Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (50 page)

Behind Benedict, another man approached.

It couldn't be! Her mouth dried. But there was no mistaking Lord Warley, that correct figure with his top hat and cane, out for a promenade in the park.

Cameo swallowed her shriek. Pulling her bonnet down over her face, she skittered sharply on her heel, hitched up her skirts and sped away. Fast footsteps came behind her, closer and closer. She ran on, hardly knowing where she went. Spotting a glade of trees, she dashed into them, a low branch scratching at her bonnet. She cried out as someone caught her from behind and spun her around.

Benedict Cole gripped her by the elbow. ‘What is it? Tell me.'

Frantically Cameo tried to peer past him, through the trees. Where was Lord Warley? Had he recognised her, followed her? Of all the people to discover her secret!

‘I must leave! I must go straight away.'

Benedict's jaw set as he twisted his head and scanned the area behind them. ‘There's no one following you.'

He clenched her elbow harder. ‘What exactly is it you're running from? Or should I say whom?'

‘No one...'

‘I don't think so. You saw someone you knew, I didn't see who it was. But you certainly didn't want them to see you.'

With a grip of fury, Benedict tugged Cameo deeper behind the trees. ‘I told you not to lie to me. Do you think I can't see you're concealing something?'

‘You've no right to question me!' In panic she tried to wrench free. ‘Let me go! Let me go, I say!'

Benedict's eyes glittered as he released her. ‘All right.' His mouth formed a furious line. ‘Go. Go now. But, Miss Ashe? Don't come back to the studio until you're ready to tell me the truth.'

Chapter Ten

‘The heavy clocks knolling...'

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

‘Y
our parents are in the drawing room, Lady Catherine Mary. Your mother asked for you, I believe.'

Cameo bit her lip as Briggs took her bonnet and cloak. With shaking fingers she smoothed down her dress. The hem was grass stained from her dash across the park. Hopefully no one would notice. If they did, she would have to think of another convincing lie.

So many lies.
There seemed to be no escape.

‘Thank you, Briggs.'

‘Where have you been?' her father demanded the minute she entered the drawing room. ‘Your mama tells me you couldn't be found. Lord Warley called. And you weren't here to receive him!'

‘The servants looked for you everywhere, Cameo dear.' Lady Buxton was fluttering, twisting her rings. ‘You've been out so much of late. Lord Warley expressed such disappointment not to find you at home.'

‘Terribly rude of you, Cameo!' the earl barked. ‘The son of my greatest friend came to pay his addresses to you, I understand, and you don't even do him the courtesy of being here. And he had some story about seeing you in Hyde Park.'

‘With a gentleman,' her mother added in a horrified note. ‘Unchaperoned!'

So Lord Warley had seen her. ‘Well, I...'

‘And you're not in your riding habit, Cameo.'

‘Come on! Out with it!' her papa barked. ‘Where have you been?'

‘I've... I've... I've been...'

‘With me.'

Cameo spun around to see George coming into the room.

‘Sorry, Pater. Cameo has been out with me at...'

‘The park.' Cameo threw George a grateful glance.

‘That's it. The park. We went for a stroll.'

‘Humph.' The earl grunted. ‘Took your sister out, did you?'

‘That's right, sir. Apologies if she was meant to be here.'

‘That's all right, George dear.' The countess gave her son a doting glance. ‘It was thoughtful of you.' She diverted to her daughter. ‘But you simply must be here tomorrow, Cameo. We have callers on Thursdays and I've asked Lord Warley to tea.'

‘But I can't be at home tomorrow morning. I've got another riding lesson,' Cameo protested. What conclusions would Benedict Cole come to if she didn't appear at the studio, after the warning he'd given her? She had to tell him the truth, beg his forgiveness.

The earl frowned, brushing his whiskers. ‘You must cancel your riding lesson and stay at home tomorrow with your mama.'

Lady Buxton spoke up. ‘I'll be so pleased to have you with me, Cameo dear.'

‘But—'

‘No more arguing.' The vein on her father's forehead popped out. ‘What's the matter with you, young lady? It's high time you remembered your duties.'

‘I'm sorry, Papa.' Cameo's head reeled. She must see Benedict tomorrow and tell him the truth. She must!

‘Good.' Her papa nodded and turned to his wife. ‘We'll go into luncheon, Charlotte. Goodness knows where Briggs has got to—he ought to have announced it by now.'

‘What the devil's going on?' George muttered to Cameo, pulling her back into the drawing room before they followed their parents into the dining room across the hall. ‘Where have you been?'

‘It's a secret, George.'

George threw her a frown of concern. ‘Secrets are never a good idea, old girl. Maud and I have noticed you've been disappearing rather a lot lately. We guessed you were up to something. We know the signs all too well. What is it?'

‘I'll tell you both when I can, George, I promise.'

‘Promise?'

‘Cross my heart and hope to die.' She waved in the air as they used to when they were children.

‘Hmm. I suppose that will have to do. I say, you're not involving Maud in one of your schemes, are you?'

‘Of course not.'

‘That's all right, then. Maud's not the same as you, always up to some scrape or another.' He gave her a pat on the arm as they went towards the dining room. ‘I hope you know what you're doing, I really do. I get the feeling, little sister, you're playing with fire.'

* * *

‘Well. This has been most pleasant.'

Lord Warley replaced the thin porcelain teacup so slowly on to the saucer Cameo nearly screamed. On the marble chimney piece, with its vast urns on either side, sat the French clock that chimed noisily on the quarter-hour. All day she'd watched the needles drag as she sat taking calls with her mama, listening to endless plans for the Season, for balls, dinners and other entertainments. She had hoped Lord Warley might be detained and she might escape. But right on time, on the stroke of four o'clock, Briggs entered the drawing room with the silver tray aloft bearing the Warley-crested calling card upon it. Now, forced to take tea with him, Cameo sat stuck in the same position, her feet crossed beneath her skirts, her hands folded in her lap, a fixed smile and falsely interested expression on her face. It was harder than modelling for Benedict.

Benedict.
Under her skirts, she rubbed her shoes across the thick oriental carpet. How she longed to be in the studio in Soho with its bare boards. Would he be there now, painting? Had he already sought out another model? How long would he wait?

He would give up on her.

Her mother brought her out of her reverie. ‘Aren't we, Cameo?'

‘I'm sorry?' Cameo dragged her attention back to the drawing room to find Lord Warley studying her as though he were guessing at her thoughts. Her skin crawled.

‘We're delighted you could come this afternoon, especially after Cameo wasn't here when you came to call yesterday.' Lady Buxton apologised. ‘Her brother, George, took her to the park.'

‘Who am I to deprive a brother and sister of company on a sunny day in Hyde Park? But I must admit—' Warley hoisted one leg over the other ‘—I didn't think it was your brother I saw you with in the park, Lady Catherine Mary.'

Cameo choked on her tea.

‘Perhaps I am mistaken.' His lips pursed in a suggestive manner that told Cameo he didn't believe himself mistaken at all.

It seemed safer not to reply. Why, she'd been right about Lord Warley all along. There was something nasty about him, something unwholesome. He knew she hadn't been in the park with George. For some reason he was holding it over her.

Picking up a plate of sandwiches from the tea stand, she leaned over and offered them to him. ‘Another cucumber sandwich?' she asked coldly.

‘I think I've had quite sufficient.' He fingered the gold watch hanging from a chain on his blue silk waistcoat. ‘It really is time I left you dear ladies. But before I depart I must say I'm looking forward to welcoming you to Warley Park.' He smoothed his hair and addressed her mama, but his eyes flicked towards Cameo. ‘The grounds are particularly magnificent in the spring.'

‘Lord Warley persuaded me yesterday to bring our visit forward, Cameo,' her mama explained. ‘We'll travel to Sussex on Saturday.'

Why, that was in only two days. Her heart sank. It was the worst possible moment. It made it even more pressing to get to the studio and Benedict.

‘I'm sure you'll enjoy it, Lady Catherine Mary.'

‘It will be delightful,' the countess replied to Lord Warley with a smile when Cameo didn't respond.

His tongue darted out. ‘I'll be particularly pleased to show your daughter my estate.'

‘Oh, she's very happy to come, aren't you, Cameo dear?'

‘Of course,' she answered politely, though she couldn't think of anything worse.

‘Then it's settled.'

Lord Warley stood up and took his silver-topped cane. Why did he always carry it with him? He wasn't old. It made her uneasy.

‘Charmed, Lady Buxton. Lady Catherine Mary.' He leaned over Cameo's hand. She could have sworn his tongue flicked her wrist before she snatched it away.

‘Always a pleasure,' her mother said.

‘How can you say that, Mama?' Cameo demanded after he left the drawing room. For once, she refrained from holding back. ‘How can you say it's a pleasure?'

‘Cameo!' Her mother appeared utterly shocked, fanning her face with her handkerchief. ‘He's such a handsome young man and always so polite.'

No, he's not
, she recalled mutinously, choking back the words. She wished she could tell her mama about the way Lord Warley made her feel, but they never discussed those kinds of matters. It just wasn't done.

‘Lord Warley's a member of the same club as your father and dear George, like his father before him. Your father was always such good friends with his,' her mama reminded her. ‘He won't hear a thing against that family and Lord Warley has become a most eager suitor.'

Cameo repressed a chill. ‘Lord Warley is attentive to many young ladies.'

‘But most attentive to you, Cameo dear. We all noticed at Lady Russell's ball. What a charming couple you made! Now, don't go disappearing anywhere in the next few days. I'll supervise the packing of your belongings. My maid will attend to it. You'll enjoy visiting Warley Park, once you get there. It will be delightful.'

I don't think it will be delightful.
The desperate words almost burst out of Cameo's mouth. She didn't desire to go to Warley Park. For her parents' sake she would obey but, oh, how she yearned to stay in London, in Soho, to be precise. She had to see Benedict.

‘Yes, Mama. I won't go anywhere tomorrow,' Cameo replied.

It wasn't exactly lying if she slipped out tonight.

Chapter Eleven

‘So home I went, but could not sleep...'

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

C
ameo pushed aside the chintz curtains and stared out her bedroom window. Fog drifted into the square. Beside her window the boughs of the ash tree gleamed faintly.

Even the ash tree couldn't soothe her now. Cameo kept hearing Benedict's voice in her head over and over again:
Don't come back to the studio until you're ready to tell me the truth.

The decision had been made. She must tell him without delay. Would he, an artist, be able to see her real self and not just an aristocrat? Would he let her continue to model for him?

For hours she had waited for the house to quieten, to grasp her chance to slip out unobserved. Before dinner there had been no hope with her parents and George about and the servants going up and down the stairs. They hadn't dined until eight o'clock, and then she had sat through three courses: a consommé, thin and clear, followed by beef in puff pastry, with new spring vegetables, and for pudding, Bavarian cream with slivered almonds on top. Briggs offered it to her with a smile, knowing the pudding to be a favourite, but it had held no taste. Then, as usual, her papa and George had drunk port, but instead of going into the drawing room with her mama as she ordinarily did she had pleaded fatigue and come upstairs to pace the carpet.

The gold-and-blue enamel clock by her bed chimed. Ten o'clock. The chime decided her. She glanced down at her clothing. She still wore a low-cut green taffeta evening dress. She might as well wear it, since Benedict must be told the truth, but she swapped her evening slippers for a pair of black-kid boots. From her wardrobe she pulled out a black velvet cloak and threw it over her dress, covering it completely.

The room dimmed to darkness as she blew out the candles. Slipping on her kid gloves, she silently turned the brass knob of her bedroom door. In the hall the candles in the wall sconces were still flaming. All seemed quiet, although it was too risky to go down the main marble staircase. Hurrying along the carpeted hall in the other direction, she held her breath as she clicked open the latch of the small door that led to the backstairs and raced down. At the bottom the kitchen stood dim and empty, the range cold, the big scrubbed pine table bare. Thank goodness the servants had all gone to bed. It struck her that Bert might have been persuaded to deliver a note, but she didn't like to involve the servants. It was unfair. What was worse, all too easily she could imagine Benedict ripping such a note up in disgust.

Holding her breath, she tiptoed across the kitchen to turn the key in the lock of the side door and hastened out into the night.

Alone in the square in front of the house she hesitated. A sudden shaft of light beamed out as a maid opened the front door of the next house to welcome a gentleman pulling up in a carriage. She shrank out of sight behind an ash tree.

The square became dark and quiet again. The fog shrouding her in a dirty mist, her boots tapped out an echo in the gloom as she made her way to Oxford Street. It was so different to travel alone at night and on foot. As it was so late in the evening, she hadn't dared ask Bert to take her, either; he'd been reluctant enough about the evening outing to Mr Trelawney's soirée. It might get him into trouble.

Shivering, she nearly turned back. But to her relief on the main road there were still plenty of people about. She could barely see them in spite of the yellow gaslights that lit each corner, but she could hear them: the strangers' voices as they came and went in the fog, their white faces startling her as they brushed past and the noisy clatter of horses' hooves and carriage wheels on the road alongside.

Panic built inside her as she travelled further and further away from Mayfair. The streets grew darker, the gaslight more sparse. After turning off Oxford Street she suspected she'd lost her way. A policeman swinging a truncheon gave her a searching stare as she came hurtling around a corner. She hesitated to ask him for directions, knowing he might ask why. He carried on without a word, his footsteps plodding away.

The streets felt different at night, too. She hurried along past the shops, the clothing stores, bookshops and tea shops, all shut up firmly, their blinds and awnings down. The public houses were open, though, noisy and lively. A woman stood outside one of them, guffawing at a man in a dinner coat as he tried to embrace her, while in an alleyway, she could have sworn she saw another man pressing a woman against a wall.

Her heart thumped. Oh, she should never have come out alone at night. George and Maud were right—she took too many risks. They'd be appalled if they knew her whereabouts. Only the thought of Benedict in the studio, wondering why she hadn't come that morning, urged her on.

‘Out you go!' Right in front of her two men were forcibly ejected from a public house.

One of them stopped and stared at her. ‘Well, what have we here?' he asked drunkenly, reaching for her arm.

Cameo dodged his grasp.

‘There's no hurry,' he hiccoughed, as she sped past.

‘Come on,' she heard his companion say. ‘Let's try to get a drink somewhere else.' They staggered off in the other direction.

Narrowly missing being hit by a carriage, Cameo sped across to the other side of the road.

* * *

Benedict set down the glass, its contents spilling over the rim.

Damnation
. He still didn't believe Miss Cameo Ashe, the best model he'd ever had, hadn't come back after the incident in the park.
The best model
, he mocked himself.
Yes, that's why you miss her, Cole, not because of the way she felt in your arms.

He'd thought she possessed more courage than that. Who had she seen? Why had she been so frightened? All he had done was frighten her further. He needed her to trust him, to tell him what terrified her, because whoever she had seen made her very frightened indeed, he had glimpsed it in her eyes. He burned with the need to protect her. Why didn't she trust him enough to tell him the truth about herself, that she had a wealthy protector? Did she think he would judge her? He didn't judge her. Not judgement, no, that wasn't what he felt. Burning, searing jealousy. That was it.

As the hours had ticked on through the day it became clear she wouldn't be returning to the studio. He'd frightened her away.

If she came back, he'd vowed to give her time to tell him about herself. He'd bite down that burning jealousy from his gullet. He was hardly in a position to condemn her—he'd had enough relationships of his own. He wasn't a hypocrite. He knew what the world was like.

All the time she needed, that's what he'd give her, to tell him what she wanted him to know, whether he liked it or not. He'd never cared if other models had been with other men before. With Cameo, he did care. But he'd wait for her to reveal herself. If he had the chance.

All day he had carried on working on her portrait, but by nightfall he'd given up and come to the Lamb. He needed the distraction, the noise. It was the public house he frequented most, not merely because of its proximity and its good meals. He enjoyed the mix of people, the working men and women with their forthrightness and humour, as well the many other artists and writers who lived and worked in this less-expensive, not to say less-salubrious, area of London.

The Lamb was full tonight, with people pressed at the bar, clustered in groups at the tables and booths. Glasses clinked amidst conversation and laughter and at one table a voice was raised in song.

Over the broad mantelpiece there hung a painting of a young sheep with wide surprised eyes. The animal always looked to Benedict as though it was startled to find itself in such an establishment. The painting was covered in a layer of grime and the lamb's fleece showed up yellow instead of creamy white. Benedict often ached to clean that painting, for he suspected it to be rather fine. Beneath it a fire roared in the huge granite fireplace, casting a rosy glow on the faces of those who gathered near.

At the bar he ordered whisky. He noticed other artists of his acquaintance dining at a long table in one of the rooms at the rear. John Millais, always the most easy-going of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, gave him a friendly wave and beckoned him over to join them. Benedict shook his head and managed to find a quiet corner table. He didn't feel hungry and he desired to be alone. He was not fit company tonight.

He lifted the glass and stared into it as though the amber liquid revealed some hidden truth and tossed back a gulp, feeling its welcome burn as it went down his throat.

The confrontation with Miss Cameo Ashe still rang in his ears. He hadn't been able to take the lies, the evasions any more. He had only caught the merest glimpse of the man she so evidently wished to avoid, when she'd raced away from him in Hyde Park, her elegant ankles on display under her swirling skirts. He'd been too busy chasing her to take a proper look at the cause of her alarm.

‘Well, hello.' Maisie stood in front of him, the high colour in her cheeks echoing the red flowers tucked deep in her bodice. Perhaps he could paint her like that, he thought, yet the idea held no appeal.

‘Hello, Maisie.'

‘I haven't seen you in here for a few days. You look like you could do with some company.'

She slid down next to him, squeezing on to the tapestry-fabric seat and he smelled her fruity scent. Her breasts peeped over her tight corset and he sensed other men in the room wishing they were the ones with Maisie Jones thrust up against them.

She offered him the buck-toothed smile he once found so sensual and enchanting. Another smile came into his mind. He gripped his glass hard and tossed back another gulp of whisky.

‘You're looking pretty tonight,' he complimented Maisie, driving that other smile away.

She preened. ‘That's because I'm near you,' she whispered breathily, pressing her leg even closer against his. ‘No one was ever as good to me as you were, Benedict.'

He sent her an amused smile. ‘What about all the painting? I thought you hated that.'

‘You were kind to me. You always treated me with respect. You're different from other men.' She slipped a hand inside his thigh and gave him a knowing grin. ‘And we were good together, weren't we?'

He wanted to want her. To lose himself in her and forget the woman who haunted his days and nights in a way no woman ever had before. His body gave an involuntary throb at Maisie's suggestive movement. But that was all, just a reflex action. He didn't desire her, he realised, even as her fingers crept higher up his thigh.

He stood abruptly, causing Maisie's hand to fall away.

She stared up at him in surprise. ‘What is it? Are you leaving?'

He nodded as he reached for his brown coat.

She pouted prettily. ‘You're no fun any more, Benedict.'

He brushed her cheek with his finger. ‘Take care of yourself, Maisie.'

As if sensing the finality in his voice she sat still for a moment. Then she shrugged and undulated over to one of the tables by the fire where she was greeted with raucous exclamations of pleasure, laughing as a young man pulled her down onto his lap.

Benedict couldn't have Maisie as a model again, he knew that now. He needed Cameo Ashe. With her as his model he was reaching artistic heights he had never dreamed possible. If she came back to the studio he would resist pressuring her to tell him who she was or about the men in her life. Maybe it was better not to know.

No more questions. He promised himself.

If Cameo comes back.

* * *

With a sigh of relief, through the fog Cameo spotted the public-house sign with a lamb on it.

Raindrops fell. After lifting the hood of her cloak more fully over her head, she gripped the comforting talisman of her necklace.

‘I think I'll have that.'

Cameo jumped. She twisted to find a short, thickset man close behind her, his grey cap set low, obscuring the top half of his face. The lower part wore an ugly grimace.

She choked down a scream. ‘What?'

Rapidly the man scanned the area. ‘A pretty girl like you. Out alone?'

Her mouth went dry as she peered frantically through the fog. No one else in sight. No one to come to her aid.

‘Only you and me here, lovely,' the man went on with a sneer. ‘Now, what have you got there? A fancy jewel?'

Cameo backed away, the sound of her pulse thudding in her ears. ‘You're mistaken, sir.'

‘Sir, eh? Come on now. Can't mistake quality, even in this fog. There's no missing it. Easy does it. Pass it over.'

‘No, I won't let you have it!'

The smell of ale came from his moist lips as he moved closer. His leer crawled over her, ‘Hoity-toity, aren't you? And as pretty as your jewellery, I see. Now make it easy for yourself.'

He lunged.

‘No!'

Cameo tried to run, but he moved too fast. Thrusting out his leg to block her flight, with greedy fingers he prised at her fist.

‘No! You won't have it!'

‘Be quiet,' the man hissed, his rancid breath on her face. ‘Just let me have it and there won't be any trouble.' With his teeth bared like a dog, his fingers grabbed at her throat.

* * *

Benedict threw back the last of his whisky and went outside. Rain fell. He put up his collar, the cold drops a relief after the warmth of the pub. But it didn't cool his mood.

He rounded for home. He'd only ventured a few steps when he felt a tug on his coat. Pivoting on his heel, he saw the match girl. ‘What is it, Becky? You're out late tonight.'

She tugged at his coat again, pulling him back towards the Lamb. She pointed urgently across the road.

‘What's the matter?' he asked.

A voice cried out through the fog. In the dim lamplight opposite he made out the shape of a woman half-fallen on to the ground, struggling, a man crouched over her.