noise and his body convulsed, making Faith jump, too.
But as her arm swung wide, it found the handle of an object which, drawing it towards her and into the light, turned out to be a small, neat chest.
With no lock.
Her hands were trembling so much, and her heart beating so fiercely she felt sick, but time was not on her side, so she set to her search with as clear a head as she could.
The letters were arranged in bundles, and the top few seemed to be correspondence from various women to Lord Harkom. Tied up in ribbon, they all seemed similar she decided as she slipped each from its envelope and read the first couple of sentences. Mistresses and spurned lovers. There seemed a lot of those.
As she neared the bottom, her spirits fell. Perhaps she was looking in the wrong chest for there was no sign of anything that suggested an interest in Mr Westaway.
Until she reached the very bottom and found the only envelope not addressed to Lord Harkom or from Lord Harkom.
Faith rolled back on her haunches and closed her eyes a moment. Could this be the letter she was after? Her fingers seemed not to work as they should, and it was difficult not to tear the cheap, single sheet of paper she pulled from its envelope before quickly scanning its contents.
Lord Harkom groaned in his sleep, and Faith’s fingers went slack. She stared at the letter, its words a jumble in front of her face. This must be how Charity had felt every time Faith had tried to teach her the alphabet.
But it wasn’t that Faith couldn’t understand the contents. There was nothing ambiguous about the information, or about the demands for satisfaction or else public disclosure would follow.
Putting a hand to her bosom to try and still the rapid rise and fall, she closed her eyes. Her stomach churned. This wasn’t what she’d expected to find. Not at all.
But it clearly was what Lord Harkom had alluded to when he’d told Charity he had correspondence that would damn Mr Westaway in the eyes of the public.
She was just tucking the envelope into her corset and about to close the lid of the chest and rise, when the last three letters of a very familiar name caught her eye.
“Christ, but my head hurts!”
Faith jerked her head up, snatching blindly at the letters and stuffing three, indiscriminately, down the front of her bodice before pushing the chest back into its hiding place and taking up the lamp as she rose to her feet.
“Faith, is that you? What are you doing?”
Faith waved the lamp. “Oh, Lord Harkom! I was so worried and about to fetch help. I…I thought perhaps you might have had a seizure.”
When she saw the top of a letter poking out from her corset, she put her hand down her front to push it out of sight and gave her décolletage a little tug, as if righting her clothes.
She leaned over him and put her hand to his cheek. “Goodness, but you are dangerously hot to the touch. You need some water. Instantly!”
Before he could grip her dress with his grasping hand, Faith nimbly eluded him and glided to the door. “I’ll be back with a servant and something to drink as soon as I can!” she lied.
When she’d finally escaped into the corridor, she picked up her skirts and ran for her life.
Chapter 29
“Lord Harkom, my apologies for intruding at this late hour!” Breathing heavily after his sprint from Soho to the more salubrious environs of Mayfair, Crispin stood in the doorway of his lordship’s bedchamber and eyed with dispassion a clearly dissipated Lord Harkom, who was lying in an alarmingly abandoned state.
The two empty champagne glasses did not augur well. Not with the dishevelled state the other man was in, his evening clothes rumpled, though fortunately, the counterpane didn’t look too disturbed.
Still, the chaise longue was a comfortable affair, and it was clear Harkom had been entertaining female guests. Crispin could tell by the lingering fragrance of peonies. Faith liked the scent of peonies, though he didn’t care to think too much along those lines.
Had she really come here? Had she ventured into the lion’s den in order to safeguard Crispin’s reputation? How would he know if these were just more lies? Charity seemed sincere enough, but, like Faith, she’d been trained to act a part.
Harkom blinked and rose, stiffly, from the chaise, running his hands through his rumpled hair and gazing blearily about him before focusing on Crispin.
“Gad, but that was some sport, and I don’t wonder you’ve elbowed your way in looking for your piece of the girl. I knew you’d come sniffing her out, but she’s gone now.” Harkom laughed and lurched to the cabinet where he kept his brandy.
Crispin eyed him beadily. He seemed addleheaded yet not drunk. Surely, he should have been more aggressive and demanding as to how and why Crispin had found his way to his room. A servant certainly wouldn’t have led him there.
Indeed, Crispin had been very creative in gaining admittance to Lord Harkom’s townhouse with none of the servants the wiser.
With an unsteady hand, Lord Harkom poured them both a measure and handed one to Crispin, who put it down on the nearest surface. He was not about to drink companionably with the possible violator of the woman he loved.
“What did you do to her? She didn’t come here willingly.” The anger started in his spine and was like a slow burn to his brain. He didn’t know if he’d have the self-control to behave as he ought, for physical violence would get him nowhere. Finding Faith to ensure she was safe was his primary concern.
Harkom blinked, with difficulty it seemed, as he turned back to Crispin. “Oh yes, she hooked her little hand into the crook of my arm and all but begged me to look after her. I found her at Mistress Kate’s.” He smiled, nastily. “Terribly sad. Her previous protector had died, and she had no other offers of a roof over her head. Of course, it was music to my senses. It’s rather well known in some circles that she’s become my little obsession.”
“But she’s not here now.” Crispin tried to hide his nervous distraction as Lord Harkom leaned against the sideboard. The man was holding his hand to the side of his head and swaying.
He seemed to be having trouble concentrating on the matter at hand. “No, I can’t imagine what I was thinking, letting her go like that. Still, she’ll come back. And if she doesn’t soon enough, I know how to make her.”
“I’ll get to her first.” Crispin’s voice was a dangerous growl.
Harkom blinked. For a moment he looked surprised, then his face took on its habitual sneer. “Oh, the fact you had her first was a great pity to me, but I intend to keep her. With your name about to be so sullied, you’ll wonder how you never knew before now that you had no friends.”
Crispin bit into his bottom lip. “I have done nothing of which I am ashamed.”
Lord Harkom chuckled and began to count on his fingers. “No past dalliances with married women; no secret babies foisted on well-bred young ladies.” His voice was becoming increasingly slurred, and he seemed to have difficulty standing straight. “It’s true enough, what you say. Sadly, you had no say in this little matter, though if you ask your father if your mother was an innkeeper’s daughter, you might be a little disappointed by his lack of conviction when he tries to deny it.”
Crispin blinked stupidly at the other man. “What are you saying?”
Lord Harkom sent him a long look, though he blinked rapidly throughout, as if trying to keep Crispin in focus.
“Never wondered why you look nothing like your father?”
“I take after my maternal line.”
“So that’s what you’ve been told? By your fond pater? Or your anxious aunts?” The older man laughed. “Of course, it’s what you’d want to believe, but what about if your mother was barren? Or believed she was barren after ten years being married to your father yielded no heir for poor desperate Lord Maxwell?”
“This is an outrageous claim. No one will believe it! On
what basis can you even suggest such a thing.”
Lord Harkom’s lips stretched wide, and his nostrils flared. “Only from the woman who delivered you, asking me for money in return for a letter she’d kept between your father and the poor unmarried woman whom he paid to relieve her of her baby.” He examined the half-moons of his right hand.
“Anyone could have made such a spurious claim, but where would it get them? It’s a forgery, of course! What possible reason would she have to contact you?”
“Because she also found the love letters your mother and I exchanged before your mother was forced to marry your father, a much older man she could not bear, by the way.”
“You lie! My mother would never—”
“How would you know? You were only an infant when she died. You don’t even remember your mother.”
It was true, but it did not bear up Harkom’s claims. Crispin shook his head as if to clear it. Lies! And yet, an uncomfortable kernel of possibility had taken root. Not only did Crispin look nothing like his father, or indeed, the portrait of his mother that hung in the dining room, Crispin’s temperament was as different from his father’s as it was possible to be.
Harkom shrugged. “Your father married the woman I loved and blamed her for being barren when clearly the problem lay with him. But he needed a son, didn’t he?” He chuckled. “You only have to read the letter to find out how he managed it. Why, your father bought you, believing you were his, when in fact the girl was already pregnant when she allowed Lord Maxwell to lie with her. Pregnant by a farm labourer!” He burst out laughing. “I can’t imagine where you got your delicate hands from and your fine, painterly sensitivities. Anomalies arise where one least expects them to, don’t they? But yet, it’s all in the letter.”
Crispin shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it. Show me the letter. Or don’t you have it? Perhaps Faith succeeded in retrieving it, after all. It’s the reason she came here after she learned from her friend, Charity, whom you visited at Madame Chambon’s, that you had information that was damaging to me?”
Fair Cyprians of London Boxset: Books 1-5: Five passionate Victorian Romances Page 44
