When he worked up the courage to look at her again, he found she had spread the pages across the desk to look at them. She lingered over the drawing that had been the curve of her throat and was now a river.
“It is so beautiful,” she said. The words cut into him, painful pleasure. He’d never let anyone see these kinds of drawings, the ones he made in secret. Only the humorous sketches were meant to be seen.
He went to the desk and looked down at the page. “It was you.” He traced a finger over the arc of water on the page, then lifted a hand to skim just barely over the line of her throat. She looked at him with wide eyes and trembled faintly. He took his hand away, loving how the heat of her was still there on his skin, as warm as if he’d held sunlight. “I turned it into this.”
She looked down at the drawing again. “So much talent,” she said very softly. The pride swelled in him, to see the admiration in her. “Yet you use only the crudest part of this talent, to bring out the worst in the people who see it.”
She said it like she said so many things, as only a simple observation with no scorn attached.
“I use it to feed myself.”
He gathered up the pages and stacked them neatly together. He should do at least one more of Ravenclyffe, but he hadn’t thought of another scene to draw yet and he doubted he’d be able to concentrate at all now. The small traveling case with the false bottom where he stored his drawings was only a few steps away, and she watched as he put the pages into the large leather folder and dropped it in.
“Will you tell them, Marie-Anne?” He didn’t turn to her to ask it. He suddenly felt very tired. “I can leave tonight, if so. I’d prefer to avoid a scene.”
“Wait,” she said sharply as he began to pull the concealing partition into place over the pile of paper. She nodded at the few pamphlets scattered next to the folder. “Who else have you written about?”
“I don’t write, I told you. That’s Freddy’s job.” He picked up the handful of pamphlets and held them out to her. “I don’t have all of them, but this should give you an idea.” She took the pamphlets and stared down at them as though reluctant to look past the top page. “I hardly ever understand why something’s scandalous. Freddy just tells me which stories are worth an illustration. He’s written a little something on just about everyone who matters, but more than half the time it’s old news. When it’s not old news, it really is harmless.”
The topmost pamphlet in her hands showed the drawing of the Marquess. She traced a fingertip over the figure of the wife brandishing the poker. She made as though to speak, but then stopped and gave the barest trace of a smile.
“Almost I was saying that this one is not harmless.” She spoke without looking up at him. “But that is wrong. There is talk that the marquess will not allow his wife to see her children because she is too emotional – but everyone knows she never sees her children anyway. She hates the children. It is all an act, their drama.” Now she looked up at him. “At the worst, he will take away her allowance and she will not have twenty new gowns every year. Then she will complain to her friends about a husband she has never cared for. And life will go on.”
He nodded at the drawing. “That’s the one that let us turn a real profit. People love the drama, but turning it comical is what made the story popular.”
“It is also that it is a marquess. No one would laugh so hard if you draw the merchant and his wife. But if there was money in drawing the humble man, you would not hesitate?”
“I might hesitate. But I’d probably still do it. Just like you stole things in the streets of Paris, so you could eat. I’m guessing you stole more from common merchants than you did noblemen.”
Marie-Anne didn’t contradict him. She looked down at her hands, which curled the stack of pamphlets into a thick roll. This conversation was the longest he had seen her without a smile or a laugh, so it was a relief to see something of her usual humor creep into her face again.
“This wife of the marquess you drew – one time she came into a jeweler’s shop where I was choosing a gift for Richard. She said I was evidence their standards had fallen, and the jeweler asked me to leave.” Marie-Anne smiled a little, as though it were a fond memory, then gave an impish look. “Maybe I do not care so much if London laughs at her.”
He was still too doubtful to let himself return the smile.
“So you won’t tell everyone about me?”
“I don’t know.” She was thoughtful again, rustling the pamphlets in her hands. “There is very much for me to consider. Where would you go?”
He shrugged. If he was revealed, he could hardly show his face among respectable society anymore. It would be back to living in the kind of place people like him belonged. Rather than saying he’d find a garret among the criminals and whores while finding a quick way to cheat honest men of their money, he just said, “There’s a lot for me to consider too. I thought I’d have a few more months before anyone figured it out.”
“Well then, we will both consider. It has not been a restful day. In fact, it is very much the opposite.” A smile tugged at her lips again, a little teasing without the suggestion they indulge in further energetic endeavors. “Time and sleep will let you think, that is what a friend of mine used to say. Goodnight, Mr. Mason.”
She was through the panel before he could do more than echo her goodnight. He wanted to ask her to drop the Mister and just call him Mason, as she’d been doing for weeks. But asking it would have been as dispiriting as the sound of her dropping the latch into place.
Chapter Eleven
In spite of the improved weather, Mason sat in the salon with the unbearable Duke of Ravenclyffe, hoping to catch a glimpse of Marie-Anne. She did not appear, which meant he had to pretend to pay attention to the duke’s theories on the study of phrenology, specifically how skull size proved the superiority of the European people. Mason understood he was supposed to be grateful for Ravenclyffe’s reassurance that most Americans were included in “these blessings of Providence” but rather than thanking the idiot duke, his response was silence and a skeptical look. This was the best way to make smug men doubt themselves enough that they inevitably sought his approval, without even realizing they were doing it.
It didn’t take very long. Ravenclyffe had been hinting for days that he’d like to invest in the fictional timber business, but he obviously could not bear to seem eager about it. Now he abandoned his pride – or at least a small part of it – and said outright that he wanted in. Or rather that he was “not averse to lending financial backing to a profitable enterprise.”
A flash of color outside the window caught Mason’s attention. “Can’t say I’m looking for more investors,” he said vaguely, and decided it was just a bird and not a thoroughly captivating Frenchwoman passing by.
“Naturally I have the utmost faith in John Company, but the prudent man bets on more than one horse. There are still far too many natives in India, they’re sure to make more trouble. As I say, the anatomy makes it plain – the cranium alone is proof, but our most prominent naturalists…”
Mason tuned out the nonsense by imagining how satisfying it would be to fleece Ravenclyffe out of thousands of pounds and then just disappear. Even more satisfying would be to do it and then publish a series of drawings about it on his way out of town. They could call him The Duped Duke, deceived and swindled despite his large-capacity skull and a jaw so inconspicuous that it was barely distinguishable from his neck.
Somewhere at the back of his mind, Mason could hear his cousin scorning him for toying with an idea for drawings instead of reeling in the biggest fish that had ever nibbled on his line. That was cousin Jody’s way – big risk, big reward. Or big disaster. He’d more often met with disaster, and Mason had learned from that. Still, it would be smart to lay the groundwork for a fleecing. Just as a kind of contingency plan, in case he had to abandon the scheme with Freddy. Always good to keep every option open.
He’d have to pursue it later, thoug
h, because Marie-Anne appeared in the salon, looking fresh and pretty in a gown of periwinkle blue. Amy’s priggish vicar was at her heels, though Amy herself was nowhere to be seen.
“Mr. Harner, you must believe me,” Marie-Anne was saying. She was using the overly cheerful tone that meant she would dearly love to strangle someone. “This is a wilderness in name only. The trees are groomed as well as Mr. St. James’ hair, though they are not nearly so thick.”
“Nevertheless, Miss Shipley would be so distressed if you should lose your way–”
“Amy would be very amused if I could be lost so easily. I will tell her it has happened when I want her to laugh, I thank you for this excellent idea. Ah, but here is Mr. Mason!” She beamed at him in what seemed a very pointed manner. “I have prepared a hamper, you see? Just as you suggested.”
“Right,” he answered readily enough. He’d suggested no such thing, nor exchanged a single word with her since she’d left his room last night, but he was happy enough to follow her lead. “And you have your bonnet, so we’re well prepared to face the elements. No need to worry, Harner.”
“There, you see?” She handed the small hamper to Mason as she put the bonnet on her head. “Phyllida wants her hermit to meet Mr. Mason, and I want to meet the hermit. We go together, and more than three visitors will overwhelm this lonely man in the woods. I must insist you stay.”
Feeling sure that Harner would have protested further were he not so occupied in bowing and stammering at the duke, Mason decided the two insufferable men deserved each other. Especially since the duke was eyeing Marie-Anne’s figure like she was a prize piece of horseflesh for sale.
“Ravenclyffe was just telling me all about India. Weren’t you saying you might travel there some day?”
Though Mason had addressed this to Harner, the duke spoke to Marie-Anne.
“Yes, we were discussing the work of your esteemed countryman, Monsieur Georges Cuvier. The most fascinating theories, madame, I should be delighted to acquaint you with his work if you are unfamiliar.”
“Georges Cuvier?” she asked distractedly as she adjusted the ribbon under her chin. “Yes, I have seen many times when he stood in the rue du Vieux-Chemin talking to a goose for hours. The goose did not find him so very fascinating.”
“Oh no, my dear lady, I mean Georges Cuvier the famous naturalist. Wrote the Règne Animal, you know.”
“Yes, Baron Cuvier, this is him, I am sure of it. It is very well known his mind is weak. Sometimes he forgets to put on trousers, and he has tried many times to eat his cravat with butter and cream. The poor man, he is to be pitied.”
“Mr. Harner will say a prayer for him, won’t you, Harner?” Mason asked. “And then you can talk to Ravenclyffe about India.”
“Yes indeed, we hear the most remarkable reports from the missionaries who have traveled there,” began Harner, full of eagerness, and Marie-Anne and Mason wasted no time in making their escape while the two men were distracted in conversation.
He carried the hamper and followed her outside, past the garden and toward the hedge maze. It seemed they really were headed for the copse of trees referred to as “the wilderness” which was really just a few neatly contained acres of woodland. Mason had laughed when he heard it the first time, thinking it was a joke. Everything was so tame here, and they seemed to use words to add grandeur and excitement to the most mundane things.
“Did you really know that Cuvier person?” he asked Marie-Anne as they walked.
“Of course not.” She smiled until her dimple showed itself. “But the terrible duke has spoken of him to Charlotte, because her mother is creole. He is very rude. It is bad manners to cut off his tongue, but I thought it is possible he will hesitate to repeat the teachings of a lunatic.”
“You, my dear, are a very quick thinker.”
“Just like you.” Her smile faded. There was a little coolness to her, the polite distance she used often with people she did not like. He had never felt it from her, not from the moment they had met. He supposed he deserved it, even if it did feel like he might freeze to death. He’d probably always deserved it.
“Are we really going to see Phyllida’s hermit?” he asked.
“Yes, and she tells me he wants to know about American trees. I hope you have sufficient lies ready?”
“Always.”
The way her mouth pursed made him wonder if he should not be so blunt, but the last thing he wanted to do was mince words with her. He strode ahead a few steps and put himself in front of her, causing her to stop. She looked up at him expectantly.
“I’m sorry, Marie-Anne. I should’ve said that last night.”
“You lied to me,” she said, with more sadness than accusation.
“It wasn’t personal. I lied to everyone.”
“Yes, but I thought…” Her gaze fluttered prettily down to his mouth, and then to the ground. “I thought we were friends.”
“We were. We are, or else I would’ve kept on lying.” She was destroying him with that sullen little frown. “Look, I have no pride at all. I’d get down on the ground and beg forgiveness right now, but we’re in full view of the house and lord only knows how these people would use the spectacle against you. But say it, and I’ll do it.”
“What? You talk nonsense–”
“What do I have to do, Marie-Anne? I’m sorry. I hate that you feel deceived. I swear I won’t lie to you anymore.”
The frown was gone and she gazed at him, thoughtful. Maybe she saw that he was remembering how her skin was like velvet, and how she had opened to him so readily and panted so desperately. He could smell her even now – all imagination and memory, of course – the taste of her still filling his mouth and making him salivate right here in this very public, very civilized place.
Maybe she saw all that. But he hoped she also saw that he meant it when he swore he wouldn’t lie to her. The idea that he’d hurt her feelings made him want to lay down and die.
“Well,” she said finally. “My vanity is very satisfied. You care for my feelings before you ask my decision about you. I thought it would be the first thing you asked."
He didn’t say that he’d refrained from asking because he was afraid of her answer. He just smiled with relief that her resentment seemed to be gone. “I reckon if you were planning to tell everyone I’m a fraud, you’d have done it already.”
She sniffed. “Maybe I will tell them tomorrow.”
There she was – a little teasing, a little taunting, a little laughter just below the surface. They were friends again – entirely on her terms, which he did not in the least object to, just as long as things were easy between them.
His smile was irrepressible.
“Why tell them when you can have it to hold over me? You can amuse yourself for days, making me dance to your tune.”
She clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes. “Why would I want this? You are a terrible dancer.” She made a gesture to shoo him out of her path, and they continued their walk toward the trees. “The pamphlets, they are entertaining. They are not vicious, it is true. Well, some are a little vicious, I must confess this, but so far it is never my friends who are treated badly in your papers.”
“We try not to be hateful,” he agreed. “Freddy’s testing a theory that comedy sells just as well as tragedy.”
“I want to meet this Freddy.”
That surprised him enough that he stopped his exploration of the hamper. It was full of bread and fruit and cheese.
“Why do you want to meet Freddy?”
“He is in charge of the words, no? And to choose what is the story, to say which picture you will draw. You told me this.”
“It’s more of a conversation between us, about the drawings. But why do you want to meet him?”
“It is to satisfy my curiosity about him, to see if he is a terrible scoundrel.” The spark of mischief had reappeared in her eyes. “And maybe there are other stories I would like you to tell.”
“Oh ho, wh
at’s this?” He stopped walking and waited for her to do the same. He was hard pressed to hide his admiration as she blinked in mock innocence at him. “Why, Miss Marie-Anne, I believe you’re looking to misbehave.”
She flicked the briefest glance over his chest and down to his thighs, and playfully raised her brows at him. “Always!” Then she laughed and moved on, as he tried to ignore the renewed lust she had conjured with a single look.
He caught up to her. They were in among the trees now and, as promised, the path was perfectly maintained and all the nature very orderly. Her brief burst of flirtatiousness was gone, which was a shame. It was a perfect place for a hidden kiss or two or twelve. He wanted to ask her if she’d come to his room tonight, but she was all business.
“In France there was a philosopher who said the poor should eat the rich,” she said, smiling a little to herself as though it were a private joke. “I had a very dear friend, Aurélie. She said the poor are more clever than philosophers, because they know it is better to milk a cow than to slaughter it for a single feast.”
“And which cow are you particularly looking to milk?” He pushed away the troubling thought that she sounded a little too much like his crooked cousin right now.
“It is you and your Freddy who do the milking. You will do it until you must stop, or until you want to. I understand this.” She gave a fatalistic shrug. “As you say, you must feed yourself. But I do not see why you cannot accomplish something more than filling your pockets, when there is a chance.”
She described one of the drawings he had shown her last night, the one where Ravenclyffe compared his prized snuffbox with another man’s. She voiced her appreciation of how he had positioned the men so that the snuffboxes were obvious proxy for their cocks, two gentleman comparing their precious, over-embellished little toys. But it was the little background scene that had caught her imagination. He’d drawn a lady shielding a young girl from the scene, and admonishing her to stay far from the men.
House of Cads (Ladies of Scandal Book 2) Page 15
