by Lara Temple
‘It depends on the company you find yourself in, my dear. Harcourt is not the right escort if it is excitement you are after. Or at least not if you are gently born. I cannot speak for his other relationships since he chooses women as discreet as he.’
Sophie glanced from Wivenhoe to Max with a slight frown and Max wished he had Wivenhoe across from him in Jackson’s Boxing Saloon right now. Or preferably as they had been almost a decade ago, in a dark alley, just the two of them. He would not mind repeating that experience and hopefully doing a bit more damage this time around.
‘Wivenhoe is enjoying himself at your expense, Miss Trevelyan. You would do best to ignore him.’
‘Quite right, my dear,’ Wivenhoe replied, unabashed. ‘I am not a very dependable fellow. You see, I freely admit my vices. Max here is more circumspect about his, though to be fair they are probably milder than mine, but one can never know what such a controlled façade harbours. Certainly he is more generous, as his last high flyer would attest judging by the very lovely bauble I saw her wearing when he was done with her.’
Sophie glanced back at Wivenhoe with a sudden frown.
‘You actually sound contemptuous of people who are generous towards the women who depend on their patronage. I can’t imagine that kind of approach gets you very far, Mr Wivenhoe,’ she said with blighting coldness.
Max struggled between shock at this very improper but principled condemnation of Wivenhoe’s ethics and amusement at the stunned expression on Wivenhoe’s face. But Wivenhoe swiftly recovered his characteristic expression of jaded ennui.
‘I compensate, my dear, I assure you.’
‘If you say so.’ She shrugged, clearly unconvinced. The corridor had led back to the Exhibition Room, which was still as crowded as before, and she turned to Max. ‘And now I really should return to Grosvenor Square or Aunt Minerva will start baying for my blood. Thank you very much for showing me these lovely paintings, Mr Harcourt.’
‘I will see you home—’ Max began, but she cut him off.
‘Nonsense. You said you had business in the City and that is quite the other direction. I shall do very well with a hackney cab, I noticed there are plenty outside. Thank you. Good day, Mr Wivenhoe.’ She nodded briefly in the artist’s direction and headed towards the staircase.
‘Mr Harcourt?’ Wivenhoe enquired softly. ‘Does that original young lady have something against titles or is she in ignorance of the identity of her very obliging cavalier?’
‘She is merely an acquaintance of my sister’s. I saw her wandering into this room and thought it prudent to extract her before she came across someone like you. She’s not in your league, Wivenhoe.’
‘Oh, clearly beyond it. And not in your usual line either, my dear Harcourt. Far too outspoken. And so very refreshing. Trevelyan. That name rings a bell. Who did she say...? Ah, Aunt Minerva in Grosvenor Square... Could she possibly be related to Lady Minerva Huntley, née Trevelyan?’
Max didn’t bother answering, but merely turned and left as well. Wivenhoe’s veneer of cynical affability did not deceive him. Almost a decade had passed since the incident, but neither of them had forgotten or forgiven. He rubbed the scar on his hand unconsciously. Wivenhoe’s appearance was a sharp reminder that his idea of escorting that pert and uncontrollable country miss to the exhibition had been very ill conceived. He should have known it would only lead to trouble. Now that she was gone he couldn’t even understand why he had gone in with her. He had been drawn along in the wake of her enthusiasm like that pug of hers. Whatever the case, he would do well to stay out of her way in future. There was some quality to her that attracted trouble like bees to a flower. He had had enough of that in his life. He should know better.
* * *
‘I met Lord Bryanston at Lady Jersey’s last night. He asked me who your latest flirt was. A young woman from Devon with a pair of delightfully smiling blue eyes, in his words,’ Hetty said blandly as she sifted through the pile of invitations Gaskell had brought in on a tray as they sat at the breakfast table.
‘Bryanston is an idiot,’ Max replied, not looking up from his newspaper.
‘True. But then there was Mrs Westminger. She asked me the identity of the animated young woman you were so attentive to in the Exhibition Rooms for close to an hour. Since she is Lady Penny’s godmama I presume it was by design that she said this very loudly next to Lady Melissa now that the betting appears to have swung in her favour. She was somewhat more careful about communicating the information you had been seen with the same young woman conversing with Lord Wivenhoe, of all people. That little titbit she passed along in a stage whisper to only three of her cronies in the dowagers’ corner.’
Max folded the newspaper and laid it down.
‘Is there a question in there?’
Hetty nodded, undaunted by his cool tone.
‘There is indeed. I presume they were referring to Lady Huntley’s niece? Is any of this true? Did you really take her to Somerset House? And introduce that young woman to the likes of Wivenhoe?’
Max held on to his temper by a thread, mostly angry at himself. At least Hetty did not know the full extent of Wivenhoe’s infamy. Thankfully his parents had never told his sisters the truth about Serena.
‘Yes, I took her. Because she was about to head there, on foot, on her own, in the company of that dratted pug. But do you really think I would introduce her to someone like Wivenhoe? That was her own doing. I turned my back for one minute and she wandered off into the private rooms where she proceeded to make mincemeat of Wivenhoe. Besides, this whole thing is your fault!’
‘Mine?’
‘Yes, you were the one who said she must be bored on her own in the mausoleum. I felt sorry for her. That’s why I offered to see her there safely. My mistake, but acquit me of either taking advantage of her or exposing her to someone like Wivenhoe!’
Hetty sighed.
‘No, I know you wouldn’t. But really, Max, it wasn’t very wise to take her there at all. Naturally people are curious when you are seen squiring an unchaperoned, unknown and personable young woman.’
‘I would think my credit is sufficient to make clear I have never shown an interest in toying with virtuous young women,’ he bit out.
‘Well, precisely, it is out of character, which is why it drew so much attention. Now that it is clear to everyone that you finally intend to marry you know the gossips are having a fine time speculating who will be the next Duchess of Harcourt. I can hardly step outside the house without someone coyly asking me who you are favouring. Fine, I won’t say another word. Just do be careful.’
‘That was four more words. And don’t worry; I’ve satisfied my chivalrous instinct for the next decade. I will stay well away from that troublesome pixie.’ He picked up the newspaper again, as much to block out his sister’s anxious frown as to prevent himself from venting his resentment on her. It was just typical that the moment he did anything that was one step out of character everyone was up in arms. All his life he had walk a fine line between his independence and his parents’ confining criticism, couched always in unarguable terms of duty, but to have to put up with it from Hetty as well when all he had done was take pity on that aggravatingly buoyant girl was putting a serious strain on his civility. Suddenly he wished Hetty and everyone at the devil.
Chapter Five
‘Lady Henrietta Swinburne, Miss Trevelyan.’
Lambeth’s voice was a blend of surprise, approval and curiosity. Lady Henrietta entered the parlour as he stood aside, approaching Sophie with a smile, her hand extended.
‘I do hope you don’t mind my showing up like this, Miss Trevelyan, but I had to come and thank you for that lovely sketch.’
Sophie stood up, still holding her paintbrush, and extended her hand automatically. Then they both glanced at her paint-covered fingers and to Sophie’s
relief Lady Henrietta burst out laughing.
‘Never mind. May I stay for a moment? This is all very unusual; we haven’t even been introduced properly. I am Lady Henrietta Swinburne as your butler pointed out, but please call me Hetty,’ she announced, glancing around the room. ‘Goodness, I don’t think this place has been redecorated since Bonaparte was chased out of Egypt!’
Sophie relaxed at Hetty’s easy informality.
‘This is quite mild. There is a brocade sofa with gilded crocodile-claw legs in the Green Salon. Aunt Minnie never comes down here, but she insists that nothing is to be put under holland covers which means the colours have all sadly faded. Still, it is rather grand, isn’t it?’
‘Very grand. But then your aunt was very fashionable when we were children. What are you working on? May I see?’
Sophie turned with some embarrassment to the canvas she had been working on and nodded nervously as Hetty moved towards it.
‘Oh, he’s adorable!’ she exclaimed. ‘And you paint as well as you sketch!’
Watching the woman’s animated face, Sophie succumbed to impulse.
‘Do you know, Marmaduke’s portrait means I am fully equipped with artistic supplies and it would be a pity to waste all of this on a mere pug. Would you mind if I tried to paint you?’
‘Mind? I would be delighted! But I really don’t want to impose...’
‘Oh, I promise you it would be my pleasure. With all due respect to Marmaduke, he isn’t the most inspiring model. Please say yes. I really don’t have much else to do while I am here...’ She flushed. ‘I didn’t mean to sound self-pitying. I really would like to paint you, if you don’t mind.’
‘I would love it. When?’
‘The light is perfect right now, if you sit in that seat by the window...’
Hetty smiled and moved toward the window.
‘So be it. On condition you tell me how you like being in town.’
Sophie hurriedly picked up her sketch pad, wondering what on earth she could say. She could hardly reveal that her most memorable experience in London involved this woman’s brother. Not that her fascination with him was surprising. He was so very different from any of the men she knew back home. In fact, she rather thought he was unlike most men in London, too. She would hardly be the first or the last to be so drawn to him. His virility and unconscious air of command were bad enough, but much worse was the guarded humour in his dark grey eyes, and the fact that unlike so many people he actually appeared to sometimes find her peculiarities vaguely interesting rather than merely regrettable. That was perhaps the greatest danger of all.
Somehow, no matter how stony the façade he presented, he radiated an underlying curiosity that she felt was an unconscious invitation to be herself, an invitation she so rarely encountered it was bound to be intoxicating. It was probably completely fictitious, but it was so tempting to believe in it. She looked down at the blank paper in her hands and resolutely began sketching.
‘There’s not much to tell. I haven’t seen much, aside from gardens outside and the exhibition yesterday. Still, I am revelling in being on my own. There are nine of us at home and very little privacy and quite a lot of...meddling, you see. So, forced solitude has its advantages. Could you please raise your chin a little?’
Hetty complied.
‘Nine! I can see why this might be considered a holiday. Still, it is a pity your aunt hasn’t provided you with any entertainment at all.’
‘Aunt Minnie is convinced there isn’t any to be had any more. From her tales, London society used to be exciting, scandalous, and very licentious when she was in her prime. But it has become sadly dull and she derives much more enjoyment from her books than from reality.’
‘That’s a bit unfair. Society can still be all that, though mostly behind closed doors today. There is an unspoken agreement that if one is suitably discreet and respects the rules of the game, they can do pretty much as they please. But the moment one steps outside the bounds of the game there is no more brutal jungle. What happened to Lord Byron is just one dramatic example of what happens even to society’s darlings if they transgress.’ She hesitated, tracing the elaborate brocade pattern of the sofa with one long, elegant finger. ‘My brother, Max, is probably a fine example of how to play the game to perfection. One of his friends once told me he had never seen anyone with quite that talent for driving their horses so well up to their bits so that it looks like they might be bolting, but they are never out of control. He is just the same in society—he makes his own way, but he never transcends the rules.’
Sophie paused, but did not look up. It was clear Lady Hetty’s comment was anything but casual. Coming on the back of her own internal lectures Hetty’s words stung and she spoke before she could censure herself.
‘Are you by any chance warning me not to develop any expectations regarding your brother based on his charitable impulse yesterday? I assure you I am not so naïve.’
‘No, it’s not that!’ Hetty flushed. ‘You seem a very...sensible young woman. Surprisingly so, since you don’t know London and just how it works. It is just that...oh, dear, this is difficult...it is just that young women often...because of his looks, and his war exploits and all that...they tend to think him...heroic and develop quite the wrong ideas about him. It’s not that he encourages it. He is not in the least romantic or gallant, you know. In fact, he hasn’t a romantic bone in his body,’ she said with some exasperation. ‘If he did he would hardly have asked me to find him a wife—’ She broke off in confusion. ‘My wretched tongue. I always say too much when I am nervous. Max will have my head.’
‘Never mind. I shouldn’t have spoken so bluntly myself,’ Sophie said apologetically. She should not blame this woman for her own foolishness in being attracted to Max. Sophie chose a different pencil from her box, wondering what her father would make of her performance in London so far. She could imagine the lecture.
‘Poor Papa,’ she murmured.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing. I was just thinking of my father. He is a vicar and has never known quite what to make of my ways or my love of painting. He shares your brother’s view that ladies should be adequate sketchers, but that anything else is a presumption against nature. Not that I am in any way extraordinary, but painting is more than just another accomplishment to be acquired as far as I am concerned. It really gives me pleasure.’
‘Max?’ Hetty asked, surprised. ‘You are quite wrong. Max might be very rule bound himself, but he has very few prejudices when it comes to other people and certainly not against female artists. I suppose that’s my Uncle Charles’s doing because our papa was quite narrow-minded and Mama is...well, she means well, but... Anyway, Charles was very close with Angelica Kauffman and Mary Moser who were both amazing artists and he used to take Max with him to the Academy all the time. He’s off painting somewhere in Italy at the moment which is a pity because I think you would like him.’
Sophie absorbed this, embarrassed by her curiosity and the need to know more about Max. She really could not quite make out the contradictions in his character. Max! She should not be calling him that even in her mind, she told herself sternly and leaned back, inspecting her work.
‘I think that will do for now. It’s a pity to stop now, but it’s time for me to go read to Aunt Minnie. Could you come again once or twice so I can decide on the colours and shading?’
Hetty nodded and came to inspect the drawing and Sophie tensed as she always did when someone saw her work for the first time, no matter how much she tried to be sophisticated and unconcerned.
‘It’s even lovelier than the first,’ Hetty said quietly. ‘I look...joyous, though I’m hardly smiling. It is such a pity Max doesn’t want you to even sketch him. Mama is always trying to convince him to sit for a portrait, but he has something against them. Do you think you could do a drawing of
him sight unseen like you did for me before or is that too hard?’
Sophie bent over her box of charcoals and pencils to hide her flush. She knew she had to say something that would satisfy Lady Hetty. Certainly not the truth.
‘It’s easier with some people than others. I don’t know if I could, from memory. It is not just the structure of the face, but there must be something I can...base myself on, an idea of the person.’
Lady Hetty nodded, shaking out her crumpled skirts.
‘He is a bit hard to read. Mama always complains of it. But it’s not because there’s nothing there, like some people.’
‘No. I don’t think it is that. Perhaps there is just more than people expect or even want and he knows it.’
She wished she hadn’t spoken, aware of Hetty’s eyes on her, but she kept her own down as she wiped her fingers clean and then extended her hand with a smile.
‘All clean now. Could you come tomorrow, then?’
‘With pleasure! Thank you, Miss Trevelyan.’
The moment the door closed behind Hetty, Sophie’s shoulders sagged. Under other circumstances she would have been ecstatic about meeting someone so genuine. But it was a strain, having to make believe that all these references to Max had no effect on her. And the strain just made it obvious that something had changed yesterday. She hadn’t realised at the time, but she had felt so right walking with him around that immense room. Even knowing it was nothing more than the polite courtesy of a gentleman for the lady he was escorting, and even through the layers of her glove and his coat, she had been aware of the strength of his arm beneath her fingers and a radiating heat that had accompanied her as they inspected the paintings. It had heightened her senses and dimmed her judgement, like wine. After her initial protest she had not had the will to release him to his business, at least not until his anger at her about her mistake in entering the forbidden room. Then the folly of succumbing to the fantasy that there was actually something more keeping him at her side than civility became clear. She might be socially clumsy, but she wasn’t naïve. She knew she was in danger of liking him too much and it did not take his sister’s warning to point out she had no chance with someone like him. She had managed to repel men with far fewer endowments and expectations; there was no future for her with Max.
