by Barton, Anne
“Promise. And, Belle?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for understanding.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “It’s what sisters are for. And if Owen asks you what I’ve been doing for the past two hours, you must be a good sister and say that I have been lazing abed all morning.”
“Agreed.”
After Belle left, Daphne walked to the vanity and looked at her reflection in the looking glass. Even with her hair in dishabille, the golden gown gave her an air of confidence. She looked regal and sure of herself.
On the inside, however, she was a cornered mouse—small and trembling. And utterly alone.
The letter from Thomas had arrived yesterday, but Ben had assumed it was simply another ball invitation and therefore didn’t open it until breakfast that morning. He’d written to the artist shortly after the party at Vauxhall Gardens, hoping to discover who had commissioned the English Beauty paintings… and then promptly forgotten about it.
But Thomas, it turned out, was back in town, and the letter gave the address where he was staying.
Ben now knew the location of the painting and of the artist. The question was, what should he do about it? His eggs sat untouched on his plate and his ham grew cold as he ran through several scenarios in his head.
He wanted to send word to Daphne immediately and tell her that he was going to fix everything. But somehow, he didn’t think she’d appreciate that. She would have once, but she wasn’t the same woman she’d been when he first met her. While speaking to her outside the milliner’s shop, he’d seen the resolve in her eyes. She was determined to face her fears on her own.
And he should probably let her.
But surely she wouldn’t mind a little help.
“Flemings,” he bellowed.
The butler shuffled into the dining room. “My lord?”
“I need the coach readied.”
Ben was curious to meet the man who had captured Daphne’s essence so beautifully. And since Thomas and Daphne had grown up as friends, perhaps he’d be able to predict Daphne’s reaction to his scheme—a scheme that was admittedly harebrained. But maybe just harebrained enough to work.
A scant hour later, Ben sat on a wooden chair in a studio across from the artist. Thomas’s shirt was untucked and smeared with shades of brown and blue; his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Dark smudges above his hollow cheeks suggested he’d been up painting for several hours and that he may have forgotten to eat the previous day. He stared at Ben’s cane for several moments and then at his leg. Such a bold perusal from anyone else might have been offensive, but Thomas merely seemed to be studying a subject—putting together all the pieces in order to understand the whole.
Ben took in the ramshackle furnishings, the dust that covered everything but Thomas’s easel, and the rat droppings in the corner. The artist seemed oblivious to the squalor.
“Thank you for replying to my inquiry,” Ben said. “I have one of the paintings—of Daphne… er, Miss Honeycote.”
Thomas narrowed his eyes. “How do you know her? Does she know you’re here?”
Impressed by his show of loyalty, Ben decided to answer truthfully, if not fully. “I met her at a dinner party and we became friends. She doesn’t know I’m here. In fact, I doubt she knows that you’re back from your tour.”
He shrugged apologetically. “I’ve been busy with my painting.”
“Well, you certainly haven’t been busy cleaning.”
Thomas scanned the room like he was seeing it for the first time. “We all have our priorities, Lord Foxburn.”
“Indeed. I’ve already learned that your patron is Lord Charlton. Did you know he’s been ill?”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“He showed small signs of improvement the last time I saw him.” The memory of that day, replete with the stinging sensation of Hallows’s boot heel wedged into his flesh, made the muscles of his leg twinge.
“It seems as though you have the answers you originally sought. Forgive me for asking a direct question, but what are you doing here?”
“Daphne is in trouble.”
Thomas sat up straighter and tensed. “How so?”
“One of the paintings is about to be sold at auction. When it’s revealed in public, her reputation will be destroyed.”
“I never thought she would be moving about in polite society. I never thought I would either.”
Ben snorted. “You’re not. This is about Daphne. Do you want to help her?”
“Of course I do. Just tell me how.”
He stroked the stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. “For now, you can simply enlighten me on a couple of painting techniques. The real fun begins tonight—after midnight.”
Thomas arched a brow.
“And you’re going to need your brushes.”
Ben’s plans were coming together nicely—a refreshing change from his normal luck. There was, however, one more piece—or rather, one more person—he needed to put in place. After returning from the visit with Thomas, Ben sat in his study, debating who would be the right person for the assignment.
It had to be a woman. Someone who was clever, resourceful, and courageous, in a quiet sort of way. Most of all, he needed someone who was good at keeping secrets.
The majority of women he knew were fond of gossip and talking, all except for—
But of course. He knew the perfect candidate. She was so shy that he’d almost overlooked her, but he suspected that beneath her reserved demeanor she was more courageous than she let on.
He’d know soon enough.
He withdrew a piece of paper from his desk drawer, dipped the nib of his pen in the ink jar, and hastily scrawled a note to Lady Rose Sherbourne.
In the quietest part of the night, that magical hour or two after the carousers had gone to bed but before even the most industrious souls had awoken, three cloaked figures skulked down Fleet Street. They disappeared into an alley not far from a quaint but highly respected framing shop. If a door was kicked in, no one was there to hear it. And if a light shone from the back room of the little shop, no one was around to see it. The trio stayed as long as they dared and left just as quietly as they had come.
When Mr. Leemore arrived at his shop that morning, he scratched his head over the unlocked door, but a quick glance around the shop revealed nothing was amiss. His cash drawer was secure; his inventory was undisturbed. He would speak to his son about being more careful when closing up. As he donned his work apron, Mr. Leemore sniffed the air. Odd. The smell of oil paints was more pungent than usual today. Must be the humid London weather.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The evening had arrived.
The Foley ball was by far the most anticipated event of the season and—much to Daphne’s chagrin—promised to be huge crush. As she went through the motions of readying herself for the ball, she found it surprisingly easy to forget that she was counting down the minutes until her ruin.
She’d tried to anticipate what she’d feel like the moment the painting was unveiled but couldn’t seem to summon the necessary depth of shame and regret. She just couldn’t. It was like trying to imagine being shot in the chest. One knew it would not be good, but there was no way of knowing what kind of pain it would be or how well one would endure it.
When finally she made her way downstairs to leave, she actually felt a sense of relief, on at least two counts. First, she was able to walk. She’d feared that when the time came, her body would refuse to obey her mind and she’d be frozen. She’d imagined Olivia and Rose carrying her under her stiff elbows and propping her up next to the punch table in the Foley ballroom. Apparently, it wouldn’t come to that.
Second, the waiting was over. Whatever was about to happen, at least it would be done with. The aftermath was bound to be messy and ugly… and probably lonely. But at least the cleanup could begin.
Since everyone in her household planned to attend, Owen agreed two coach
es were needed to transport them the short distance to the Foley residence. Owen, Anabelle, and Mama rode in one; Daphne, Olivia, and Rose rode in the other.
Daphne stared out the window, mentally calculating the minutes that remained before she would be the object of disdain and censure.
One hundred thirty-nine minutes, at least. She reminded herself to breathe and then congratulated herself on accomplishing that small feat.
“Thank goodness Owen let us take a second coach. Had we squeezed ourselves into one, my dress would have had more wrinkles than all our great-aunts combined. Besides,” Olivia said, “this way I don’t have to endure my brother’s scowls.”
“He’s not scowling at you,” Rose corrected. “He’s scowling at your neckline.”
Olivia grinned and thrust her décolletage forward. “It is rather daring. James will surely notice these.”
“He will notice you,” Rose said sincerely, “and that would be true with or without the daring gown. You look beautiful, as does Daphne.”
Daphne attempted a smile, but her face felt numb. At least it was fairly dark inside the cab. A couple of lanterns hanging outside the coach allowed them to see outlines and shadows but not much more. Daphne contemplated the chances of her being permitted to stay in the dark coach for the remainder of the evening.
Despite Rose’s kind words, Daphne didn’t feel beautiful. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. Likewise, she crossed her arms to still their trembling. She’d eaten next to nothing that day, and her tea sloshed about in her stomach. Her palms were clammy and a droplet of perspiration trickled between her breasts.
No, beautiful was not the word to describe how she felt.
“Would you mind if I opened a window?” she asked, already fumbling with the latch.
Rose leaned across to help. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Just a bit nervous,” Daphne confessed. “It’s been some time since I’ve been to a ball.”
Olivia clapped her hands. “You both know, of course, who I’m excited to see this evening. It’s only fair that you two should reveal which gentlemen you are most eager to see.”
An alarmed look crossed Rose’s face and she shot a sympathetic look at Daphne. “No one in particular. This window is awfully stubborn, is it not?”
Daphne and Rose continued to make a great show of pushing and pulling at the small pane until their coach finally joined the queue that had formed in front of Foley House. As they waited their turn to disembark, Olivia abandoned her line of questioning and began a running commentary on the gowns worn by the women filing up the walk to the front door.
Though Daphne tried very hard to listen to Olivia’s opinion on epaulets, she was distracted. What were the chances of Lord Foley’s house catching fire and of the ball being canceled? If the portrait went up in flames, her most immediate problem would be solved. Of course, she wouldn’t want anyone to be harmed in the blaze. Although, she would not shed a tear if Miss Starling’s tresses were singed a little. Just enough to prevent her from tossing her curls over her shoulder in the way that made Daphne dig her fingernails into the heels of her hands.
A jab in Daphne’s side snapped her attention back to the grim reality that no inferno was forthcoming.
“You have the best seat for viewing,” Olivia said, “and you don’t even appreciate it.”
“Would you like to switch?”
Olivia frowned. She was probably debating whether shuffling seats was likely to result in a tear. “No. Just tell me about Lady Bonneville’s gown—it’s sparkling, if I’m not mistaken.
Daphne pressed her forehead to the window. The viscountess was, in fact, surprisingly incandescent. “She must have crystals sewn onto her dress. They’re twinkling in the moonlight and catching the light streaming from Lord Foley’s windows.” Such illumination must take at least a hundred candles. Perhaps not all hope was lost—a small fire was hardly out of the question.
“Ah, here we are at last,” said Olivia. “Rose, you go first.”
Now that they were alighting from the coach, Daphne’s nerves were drawn as tightly as her corset. The smart new-heeled slippers she’d worn felt as heavy as stone. If Olivia hadn’t been behind her, practically pushing her out of the coach, she might have ridden it straight back home.
She, Olivia, and Rose lingered on the walk as the coach carrying Mama, Anabelle, and Owen pulled up and the passengers disembarked. Daphne concentrated on keeping her knees locked and her legs steady. Both coaches rolled away.
There was no going back now.
Anabelle’s gaze swept over her, from the delicate sleeves of her amber gown all the way to the flounced hem. “It looks even better than I’d hoped,” she whispered in Daphne’s ear. “I am a genius.”
Daphne forced a smile. “You look beautiful.”
“An hour ago I was letting out this gown. I think that must be a sign that the babe’s doing well—don’t you?”
“Absolutely.” She squeezed her arm. Even older sisters needed to be reassured sometimes.
“Are you ready?” From behind her spectacles, Anabelle’s gray eyes searched Daphne’s face.
Was she?
Was she ready to be ostracized? Ready to speak her mind, and—even more frightening—her heart?
“Ready.”
Arm in arm with Belle, she walked into Lord Foley’s elegant foyer and followed the meandering stream of guests into the ballroom.
The room, already crowded, buzzed with excitement. The orchestra tuned their instruments, and each discordant note sent a chill down her spine. Anabelle began talking with a lady who was also increasing, and Daphne looked around. At the end of the room opposite the doors through which they’d entered loomed a large, ornate easel. It stood on a rectangular platform. The painting itself was covered, draped in decadent crimson silk brocade.
Daphne swallowed. Drawn to the easel like a sailor lured by sirens to rocky crags, she drifted closer.
“Where are you going?” Olivia scurried to her side. “You walked right past Lady Worsham.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just want to see it.” She gestured toward the painting.
“Everyone does. It’s not to be unveiled until midnight.”
“I know.” She weaved her way through the crowd, intent on getting as close as she could.
“Wait, I’ll go with you,” Olivia cried.
The nearer Daphne got to the easel, the thicker the crowd. Footmen stood guard on either side of the painting, their green livery clashing awfully with the fringed red silk covering the painting. Finally, she was as close as she could get without stepping onto the platform. The painting appeared larger than she remembered. Of course, she had never seen it framed. She’d only really looked at it once, after Thomas had declared it finished.
In the last few days, she’d tried to convince herself that perhaps it wasn’t so scandalous after all. That it had only seemed risqué because she’d been such an innocent at the time. But now that she stood in front of the painting, she could see that it was almost life-sized. Elevated as it was, every detail of her form would be scrutinized.
Dear God.
Maybe she should have prepared Mama and Belle for what was about to take place, warned them of the impending shame. But no, she couldn’t have. They would have insisted on shielding her and never would have permitted her to come. And if she hadn’t come, she wouldn’t have had the chance to do what she needed to.
What she would do.
Olivia clucked her tongue. “I feel sorry for the woman. Do you think she’s here tonight?”
Daphne’s mouth went dry. “She’d have to be very bold to come. Or very stupid.”
“I, for one, hope she’s here.”
“Why?”
Olivia shrugged. “It would make tonight utterly unforgettable.”
“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
As they crossed the ballroom to rejoin the rest of their party, Daphne searc
hed for Ben’s brown, closely shorn curls. He’d said he’d be here, but his leg could be paining him, or he could have changed his mind. She couldn’t really blame him for wanting to avoid the entire scene.
She refused champagne offered by a passing waiter—she needed to keep her wits about her. Olivia took a glass, however, which gave her older brother something besides her neckline to frown about.
Heavens. If Owen was dismayed by Olivia’s behavior, what on earth would he think of Daphne after the painting was unveiled? He might forbid her to see his and Anabelle’s baby for fear that she’d be a bad influence. A lump lodged in her throat. She couldn’t imagine a steeper price.
Just as Daphne and Olivia reached Mama and the others, a shrill voice called out, “Out of the way! These young people have no manners, no respect for their elders.”
“Good evening, Lady Bonneville,” said Rose.
The white-haired viscountess’s lorgnette snapped up with the precision of a soldier raising his bayonet. Her sharp eyes took in Rose, Olivia, Owen, Anabelle, Mama, and Daphne in turn. To Mama, she said, “Marion, you would do well to join me over by the potted palms. It appears Lord Foley has invited all of England to witness the spectacle of the portrait. Personally, I do not understand the fascination. You’d think the ton had never seen Aphrodite’s breasts or Apollo’s dangling bits.”
“Henrietta!” Mama cried.
“What? I speak the truth. If you remain here, you run the risk of being trampled by young bucks who have partaken of too many spirits. Come with me. We shall have a better view of the evening’s festivities from the gallery anyway.” She grabbed Mama’s wrist and pulled her along before halting and spinning to face them with impressive agility.
“Where is Lord Foxburn?” she demanded.
Daphne could have kissed the viscountess for asking the question she hadn’t dared.
Owen shrugged. “I saw him earlier today. He mentioned that he’d be here. However, he looked rather preoccupied. A bit tired, too.”
Daphne nibbled her bottom lip. His leg must be hurting. She wished she could go to him, as she had before. Only to massage his leg or apply a poultice. The mere memory of her visit to his bedchamber made her cheeks flame—a fact that did not go unnoticed by Lady Bonneville.
