by Mia Marlowe
“I think I should also inform you that several people have been here asking for Mr. Beddington,” Shipwash said. “All within the last week.”
Artemisia arched a brow. One query a month was more usual and easily dealt with. “Who was here?”
“Your stepson, for one. He was most insistent, battering down the door to this office when I refused him entrance.”
“I’m sorry Felix troubled you so. Was he the worse for drink?”
“I fear so, madam. He was here to demand a larger allowance and would not be denied entry into this office. Fortunately, there is a rear door so I was able to convince him that Mr. Beddington had stepped out that way.”
“More money is not going to solve his problem.” Artemisia leaned her cheek upon her palm. “Felix needs to stay away from the gaming hells or he’ll bankrupt the estate once he comes into his full inheritance. See our solicitor this week and tie up what assets you can in a binding trust until he turns thirty-five. Unless he learns to behave like an adult, he needs to be protected, even from himself.”
“I wonder if there aren’t others he needs protection from as well. Two Russian gentlemen, and I use the word very loosely, were here asking to see Mr. Beddington in order to settle Lord Southwycke’s debts.” Mr. Shipwash adjusted his starched collar in a nervous gesture. “They gave me the impression they could be quite unpleasant if the funds are not forthcoming.”
“Did they threaten you?” A flutter of alarm coursed through her chest.
“Not in so many words, Your Grace, but . . .”
“If they return, pay them what they ask, Mr. Shipwash,” she said. “We can afford to lose the money. We cannot afford to lose you.”
A timid smile lifted his mouth.
“Was that all?” she asked.
“There was a fellow looking for employment—a Terrence Dinwiddie.”
“Perhaps you could use an assistant, if you think this fellow trustworthy,” she said. “Especially if those Russian gentlemen return, it might be safer for you to have someone else here.”
“No, Dinwiddie was goodly sized, but he was a stoop-shouldered and near-sighted blighter. Spectacles thick as bottle caps. He’d be no deterrent to even a mouse.”
Artemisia stifled a smile. Mr. Shipwash fit that meager description himself.
“He’d be no use in a crisis and besides, I’d not trust him with your secret,” her assistant said. “There was something about him, the way he kept insisting he speak with Mr. Beddington. I didn’t like the look in his eyes. And his accent seemed to change once or twice.”
“His accent?”
“Yes, he had a bit of a Scottish burr at first, but then when I convinced him Mr. Beddington wasn’t here, the accent faded ever so slightly. It was so quick, I may have imagined it, but the fellow left a bad taste in my mouth.”
Terrence Dinwiddie. Thomas Doverspike. Both of them affected accents and both sought to gain an audience with Beddington.
Artemisia gnawed the inside of her cheek. She was being fanciful in the extreme, grasping at the slightest chance to think of Thomas again. It wasn’t just the painting, she realized, though it was hard to discount the importance of finishing what she started. The truth was she missed the man.
Did he miss her, even a little?
“Was Mr. Dinwiddie a young man?” she asked.
“No, his hair was streaked with gray,” Mr. Shipwash said. “I expect he’ll be back to see if we’ll take him on.”
“Well, use your own judgment on the matter,” she said. “There is enough work here for three men. You really could use an assistant, even if it’s not this Dinwiddie. If you have someone to run errands and meet with merchants, he could conceivably ‘miss’ seeing Mr. Beddington for quite some time.”
“That’s true.” Shipwash put a finger to his lips and nodded. “If you recall, Madam, you did keep me in the dark for almost a month. Sending all your instructions by courier and receiving my reports the same way. Most prudent and quite clever.”
“I’m just thankful I found you, Mr. Shipwash,” she said honestly. “You are the backbone of this enterprise. Mr. Beddington wouldn’t be able to function without you.”
His ears went scarlet under her praise.
“Look at the time,” Artemisia said with a glance at her pendant watch. “I must be going.”
“You have other appointments?”
“No,” she said with annoyance. “I have to prepare myself for the masked ball Mother insists I host. I still have no idea what I’ll wear.” She chuckled. “For tuppence, I should go as Mr. Beddington. I could stuff my hair under a beaver hat, bind my chest, dress in one of Father’s old suits and smoke a cigar in public. That would teach her.”
Mr. Shipwash’s eyes went round as an owl’s, clearly scandalized. “But, madam . . .”
“Don’t fret so. I may have a reputation for outlandishness, but it is sadly ill-deserved,” she said. “I’m sure Rania has something arranged for me that will be far less controversial.”
She left the office and returned to her waiting coach. As the carriage moved away from the curb, a pedestrian caught her eye. He moved with sure, confident steps, his posture upright. Her carriage was too swift for her to see his face, but something about his gait reminded her of Thomas Doverspike.
Artemisia rapped on the roof with her umbrella handle, signaling the driver to stop. She switched seats so she could look back through the window at the man. Even though he carried himself like a young man, a gray queue fell down his back. Sure enough, he turned in at Beddington’s office and mounted the stairs. Then just before he rapped on the door, his shoulders fell in an arthritic slump and he seemed to age twenty years.
He turned his head and she was given a clear view of his profile. She narrowed her eyes, wanting to be certain.
“Hmph!” Even though he wore thick glasses, there was no mistaking his mouth. It was the mouth that had visited her dreams and wakened her with frustration and a fleeting brush of pleasure. It was the same mouth she’d been painting on her Mars.
Part of her wanted to turn back and confront him. Part of her held back in trepidation. Clearly, he had no interest in seeing her again else he would have kept his sittings. But why was he lurking about Beddington’s office in disguise?
She not only didn’t know his true name, she really didn’t know him at all. Perhaps she should order Mr. Shipwash to offer him a position if only to keep an eye on him and learn what the dratted man was up to.
She shoved aside the thought that such an arrangement might also afford her a chance to see him again. He so obviously didn’t wish to see her. A woman had to maintain some shred of pride, after all.
Artemisia leaned back into the crushed velvet upholstery and rapped twice on the ceiling. The carriage lurched forward, adding to the uncomfortable downward spiral in her belly. She’d bared herself to this man, been willing to take him to her bed and trust herself to him. What a fool she’d been.
Whatever game he was about, she was done playing.
Chapter 11
“Ah! It suits you, Larla.” Rania clapped her thin hands together. “I knew it would. Look at yourself. You are more radiant than a Maharajah’s daughter. A veritable moon of beauty.”
Artemisia stood before the full-length mirror and saw an Indian princess in a graceful sari staring back at her. The shimmering fabric draped her form, allowing a slice of her bare midriff to peep out in scandalous flirtation. Even though her breasts were supported by the snug short-sleeved half-blouse, without whalebone stays she might as well be bare-breasted. Ordinarily, she’d be shunned for appearing in public in such a state of undress, but the ton’s rules governing polite behavior were temporarily suspended for the duration of a masquerade.
She made a quick turn on the balls of her feet, just to reassure herself that the yards of fabric were securely tucked into the drawstring waistband of the thin petticoat beneath the red silk. No undergarments could be worn with the sari because it was slung
low on her hips. The swish of silk on her bare thighs was most erotic.
Rania had insisted Artemisia wear her hair loose and flowing. It fell in a dark wave past her shoulders and down her back to hover in slight curls at her waist. That was fine with Artemisia. The love-mark on her neck left by Thomas Doverspike—or whatever his name really was—had not yet faded completely. She’d swathed herself with fichus for the past week in an attempt to hide the tell-tale mark of passion. Now her own hair would provide a covering. If Rania noticed the raw spot on Artemisia’s skin, at least she was discreet enough to refrain from comment.
Beneath the red silk, Artemisia’s ankles were adorned with thin bangles and she sported a ring on the second toe of her right foot. A ruby was lodged in her belly button and long strings of beads dangled from each ear. Another ruby rested between her brows, suspended from an elaborate headpiece.
“Now for the veil,” her old nursemaid said, as she hooked the sheer fabric behind one of Artemisia’s ears. The veil wouldn’t conceal her identity, but attendees of masked balls frequently feigned ignorance of other reveler’s true selves in order to behave outrageously with impunity. “I wish we had time to lace your hands with henna, but even without it, you will be the sun of glory.”
“First I’m the moon. Now I’m the sun. Surely there must be a star or two we could toss in.” Artemisia smiled at Rania’s fulsome praise.
“Assuredly, my heart. Oah, I am ever so glad you have cast off your widow’s weeds.” Rania adjusted the veil, letting the bangled edges clink merrily through her fingers. “Red is a much better color for you—the color of rejoicing, the color for a bride.”
“I will not marry again,” Artemisia said with firmness. She and Rania had trod this road many times, but she’d never been able to convince the older woman that she was much better off without a husband. “I like belonging to myself.”
“So you say, Larla.” Rania tossed her a knowing look. “And yet if you should find the right man, I’m thinking you would be pleased to belong to him.”
“Only if the man was pleased to belong to me as well. Men do not give themselves up as easily as women.”
She’d have been pleased to belong to Thomas Doverspike for a time. Her belly still flipped when she thought of him. They’d been a hair’s breadth from becoming lovers. But now that she knew he was not to be trusted, she congratulated herself on her narrow escape. And yet, the heaviness in her chest damned her for a liar.
Strains of violins tuning up reached her ear. The supper hour was over, and the ball was about to begin. She’d begged out of the meal, but her mother insisted she appear as hostess for the main festivities. She picked up the hand-held mask, a bejeweled and plumed affair on a long wand with which she could shield her face should she feel the need.
“‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends,’” she quoted sourly.
“Wipe that pained expression from your face, my dove. Rejoice in your youth and your beauty,” Rania admonished. “Assuredly, they will fade quickly enough.”
Here and now is all any man or woman can lay claim to.
When would she stop hearing Thomas in her head? When would she stop looking for him around every corner? She gave herself a small shake. She was stronger-minded than this. It was time she started behaving like it.
Constance Dalrymple’s grand fete was well underway by the time Artemisia made her way down the curving staircase to the ballroom. The decorators she’d chosen under the guise of Mr. Beddington had outdone themselves. The room was a swirl of color. Murals of the Taj Mahal, the onion-domes of St. Petersburg, Big Ben, the pyramids of Giza and a dozen other exotic sites graced the walls. Yards of silk festooned the columns at the entryways and the gas lamps burned brightly.
The guests themselves added to the riot of patterns and garish hues. Knights and ladies, sheiks and harem girls, Japanese warlords and geishas, a smattering of American Indians and one cowboy, all decked out in splendid excess. When the bon ton rose up to play, they did it with style and vigor.
“Artemisia, where have you been?” Her mother jostled through the press to join her. “The Queen is here already.”
“Where is she?”
“Over by the punchbowl as Elizabeth I. The Prince is Sir Walter Raleigh, and that fat fellow with them—“
“The one dressed as Henry VIII?”
“He’s the Russian ambassador, Vasiliy Kharitonov,” Constance said in a stage whisper.
“You don’t have to whisper. He knows he’s the Russian ambassador,” Artemisia said. “Doesn’t it seem odd to you, Mother, that the Russians should send an ambassador to the English court when everyone knows they have designs on British interests in Asia?”
Constance frowned at her. “What has that to do with anything? Our only concern is that our guests enjoy themselves. All our guests.” Her mother squinched her eyes and made a sour face. “Honestly, Artemisia, if you start talking politics you will embarrass the life out of me. I want you to go over there and charm the royals and I mean now.”
Artemisia wanted to ask why her mother didn’t go herself, but she already knew the answer. Only Artemisia had a title. Of course that didn’t keep Constance from ordering her about.
Artemisia had learned long ago to choose her battles with her mother. As long as what Constance Dalrymple wanted wasn’t too far removed from Artemisia’s own wishes, she was pleased to comply.
She stopped before Queen Victoria and dipped in a graceful bow, hands pressed palm-to-palm in keeping with the character of her costume.
“Namaste,” she intoned. “Welcome, Your Majesty. Your luminous presence in my humble home brings light to all.”
The Queen accepted this superlative as her just due and smoothly introduced Artemisia first to her beloved Albert and then to the Russian Ambassador.
“Lady Southwycke,” Victoria said. “I was just telling his Excellency, Ambassador Kharitonov, that you are an artist of no little renown.”
“Your Majesty does me honor.”
“Not at all.” The Queen waved her hand imperiously. “The ambassador was admiring the little equine statuette on the piano. If I am not mistaken, that piece is your work.”
“Yes, it is,” Artemisia said. “In fact, it is the companion piece to the one my father sent your Majesty from India. My father said he couldn’t resist keeping one for himself.”
The ambassador lifted the statuette and peered at it through his monocle. The small horse was frozen in time, caught rearing its front legs, the mane and tale flying.
“Is very fine, very fine,” Kharitonov said, pronouncing ‘very’ as if the word were ‘wary.’ “In my country, I breed horses for Russian cavalry, and it pleases me, collecting of horse sculptures. Part of collection I bring. Perhaps you come see some time.” He hefted the statue. “Is for sale, da?”
Artemisia blinked back her surprise. “No, Excellency, I never sell my work.” She hoped her father would forgive her if he ever became aware of what she was about to do. Her only defense was that the grasping Russian had forced her into doing the politically expedient thing. “However, allow me to make a small present of it. Please accept this poor statue with my compliments.”
The Queen patted her hands together in a soundless clap. “Brava, Lady Southwycke. However, never let it be said that we are less generous than our subjects. Ambassador, you may expect the companion statuette from our own collection to be sent to your lodgings on the morrow.”
The ambassador stammered his thanks to both women. Artemisia excused herself lest the ambassador ask if anything else in her sumptuous home was for sale and made her way back to her mother’s side.
“Oh, you were brilliant, darling,” her mother cooed. “The Queen positively lit up when you were speaking. Whatever you said, it was the right thing. I’m sure everyone noticed.”
Artemisia basked in her mother’s rare praise and watched the dancers assembling on the smooth hardwood. Her sister Florinda was decked out like a peacock, literally. T
he fantail plumage spread out on either side of her hips, making it difficult for her to negotiate even the simplest of steps.
But Artemisia’s gaze wasn’t fastened on her sister. She watched Florinda’s partner with growing consternation. He was dressed as musketeer, a fleur-de-lis pattern on his tunic with a plumed cavalier’s hat cocked at a rakish angle over his dark hair. He wore a black domino covering the top part of his face. Artemisia couldn’t place him exactly, but something about the man’s posture sent warning bells clanging along her nerves.
“Everyone is having a lovely time,” her mother gushed, returning a wave to a matron across the dance floor. “You may tell Mr. Beddington I’m pleased. I did send him an invitation. Is he here?”
“Oh, yes. I’m sure he’s here someplace,” Artemisia said. “You know, Mother, part of the charm of a masquerade is not knowing who is behind the mask.”
“Well, I hope to heaven Florinda knows who’s behind that musketeer’s mask and manages not to make a fool of herself by stuttering like an imbecile,” Constance said. “She’s partnered with the young man I intend for her.”
“Trevelyn Deveridge?” Artemisia narrowed her eyes at the man dancing with her sister. “You should know that Mr. Beddington reported some troubling unanswered questions about his military service. It seems he may have left the corps under less than ideal circumstances.”
“That doesn’t concern me in the least.”
“It might matter to Father.”
“What your Father doesn’t know would fill the library at Oxford.” Constance gave her a toothsome smile for the benefit of anyone who might be watching. “Angus has nothing to say about the girls’ matches. Besides, in the case of the honorable Mr. Deveridge, his stint with soldiery doesn’t matter one iota. It’s his familial connections that are important, and his father, Lord Warre, cuts a wide swath through Parliament.”
