by Erica Ridley
The color drained from her face. “No.”
Heath blinked. Perhaps she was very, very shy. Perhaps she believed herself awkward, or possessed of two left feet. Perhaps he had just gallantly offered to drag her straight into her greatest nightmare by forcing her to move rhythmically in front of a crowd.
“No dancing. Are you peckish?” He glanced over toward the refreshment table to see what was left. “I would be happy to fetch you some lemonade. Or… a sponge cake.”
She shook her head, blue eyes filling with something akin to panic. “I cannot possibly accept.”
“I didn’t like them either,” he admitted. “Something to do with the squidgy texture. There might still be a lemon square—”
“It’s not the sponge cakes.” A pink flush crept up her cheeks as her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m a paid companion.”
And now it was Heath’s turn not to take an involuntary step back.
A paid companion.
An employee of one of the invited guests.
He hid a grimace. No wonder she hadn’t accepted his offer to dance. She might have been sacked for the audacity.
And it would have been his fault for insisting on being too friendly to a stranger.
“My apologies,” he said gruffly. “I’m sorry.”
“I am not.” She peered up at him through her lashes and gave a crooked smile. “I thought my post was the best thing that had ever happened to me. Now I think it was the moment I was mistaken for someone with permission to dance.”
Heath returned her smile automatically, but inside his mind whirred. This was a positive development. Perhaps not all was lost. Now that they had met, he and Miss Winfield could at least converse for a short moment, could they not? Even in a ballroom as public as this.
He winced. Well, technically a paid staff member of any household was by definition a servant. But just as a lady’s maid had far greater status than a chamber maid, and a governess had even greater status than a lady’s maid, a companion was even higher than that.
In fact, companions were the very highest of all staff in one’s employ. Often the only difference between a companion and her employer was the size of her purse, not the quality of her bloodline. If Miss Winfield’s parents had possessed slightly more coin, she might have attended this ball as a guest rather than as a member of the staff.
But she was right: that had not transpired. They could not dance.
Nor would he be fetching her any sponge cakes.
He gave an understanding nod. “It was a true pleasure to have made your acquaintance, Miss Winfield. Even without a dance. I shan’t make such a request again.”
“I know.” Her smile wobbled. “It isn’t done.”
It wasn’t done. And yet Heath couldn’t help but like her honesty. She had only tried to save him from himself.
He stepped out of her way. “Have a good evening, Miss Winfield.”
“You, too.” She bit her lip as she glanced back at him one last time. “Mr. Grenville?”
“Yes?”
Her eyes twinkled. “I’m glad I spilled lemonade on your jacket.”
“I’m glad I dipped my elbow in your glass,” he returned with a smile.
As Heath watched her walk away, he wondered which of the many dowagers and spinsters present had employed Miss Winfield as companion. Was she the poor relation of someone he knew? His eyes tracked her as she made her way toward the rear of the salon.
“There’s Grenville,” came a voice. “Why don’t you ask him?”
Blast. Heath turned to see who had interrupted his bout of shameless sleuthing.
A cluster of dandies swarmed around him like a cloud of gnats.
“Is it true you helped the Duke of Lambley, Grenville?” asked one.
“Of course it’s true, you ninny,” said another before Heath could reply. “Grenville can do anything.”
“Should he, though?” asked a third. “Lambley’s name is still shockingly scandalous, I say.”
“Then just imagine what we’d be saying about those masquerades if Grenville hadn’t worked his magic!” said the first.
They all began talking over each other at once.
“There would likely be a caricature about him posted on every window in London.”
“So true! Did you see the one about Wainwright?”
“Lord of Pleasure? Who hasn’t seen that? Poor sap is spiraling on a mission to ‘reshape his image.’”
“Saw that nonsense in the betting book. Went against him, of course.”
“There’s no chance of the Lord of Pleasure avoiding further infamy!” exclaimed another. “Unless he hires Grenville to fix the matter in his favor… That would be poor sportsmanship, wouldn’t it?”
“Poor sportsmanship?” said the first dandy. “Cheating, I say! Paying a scandal-fixer to solve one’s problems takes the sport right out of it.”
The second dandy whirled toward Heath. “Tell the truth, Grenville. Is Wainwright one of your clients?”
A hushed silence fell as the entire gaggle of dandies waited breathlessly for Heath’s reply.
“I never disclose my clients’ names, or their business,” he admonished, his tone final.
But he couldn’t fault them for asking.
Since the ubiquitous sketches first appeared all over London, the anonymous artist had become the sole topic across town. The caricaturist was a cretin. In a scant few days, his irresponsible drawings had caused more uproar than Cruikshank and Gillray combined. Unconscionable.
As a member of the very society being mocked, Heath was morally and personally offended. As a professional dedicated to minimizing scandal for the betterment of all, he was both annoyed and outraged. Worse, after witnessing his sister’s charity work cost poor Dahlia a fair portion of her status, Heath was frightened by the possibilities.
If the idle stroke of this man’s pen was enough to turn a gentleman like the Earl of Wainwright into the most celebrated rake of the ton, what damage might he cause to someone more helpless to defend herself?
Chapter 3
Nora had just carried her pencils and sketchbook of fashionable dresses to her adopted corner in one of the baroness’s numerous receiving parlors when a footman arrived bearing the morning’s correspondence on a silver platter.
“Lady Roundtree is still abed,” Nora informed him with a smile.
He ought to know as much, even if he never ventured upstairs. The baroness rarely roused before noon, especially now that she’d taken to adding a few more drops of laudanum to her nightly cup of warm milk.
Nora, on the other hand, had suffered a restless night. Between heart-pounding recollections of the moment when handsome Mr. Grenville had believed her worthy of an invitation to dance, and nightmares of how and why private sketches she’d sent to her family had become gossip fodder for the entire ton, sleep had proven elusive.
Perhaps the resulting exhaustion explained why a long moment passed before she realized the footman still stood in the open doorway, silver tray outstretched with stoic patience.
“For me?” Heart racing, Nora leapt to her feet and flew across the room.
In the center of the silver tray rested a single folded letter.
The parchment was thin and of obvious poor quality. Its contents had been secured not with a large seal and expensive wax, but with a small teardrop from a cheap, tallow candle. Worn indentations in telltale patterns indicated the paper had been previously employed for some other task, and later repurposed in the form of this letter.
A note from her family. Nora clutched it to her chest in relief.
“Thank you,” she whispered to the footman.
He bowed in acknowledgement before disappearing with the now empty tray.
Nora spun in a circle before sudden fear gripped her heart. What if this was not happy tidings from the farm? What if something had happened to Grandmother or Grandfather, and she was too far away to help?
She pulled a footstool as cl
ose to the fire as she dared and broke the droplet of wax with trembling hands.
The writing was definitely her brother’s hand. His penmanship was the only one she could easily read. Not because his handiwork was more refined than their grandparents’, but because Carter made it purposefully less so.
Big, printed letters instead of tightly flowing script. Large spaces between each word. Nora swallowed. Grandfather would have an apoplexy to see Carter “waste” precious paper so, but whatever was in the message, Carter had wished to ensure Nora capable of reading it.
She tamped down her fears and focused on the first line.
To my brilliant and talented sister,
As she was alone in the receiving parlor, Nora did not bother to hide an amused roll of her eyes. Carter had always begun correspondence to her in this manner. According to her brother, it was to remind Nora of her own worth.
Perhaps that was true. But the familiar greeting also served another—arguably more important—purpose.
It centered her on the task of reading. Reminded her which way the “b” and “d” pointed. And it allowed her to begin each letter with at least one line of easy comprehension—of success—before the arduous, humiliating work of making it through the rest of the words, letter by dancing letter.
Nora straightened her shoulders. She hated feeling so stupid. So helpless. So frustrated with her inability to simply scan the contents to find out if Carter had written with news of her grandparents’ health, or perhaps some insight into how the sketches she had mailed to their farm might have ended up in a London printing press a hundred miles from their home in the West Midlands.
She would have to decipher this line by line. Word by word.
You must be the queen of the ball by now.
Wasn’t that just like an adoring younger brother? Nora lowered her eyes with a sad smile. She was glad he did not suspect the truth.
She was queen of fetching items from other rooms, of helping the baroness in and out of chairs, of enduring long stretches of being no more noticeable than a speck of dust on the carpet by sketching better versions of her life in the sanctity of her own mind.
Recasting reality so that she was the one who received fancy invitations. So that she was the popular debutante laughing with her friends. So that she was the lady whirling gaily amid a crowded dance floor.
Instead, despite finding herself in the most populous city in England, attending the biggest crushes of the Season, Nora was far lonelier than she had ever been back home on their simple sheep farm. There, she had been an important part of everyday life.
Grandmother’s fingers are doing much better.
Nora doubted this. In her six-and-twenty years, she had seen more than enough elderly farmers progress from spry and capable to bent husks of the people they had once been.
Already it took a full hour each morning for Grandmother to uncurl her warped hands. The once slender fingers were now disfigured by painful, swollen knots at each joint. Her reward for long years of dipping candles, chopping vegetables, scrubbing pots, washing linens, churning butter. The list of chores was endless.
As soon as Nora was big enough to wield a broom, she had helped out as best she could. Her grandparents were her entire world.
When she and Carter had been orphaned, they had taken both children in without hesitation. Never mind that there was never enough money. There was always more than enough love.
Grandfather shouts louder every day, although he denies it.
Her heart gave a homesick pang. Both of her grandparents’ hearing had steadily declined over the last several years. Grandmother tried to mask the issue by speaking softer and softer in an attempt to blend with those around her, whereas Grandfather simply increased his volume as if it were not he, but rather everyone else, who had gone deaf.
If only that were the extent of their problems. Just a matter of raising one’s voice.
Nora’s shoulders slumped. They needed so much more. Grandfather’s eyesight and poor hip were even worse than Grandmother’s arthritis, rendering him little able to tend the crops anymore. Nora had taken over Grandmother’s duties, and Carter had taken over all of Grandfather’s, but mere labor wasn’t enough.
The farm needed money to stay afloat.
The sheep miss you. So do I.
Nora’s vision blurred. She missed him so much. Her brother had been her confidant, her rock, her tutor, her playmate, her best friend for her whole life. In as long as she could remember, they had never once been separated for more than a day.
Until now.
She took a deep breath. Here she was, in a receiving parlor the size of their cottage, perched on a footstool that cost more than their farm earned in a year, accepting the morning post from a literal silver platter that was polished and burnished every single day by a coterie of maids dedicated solely to the task of ensuring every silver surface in the house reflected as brilliantly as a looking-glass.
Carter, on the other hand, was back home doing the work of four people. He was going to make himself sick. But what else could they do?
Guilt twisted Nora’s stomach. Keeping up with the farm had been exhausting enough when divided between the two of them. She had no idea how long he could possibly manage alone. It wasn’t fair.
Although I do enjoy eating your breakfast portion every morning.
She let out a choking laugh. Of course he would; Carter’s stomach was a bottomless hole.
His heart was just as boundless.
He was the real reason Nora was in London. When the summons came from some spoiled, distant cousin, Nora’s first impulse had been to disregard it entirely. The farm needed her. So did her brother. Her grandparents. Their encroaching forgetfulness alone required near-constant oversight.
Besides, Nora barely knew this cousin. More importantly, the baroness didn’t recall much about her country bumpkin cousin at all, or why on earth would she have invited a farm maid to London?
But it wasn’t a social visit. It was employment. Six to eight weeks, just until the splints came off and the baroness regained range of motion.
Please don’t brag to me of your breakfasts with the baroness.
Nora snorted. She had yet to take a meal with Lady Roundtree.
Her shoulders tightened. She hadn’t wished to come to London. But Lady Roundtree was prepared to pay handsomely to have Nora attend her. Her years as caretaker to her grandparents and her blood relation to the baroness made Nora the perfect choice.
If only she wasn’t needed more at home.
She stared at the wiggling words on the page.
Carter had been the one to point out that this was their chance. With the money she earned, they could purchase more sheep and use them for income, rather than rely on backbreaking fieldwork. There would be more free time to spend with the family. The four of them could finally have lives beyond slaving to maintain the farm.
All she had to do was spend a couple easy months as nursemaid to a baroness. How hard could it be?
Confession: We have had the strangest bout of good fortune.
Nora frowned. Good fortune was inherently… well, good. So why did Carter’s confession sound so ominous? She worked out the next line.
I wished to prove to you how skilled an artist you are,
She sighed. Carter was always trying to make her feel better about her difficulties with book learning by pointing out that pencils could be used for more than just sums and penmanship. No one in town could draw half as well as Nora, even when she barely paid attention. It was a skill most people didn’t have, he claimed.
Sure. That might even be true. But what did it matter? Nora couldn’t sketch a successful harvest into their larder or collect milk and wool with judicious use of ink. Art was an idle pastime, not a source of income. Her hands were better employed elsewhere.
so I sent away a few samples via a confidential intermediary.
Nora groaned. The sketches she’d sent home hadn’t gone astray. T
hey’d been purposefully diverted. By her well-meaning, feather-brained, supportive-to-a-fault little brother.
They sent back a pound note for each one and a request for more drawings.
Nora blinked and started that line over. Surely she had misread. She tried again.
They sent back a five-pound note for each one
A five-pound note. FIVE.
For each one.
Her breath caught. That meant a single sketch was worth the same as fifty loaves of bread. That meant her family now had fifty loaves of bread, or the wisest equivalent purchase. Her brother would have immediately replenished their larder. Or acquired more sheep.
Her heart pounded.
On an annuity of five hundred per year, a frugal family of four could afford not only themselves, but a servant or two. Could Nora potentially earn the same sum with a hundred satirical sketches? Might their days of poverty soon be behind them?
This was life-changing.
This was madness.
This could not be.
and a request for more drawings.
None of your fashion sketches will do, but of course I sent what few caricatures I could find.
Nora’s fingers shook with sudden terror as the full ramifications gripped her.
The sketches were raw, unfiltered glimpses into ton life. They were quick, rude, irreverent. They poked holes in High Society’s glossy veneer solely for the private amusement of the Winfield family. And Carter had sold them?
Panic tightened her chest. She had not signed the sketches, but that did not mean she was safe from discovery. Or being sacked from her current position. This reckless act could jeopardize her companion salary as well as any hope for more drawings.
What had Carter done?
No more ball gowns and fancy portraits.
Draw as many caricatures as you can. The wittier, the better.
They’ll pay TRIPLE for famous people.
Triple.
No. Absolutely not.
She’d already seen what could happen when ten thousand people with nothing better to do got their hands on the same silly sketch. Overnight, the Earl of Wainwright had become the “Lord of Pleasure,” and not just in the tongue-in-cheek commentary Nora made at home, but to the entire haut ton.
