Passion Wears Pearls (15 page)

“No. Are you suggesting I should be?” she countered.

“I’m saying that you will be before this is over, Miss Beckett, as I’m very content where I am. Now, be still, woman.” The last command was patently playful, and Josiah smiled as he felt her nerves begin to quiet.

Eleanor knew without a single doubt that she would never be used to Josiah Hastings kneeling at her feet, gazing up at her with his mahogany-colored eyes.

“I feel like you’re looking up my nose from down there.” She blurted the words out, blushing miserably.

He laughed, a warm, rich rumbling sound that sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine. “I am
not
looking up your nose. I promise.”

“Well, if you
promise …
” His humor was contagious, and she settled into the strange work of sitting for an artist. The candles behind him dazzled her eyes, pressing stars into her vision so that it was impossible to look anywhere else but at the Adonis perched next to her toes, sketching onto the canvas in broad, graceful strokes. After several minutes, a natural curiosity dictated her choice of conversation.

“When did you first realize that you were an artist?” Eleanor asked.

“Ah! I think it was when I was ten. Our governess had punished me for some transgression—I can’t remember
what I’d done but I’m sure it was well deserved. In any case, I was made to sit in a bare little room until I’d repented. But there was the most remarkable light coming through the old bubbled glass windows onto the floor and the dust was dancing in the beams and it changed.” He smiled at the memory. “It changed and shifted constantly. From one minute to the next, it was like a slow dance of a hundred prisms of light and color and I was mesmerized.”

“I take it you weren’t very quick to repent.”

“I was in there for hours. My governess and my family were convinced I was the most stubborn and willful boy ever born. I was too embarrassed to tell them I’d just lost track of time watching sunbeams track across the room—but an artist was born.”

Eleanor tried to imagine it. Something as simple as a sunbeam was surely a thing she’d seen countless times, but she couldn’t remember ever really noticing it, much less spending any time remarking on its colors or movements. If she’d been punished with her pert little nose in a corner, she’d fumed at cobwebs and tapped her little foot in frustration. “By the way you tell it, you’d have deliberately done your worst to get back to that room.”

“On the contrary,” he said. “Once I saw the light, I found it everywhere! It was—” The joy suddenly drained from his expression.

“It was … ?” she prompted gently.

He shrugged, far too somber for her liking. “A discovery I carried with me, wherever I went.”

“How fortuitous.” It seemed like the thing to say, but she wasn’t sure.

“Don’t move too much, Miss Beckett.”

She caught herself and leaned back as she’d been, and allowed the silence to fill the space between them until his eyes were clear again and the sound of the pencil against the canvas restored the growing connection between them.

Eleanor returned to the inn that evening by carriage, settling into her room as her mind turned over the strange surprises and delights of the day. Conversation with Josiah Hastings was like playing a thrilling game of chess. After an awkward start or two, the hours had flown by and she’d forgotten to fear boring him or saying something wrong. And despite Mrs. Escher’s firm announcement that she wasn’t to be bothered with anything to do with artistic frippery, it was Rita who’d insisted on bringing up a lunch tray and fussed at Josiah for not giving his model any respite breaks.

By the end of the day, the first signs of a routine had emerged, and Eleanor wanted to pinch herself for her luck. There had been nothing scandalous in the process, and even in an evening gown without gloves, she’d come to think that all her fears were groundless.

I have modeled for a painter and am none the worse for it!

He’d covered the canvas with a cloth at the end of the
session, explaining that he would prefer her not to see the work in progress. “An artist’s prerogative, Miss Beckett, to avoid criticism until after the last brushstroke.” Eleanor’s curiosity about the portrait was tantalizing, but she trusted him enough not to push, or peek. After all, she told herself, it hardly mattered whether she approved of the painting or not. The sitting fee would give her almost any future she desired, within reason, of course, and the arrangement even with the wicked red velvet dress was very agreeable.

It was perfect.

Except, there was something about Mr. Hastings that piqued her curiosity. Beyond the obvious fascinations and moral dangers of a wickedly handsome man with a soulful nature and questionable profession, she was convinced that he was shielding something from her, diplomatically avoiding certain topics and steering things away from himself.

There was no Mrs. Hastings. She’d boldly reconfirmed as much with Mrs. Escher while she’d helped her undress back into her day clothes to leave the red gown behind. And while Rita had growled something about him briefly tomcatting like a fool when he’d first gotten back to England with someone by the name of Blackwell, he’d apparently mended his ways and taken to staying home more often than not.

Perhaps he’s addicted to opiates or some terrible tropical vice that has kept him to himself all these months.
But his countenance seemed clear and unblemished to her, and everything Eleanor knew about such things had hinted that those who suffered from such afflictions were marked by it.

Perhaps he’s just—

A knock on the door interrupted the direction of her thoughts, and she went to door, habitually checking to make sure her chignon was secure before opening the portal. “Ah, Mrs. Clay!”

“I took the liberty and brought you up a spot of tea. It’s late for it, but I thought it might warm you up, Miss Beckett.” Mrs. Clay held out her covered tray, and Eleanor very naturally stepped back to allow her dear landlady entrance.

“You spoil me, Mrs. Clay. It was a bit chilly on the ride home tonight. Thank you.”

Mrs. Clay set the tray down on the little table in between the chairs by the fire. “I hope you’re making yourself right at home here.”

“How could I not? Mrs. Clay, the room is delightful.” Eleanor uncovered the tray and almost sighed at the beautiful little biscuits and cream drops on a plate. “Won’t you join me?”

“I will! What a darling you are to think of me!” Mrs. Clay took the seat across from her, and both women settled in for their first official visit. “I’m so glad to hear you say you like the room! I’d started to lament ever finding a lovely tenant who would suit, and then there you were. Tally’s gotten quite fond of you!”

“And I of him, but …”

“There’s a but?” Mrs. Clay finished pouring the tea. “About my Tally?”

“No. Tally is as sweet a boy as you described. My hesitation is … you must tell me how much the rooms cost, Mrs. Clay. I wouldn’t want you to think I was taking advantage or that I am in Mr. Hastings’s keeping.”

“Not at all! You’re a fine lady, Miss Beckett, and I would never be a villain and think ill of you! Not if I had my shoes in a fire!” Mrs. Clay cheerfully dropped five sugar cubes in her cup. “I pride myself on my ability to read a person, and in this business, it has served me well.”

“I know that Mr. Hastings is paying you for my room and board. But I wish to make it clear that he is doing so only out of … a professional courtesy. There is nothing unseemly in the arrangement, Mrs. Clay. I intend to pay him back, you see. I don’t want to be beholden to anyone.”

“What a good girl! Of course you don’t. And I promise, I’ll write up a lovely draft so that you can see every penny.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Clay! That is exactly what I’d hoped.”

“But it can wait, can’t it? You wouldn’t want to bruise a poor man’s ego like that by being too efficient, would you? I know your arrangement is as innocent as apples. Mr.
Hastings was quite firm about the matter when he took the room and knew I ran a respectable house. Miss Beckett, you are the most proper young lady I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet. So don’t you fret! I’ll make sure you have a bill so that Mr. Hastings isn’t out of pocket and all will be well.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Clay.” Eleanor felt a little better but suspected that Mrs. Clay’s idea of a lovely draft might not match the amount that Josiah was paying—since the woman clearly was in on his scheme to keep her oblivious to her living expenses. “May I ask … how long have you known Mr. Hastings, Mrs. Clay?”

“Hmm, let me see.” Mrs. Clay sipped at her tea to consider the question. “I knew of him years ago, but only because there’d been a bit of a splash in the papers. Nothing unseemly! But the story was lively enough to catch my eye and I remember remarking to my husband that I’d remember the name Hastings for it!”

“What was the story?”

Mrs. Clay laughed. “He’d done a portrait for some rich old titled goat, and when there was a house fire, the owner had grabbed his nightcap, a stuffed trophy of a pheasant, and the painting of himself! Out the man ran, only to realize he’d entirely forgotten to put on a single piece of clothing! But there he was, holding his portrait to hide his altogether on one side and a feathered bird to cover his backside—and well, I’ll confess it, I still get the giggles when I recall it in the
Times
.”

“How infamous!”

“It was! And when I met Mr. Hastings some time after that, well, I knew I’d never forget him for a much better reason.”

“And what was that?” Eleanor asked, completely intrigued.

“I had a dear friend who had a market stall over near Whitehall. And one day, while a group of very well-heeled gentlemen were strolling by, her entire cart was overturned onto the road. I was there, just by chance, and saw them all
start to laugh and mock us on our knees scrambling to pick up her goods. It was her livelihood in the mud, but all they saw was two silly women in a panic, ruining our petticoats and looking for all the world like sodden rats.”

“That’s terrible!” Eleanor exclaimed.

“It was, indeed. But then, there he was. Every inch the young gentleman himself in a silk blue coat, if memory serves, dressing down those fools for being so coldhearted, and then he lifted the cart and began to help, as if it were every day for a man to squat in the muck and pick up rags and lacework.”

That sounds exactly like the man I met behind Madame Claremont’s—except for the silk blue coat. His clothes are plain, at best, and all so dark!

“I made a point of getting his name and was so delighted to think I knew the artist from that article!” Mrs. Clay continued, setting her teacup down. “I told him about the Grove and he’s been good to stop by now and again. And when he came back from India, he introduced Mr. Rutherford, who was in need of a home, and the rest is as you’ve seen.”

It was far more information than she’d had before. It was the second mention of India, tantalizing and exotic, but Eleanor wasn’t sure how to press for more details without appearing far too interested for the wrong reasons. Asking Mr. Hastings himself would be the proper course, if her nerves held for it.

“That’s quite a story, Mrs. Clay.”

“You’re almost out of coal!” Mrs. Clay exclaimed, starting to rise.

“Oh, please don’t bother yourself,” Eleanor said. “I saw what a full dining room you have tonight and there’s some in the bottom of the bucket to see me through until tomorrow.”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Clay yanked the bellpull vigorously. “You’ll catch your death in this weather if you don’t stay ahead of it. And as for the crowd below, I agree, and probably better to stay above stairs and eat here if you would.
I’ve a French theatrical dance troupe in the house, of all things! Decent artistic performances only, but still—I can’t tell ballet from ballyhoo, so I’ve given them quite a firm speech on minding themselves. Mr. Clay, rest his soul, had a soft spot in his heart for theatre people and so I occasionally let them come if they have references and can pay in advance. One can never be too careful, Miss Beckett, with entertainers and gypsies.”

“I suppose not.” Eleanor was a bit bemused at the idea of this down-to-earth landlady befriending painters and providing a haven to colorful circus performers and wandering minstrels. “I’ve never met a gypsy.”

“Mr. Clay, rest his soul, when he was deep in his cups, used to claim to be a distant relation to a gypsy king, but I think it was a bit of wishful dreaming on his part, for I don’t think the man ever went north of Old Street Road in his entire life. So I think he envied them their freedom a little.” She set her cup down to take two of the biscuits. “But why travel when the inn brings a world of travelers to me? That’s what I always said to cheer him, and it always seemed to work.”

There was a quiet knock before Tally came in, shyly bringing more coal. Then to Eleanor’s astonishment, he wiggled his fingers and made odd little gestures with his hands as Mrs. Clay nodded in comprehension. “Yes, dear. I’ll tend to Mr. Reeves. That man’s far too quick to fuss!”

“He spoke with his hands?”