by Mia Marlowe
“You may rely upon me, madam, on both counts,” he said automatically.
“Thank you, but I want you to wait till you’ve heard what I have to say before you commit yourself.” She stared at the wisps of steam rising from her cup. “Though truth to tell, if you won’t help me, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
Cuthbert gave an injured sniff. “Madam, how can you doubt me? My father would be spinning in his grave if ever I turned my back on Southwycke.”
“Very well,” she said. Then she proceeded to tell him everything, starting with her father’s work in The Great Game in India, her masquerade as Mr. Beddington, Trevelyn’s covert attempts to locate the key, Mr. Shipwash’s abduction and ending with their disastrous raid on the ambassador’s home. She left out only the heart-stopping affair that had flamed between her and Trev. In truth, she could hardly bear to speak his name, lest fear for him render her incoherent. “So you see why I need your help.”
“We must alert the authorities immediately.” Cuthbert rose to his feet.
“No, that’s the one thing we may not do,” she said with dull certainty. “It would eliminate our one advantage. If we contact the constabulary, the Queen’s agents will almost assuredly confiscate this.”
She set Mr. Beddington on the table before her.
“A statue?” Cuthbert’s wary look spoke volumes. He obviously feared for her mind.
“No, Cuthbert, not the statue. What’s inside it. Mr. Beddington holds the key. The key to my father’s contacts in India and the key to two men’s lives here. It is our only bargaining chip.” She drew a fingertip from the end of Beddington’s muzzle to the statue’s base. “I just have to figure out which lock to open with it.”
* * *
The door to Artemisia’s darkened chamber was thrown open with force. She jerked to full wakefulness to see her mother storming across the room and drawing back the drapes to let in the full light of midday.
“Artemisia, I cannot believe you can sleep after all that’s happened,” Constance began. “And to cap everything, your Mr. Beddington is gone.”
Gone? Artemisia struggled to sit up. In a flash of panic, her gaze riveted to the wardrobe in the corner. The statue was still prancing on top of the massive piece of furniture. She breathed a sigh of relief. Her mother must mean the other Mr. Beddington.
Her.
She knuckled her eyes. She wasn’t thinking clearly at all and small wonder. Cuthbert had insisted on rousing her abigail so she could bathe, even though she felt she could sleep on her feet. But once she was clean and snug in her own bed, sleep fled from her like shadows from a candle.
Where was Trevelyn? Had he been harmed? How was she going to free him and Mr. Shipwash and still keep her promise not to let the key fall into the wrong hands? Her mind circled in unresolved questions until she dropped off from utter exhaustion just before dawn.
“Mr. Beddington is gone?” she echoed her mother.
“Vanished into thin air and taken his assistant Shipwash with him. And just when I’d like to give him a piece of my mind.” Constance sank onto the foot of Artemisia’s bed. “How could he have led us so far astray?”
“Mother, what are you talking about?”
“Th-this.” Florinda was standing at the open doorway holding a bit of newsprint by two fingers. She kept the offending paper so far from her body Artemisia wondered if it was contaminated with plague. “Here, sister. Read it.”
Artemisia skimmed The Tattler’s lead story. In stark black and white, a scurrilous description of her tryst with Trevelyn at The Golden Cockerel was blasted across the page for the ton to snicker over. The reporter, one Clarence Wigglesworth, made their loving seem so tawdry, so common.
But it hadn’t been anything like that.
Her affair with Trevelyn Deveridge was finest, purest thing she’d ever experienced. Even though she wasn’t named in the article (for which she thanked Trev’s threats to Mr. Wigglesworth rather than any delicacy on the reporter’s part), it hurt her heart to see Trevelyn’s character maligned in so public a fashion. He wasn’t the whore-monger depicted in The Tattler. He was a good man and a brave one. But she was probably the only soul in London who knew the truth about Trevelyn Deveridge.
“This is dreadful,” she murmured. Trev’s father would probably read this article as well. If he didn’t see it on his own, surely a helpful busybody would make certain it came to his attention. “And so unfair.”
“Precisely,” Constance said. “It makes poor Florinda seem such a duped ninny. Not to mention the rest of us.”
Artemisia cast a glance at her mother from under lowered lashes. “As in, you.”
“It’s all that Mr. Beddington’s fault,” Constance complained. “He didn’t do his job properly. Why did he not uncover the flaws in Mr. Deveridge’s character before we linked Florinda’s name with his?”
“As I recall, you were told Mr. Deveridge’s pursuits were those of a healthy young man,” Artemisia said. “If you cared not to read the subtext of Mr. Beddington’s report, that’s hardly his fault. Besides, it was foolhardy to betroth Florinda to a man—any man—to whom she has scarcely spoken two words.” She turned to her sister and held out a hand. “This slander is no reflection on you. I hope your heart is not injured by this.”
“Th-that would be difficult since my heart was never in the match in the f-first place,” Florinda said, giving Artemisia’s hand a squeeze.
Constance sputtered. “But I so wanted her connected with the house of Warre. Now people will expect her to cry off.”
“That is what you wish to do, isn’t it?” Artemisia asked her sister. She’d planned to extricate Trevelyn from his engagement to Florinda in any case. This seemed a tailor-made solution.
“Mr. Deveridge seemed a pleasant f-fellow,” Florinda said. “But Mother is always telling me to watch what I say, so I was afraid to t-talk to him much. Now I suppose I will have to renounce our engagement, w-won’t I?”
“Not if we find some way to salvage this,” Constance said. “Bother that Mr. Beddington! What’s the point in having a factor if he disappears just when he might have been useful? I was so counting on a connection to Lord Warre. It’s too annoying not to see this match through.”
“Mother, we are not going to marry Florinda to a fellow just because not to do so would inconvenience you,” Artemisia said with firmness.
When their mother turned away to pace the room like a caged tigress, Florinda mouthed ‘I need to talk to you.’ Her brows nearly met over the bridge of her pert nose.
“Mother, I wonder if you would please speak with cook. I find I haven’t the energy to decide on our menus today and I know it is something you enjoy.”
“But what are we to do about—“
“These things have a way of settling themselves. Gossip can only flare white-hot for a short time before it burns itself out.” Artemisia tossed her mother a pointed look. “I will handle Florinda’s connection to Mr. Deveridge.”
Constance adopted an injured expression and flounced out of the room slamming the door behind her.
“Thank you.” Florinda heaved a small sigh. Then she settled on the foot of the bed. “Now she’ll be on even more of a r-rant.”
“No matter,” Artemisia said. “A rant now and then is good for her. No one needs to get their way all the time. It’s not healthy.”
Florinda giggled. “No, but it’s healthier for me if sh-she does.”
Artemisia leaned forward and patted her shoulder. “Now’s the time for you to declare your independence. She can’t order your life unless you allow it.”
“No,” Florinda said. “But I’m not like you. If Mother’s upset with you, you don’t give a f-fig. It frets me dreadfully when she’s cross. Besides, it’s not as if I have so m-many choices.”
“Of course you do,” Artemisia said. “You can stay with me as long as you like. You don’t have to marry if you don’t wish.”
“You did.”
“Y
ou’re right.” Artemisia bit her lip. “I was doing it for Father, but I’ve come to realize one can’t make such important choices just to please someone else. Marriage isn’t right for everyone.”
“M-mother would be most upset to hear you say so.”
“But that doesn’t make it less true,” Artemisia said. “When a woman marries, Florinda, she surrenders all rights to her husband. The duke was a good man, but even so, my liberty was strictly curtailed when he was alive. Do you think I could pursue my art if I were still a married woman?”
“I sneaked into your studio and p-peeked at your work.” Florinda’s eyes took on a sly gleam. “I’d have to say you’re right. The paintings are wonderful, but I expect a husband would take a d-dim view of your art.”
Unless he was my model. She gave herself a mental shake. She couldn’t think about Trev that way now. Not when there were more important matters at stake.
“B-but don’t you think if you had the right husband, you’d be content to let him make the decisions for you?” Florinda fiddled with the fringe on one of the bolsters.
“Why do you ask?” Artemisia tried to ignore the flutter in her belly. She’d never been much for praying, but if she were to begin negotiations with the Almighty, she’d be willing to barter away her freedom for Trevelyn’s safe return. “Have you set your cap for someone?”
“Yes.” Florinda dimpled prettily, then her face crumpled. “But I can’t have him with Mother’s b-blessing.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . because it’s Hector.”
“Hector?” Artemisia couldn’t remember meeting any gentleman of the ton by that name.
“Hector Longbotham.”
Artemisia was still in the dark.
“Our f-footman,” Florinda said.
“Oh, that Hector.” He was a gangling youth from Staffordshire with carrot red hair that stuck up at all angles. Artemisia always thought he resembled a startled hedgehog. Still, if her sister wanted him . . . “And does Hector return your feelings?”
Florinda’s face glowed like a sunrise. “You’re not shocked?”
Artemisia smiled wryly. “I paint nude young men. Do I seem the type to be easily shocked?”
Florinda hugged her with exuberance. And the whole tale spilled out. Hector had accompanied Florinda and Delia on their daily rides around Hyde Park and it was during those outings that the fellow from Staffordshire had drawn out Florinda in shy conversation.
“Hector’s uncle has arranged a post for him on a small estate in Staffordshire as ‘man-of-all-work.’ It won’t be much money, but there’s a cottage provided,” Florinda said, her words tumbling out so quickly, she forgot to stammer. “I’ll be ever so much happier with Hector in the country than here in the city with people snickering at my stutter.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not beautiful like Delia or talented like you,” Florinda said. “I never w-was cut out to be a great lady, but Hector makes me feel like the queen of May. I love him with all my heart.”
Wistfulness pierced Artemisia’s chest. She’d always pitied shy, stammering Florinda and tried to insulate her from cruel jabs. Now she envied her. Florinda knew exactly what she wanted. Artemisia couldn’t say the same. Even if she managed to secure Trev’s release, he was bound for India and she wasn’t ready surrender the freedom of widowhood.
Even if they somehow made it through this mess, there was no future for them. The realization made it difficult for her to draw breath.
“What do you think I should do?” Florinda’s voice pulled her back from her dark musings.
“I think you should pack a satchel and help yourself to my jewelry box. You’re going to need some portable wealth. Write a short note if you like for Mother and Father and take the barouche,” Artemisia said with assurance. Here at least was one problem she could fix. “You and Hector are off for Gretna Green.”
Chapter 29
Artemisia paced her studio, trying to decide what to do. She rarely was at such a loss. Whether it came to business or her artwork or even helping Flora decide to elope with the footman, she usually knew the best course of action.
But now, she hovered in indecision.
She set the Beddington statue down on the table that held her model’s props. There was the Greco-Roman helmet. She fingered its crest, a half-smile on her face as she remembered the first time she crowned Trevelyn with it.
Back when he was Thomas Doverspike. Of course, even then he’d set her fidgeting in her drawers.
She wandered among her shrouded canvases, pulling off the protective sheets and examining each one. They were good, she decided.
But not terribly important.
She stopped at last before Mars, her hand hesitant when she reached to remove the drape. Difficult or not, she must see him. She yanked the sheet and let it fall to the floor. Her gaze traversed the canvas, noting the graces and insufficiencies of the work. Of course, she needed to redo his genitals. She was ashamed that spite had led her to depict Trev with such pint-sized attributes. Besides, after their heart-stopping tryst, she had a much rosier view of that part of his anatomy.
In truth, she loved every part of him.
She looked at his face, drawn with anguish on the canvas. Why had she ever thought he was the god of war when so clearly he was crafted for love?
She loved him.
Oh, God! She loved him. The realization hit her with the force of a boot to the stomach. Then it galvanized her will as a bucket of cold water tempers steel.
She ran back to the Beddington statue and picked it up. It was the first evidence of her artistic ability and possibly the last to ever garner the honor of royal and critical praise. In a swift motion, so she wouldn’t have time to change her mind, she raised it over her head and threw it to the floor with all the force she could muster. The statue shattered into thousands of shards of fired clay, and the base cracked neatly in two.
“Your Grace, is anything amiss? I heard . . . oh!“ Cuthbert burst into the studio with Naresh at his heels. They skidded to a stop before the remains of Mr. Beddington.
The two of them must have been huddled by the door waiting for her summons. Artemisia thanked God she had such faithful retainers. She was going to need them.
“Everything is fine,” she said to Cuthbert as she knelt to sift through the ruins of her early masterpiece. She found the cylindrical device Trevelyn described nestled in the hollow of the statue’s base. She lifted it gingerly.
“‘Beddington holds the key,’” she whispered.
“Oah, yes, of course,” Naresh said with a puzzled frown. “Did you not know it was there?”
She turned to Naresh sharply, regarding him with fresh eyes. “You did, it would seem.”
The old Indian nodded. “The master, your father, he told me to put the key in the base and send to the great Queen over the water. Just in case, he said. Then when the sickness fell over him, I sent the message as he bid.” A pained expression stole over his brown features. “I did not know you were looking for it, Larla, or I would have told you, yes.”
“So you did much more for my father when we lived in your country than starch his shirts and brew his tea,” Artemisia said as she stood. “You were a player in The Great Game.”
Naresh straightened his back. “The master and I had many excellent times on the Grand Trunk Road together. Up and down all of Hind, we gathered the news that no paper will print and few will ever know. When your father heard of an injustice by the English, he saw to it there was change. When I caught wind of rebellion, I warned him. Between us, we hoped to make an India fit for both our peoples.”
“Then you know the names that are encoded in this key?”
“Not all of them,” Naresh admitted. “But if you pluck a single thread, will a cloth not unravel?”
Artemisia rolled the cylinder between her palms, knowing it represented countless men and women who were trying to continue the work her father began and Trev
was pledged to bring to fruition. A plan began to take shape in her mind to protect those unknown Players, much as Naresh and Rania had shielded her family during the dark days of the sepoy mutiny. A plan that would hopefully see Trev and Mr. Shipwash freed as well.
“I know a man who wants to pluck that thread and pick up where Father left off,” she said. “But I fear he’s in terrible trouble and I need your help, both of you.”
Then she laid out the rough idea that had just come to her. Cuthbert and Naresh listened without comment until she was finished.
“Will you help me?”
Naresh smiled at her. “Even though you were not a child of my body, since I first dandled you on my knee, you have been the child of heart. It pains me that you must ask if I will help you.”
She stood on tiptoe to place a kiss on his sunken cheek. Then she turned to Cuthbert.
He didn’t say anything.
“Cuthbert?” His hesitation surprised her.
“Madam, I greatly fear that once I confess to you my activities of late, you will require neither my help nor my continued service in this house.” Cuthbert stood ramrod straight and unblinking, but a muscle ticked on his jaw, the only outward sign of his inner agitation. “My motives were of the highest order, you understand, but I now realize I have done you a grave disservice through my actions.”
With a queasy belly, Artemisia sank onto her straight-backed chair. “What have you done?”
“I have served Southwycke since I could walk, and it has ever been my aim—nay, my chief goal in life—to see the reputation of this house held in highest esteem,” Cuthbert said, unable to meet her eyes. “When you chose to flout convention with your choice of artistic subject, I thought perhaps the weight of public opinion might sway you to pursuits more appropriate to your station.”
“And you didn’t consider that sitting in judgment of my behavior was inappropriate to your station?” she said archly.
He nodded miserably. “Indeed, Your Grace, the thought crossed my mind more than once, but as I said, I felt I was acting for your greater good.”
