Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (48 page)

Deceiving Benedict Cole was the only way.

Chapter Eight

‘And up we rose, and on the spur we went.'

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener's Daughter'

‘M
y dears!' Nicholas Trelawney flung open the door. ‘How delightful. Now I know how to get you here, Cole. It's by bringing the charming Miss Cameo with you. Come this way,' he called over his shoulder. ‘Welcome to my humble abode!'

Untying her cloak, Cameo followed their host into the crowded drawing room. The walls were covered by a bold red-and-gold-flocked paper that would surely astound even her fashionable mama and there were books, paintings, stuffed birds in glass domes and other strange objets d'art crammed everywhere. Coloured-glass gas lamps balanced haphazardly on wooden chests and tables and a merry fire blazed in the grate beneath an oversized marble mantelpiece, which was topped by a fat gold clock, clutched on either side by a pair of Cupids. Smoke emanated, not only from the hearth, but also from pipes being smoked by more than one gentleman in the room and, she noticed in amazement, by a woman who was talking animatedly by the fire. In one corner an artist sketched madly; someone else tinkled on the piano. A pair of men were arguing with a woman laughing as she stood between them, her palms on each of their waistcoats.

‘This is one of mine.' As they passed it Trelawney proudly patted a clay bust, massive and misshapen, on a wooden plinth. It appeared to resemble a Roman god.

‘Oh!' Cameo searched for the right words. ‘It's most...'

‘Original,' Benedict supplied from behind her. Over her shoulder she flashed him a grateful grin.

Trelawney bustled away. ‘I'll fetch you both some wine. Sit down, sit down.'

Benedict lightly touched her waist. ‘This way.'

Her back stiffened at the slight, courteous gesture. Why did it ignite a passionate flame within her, sending tongues of warmth to colour her cheeks?
It's the fire
, she told herself. She'd just come in from the cool outside into a warm room. Yet she knew no external fire caused her inner surge of heat. What was happening to her?

Benedict led her to a red-velvet sofa and sat down beside her. She became instantly aware of his thigh only inches away. She sensed his awareness of her body, too, as he crossed one of his long legs over the other in his usual relaxed gesture. She loosened her pink-paisley shawl, a touch of frivolity she'd allowed Miss Ashe.

‘French vintage, my dears. Partake.' Trelawney returned to them and held out two glasses.

Cameo murmured her thanks. Rapidly she scanned the room. She experienced a sudden anxiety that there might be someone from her circle of acquaintance at the gathering of artists. But she spotted no one she met in society.

Benedict swallowed deeply, drawing Cameo's eyes to his strong neck. She sipped her own. It tasted fruity and delicious, even if not as smooth as the wine served by Briggs at home. Her papa was very fussy about his claret.

Trelawney sat down opposite them. After a swig from his own glass he gave a satisfied smile. ‘Quite the crowd today.'

‘Do you have these gatherings often?' Cameo asked.

‘The great days of the artists' salon are long gone, alas.' Trelawney sighed. ‘All we have are my soirées to ensure those in the art world can meet each other. Artists, writers, poets, critics, sculptors akin to myself. They all come to my gatherings.'

Benedict leant towards Cameo and jerked his head towards a man on the other side of the room. ‘Over by the window. Ruskin. The art critic.'

The whiskered critic met her glance and gave Benedict a nod of recognition the artist casually returned.

‘He knows you,' Cameo breathed.

‘Of course.' Benedict sounded amused. ‘It's a small community in a way, the art world. We all know exactly what each other are up to, what we're doing, what we're trying to achieve.' He indicated a ruddy-skinned man. ‘That's William Holman Hunt, one of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. And that's Rossetti, the leader.'

She stared at the artist with the curly black hair, waving his arms about emphatically. A pale, ethereal red-haired woman stood close by his side. ‘That's his model, Lizzie Siddall.'

‘I believe Rossetti is teaching Miss Lizzie to paint.' Trelawney chuckled. ‘That reminds me, Cole, did that society matron who wanted lessons from you write to you again?'

Cameo froze.

Benedict rolled his eyes. ‘She appears to have given up.'

Trelawney turned to Cameo. ‘You should have heard him. My dear, he was irate. Some poor Mayfair matron wrote to him asking for art lessons. Refused in no uncertain terms, wasn't she, Cole?'

‘Indeed.'

‘Why did you refuse her?' Cameo found her strangled voice. ‘Because she's a woman?'

‘Of course not. That would be ridiculous.' Benedict shrugged. ‘I simply have no desire to mingle with the upper classes.'

She gulped her wine. ‘But...why?'

‘Let's just say art would be a hobby, nothing more, an accomplishment to boast about. Many aristocrats claim to value art and artists, but it's all too often not true. It's an affectation, or worse, an investment.'

‘How do you know? Surely you're wrong. There might be a society lady...' Cameo furiously swallowed the words with another gulp of wine ‘...who is passionate about art.'

‘I doubt it. I refuse to waste my time finding out.'

‘Ooh!' The exclamation escaped from her lips before she contained it.

Benedict quirked an eyebrow at her. ‘This angers you?'

Trelawney chuckled again. ‘I'm not surprised. You do sound a radical revolutionary when you talk like that, Cole. I had a German fellow at my last soirée I should have introduced you to. He's moved into Dean Street in Soho not far from you. Name of Karl Marx.'

Benedict's lips thinned. ‘I'm not so radical or revolutionary. I prefer to avoid the aristocracy, that's all, as well you know, Trelawney. I had too much to do with them at one time of my life and I vowed never to again.'

So that explained the rude reply he had sent her in response to her request for painting lessons, Cameo thought to herself. He didn't merely disapprove of society ladies dabbling in art. That was an excuse. He had an aversion to mixing with upper-class society. But why? What had happened that he'd made such a vow? In any case, she couldn't reveal her real identity now. He would despise her, think her typical of her class, as arrogant as someone like Lord Warley, snatching whatever she wanted.

Cameo jerked her head away, tears smarting in her eyes. Her pleasure at being at the soirée amidst all the bohemian artists and writers vanished. She didn't belong. She'd never belong in this bright, wonderful, exciting world.

Benedict stood up. ‘Will you excuse me for a moment? There's someone I need to speak to.'

‘Miss Cameo is safe with me.' Trelawney twinkled. ‘Fear not, my boy.'

* * *

‘Are you all right, my dear?' Nicholas Trelawney enquired after Benedict had gone, patting Cameo's hand. ‘You look a trifle upset. You mustn't mind what Benedict says. It's the artistic temperament. They're all the same, such passionate people. It's frightening to have them all in the same room. My dear! The fireworks!'

She offered him a smile. It was difficult to be downcast in the company of Nicholas Trelawney.

‘I have great hopes for our Benedict. He's extremely talented.'

Cameo nodded. She'd known it the moment she first saw his painting in the Royal Academy and was drawn to it like a magnet.

‘He's the typical artist, so focused on his work and nothing else. A tendency to be, how can I say it, somewhat
obsessed
. And now what do I see?' Trelawney leaned forward confidentially. ‘If you knew how hard I've tried to get him here! My dear, what have you done?'

At what must have been her look of puzzlement, he chuckled. ‘To Benedict, my dear. He's quite transformed.' She heard sincerity in the sculptor's voice. ‘You're making him very happy.'

‘I... I'm not...sure what you mean, Mr Trelawney.'

‘Oh!' He jolted in surprise. ‘Do forgive me. The way you both... It seemed... I thought...' The sculptor patted her hand again. ‘My apologies.'

Cameo blushed. She glanced over to where Benedict stood in a group by the window. A drop of wine caught in her throat. Next to the artist stood one of the most beautiful women Cameo had ever seen, with improbably golden hair that shone bright as a beacon. She laughed up at Benedict, her head thrown back, revealing strong white teeth slightly buckled at the front. This small imperfection seemed to make no difference to the crowd of admirers gathered around her.

As if she sensed Cameo's stare, the woman revolved. She gave her a hard look, then moved closer to Benedict.

‘Who is that?' Cameo asked Trelawney in an undertone.

‘That's Maisie Jones. Lovely, isn't she? She was Benedict's model before you, my dear.'

A wave of jealousy soured the wine on Cameo's tongue. Of course Benedict had had other models before. She chided herself. The man was an artist, after all. She recognised the woman now. She was the model holding sheaves of wheat in Benedict's painting at the Royal Academy of Art. In real life, she appeared even more beautiful.

Another surge of envy rose up inside her followed by a dashing slump of her spirits. She toyed with her wine glass. It was unbearable to imagine the beautiful Maisie Jones in Benedict's studio, alone with him as he painted. She was just so dazzling.

Suddenly Cameo felt pale and wan. She almost wished she hadn't come. What was better, to have entered the bohemian artistic world of Benedict Cole or to never know it existed? And what was she going to do about the feelings aroused in her by the artist himself?

Trelawney jerked his head towards Maisie. ‘She's a good girl really, but she isn't right for Benedict.'

‘Oh?' Cameo asked in a small voice. So their relationship had been more than professional. She felt shocked at how much the information hurt.

‘All over long ago,' Trelawney added hastily.

‘Have you been acquainted with Benedict for a long time, Mr Trelawney?'

Trelawney sipped his wine. ‘I met him when he first came to London,' he said after a moment. ‘Hard times, for such a young man. He doesn't dwell on that, of course. He's not the type. But I expect you know all about that, don't you?'

At last, Cameo thought, someone who might be able to unravel the mystery that was Benedict Cole. She had to know. What was behind the anger he'd revealed against the upper classes?

‘Well, I know some things, but...'

‘Know what?' Benedict's deep voice startled her. ‘What have you two been gossiping about, Trelawney?'

* * *

From across the room Benedict had been watching Miss Cameo Ashe. He had practically ignored poor Maisie, chattering away beside him, but he found it difficult not to study his new model constantly, thinking about the best way to paint her. It was an urge, a constant need for him. He wanted to be alone with her, hold a paintbrush and capture that beautiful visage on canvas. He realised he had felt proud to enter the room earlier with her beside him, with her engaging manner and eagerness. She obviously loved being there among all the artists, drinking in the scene with those deep purple-grey eyes.

But something was bothering him more and more. Unbeknown to her, before the soirée he'd lurked around the front of Trelawney's house, waiting until she had appeared in a black-crested carriage, the same one, he was sure, that he'd spotted around the corner of his studio the day he'd followed her. He had watched her get out of the carriage and something about the way the coach driver had sprung to attention implied more than the status of a governess.

Cameo Ashe wasn't a seamstress, or a governess. He was convinced of that by the way she told those stories, with a quick wit and imagination, but without the brazenness of a hardened liar. And why would a governess have a carriage available to her? Her story didn't ring true.

After weighing up various explanations he began to think of a reason for the inconsistencies in her story. A primitive kick in his groin told him how much he disliked the explanation, but it persisted in being the only one that added up. Was she a wealthy man's mistress? And if so, why was she modelling for him?

Now, once again he stared over to where Cameo's lovely profile was bent towards Trelawney, deep in conversation.

She wore her grey dress, the one he'd first seen her in, less plain than her usual weekday attire. He knew her blue everyday dress well now, how perfectly it fitted the subtle curves of her body. He could have drawn it blindfolded. Tonight a silk paisley shawl lightly hung over the grey. That dress had felt smooth when he'd guided her to the sofa by the waist earlier, silky to the touch. He'd been forced to get up and walk away from her as their debate became more heated, raising her temperature, making her eyes sparkle and her skin warm up, sending gentle wafts of her violet scent over him.

Beside him, Maisie had ceased talking and twisted her blonde head to see what held his attention. ‘Who's that, then? Over there with Trelawney? I've never seen her before.'

His attention returned to the soirée. ‘She's the model for my new work.'

Maisie's lips pursed. ‘I think you'd better introduce us.'

Benedict followed her as she wove her way over to where Cameo Ashe and Nicholas Trelawney sat near the fire.

‘Well?' he asked them again. ‘What were you whispering about?'

Miss Ashe coloured as pink as her shawl.

‘Never fear!' Trelawney assured Benedict, as quick understanding flashed between them. ‘No dark secrets have been revealed.'

‘I should hope not.' Benedict kept the warning light, but it was there all the same.

Maisie broke in. ‘You said you'd make some introductions, Benedict.' She brushed up against him, her lush figure spilling out of her tight blue gown, the colour heightening the shade of her eyes. He saw those eyes turn as cold as the ocean as they looked upon Cameo.