Painted Trust_Edith and the Forensic Surgeon

by Elsa Holland

  Blast the arrogant man.

  Chapter 3

  Blackburn walked down the wide wood-paneled corridor of the Hurley’s mansion; his heels a staccato on the white marble floor as he followed the Hurley’s man, Mr. Evans.

  Mr. Evans was unassuming, yet the breadth of his shoulders spoke of a high degree of physical fitness and strength. He noted that the man, while dressed in a butler’s livery, wore a suit of fine wool so sharply tailored to his shape that it must have been made-to-order. As with Miss James, the Hurleys had obviously taken Mr. Evans under their wing and were no doubt full of nefarious plans he may or may not be privy too.

  As the creators of the original Painted Sister four decades earlier, the Hurleys had entered and navigated the world of the Collectors with strategic aplomb. Over the years they had become renowned negotiators utilizing their eccentric and intimate relationship to their financial and political advantage. They clearly had no need for the money or the power they still received and were now attached to the pleasure of the game. A position Blackburn well understood.

  At the ballroom, Evans stopped.

  “Miss James is in here, sir. I believe she is practicing.”

  Practicing? What do governesses practice in ballrooms?

  Given the large range of activities Miss James had been instructed in over the years it could be almost anything. For a horrifying moment Blackburn expected to run into the girls in the middle of some kind of dance class. But the Hurleys had guaranteed him some time alone with Miss James to argue his case, so if Miss James was dancing, it would have to be solo.

  In his experience, repeated exposure and a deep understanding of what was important to the person in question was the key to ensuring their acquiescence. And he had spent a goodly amount of time researching Miss James’s background. Her father, a merchant trader, lost his assets and the family home to the card table. Her mother died shortly after from consumption, the disease of the disheartened and under-nourished. There were then some undocumented years where Miss James appeared to have disappeared; living with a wayward and heartbroken father while grieving her mother would not have been easy.

  When a person’s past could not be found by an investigator it usually meant they had sunk deep into the lower reaches of society. Sunk into places where who you were and what happened to you didn’t matter to anyone. However, to her credit, she had then emerged as a governess and went straight into service. A remarkable feat.

  A move to India with her employer and his family caused another break in information about her, though was no doubt attributable to having been somewhere deep in the colonies; despite his deepest enquiries, none of the hearing ears of the British club had received gossip about the governess. Two years later, she returned to Britain with the Hurley twins.

  The Hurleys said she’d been invaluable to them in India. They assured him she was worth triple the price of any of the other girls, if he could win her over.

  Evans swung open the large carved wooden doors. A shock spiked in Blackburn’s chest. Inside, the clash of metal rang out in the room. He knew that sound . . . knew it intimately.

  “Will there be anything else sir? Refreshments?” Evans asked.

  “No.” Blackburn strode into the great room. There she was: her svelte figure encased in shape-hugging white britches, her face enclosed within a fencing mask of fine metallic mesh. A rewarding sight after the mousy gray cloth she wore on the day of the viewing. Light sliced off the silver blades as she and her instructor clashed.

  She lunged. Leg at a perfect ninety degree angle, her other leg in full extension behind her. His heart gave a small quiver of interest; the heart that pumped blood to his cock, not the one that swooned. As he watched, she thrust the foil past her opponent’s defenses and won her point.

  “Again!” Her voice was demanding to the point of petulance. He took another few steps into the room. Foils clashed again.

  Her form was classic, all moves executed with balance and excellent positioning. But he saw her weakness straight away, knew it from the first exchanges they had in the viewing room. Her passion made her hasty, made her rush forward sooner than a winning strategy required.

  An unexpected swell of pleasure moved over him.

  She lunged, beautiful, and won the point again.

  Her trainer was being too generous letting her practice like that with him, practice at winning when the counter move was not used effectively; it would give her false expectations of her skills.

  Blackburn walked to the mat, motioning the trainer to the side. “Miss James.” Blackburn gave her a short bow.

  “You’re early,” she said through the mask.

  “You’re late.”

  She shrugged, unintentionally alluring in her fencing gear. The male trousers clasping a firm, shapely bottom that endeavored to make his mind forget. One never enters a negotiation on the back foot, yet she had the disarming knack of doing that to him in the most unexpected ways.

  “I’ve come to call on you.”

  “Call on me?” she said behind the mask, her foil swishing about. “That’s overly romantic for what you have in mind.” She was not going to make this coerced meeting easy for him—he admired her for that.

  Blackburn reached out to take off her mask. She stepped back. Irritation rippled through his chest. When this was all sorted there would be none of that. “Take the mask off. I’d like to speak with you.”

  She huffed. “I’m not interested.”

  “I refuse to speak to you masked.”

  “You could leave.”

  “You could stay housebound.”

  She huffed again and her foil swiped around her legs in irritation. Finally, she slid the mask off, and a mass of Icelandic tresses tumbled out around her shoulders.

  His gut clenched.

  His breath caught.

  And he literally thickened in his britches.

  If he had been uncertain about Miss James, any doubt was washed away with the cascade of those pale locks.

  His balls pulled up closer to his body and the purpose of his visit faded as he imagined, with excruciating clarity, the feel of those locks threaded tightly through his fingers, the way they would feel against his face, his chest, his cock.

  Oh yes.

  That was exactly the response he wanted men to have when they saw his Painted Sister. He wanted them tripping over themselves to view her, wanted her to addle their minds as he negotiated his deals. He applauded his instincts. The dowdy miss in her white cap was a spitfire of beauty, in addition to being, by all accounts, exceedingly well-educated.

  And something more, the Hurleys had said. That something more had been all he required even if she had been half appealing to look at. Now, after seeing her without her schoolmarm disguise, she seemed woefully underpriced. Just how blind were the Hurleys? Her beauty and character alone was worth more than the beautiful dolls they called canvases.

  “Listen, Mr. Blackburn. I know I should feel exceedingly privileged that you want me to be your Painted Sister, however it’s not what I want and I don’t think it’s what you want either. I don’t have the temperament nor the calling to be a Painted Sister. Focus on the girls that do.” Her face fought to hide her disgust.

  It made his jaw tightened. His response was not because she didn’t like him, no, he couldn’t care less about who liked him or not. It was the distaste. He hadn’t seen that look for many years and he didn’t like it.

  But that wouldn’t stop him. She would be his Painted Sister whether she thought he was the most repulsive and distasteful man in Great Britain. “Very well . . . ,” he softened his voice, luring her in.

  “Very well? You’ll select someone else?”

  Hope brightened her face.

  “Very well, I’ll fence you for it.” He affected an indifferent expression, held his breath, kept his face relaxed and almost bored, he didn’t want to frighten her away.

  Her foil swiped through the air.

  He slid h
is hands into his pockets, and tilted his head to the side, ensuring the image he presented was relaxed and indifferent. His voice reflected that stance as he reassured her.

  “You win, I’ll step back, have a chat with . . . who did you suggest . . .?” He watched her every response. The shift in her body, the minute relaxing of her shoulders, the slight widening of her eyes as the opportunity to be free of him slipped into her thoughts.

  “Annabelle.” Her voice was still foolishly hopeful. A hope that came from an understanding they both shared about the sport.

  Fencing was one of those sports where all the male qualities that usually worked to make them out-perform most women in a sport, were made redundant. It was a great equalizer, an arena where they could compete on reasonably level ground.

  However, he was competent enough at the sport to know that, although she was good, he was better.

  “Yes. Annabelle. I’ll chat with her and you have a respite. However, if I win, you agree to the deal.”

  She scoffed and turned to walk away.

  He moved quickly, catching her arm and pulling her to a stop. The firm bicep under his palm a tantalizing hint at what lay underneath her whites.

  “Fair point. I win, you will come on an outing so we can acquaint ourselves better. See if we can rub along . . .”

  She considered him, looked down his person while making some kind of assessment, and clearly finding him wanting. However there was little she could do. Her decision passed over her face before she spoke. It swept a wash of satisfaction across him.

  “Very well then. When do you want to do it?”

  “Now.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “Now?”

  He nodded, beginning to unbutton his jacket.

  “Very well,” her mouth pinched together in determination as he almost surprised himself and grinned.

  Blackburn walked over to her tutor. The man was dressed in black and wore an extra padded panel across his chest that trainers wore to allow their students to hit them more often.

  “Helmet, glove, not the jacket.” The equipment was not quite the same as his own, but close enough. He was no spoiled twat, and he needed to get win his outing with Miss James. He shrugged off his jacket and took off his waistcoat.

  Miss James was swiping at the air again and looking at him with sideward glances, curiosity in her expression. A vast improvement on the distaste she liked to show him. He took off his shoes and socks, slipped on the glove and tested the balance of the foil. “A few practice bouts?” he asked as he walked over to her.

  She gave a single nod.

  A ripple of admiration . . . just a small one went through him.

  She had gumption. But he shouldn’t be surprised; a woman who’d worked with the Hurleys for over a decade, who had been in the world of the Collectors, albeit at the periphery, would need a strong disposition. And she knew how to hold herself amongst the elite—another point in the balance towards her being his best option.

  Above all this, the single most important quality needed to be in the world they shared was the ability to show no fear. And she had mastered it; she did it beautifully.

  The mat was their fencing lane and tape marked the middle line.

  “Shall we say five minutes for me to warm up?”

  “If you need that long.” She answered as she tucked that breathtaking mass of hair back into the back of the mask.

  There was that heat of admiration for her again.

  He saluted her with the foil, slid his mask in place and took his position. She on the other hand did not salute Him. The height of fencing rudeness.

  A warmth burned in his chest as she took up her position.

  His mouth went dry.

  Her form was perfect.

  He advanced, she retreated, he retreated, she advanced. A few inquisitive thrusts as she felt him out, tested his responses. He parried on instinct as he watched her footwork, the angle of her shoulders, her hips.

  He tested her in return. Tried a few rudimentary moves. Encouraged her to think he only had the standard array of men’s club fencing skills. She started to relax, the rhythmic click of the foils, the back and forth along the fencing mat.

  He stepped back, lowered his foil and lifted his mask. She did the same.

  “Are you ready to start?” she asked.

  There was confidence in her gaze now where before she was uncertain of her chances at winning. He hid his own certainty behind an impassive face, a look he’d mastered by the age of three.

  ‘I never know what you’re thinking Little Piper, I find candy and I give it to the others and they smile, but you . . . your little face shows nothing. If you don’t like the candy I can give it to the others.’ His small hand had reached out, taken the dense sugar confectionary with fingers that had looted through garbage all day.

  The sweetness had exploded through his mouth, reminding him again what it was others thought life held. But he knew better. He would never allow himself to want candy. Want something that made him think the world was anything other than what it was—a war zone. Yet he’d taken the candy that was held in front of him. He would take anything he needed to win.

  ‘I want a book,’ he’d said, his mouth filling with moisture, with dampness, as the flavors of caramel and chocolate fought to make him weak. She’d gotten him a book, even found someone to help him learn to read it. He’d wanted to smile for her, knew even then that winning involved a give and take, had tried by baring his teeth, by moving his mouth into some semblance of a grin. It had just made her eyes go sad. Acquiring his first business and the bricks and mortar it operated from had made him smile, but she was no longer alive to see it.

  Miss James slipped the mask back on and spoke, “I’m ready. Best out of three. When I win, you agree to stop asking for me and will instead seek out Annabelle.”

  He slipped his mask on and replied, “When you lose, you will join me for an outing.”

  Once again, he lifted his sword in salute and she did not. Behind the mask, there was a tug at the corners of his mouth. He could see where the strength had come from to climb out of wherever her circumstances had pushed her down to in those lost years. He recognized it, and admired her even more for where she’d learnt it.

  His beauty launched an attack, fast flashes as the foil moved with lightning speed through the air towards his chest. He parried, countered with a thrust and she slipped past his attack. He let it through.

  It hit his chest, a hard painful jab without the padding a vest provided. The heat flared through his torso as he consumed her mark.

  His eyes devoured the vision of her body as it froze for moments in the winning lunge. Perfect form, small muscles pressed against the tight white of her britches. His palms burned with the need to run themselves over her feminine muscles, their shape and definition in the pose.

  The white card came up awarding her the point. There was a fractional shift in her body language, her confidence heightened. One more point and she was best out of three.

  It was time to get on the offensive.

  The moment she was in position he attacked, his forward foot stamping on the mat in hard, intimidating sounds as he advanced. He waited for her to launch, then twisted and thrust.

  His foil hit the small red heart in the center of her tunic.

  Mine. It came out of nowhere, a ridiculous thought which was pushed down as soon as it rose. He wanted no person’s heart.

  A white card was held up on his side of the court. The tutor gave him the point.

  He felt ridiculously pleased with himself. There was a strange urge to step closer, to run his finger around the red heart sewn to her vest, to stab it with his finger where the foil had been and feel the soft give of her breast underneath. Feel the rapidly beating heart on the tip of his finger.

  Through the fine metal mesh of his mask he could see his opponent was none too happy, swishing her foil through the air between them as she backed up to her side of the mat. Satisfact
ion permeated every muscle as he shook out the tension in his shoulders and legs.

  Last point.

  His heart beat faster, anticipation coiling through him but his breathing was even, his mind focused.

  She lowered her foil and walked towards him. Lifted her mask. He did the same.

  “Miss James? Are you ceding the match?”

  “You lied.” Her eyes were ablaze.

  “Subterfuge is part of the game.” And was at the heart of life.

  “It will not be enough, you know; I have your measure now.”

  Oh, good girl, she was working to erode his confidence. Well, two could play at that.

  “Let’s up the ante.”

  The air crackled between them. Greater odds had a tendency to destabilize most opponents.

  “Let’s not. I’ll win this point and I’ll get what I want.” Her cocky tone did not match her expression. She was concerned.

  “I never promised to leave you alone if I didn’t find Annabelle suitable.”

  “You promised to leave me alone and seek out Annabelle.”

  “I promised you respite.”

  “So what are you promising now? That you’d walk away?”

  Never. “What are you offering of equal value?”

  “What do you want?” Her eyes were wary.

  “You will sit on the blue ottoman from the viewing room. You will sit at my feet and tell me about yourself like one of the Canvases, like a woman who is eager to win the Collector in front of her.”

  Disgust took hold of her face before she could control it. If ever he was in doubt about the depth of her dislike of him, it was clear in that look.

  It was one he knew well.

  He’d grown up with it.

  He had seen that look on the faces of passersby as he came out of alleyways unwashed and filthy, as they had stumbled in their haste to get away from the stench of him. It had been an effective ploy, serving to corral well-to-do ladies and gents against the crowd where his gang of street urchins were waiting to pick their pockets and lighten their purses.

  Miss James found him distasteful. Well he knew how to deal with distaste.