Passion Wears Pearls (3 page)

“He’s a barrister and Father says he’s the fiercest debater in all of Britain.”

“Mr. Lawson said he’d never seen a man bellow a court into submission like our dear Mr. Tupman! But you should see him around Claudia!” Mrs. Lawson began to thumb through the fashion plates, sorting through her choices. “He’s as mild as a cucumber sandwich.”

Claudia blushed on cue, then shyly looked up through her lashes. “When he called on me, I told him I was far too quiet to interest him … but he said he likes the quiet for a change.”

Mrs. Lawson was beaming and stood up to come forward to squeeze her daughter’s arm. “He
adores
you!” She looked at Eleanor. “He truly does! I thought it a ridiculous notion at first, he was such a growling thing and far too rough for my sweet girl. But the man is putty in her hands, and I’ve never seen a more dramatic change. I swear he starts to stutter every time she pouts.”

“I do not pout!” Claudia protested softly, her bottom lip betraying her argument as it jutted out in a pink bow. “And Samuel is always well spoken.”

Mrs. Lawson awarded Eleanor with a conspiratorial wink but held her peace.

Eleanor stepped back to let them admire the drape of the satin. “He sounds delightful, Miss Lawson, and how lucky he is to have you. See? You’ll be the envy of every woman in England!”

A lump formed in her throat at the tender scene. What woman didn’t wish for it? To be the choice of a man with a good future ahead of him and to know yourself adored and cared for? She had always assumed that her own plans would include having her choice of a husband and one day standing on a dais and being fitted for her new trousseau. There’d been a huge dowry and every luxury in her life—including an education to prepare for the management of a home.

But it wasn’t the loss of fortunes and luxuries that stung now.

She missed her parents. She grieved their deaths and the death of her dreams. She would never stand with her mother at her back and see herself in a wedding dress or sit with her father and read aloud his favorite books.

Gone, all of it. Like a dream. So strange and stupid to imagine myself before—content and sure that nothing would change unless I wished it to.

“Miss Beckett? Are you unwell?” Mrs. Lawson’s well-meaning question abruptly brought her back to the present.

“I’m fine, I just—”

Madame Claremont cut her off as she swept in from the doorway. “She is just overly warm from sitting so close to the stove. Refresh yourself, Miss Beckett, and I will finish attending the Lawsons and gather the details of their order.”

The dismissal was too curt and firm to argue against in front of customers, and Eleanor was forced to retreat from the dressing room while Madame Claremont skillfully distracted the ladies with a flourish of ribbons and feather samples.

Too warm, indeed! I can’t feel my fingers, you cruel bird!

Bridgette passed her in the narrow hallway with the promised tea tray and gave her a smug look. “The red velvet gown is waiting for you on your worktable, miss. But madame said to be sure to tell you to check first with the others to see if they needed a hand with their appointments. She said you had all the time you needed for the day’s work ahead, so you could spare a hand with ours.”

“Did she?” Eleanor bit off the sarcastic question, aware that antagonizing Bridgette would gain her nothing.

“She did. But then, I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”

“Why ever not?” Eleanor hesitated, dreading the girl’s answer.

“Because”—Bridgette’s smile was slow and frightening—“red becomes you.” And with that, she continued on her way with a wicked saunter.

“Any more candles and you’ll start a house fire, sir.”

The houseman’s acerbic comment lacked bite as he
gingerly added another candelabra to the table at his employer’s bidding. It audibly anchored onto the table with a wet
squish
, sinking into a quarter of an inch of melted wax as it joined dozens of other candlesticks and platforms all covered in candles of every height and width, all demonstrating proof of Josiah Hastings’s eccentric demands for more and more light.

Josiah smiled. He’d hired the old man and his wife after returning to England, his wariness of servants and being seen as taking on airs yielding to their stubborn and incessant kindness. “I have a bucket of water and ash at the ready, Mr. Escher, and every confidence that you’d be at my elbow before I could sound an alarm.”

“Right you are, sir.” The affirmation rang with gruff pride as Mr. Escher left to return to his living quarters on the third floor, two levels below them. Josiah’s apartments encompassed the top two floors of the brick building that had once served as a furniture maker’s small factory and home. He’d bought the building and converted it for his own purposes as an art studio for his painting on the uppermost floor and a home below. The first two floors were abandoned, a fact that drove his friend Michael Rutherford insane with worry. Michael retained a soldier’s strategic view of the world, and Josiah often jibed that the poor man thought of the defensibility of a host’s parlor long before he bothered to notice the carpets.

But Josiah had had no interest in walls of security that would shield him from the world and no fear of its inhabitants. Surviving imprisonment in India had stripped away his regard for what he now considered minor threats like burglars, cutthroats, and assassins. The group of Englishmen who’d escaped that prison together with rags on their backs and jewels in their pockets in a ridiculous twist of fate—none of them looked at their world the same way they once had.

Time changes a man. Well, time and a few months of eating mush and brackish water.

Even so, recent events had forced him to accept that the
time for complacency had vanished. Ashe’s wife had nearly died from poison intended for her husband—a direct attack on the Jaded that Rowan had narrowly averted. As of now, their plan to flush out their unknown enemy was close to execution. They had delayed only for Rowan’s wedding, but as it stood, all of the men were anxious to see things under way.

He turned his attention back to the canvas on the easel next to the table. In practiced movements that had the solemnity of ritual, he cinched his waist with an apron and tied his long hair back with a strip of leather from his pocket. The additional candles gave the blank space a compelling glow even with the afternoon sunlight pouring in through the room’s large multipaned windows. The smell of linseed oil and paint beckoned, and he retrieved a paintbrush from the bowl. The heft and diameter of it was comforting to him.

Very well, Hastings. Hell, let’s paint a stick-figure dog and call it a triumph, but by all means, let’s paint something, shall we?

Josiah Hastings closed his eyes and waited as the natural gray and black that danced there had settled into a reasonable calm slate that gave his imagination reign. Each deep breath was an invitation to inspiration, and he tried to be patient as nothing more than watery shadows of stale landscapes marched through his mind’s eye.

He sighed.

Come on. If ever a man needed a divine push …

But nothing came. He opened his eyes again, disgusted at the elusive chase. For weeks and months, he’d found nothing to stir his soul and provide the courage he needed to paint. Josiah ran a hand over his eyes. “Gray, gray, gray. How is it even possible that all a man can think of and perceive in the world is gray?”

“Would a change of scenery help, perhaps?” Rowan West answered unexpectedly from the doorway.

Josiah wheeled around, nearly knocking over his canvas’s frame. “Are you gifting people with heart attacks this afternoon?”

“I apologize. I never blink when my friends stroll into my library, so my social graces have grown rusty.” The good doctor began to shrug out of his coat. “We’re turning into hooligans, Hastings.”

Josiah had to smile since it was all too true. The members of the small circle known as the Jaded had a terrible habit of informality and access to each other’s lives. Rowan’s study was like a hub for meetings and conversations, and they thought nothing of arriving or calling unannounced whenever need dictated. None of them bothered with the restrictions of etiquette or class when those rules threatened their bonds. The men were like brothers, and as a result, easily forgot things like knocking before entering.

Rowan laid his coat over a chair by the door. “Is this the immoral den of a painter? It looks just like an ordinary workshop, Josiah. Or does your man hide the empty liquor bottles and escort naked women into cupboards when you have guests?”

“Very funny. If Escher had time to do that, I’d expect him to have time to let me know that I had a guest in the first place.”

“Don’t blame him. I caught him on the stairs, and since you’ve no bell below, I told him it wasn’t worth the trouble.” Rowan walked over to the table, then stopped at a respectable distance. “It’s the middle of the day, Hastings. Is there a reason you’ve got three dozen candles blazing in a room with afternoon sunlight pouring through the windows?”

“I’m experimenting with light.” Josiah sounded defensive, even to his own ears, but he disliked being surprised and was instantly wary. “Was there a reason for this call? Has something happened?”

Rowan shook his head. “No. As far as I know, we’re all safe and sound. Ashe is drafting the notice for the
Times
, with Michael’s help, and then we’ll meet when it’s finished to discuss how to best proceed.”

The plan was simple enough. They were going to respond to the anonymous villain who was stalking them by publicly challenging him in the newspapers. The time was
fast approaching when the Jaded would take their futures into their own hands instead of hiding from the shadows. The treasures they’d stolen from their Indian warlord’s hold during their escape had done more than provide for safe passage home to England. The gems had given each man a solid fortune and the security to build a new life for himself.

What they hadn’t anticipated was that anyone would notice or care enough about a few handfuls of stones to cause all this grief. …

“I’m painting, Dr. West. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m … busy.” It was a ridiculous thing to say. He was a man standing in front of a blank canvas without a single thought of what he was doing, but Josiah wasn’t going to confess it. He was far too stubborn to admit that his battles had less to do with muses and more to do with the gray that pooled behind his eyes.

Rowan pointedly ignored him. “Odd, isn’t it? It’s a divine act, this quest for spiritual inspiration and the conveyance of beauty. The subjects I’ve seen at the museum seem lofty enough. So why is it that painters are seen as scandalous more often than not?”

“You mean, if we are instruments of the Maker looking to capture truth and beauty on canvas, how is it our reputations are so wretched?”

“Exactly.”

“I cannot say. Something to do with society’s dismay at our proximity to naked women for endless hours.” Josiah recrossed his arms. “Granted, it’s acceptable to look at a painting and appreciate a womanly form for a few fleeting moments, so there’s the irony. It has something to do with the limits of time.”

Rowan laughed. “So if I look at a painting of a naked nymph cavorting about, I’m an art lover. But if you spend weeks creating that same painting, you’re a pervert?”

“Precisely.” Josiah deliberately held his ground, waiting again for Rowan to either reveal his true purpose or give up the game and leave. “Are you here to commission a portrait or just to harass a friend?”

“The latter. I can’t stop a growing concern about you from crowding my thoughts and—”

“You’re newly married, Rowan, and blissfully so, if even my stern Mrs. Escher has heard tales enough to make her sigh about the house. Your thoughts should be completely occupied by your new wife, unless I’ve misunderstood the institution.”

Rowan was a man on a mission. “Even so, Josiah, I’m not oblivious. Something’s wrong. You didn’t come to the wedding.”

“I sent flowers.” Josiah briefly wondered if he should call for Escher to force Rowan’s visit to come to a close. “Travel doesn’t agree with me these days, and I had things to do in the city.”

“Travel doesn’t
agree
with you? Are you ninety? Josiah, you’ve not been yourself and it’s hardly like you to—”

“Go back to your bride, Dr. West.”

“I’ll go when I’m ready, Hastings. When we returned to England, you were as cavalier as Ashe and as easygoing. But something has changed. You’ve become guarded and reclusive.”

“I haven’t been in the mood for company. It’s not a crime.”

“Josiah. I brought my bag. Let me have a look at you.”

The world seemed to hold its breath with Josiah as he realized that his dear friend was not backing down. “No.”

“Whenever we gather, you’re … tired. You lay about and cover your eyes as if your head is troubling you, and I would think you’d overindulged in some bacchanalian artistic frenzy, except that isn’t like you. And you’re not hung over.”

“Aren’t I?”

“No. I’m a physician, Hastings. I can spot a drunkard from fifty paces off, and you—I think there are monks that have more vices. You aren’t hung over, but you’re pretending to be whenever the others are around. What in the world would make a man do such a thing and risk his reputation so callously?”