by Bryn Donovan
Good God, was she throwing herself at him?
“I know the Commandments say one must honor one’s mother and father. But all of this—” She waved an arm toward the party. “It’s just a bit much.”
Well, she surely wasn’t trying to seduce him, given that she discussed Scripture. The girl was as naive as his little sister Katy. She had no idea what sorts of impressions she might make on others.
It made him worry about her a little. Plenty of less than honorable men existed, even in this illustrious crowd. Jack, though he’d often say things that offended virgin sensibilities, would never do anything to harm an innocent. But others might, especially given her fortune. For these, compromising Daisy Tudbury, and cornering her into an unwanted marriage, would be profitable as well as entertaining.
“Miss Tudbury. You should not go off alone with a man. Ever. You’re too young to realize it, but you put yourself into danger that way.”
She fixed him with her wide blue-eyed stare. “Am I in danger with you?”
“No. Of course not. But you didn’t know that.”
She gave him an impish grin. “Yes, I did.” Turning away, she gazed over the balcony into the darkness. “I just wanted to escape for a moment. I hate these sorts of affairs.”
“I am surprised. You are the most admired lady of the Season. You must know that. I imagine a lot of ladies are jealous of you.”
“Well, they do not know everything about me, do they?”
She sounded like a typical youth, with an exaggerated sense of her own personal travails. He supposed he’d been that way once.
“They know you’re pretty and you’re rich.”
Daisy turned back to look at him. “You think I’m spoiled.”
She might be naïve, but she wasn’t stupid. “Perhaps,” he allowed. “Just a trifle.”
She tilted her head. “Well, you may be correct. But you don’t know me so well, either.”
“No.”
Daisy peeked in at the party, and Will’s gaze followed hers. The glass rectangles of the windows glowed with lamplight and the bright colors of ball gowns. “They want to find me a husband in there,” she said. “Do you suppose there’s a man in there who could make me happy?”
“There are many who would like to try. Whether any would succeed is only for you to say.”
“Yes. It should be only for me to say, should it not?”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind. I’m sorry, Mr. Creighton. You’ve listened to me long enough.” She gave a little laugh. “I was going to talk to you about something private. But now I think I’m too embarrassed.”
Something private? Will grew uncomfortable. They’d been out on the balcony for too long. A lady might step outside with a gentleman for a breath of fresh air, but that was all. He had to think of her reputation, even if she didn’t. “Miss Tudbury, we must go back inside.”
“Oh, I know.” She cast another wistful glance over the balcony. “Mr. Creighton, we are friends, aren’t we?”
“Of course,” he replied, though he didn’t know what to make of the question.
“I’m glad.” Her almost childlike sincerity reminded him again of Katy. “I’m sure I couldn’t find a nicer friend.”
****
When Will got home that night, Babbage let him in the door. “Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening.” He took off his hat, shrugged out of his topcoat, and handed them to the butler.
“Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you, Babbage. I’m going to bed directly.”
“Very good, sir. I did put this afternoon’s mail on your night table.”
“Excellent. Good night, then.” Will noticed a questioning look on Babbage’s face. “Was there anything else?”
“Well, sir, I just wanted to ask if this week I might take Tuesday off, instead of Sunday.”
“Tuesday? I don’t see why not.”
“Thank you, sir. Good night.”
In his bedroom, Will took off his coat and shirt and sat down on the edge of the bed to glance through the mail. Two invitations: one to a soirée given by Jack’s aunt and uncle, and one to a tea being hosted by people Will could not remember having heard of before. Then a small envelope that bore no return address, but only the initials G.B.
Genevieve. What might she be writing about? Was she not available next Tuesday? The thought of that upset him more than it should.
He turned the envelope over; it was closed with an embossed floral seal. He opened the letter and unfolded the single sheet.
My dear Mr. Creighton,
I hope you will pardon me for intruding upon your privacy, and especially for doing so in order to ask a favor, but I am a little concerned.
I have heard that my cousin has claimed that I have several paintings of his, which he said he would take from me. Doubtless it will come to nothing, but I cannot rid myself of the worry that he will steal my work. He has been suspected of theft in the past, and I am sorry to say it would not at all be out of character.
On Saturday I shall be in Town visiting my friend Miss D. at number 8 Cleveland Street in Fitzroy Square. If you are not otherwise engaged, would you care to meet me there at two o’clock in the afternoon to discuss the matter? Of course, we could also discuss it at a later time.
I thank you for considering this matter, and hope that this letter finds you well.
Sincerely yours,
G.
No longer feeling sleepy, Will re-read the letter.
Genevieve had made some effort to be discreet. Not only had she omitted using her name, but she’d not written in over-familiar terms. She also avoided a direct reference to their standing Tuesday evening appointments.
Will recalled the man from the exhibition where he first laid eyes on Genevieve: a surly, glowering fellow with greasy hair. Will could imagine that the man was a thief, and the idea of him invading Genevieve’s cottage was disturbing to the extreme.
He found some writing-paper in a drawer. Dipping his pen into the inkpot, he dashed off a quick note to the garden-party couple: deepest regrets, previous engagement. This he sealed with red wax imprinted with the family crest. Then he took out a fresh sheet of paper and considered what to write to Genevieve.
He didn’t need to be as cautious as she’d been. There didn’t seem many people around her who might read her private letters. However, in the end, he couldn’t think of anything to say except,
My dear Genevieve,
I will certainly meet you on Saturday.
Yours,
Will.
Chapter Ten
“I should never have written to him about it,” Genevieve said.
She looked out the small window of Ruth’s rented rooms on a dismal view of chimneys and smokestacks.
“I think you were right to tell him,” Ruth said. “I’m afraid Cage could steal from you. Of course, you could always move your paintings here, but as you say, it would be quite cumbersome for you to take them on the train. And Cage doesn’t know about your art student at all.”
After the day at her house when her friends had seen Will, Genevieve told them he was learning to paint from her. That satisfied their curiosity, although Ruth and Ida had both asked her whether Will might not have any friends who’d like to learn to paint, too.
As she sat in Ruth’s only chair while Ruth sat on the narrow low bed, Genevieve wondered how she might share some of her newfound wealth with Ruth without insulting her or making her feel indebted.
“You don’t mind that I said he could come here, do you?”
“I have already told you I don’t mind,” Ruth chided her.
“In any event, he probably won’t come. What time is it?”
Ruth glanced at the clock on the table. “Five minutes after two.”
“As I say, he’s not coming. Just as well, I suppose.”
They heard rapping at the door. Genevieve jumped up out of her chair, and Ruth giggled. “M
r. Lemon must have let him in.” She referred to her landlord who occupied the rooms on the first floor.
Genevieve felt a twinge of dismay as she went to the door. She had thought that Mr. Creighton would appreciate a discreet meeting place, but now she was sure she’d made a mistake. It was one thing for a man of his station to see her simple cottage, but to visit Ruth’s quarters was another matter. She thought of the vile cooked-cabbage smell of the hallway, the rat droppings on the stairs. He was probably regretting his decision to come to such a neighborhood.
But then Genevieve felt ashamed of her concern. He might as well know how others lived. She opened the door and said to him, “Good afternoon, Mr. Creighton. Thank you for coming.”
In that moment Genevieve realized that she’d not warned him against discussing the true nature of their relationship.
Oh, Good Lord.
He looked past her at Ruth, his expression alert and circumspect. “Good afternoon, Miss Bell,” he responded in kind.
“Please come in, Mr. Creighton,” Ruth said. “I’m Ruth Davidson. We met before.” She extended a hand, and Will shook it.
“Yes, of course, Miss Davidson. It’s good to see you again. Thank you so much for having me in your home.” If Will was surprised by Ruth’s narrow, dilapidated rooms, he certainly gave no sign of it. Genevieve relaxed in relief.
“I hear you are very talented,” Ruth said.
Will’s dark brows rose.
Genevieve’s heart jumped. She rushed to say, “Now, Ruth, Will doesn’t want to talk about that. It’s private business.”
“Speaking of private business...” He looked from Genevieve to Ruth.
“Oh, no need to worry, I know all about Cage,” Ruth told him. “Would you like to sit down?”
Will afforded a discreet glance at the only chair. “No, thank you, I prefer to stand,” he said. “Long carriage ride—tired of sitting.”
“Well, it was very kind of you to come,” Genevieve said. “And I fear that I have completely overreacted—”
“Of course you shall keep your paintings at my house. My concern is whether Mr. Visser poses a threat to you.”
“To me?” Genevieve echoed. “No, certainly not. Cage is my cousin. We grew up together.”
She realized how strange that must sound, since Will was under the impression that Cage had been her lover. How she wished she could explain the whole situation to him and be done with it.
But it seemed a little too late to do that, and besides, he’d be furious at the deception.
“Yet you believe he intends to steal your paintings.”
“I don’t even know that for a certainty. It was just something he said to a friend of a friend...”
“Where does he live?”
Good heavens. What was he going to do, track Cage down and give him a thrashing? The look on his face indicated that was exactly what he had in mind.
“We’re not quite sure,” Ruth supplied. “Somewhere in the Rookery.”
Will shook his head, his mouth set in a grim line. “Have you a good lock on your door?” he asked Genevieve.
“Of course.”
“You need bars on the windows. I will send over an ironworker.”
“Absolutely not!” Now he was really overbearing. “I’m not going to live in a prison.”
“You can’t take chances.”
“I’ve told you I’ll be fine.”
Genevieve noticed Ruth’s shocked expression as she witnessed their exchange. It had to have sounded like a lover’s quarrel. “I won’t discuss it any more,” she told Will.
“Oh, very well. You will do what you want to do, I’m sure. But you need to be careful.” He seemed both agitated and resigned. “I shall have my coachman pick up the paintings tonight.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Creighton,” Ruth commented.
“It’s nothing,” he said, leaning back against the wall. “I could do with more art in my house, anyway.”
“Oh. Are you a collector, then?”
Will smiled at her friend’s hopeful tone.
“Well, I don’t know much about art. But I noticed your picture over there.” He nodded toward the easel in the corner that held a finished painting of a child selling flowers in the street. “I like it.”
Ruth averted her gaze. “Oh, that? It’s not much to speak of.”
Genevieve almost rolled her eyes. Her friend was hopeless when it came to promoting her own work.
“How much is it?” Will asked.
“Um...you mean to buy?”
“If it’s for sale.”
“Yes, it is! Well...” Ruth’s face scrunched up in indecision.
“Now, Ruth, don’t be a goose,” Genevieve intervened. “Wouldn’t you say forty pounds?”
“I...”
“Forty pounds it is, then,” Will said.
He drew out a crocodile wallet and Genevieve tried not to stare as he peeled off the bank notes from a fat stack.
“Thank you very much, sir.” Ruth sounded dazed as she accepted the cash. Genevieve knew that to her friend, it was an unimaginable windfall.
“No, thank you,” Will said. “I am sure I’ll enjoy it.”
Ruth giggled. “It’s almost like it’s my birthday, Genny, instead of yours.”
Will swung around to look at Genevieve. “It’s your birthday?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you not say so?”
“Because it’s no great matter.”
When Genevieve had been young, birthdays had been a great matter indeed. Presents from her parents, and her favorite cake, and sometimes a party with adults and children alike, playing Forfeits and Squeak Piggy Squeak.
But after her mother died, her father hadn’t the heart for real celebrations.
And in the last few years, Genevieve’s birthday had felt like a reproach to her, reminding her that she was not only a spinster, but an unsuccessful artist as well.
“It’s just like any other day,” she said.
“Well, it shouldn’t be.” That mischievous gleam sparked in his keen dark eyes again. “We must go out and celebrate.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Where did he think they would go? He didn’t want anyone to know of their connection. He’d be ashamed if his family heard of it. He had made that clear in the beginning, hadn’t he?
“He’s right, Genny. You should celebrate,” Ruth said.
Will looked at her as if he’d forgotten she was in the room. Then he cleared his throat. “Why don’t the three of us go out to tea?”
“Thank you, Mr. Creighton,” Ruth said, “but I’m meeting with my sketch group later. Genevieve, do go ahead with Mr. Creighton, won’t you?” Ruth often met Percy Wentworth at tea shops, so she wouldn’t think anything of Genevieve going alone with a gentleman. “Oh, go on,” Ruth urged her when she hesitated. “It’s such a lovely offer.”
Genevieve admitted that it did sound pleasant. She accompanied Will, with his newly acquired art tucked under his arm, down the stairs.
“So how old are you?” he asked.
“Good heavens! You’re not supposed to ask that.”
“I know.” The dimple appeared at the corner of his mouth again. “So how old?”
“Twenty-five, if you insist upon knowing.” She peered at him. “What about you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“I thought you were older.” He projected something sure and substantial, an inner seriousness that she didn’t associate with young men.
“Wise beyond my years,” he quipped.
They went out to his gleaming coach. The coachman opened the door and helped her up. The interior was a far cry from the shabby seats of the omnibuses she was accustomed to.
“Where to, Mr. Creighton?” the coachman asked.
“West End.”
“Very good, sir.” When the man closed the carriage doors, Will leaned the canvas up against the seat. “I don’t suppose you know where I can get that framed?”
“Is it?”
“What do you mean, is it?” Her suspicions were confirmed. “You don’t care either way about the painting, do you? You just bought it to be kind.”
Will shrugged. “I am sure it’s worth the money.”
“You are very generous.”
“Oh yes,” he said dryly. “Exceptionally. Which brings us to an important question. What do you want for your birthday?”
“Tea. And maybe a jam-cake.”
“I seem to remember I owe you a dress.”
Genevieve blushed at the memory of the torn garment. “Don’t be silly. I have not even touched the money you sent the other day.” A payment had arrived from his banker on the first of the month, just as he promised.
“No?” Will gave her a keen glance. “Why ever not?”
“There is nothing I need.”
This was only partially true. Genevieve felt reluctant to spend the money.
The last time they’d been together had turned into one of the most amazing experiences of her life. She didn’t want to be paid for it. And she wanted to believe it meant more to him than a business transaction, too.
After he’d told her about his experience with his secret fiancée, she found herself hoping even more that he might be truly enamored with her. He said himself that he wasn’t the kind of person who would usually take a mistress. Maybe he saw her as more than just another luxury of privileged life.
She knew that kind of thinking was worse than foolish. It would lead her to certain heartbreak.
She should have cut things off with him already. What was wrong with her? She’d grown as addicted to seeing Will as her cousin Cage was addicted to opium. He’d be a difficult habit to break.
“You must let me get you some kind of present,” he teased.
“Stop it!”
His brow furrowed. “Why are you shouting?”
She attempted to regain her composure. “I just don’t know why you’re being so nice to me,” she mumbled.
