Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2

by Lynna Banning

  For hours she had waited for the house to quieten, to grasp her chance to slip out unobserved. Before dinner there had been no hope with her parents and George about and the servants going up and down the stairs. They hadn’t dined until eight o’clock, and then she had sat through three courses: a consommé, thin and clear, followed by beef in puff pastry, with new spring vegetables, and for pudding, Bavarian cream with slivered almonds on top. Briggs offered it to her with a smile, knowing the pudding to be a favourite, but it had held no taste. Then, as usual, her papa and George had drunk port, but instead of going into the drawing room with her mama as she ordinarily did she had pleaded fatigue and come upstairs to pace the carpet.

  The gold-and-blue enamel clock by her bed chimed. Ten o’clock. The chime decided her. She glanced down at her clothing. She still wore a low-cut green taffeta evening dress. She might as well wear it, since Benedict must be told the truth, but she swapped her evening slippers for a pair of black-kid boots. From her wardrobe she pulled out a black velvet cloak and threw it over her dress, covering it completely.

  The room dimmed to darkness as she blew out the candles. Slipping on her kid gloves, she silently turned the brass knob of her bedroom door. In the hall the candles in the wall sconces were still flaming. All seemed quiet, although it was too risky to go down the main marble staircase. Hurrying along the carpeted hall in the other direction, she held her breath as she clicked open the latch of the small door that led to the backstairs and raced down. At the bottom the kitchen stood dim and empty, the range cold, the big scrubbed pine table bare. Thank goodness the servants had all gone to bed. It struck her that Bert might have been persuaded to deliver a note, but she didn’t like to involve the servants. It was unfair. What was worse, all too easily she could imagine Benedict ripping such a note up in disgust.

  Holding her breath, she tiptoed across the kitchen to turn the key in the lock of the side door and hastened out into the night.

  Alone in the square in front of the house she hesitated. A sudden shaft of light beamed out as a maid opened the front door of the next house to welcome a gentleman pulling up in a carriage. She shrank out of sight behind an ash tree.

  The square became dark and quiet again. The fog shrouding her in a dirty mist, her boots tapped out an echo in the gloom as she made her way to Oxford Street. It was so different to travel alone at night and on foot. As it was so late in the evening, she hadn’t dared ask Bert to take her, either; he’d been reluctant enough about the evening outing to Mr Trelawney’s soirée. It might get him into trouble.

  Shivering, she nearly turned back. But to her relief on the main road there were still plenty of people about. She could barely see them in spite of the yellow gaslights that lit each corner, but she could hear them: the strangers’ voices as they came and went in the fog, their white faces startling her as they brushed past and the noisy clatter of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels on the road alongside.

  Panic built inside her as she travelled further and further away from Mayfair. The streets grew darker, the gaslight more sparse. After turning off Oxford Street she suspected she’d lost her way. A policeman swinging a truncheon gave her a searching stare as she came hurtling around a corner. She hesitated to ask him for directions, knowing he might ask why. He carried on without a word, his footsteps plodding away.

  The streets felt different at night, too. She hurried along past the shops, the clothing stores, bookshops and tea shops, all shut up firmly, their blinds and awnings down. The public houses were open, though, noisy and lively. A woman stood outside one of them, guffawing at a man in a dinner coat as he tried to embrace her, while in an alleyway, she could have sworn she saw another man pressing a woman against a wall.

  Her heart thumped. Oh, she should never have come out alone at night. George and Maud were right—she took too many risks. They’d be appalled if they knew her whereabouts. Only the thought of Benedict in the studio, wondering why she hadn’t come that morning, urged her on.

  ‘Out you go!’ Right in front of her two men were forcibly ejected from a public house.

  One of them stopped and stared at her. ‘Well, what have we here?’ he asked drunkenly, reaching for her arm.

  Cameo dodged his grasp.

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ he hiccoughed, as she sped past.

  ‘Come on,’ she heard his companion say. ‘Let’s try to get a drink somewhere else.’ They staggered off in the other direction.

  Narrowly missing being hit by a carriage, Cameo sped across to the other side of the road.

  * * *

  Benedict set down the glass, its contents spilling over the rim.

  Damnation. He still didn’t believe Miss Cameo Ashe, the best model he’d ever had, hadn’t come back after the incident in the park. The best model, he mocked himself. Yes, that’s why you miss her, Cole, not because of the way she felt in your arms.

  He’d thought she possessed more courage than that. Who had she seen? Why had she been so frightened? All he had done was frighten her further. He needed her to trust him, to tell him what terrified her, because whoever she had seen made her very frightened indeed, he had glimpsed it in her eyes. He burned with the need to protect her. Why didn’t she trust him enough to tell him the truth about herself, that she had a wealthy protector? Did she think he would judge her? He didn’t judge her. Not judgement, no, that wasn’t what he felt. Burning, searing jealousy. That was it.

  As the hours had ticked on through the day it became clear she wouldn’t be returning to the studio. He’d frightened her away.

  If she came back, he’d vowed to give her time to tell him about herself. He’d bite down that burning jealousy from his gullet. He was hardly in a position to condemn her—he’d had enough relationships of his own. He wasn’t a hypocrite. He knew what the world was like.

  All the time she needed, that’s what he’d give her, to tell him what she wanted him to know, whether he liked it or not. He’d never cared if other models had been with other men before. With Cameo, he did care. But he’d wait for her to reveal herself. If he had the chance.

  All day he had carried on working on her portrait, but by nightfall he’d given up and come to the Lamb. He needed the distraction, the noise. It was the public house he frequented most, not merely because of its proximity and its good meals. He enjoyed the mix of people, the working men and women with their forthrightness and humour, as well the many other artists and writers who lived and worked in this less-expensive, not to say less-salubrious, area of London.

  The Lamb was full tonight, with people pressed at the bar, clustered in groups at the tables and booths. Glasses clinked amidst conversation and laughter and at one table a voice was raised in song.

  Over the broad mantelpiece there hung a painting of a young sheep with wide surprised eyes. The animal always looked to Benedict as though it was startled to find itself in such an establishment. The painting was covered in a layer of grime and the lamb’s fleece showed up yellow instead of creamy white. Benedict often ached to clean that painting, for he suspected it to be rather fine. Beneath it a fire roared in the huge granite fireplace, casting a rosy glow on the faces of those who gathered near.

  At the bar he ordered whisky. He noticed other artists of his acquaintance dining at a long table in one of the rooms at the rear. John Millais, always the most easy-going of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, gave him a friendly wave and beckoned him over to join them. Benedict shook his head and managed to find a quiet corner table. He didn’t feel hungry and he desired to be alone. He was not fit company tonight.

  He lifted the glass and stared into it as though the amber liquid revealed some hidden truth and tossed back a gulp, feeling its welcome burn as it went down his throat.

  The confrontation with Miss Cameo Ashe still rang in his ears. He hadn’t been able to take the lies, the evasions any more. He had only caugh
t the merest glimpse of the man she so evidently wished to avoid, when she’d raced away from him in Hyde Park, her elegant ankles on display under her swirling skirts. He’d been too busy chasing her to take a proper look at the cause of her alarm.

  ‘Well, hello.’ Maisie stood in front of him, the high colour in her cheeks echoing the red flowers tucked deep in her bodice. Perhaps he could paint her like that, he thought, yet the idea held no appeal.

  ‘Hello, Maisie.’

  ‘I haven’t seen you in here for a few days. You look like you could do with some company.’

  She slid down next to him, squeezing on to the tapestry-fabric seat and he smelled her fruity scent. Her breasts peeped over her tight corset and he sensed other men in the room wishing they were the ones with Maisie Jones thrust up against them.

  She offered him the buck-toothed smile he once found so sensual and enchanting. Another smile came into his mind. He gripped his glass hard and tossed back another gulp of whisky.

  ‘You’re looking pretty tonight,’ he complimented Maisie, driving that other smile away.

  She preened. ‘That’s because I’m near you,’ she whispered breathily, pressing her leg even closer against his. ‘No one was ever as good to me as you were, Benedict.’

  He sent her an amused smile. ‘What about all the painting? I thought you hated that.’

  ‘You were kind to me. You always treated me with respect. You’re different from other men.’ She slipped a hand inside his thigh and gave him a knowing grin. ‘And we were good together, weren’t we?’

  He wanted to want her. To lose himself in her and forget the woman who haunted his days and nights in a way no woman ever had before. His body gave an involuntary throb at Maisie’s suggestive movement. But that was all, just a reflex action. He didn’t desire her, he realised, even as her fingers crept higher up his thigh.

  He stood abruptly, causing Maisie’s hand to fall away.

  She stared up at him in surprise. ‘What is it? Are you leaving?’

  He nodded as he reached for his brown coat.

  She pouted prettily. ‘You’re no fun any more, Benedict.’

  He brushed her cheek with his finger. ‘Take care of yourself, Maisie.’

  As if sensing the finality in his voice she sat still for a moment. Then she shrugged and undulated over to one of the tables by the fire where she was greeted with raucous exclamations of pleasure, laughing as a young man pulled her down onto his lap.

  Benedict couldn’t have Maisie as a model again, he knew that now. He needed Cameo Ashe. With her as his model he was reaching artistic heights he had never dreamed possible. If she came back to the studio he would resist pressuring her to tell him who she was or about the men in her life. Maybe it was better not to know.

  No more questions. He promised himself.

  If Cameo comes back.

  * * *

  With a sigh of relief, through the fog Cameo spotted the public-house sign with a lamb on it.

  Raindrops fell. After lifting the hood of her cloak more fully over her head, she gripped the comforting talisman of her necklace.

  ‘I think I’ll have that.’

  Cameo jumped. She twisted to find a short, thickset man close behind her, his grey cap set low, obscuring the top half of his face. The lower part wore an ugly grimace.

  She choked down a scream. ‘What?’

  Rapidly the man scanned the area. ‘A pretty girl like you. Out alone?’

  Her mouth went dry as she peered frantically through the fog. No one else in sight. No one to come to her aid.

  ‘Only you and me here, lovely,’ the man went on with a sneer. ‘Now, what have you got there? A fancy jewel?’

  Cameo backed away, the sound of her pulse thudding in her ears. ‘You’re mistaken, sir.’

  ‘Sir, eh? Come on now. Can’t mistake quality, even in this fog. There’s no missing it. Easy does it. Pass it over.’

  ‘No, I won’t let you have it!’

  The smell of ale came from his moist lips as he moved closer. His leer crawled over her, ‘Hoity-toity, aren’t you? And as pretty as your jewellery, I see. Now make it easy for yourself.’

  He lunged.

  ‘No!’

  Cameo tried to run, but he moved too fast. Thrusting out his leg to block her flight, with greedy fingers he prised at her fist.

  ‘No! You won’t have it!’

  ‘Be quiet,’ the man hissed, his rancid breath on her face. ‘Just let me have it and there won’t be any trouble.’ With his teeth bared like a dog, his fingers grabbed at her throat.

  * * *

  Benedict threw back the last of his whisky and went outside. Rain fell. He put up his collar, the cold drops a relief after the warmth of the pub. But it didn’t cool his mood.

  He rounded for home. He’d only ventured a few steps when he felt a tug on his coat. Pivoting on his heel, he saw the match girl. ‘What is it, Becky? You’re out late tonight.’

  She tugged at his coat again, pulling him back towards the Lamb. She pointed urgently across the road.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  A voice cried out through the fog. In the dim lamplight opposite he made out the shape of a woman half-fallen on to the ground, struggling, a man crouched over her.

  Benedict roared and began to run. ‘Stop!’

  Startled, the man lifted his head, his lips drawn in a snarl like an animal interrupted from his prey.

  ‘Get off her!’ With a mighty jerk, Benedict reached out and grabbed the man’s rough coat, hauling him off the woman in a single movement. ‘Get off her, I say!’

  The man cursed and stumbled as Benedict slammed him to his feet. The other man was shorter than Benedict by a head, but he felt the smaller man’s toughness as they tussled. Still holding on to his opponent’s coat, Benedict shoved the man up against the lamp post, his forearm barred against his thick neck.

  Wily, the man ducked. Slippery as an eel, he slipped out and under Benedict’s hold. His footsteps clattered as he raced down the street, dropping something that clinked as it fell to the ground.

  Benedict stared down at the woman who lay at his feet. With mounting horror he recognised the dark hair tumbling from beneath the woman’s hood, the deep violet-grey eyes enormous with fear. ‘My God. Cameo!’

  Blood roared in his ears as he knelt down beside her.

  Her head was thrown back, a pulse flickering at her vulnerable white throat.

  ‘Benedict?’ Her lips formed his name.

  Anger at the man who’d got away surged inside him. Trying to contain his fury, he pushed her hair away from her colourless face. ‘Did he hurt you?’

  She winced as she raised herself up. ‘No, you came in time.’

  ‘What on earth are you doing here alone?’

  Her lips were white. ‘I came to see you. I couldn’t come earlier today. I wanted to. Please. You must believe me.’

  He never dreamt she would come so late at night, alone through the dangerous London streets. Thank goodness Becky had spotted her. He peered around for the girl. She’d gone, melted away into the fog.

  A muscle worked in his cheek. ‘Don’t concern yourself with that now. Can you stand?’ He spanned her tiny waist. ‘Let me help you.’

  Grimacing, she got to her feet and stumbled against him, so slender he felt she might snap. She leant her head momentarily on his chest. His heart thumped as he held her.

  ‘My necklace!’

  So that was what the man had dropped. Benedict scanned the street and spotted something lying on the cobbles. Leaving Cameo leaning against the lamp post, he went to pick it up, his hand closing on the stone.

  Still glaring down the street, he ached to chase the thief, to make him pay for what he’d done, but he went back
to her. He refused to leave her shaking like a leaf. ‘I’ve got it. Steady now. You must come to the studio.’

  After a tottering step forward, she half collapsed against the lamp post.

  Without a word he swept her up in his arms. The hood of her cloak fell back as the scent of violets rose from her hair. She was feather light, her skirt and petticoats frothing into lacy foam.

  She struggled against him. ‘You don’t need to carry me!’

  ‘You’ve been hurt.’

  ‘I can walk!’

  ‘Don’t argue.’

  With a shuddering sigh she subsided, her head dropping on to his shoulder. Holding her tight, he strode down the street and through the alley, shoved his back against the ground-floor door to open it and carried her up the stairs.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Love with knit brows went by,

  And with a flying finger swept my lips,

  And spake...’

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

  ‘The Gardener’s Daughter’

  Moonlight shone through the bare windows of the cold studio, glittering on the bottles of paintbrushes by the easel. The studio felt different in the dark, Cameo thought with a dazed look over Benedict’s shoulder, as though she were viewing part of it she hadn’t discovered before. It was like a dream she’d had once, when she visited a house she knew, only to discover an unknown room.

  Gently Benedict lowered her on to the chaise longue and loosened her cloak from her shaking body. There were marks on the black velvet from the muddy street. Her hands went to her neck. Perhaps there were marks there, too. She shivered.

  ‘Rest,’ he instructed. ‘I’ll light the lamp.’

  Released from his arms, Cameo continued to shake. At the fireplace she watched him strike a match, the flame illuminating the hard set of his jaw. He lit the lamp and hauled off his coat and scarf, tossing them down on to the armchair. With lithe movements he crouched to ignite the fire and threw on some logs, his muscular body outlined in the shadows.

  She knew the full strength of that body now. Benedict Cole was a man who lifted women as easily as he lifted logs, as if they were mere twigs. And the ruthless way he had thrown the thief from on top of her... It had been terrifying, seeing him take on the thief, but she had never experienced such relief as when she’d heard his voice, seen his face, through the fog.