Keeping Faith

by Beverley Oakley

  “Yes, there you go,” Crispin repeated, stepping aside in order to facilitate a satisfactory end to the conversation, for it appeared Miss Eaves was ready to settle in for the night, and he was growing increasingly impatient to meet the vision of loveliness still alone with her chaperone on the other side of the room.

  With Miss Eaves finally despatched, Crispin was halfway towards Lady Vernon and her unknown charge when his father clapped him on the shoulder with a demand for an inventory on Crispin’s activities for the past week.

  Dutifully, Crispin outlined the tedium with which he’d occupied mind and body, surprised when Lord Maxwell remarked, “Your Aunt Alice thinks you look weary. Says she spied you across the street when she alighted from a hackney at Marble Arch, and she commented on your grey pallor and hunched shoulders, which she put down to the work in the satchel you carried.” Lord Maxwell’s craggy face grew more lined as he frowned, though Crispin recognised this as the ghost of a smile. “You’ll be doing well if you’ve inherited half her persuasive talents, for by the end of the conversation, I’d promised that I’d give you a fortnight off. Yes, a week to amuse yourself before you return to the studies required by your new position.”

  Crispin couldn’t have been more surprised.

  “A fortnight, Father?”

  “Possibly three, in fact, and funds enough to take yourself off to the South of France if you so wish.” His brows knitted. “Just make sure you’re ready to throw yourself back into work when you return and don’t get enticed away by some Frenchie vixen, mind.”

  Crispin grinned, and content with this out of character interview, was about to buoyantly head off in Lady Vernon’s direction when he saw that lady deep in conversation with Miss Eaves, who appeared to have wandered into their enclave with the same abandon she had when she’d met Crispin and his aunt.

  Better to wait, he thought, so he could have the field uncluttered. Meanwhile, visions of his week of pure pleasure floated enticingly about his head. Where would he go? What would he do?

  His friend Roger Jolimont had a boat. Perhaps they’d sail to the French Riviera. That could be jolly good fun at this time of year. If his father were in such an indulgent mood, perhaps he’d grant Crispin a month.

  Faith was bored. Tonight was proving a dismal failure. No one had come up to speak to them except for a talkative American young woman whom Lady Vernon had collared, no doubt to extrapolate information about her earlier conversation with the young man she’d noticed glancing at Faith all evening.

  Faith now knew exactly how things were to play out. First, Mrs Gedge had known the young man she’d seen at the restaurant would be there. And now he was here again. Clearly, he had been selected, for reasons that Faith would find out in due course. Faith’s job, of course, would be to entice him, seduce him, make him fall in love with her, and then break his heart.

  She was almost one hundred percent sure that this was Lady Gedge’s plan. It seemed the obvious reason for calling Faith her ‘beautiful revenge’ for all these years.

  And yet, why?

  The young man chosen was certainly a very handsome specimen, so of course that made Faith’s task so much easier. Her heart had even given a little jolt when she’d locked eyes with him through the Kentish palm at the restaurant the previous night. It was true that she’d declared she’d rather die than offer her body to a man she didn’t love, but what if she simply found him attractive enough not to be repulsed by what Mrs Gedge wanted her to do? That would surely be within her code?

  And she did need to eat. She had precious few alternatives other than the one Mrs Gedge intended for her.

  Faith studied the young man closely through lowered eyelashes while she sipped from her champagne flute. He was tall, with dependable shoulders, and when he spoke, there was an animation about him absent from so many of the bored gentlemen about town who frequented Madame Chambon’s.

  That was certainly in his favour.

  Faith decided she liked the way his mouth quirked when he was clearly amused, which, it seemed, he frequently was, and his quick, impatient gestures in raking his floppy fringe back from his face.

  She couldn’t decide whether he was of an artistic temperament or just filled with energy that needed to find an outlet. Part of her lessons at Madame’s had been in how to read a man. Not only had Faith attended sessions where young men willingly revealed themselves to a dozen or so of Madame Chambon’s girls for a practical demonstration of how easily they were aroused, and by what, but she’d had to listen endlessly to Madame discussing man’s many temperaments and how to pander to them for the greatest return.

  An artistic temperament required feeding a man’s passion by suggesting that one, alone, had what was required to unleash his genius.

  “There he is, Faith. What do you think?”

  As Lady Vernon had asked the question, Faith was less inclined to answer truthfully. And yet there were benefits since it would be reported back to Mrs Gedge and, in truth, Faith had hoped very much that she’d be able to please her benefactress. It made life so much easier.

  “He’s very handsome,” Faith conceded.

  “And you’ll be five hundred pounds richer once he seduces you.”

  Faith gasped and glanced about her, but they were within no one’s hearing. Surprised at her reaction, when she’d lived so long in a house of ill repute, she said, staring stonily ahead, “That will be between the gentleman, whose name I don’t even know, and myself.” She offered Lady Vernon her haughtiest expression. “I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my personal affairs.”

  “It’s what I’m being paid for, and I am just as keen to earn my five hundred pounds and be rid of you, my girl.” Lady Vernon stared down her thin nose at Faith. “The sooner you complete the business, the better.” She hesitated. “Though there is a little more to the transaction.”

  “Yes, of course there is. Don’t I have to make him fall in love with me, then break his heart?” Faith thought the acid in her tone was justified.

  “Don’t pride yourself on being too clever. That was plain for anyone in your position to know.”

  “And why does Mrs Gedge wish her revenge on this man, in particular?”

  Lady Vernon shrugged, and the rise and fall of her bony shoulders accentuated her flat chest. Faith stared at the woman, unloved and bitter, but whose nature had perhaps never invited friendship, and decided she’d never be like Lady Vernon with a title and living a celibate life on a diet of boiled cabbage. No, Faith would make the most of her youth and beauty to find an escape from the evil house that confined her until she’d expedited Mrs Gedge’s plans for revenge. She’d find a rich and handsome man who’d love her despite her secrets and sordid past, and who’d marry her and give her a life of comfort and security.

  She sent her prospective gentleman another assessing glance. Perhaps he actually might be the one who would do all this for her.

  “Mrs Gedge is a woman who jumps to conclusions. I think you know that, Faith. She also harbours grudges. Grudges that are never laid to rest until she’s satisfied her requirements have been conquered.” Lady Vernon rummaged in her reticule and produced a lace handkerchief. “That American woman has too much time on her hands to brood and too much money, but if she wants to throw it in our direction, I’m not going to stop her.” She blew her nose. “Who knows why she wants revenge on him. Perhaps he’s the sacrificial lamb substituting for someone else? His father, perhaps. I really don’t care. I just want my five hundred pounds, as do you, I’m sure.” She gave Faith a warning glance. “Just don’t lose your own heart in all this.”

  “I’m surprised you care enough to warn me, Lady Vernon.”

  “Oh, I don’t care a jot. I’m just stating the obvious to fill in a little time and to find something to say while this young man makes his leisurely way over here.”

  Faith now saw that Lady Vernon was using her handkerchief as cover for a very close scrutiny of the gentleman who was perhaps ten feet aw
ay, when the old woman took Faith by the elbow and started leading her towards the door, not pausing as they passed by him.

  “Where are we going?” Faith asked. “It’s so early and…he was just about to speak to us!” She felt ridiculously disappointed all of a sudden. Was Lady Vernon suddenly deciding she needed to protect Faith from herself, or the young man, or Mrs Gedge?

  “Yes, I’m afraid we must go home now, Faith. My poor old back is hurting and I’m longing for my bed, but don’t make the mistake of thinking Mrs Gedge will be displeased.” Her lined face softened beneath a rare smile as they reached the double doors which were opened in unison by a pair of footmen. The cool night air hit them like a slap in Faith’s face. “Tomorrow or the next your work will begin in earnest. Soon, Mrs Gedge will understand I’m worth so much more than the paltry allowance she pays me.”

  Chapter 5

  Crispin opened the book that teetered near the top of the pile his father had given him, and tried to focus his attention on its account of British and Prussian diplomatic relations in the past decade.

  An ornate gilt clock loudly proclaimed the passing of time, while the crackle of the small fire in the study grate on this unseasonably chilly day was even more distracting.

  Last night had been a bore. And a sore disappointment. There’d been no lively conversation; no interesting revelations. And the young lady he’d wanted to speak to had simply disappeared in front of his nose.

  He could picture her now, the golden hair that rippled down her back, the intricately coiffured curls complementing her fashionable hairstyle and contrasting with her spectacularly plain dress. Would she look more beautiful in bolder colours or did a more austere presentation highlight her beauty?

  His father had promised him three weeks of freedom and, of course, Crispin was itching to be gone from his books and the stifling timetable his father demanded.

  Yet, it would have been diverting to have made the girl’s acquaintance. It had been such a long time since he’d confronted such a vision that made him so ready to whip out his paintbrush and paints and set to work.

  After another half an hour of diligent study, Crispin was more than ready to entertain the interruption that came from one of the housemaids, who put her head around the door half an hour later to tell him he had visitors and should she show them in?

  It was more shock than surprise that tore through him when they were announced.

  “Lady Vernon?” he repeated. She was not someone with whom his parents were on any level of intimacy, though he knew of her. Her father had been a nobleman fallen from grace on account of some very shady dealings which his untimely death had fortunately meant were not fully investigated.

  Not that that was of any interest when the lovely creature in her shadow was materialising upon the threshold.

  Attempting to mask his delight, Crispin directed them to take a seat on the Chesterfield sofa positioned at right angles to the fire.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, as he lowered himself into a leather wingback chair opposite.

  Lady Vernon clasped her black-gloved hands in her lap with the look of someone who has something very particular to say.

  Crispin glanced from her bony fingers to the interested expression on the face of the girl on the sofa beside her, and felt the heat rise in his cheeks and his body respond. He leaned forward and looked at the pair expectantly as Lady Vernon cleared her throat.

  “My charge, Miss Montague, is well practised at achieving the utmost stillness required of an artist’s model, though naturally I would be in attendance at all times, Mr Westaway.” She cleared her throat again. “That is, if you believe she is suitable.”

  Crispin drew back in surprise, but even before Lady Vernon finished, he was conjuring up exactly what hue he would pick to achieve the soft peach colour of the girl’s cheeks and the red of her Cupid’s bow. Her hair was an altogether thrilling proposition.

  Then common sense returned. In the next day or so he’d be heading for the French Riviera. After that, he’d be heading for Germany where he’d take up the life of diplomacy just as his father had done and his grandfather before that.

  Regretfully he said, “I believe there’s been a misunderstanding, Lady Vernon. I no longer paint, and I don’t know who gave you the impression that I would consider a painting commission.”

  The pucker between the old woman’s grey, bristly eyebrows indicated the disappointment he was at pains to hide.

  Crispin leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I am preparing to take up a posting as British Third Secretary to the British Ambassador to Germany. My intended departure is a little over a month from now.”

  “I saw the portrait of Madame Lascelles. A beautiful and faithful rendition so true to life, for I know the young lady. You painted that, Mr Westaway.” There was the hint of aggression in her tone.

  “I did, but that was two years ago, and my career was not decided then. I was following my inclinations only.”

  “You wanted to be a great artist, I heard, Mr Westaway, and there were many who believed you could be. Sir Albion considered you the finest talent of your generation.”

  The jolt Crispin felt was not altogether pleasant. Sir Albion had found plenty to criticise in Crispin’s efforts. He was not a man to praise lightly. And yet he had always been encouraging. Crispin wondered with the vaguest tinge of regret, whether a more pointed word from the Patron of the Royal Society of Artists might have swayed him when his father was so intent that Crispin turn his back on his art in order to pursue a more serious path.

  He was about to respond when Lady Vernon went on, “It is why I assumed you’d be looking for a model when I learned of this newly announced and extremely prestigious art prize under the auspices of the Society. I hoped, in turn, that a painting by you might improve the marital prospects of my goddaughter, Miss Montague.”

  Crispin directed a surprised stare at the young lady whose cheeks were a far rosier hue than they had been. She’d not said a word, but she clearly was invested in the conversation.

  Lady Vernon’s crisp tones reverberated through the silence. “I want Faith to be noticed, Mr Westaway, and I thought that through your talents, she would be.”

  Crispin refrained from saying that he thought she needed no one’s talents to be noticed. Miss Montague was one of the most exquisite-looking young women he had ever encountered.

  “Mr Westaway, I have taken it upon myself to do what I can for dear Faith. It may well be a futile and thankless task for she is the youngest of ten with nothing to offer anyone except a pliant nature.”

  “And her beauty.” He swallowed. Had he actually said that?

  “Precisely. Some gentlemen would overlook her lack of dowry because of her beauty, which is why I want you to paint her and show her to society. To the world. It is the only plan I have. Otherwise, she must return to her disappointed family in a few weeks, before taking up a position as governess to a family in Yorkshire that has evinced interest in Faith’s keen grasp of politics and her interest in philosophy.”

  Crispin looked at the girl with even greater interest. “You have an interest in politics?”

  She nodded as she dropped her gaze from his. She seemed nervous, and suddenly he wanted to reassure her. He smiled encouragingly, and she murmured, “The young boy whom I shall tutor has a desire to become a diplomat. It was after I was engaged in conversation with his father that I was provisionally employed…” She hesitated before saying with what Crispin perceived as a touch of embarrassment. “That is, if my London debut is not a success.”

  “How can it not be, Miss Montague?” Crispin smiled warmly at her and was delighted at the reappearance of the rosy hue in her cheeks. “I predict you will take society by storm entirely through your own talents. You need no help from me.”

  He offered them tea and carefully steered the talk to other matters after they declined and he led them to the door.

  He said how deeply di
sappointed he was that he could not humour Lady Vernon, and refrained from saying that he was even more disappointed he’d see no more of Miss Montague.

  But he knew that with his departure so imminent, he could afford no distractions. Succumbing to his desire to paint would be dangerous.

  Succumbing to his desire to further his acquaintance with Miss Montague could prove fatal.

  Faith stood on the doorstep of Mr Westaway’s townhouse and plucked at the neckline of her blue cotton figure-hugging, but plainly adorned, polonaise, while she summoned the courage to do what Lady Vernon had insisted was their next step.

  It was true that she was more than just a little excited to see Mr Westaway again, but she wished she could do so wearing a more lavishly embellished and modish gown. However, now that Mrs Gedge had endorsed Lady Vernon’s plan of offering up Faith as a charity case, Faith had no choice but to adopt the role assigned to her.

  In the hall, she heard muted footsteps before the door was opened and the butler stared at her with astonishment.

  “I am so terribly sorry to disturb you, but my companion in the park just across the road has succumbed to a dizzy spell and begs for a glass of water,” Faith preempted him to explain her unchaperoned state.

  She was counting on the fact the butler would not leave her on the doorstep while he attended to her request so was relieved when he conducted her into the drawing room to wait.

  Lady Vernon was indeed in the park, and Faith had a few moments to carry out the other woman’s plan for Mr Westaway had been seen entering the house some minutes before. To Faith’s intense relief, it was Mr Westaway who happened upon her before she’d been spurred into snooping about in the hopes of somehow stumbling upon him.

  “Good heavens, Miss Montague!” he cried upon stepping into the drawing room, apparently deep in thought, before glancing up to see Faith gripping the back of the sofa.