Passion Wears Pearls (34 page)

A lump formed in her throat; the image of Maggie standing on the sidewalk in her garishly bright clothes adrift in the world had nearly broken her heart.
There but for the grace of God, go I.

“Eleanor?” He caught her hand. “What happened?”

“I saw Margaret from Madame Claremont’s on the street. She was the shop girl that you were kind to the day you rescued me. She is … living by her wits, Josiah. She is … the mirror of the life I might have been forced to have. Worse, I couldn’t help but ask what makes me any better? I’ve sold myself to—”

“No.” He cut her off softly. “No, I won’t have it, Eleanor. You were neither bought nor sold, and I won’t have you casting yourself in that light. What’s between us has nothing to do with commerce, damn it!” He pulled her to him,
his grip on her shoulders firm and commanding. “Look at me, Eleanor. Look at me and tell me that you feel nothing for me and that all of this has been some kind of show.”

She shook her head slowly. “I can’t.”

“Tell me that you are misused or unhappy. Tell me that I compelled you to ruin and that you don’t long for my touch, even now. Can you do that?”

“I can’t.” The warmth of his fingers seared her flesh and awakened an answering heat inside of her.

“Then pity your friend, Eleanor, and be generous to her, if you wish. But don’t ever think for a single moment that there is an echo of you in her. You’d have drowned yourself in the Thames, God forbid, before you’d have fallen into the life she’s chosen. I know you well enough to know that for certain.”

Her eyes filled with tears. It was a wretched truth.

“And here is another thing for certain, my dear Eleanor.” He bent over to kiss the crest of her cheekbone and then trailed the magic of his lips against her skin over to her ear, where he whispered, “I could not live in a world that didn’t have one impossible beauty named Beckett. I’ll march down to Hades to rescue you if I have to, woman. But this isn’t ruin, Eleanor.”

A moan escaped her lips at the fires he evoked inside of her and the petulant hunger that stirred to demand more of his kisses.

If it isn’t ruin, then what is it?

“Give me a moment to wrestle with my nerves, Mr. Hastings.” Eleanor didn’t budge from her perch on the carriage seat. “My courage is failing me, sir.”

“Nonsense!” he chided her gently. “Just remember that this is your doing. You were the one who seemed disappointed I wasn’t showing it.” They had arrived together at friends of Josiah’s for an impromptu evening gathering to unveil her portrait. Salon parties were notoriously varied in attendance and lively social affairs. It was out of season and Josiah knew it would be a small event. He’d given his host carte blanche on the invitations with only one name added by Josiah on a whim.

Wisdom aside, if Keller shows, I’ll kick him in the shins myself.

But he doubted chemistry magnates bothered with art showings and didn’t expect any satisfaction. Instead, the evening would be about the two of them. Josiah wanted to please her by giving her a taste for the finer things and to allow himself the selfish indulgence of a public outing and the
fantasy that all was right in his world. It was a dream that wouldn’t last, but Josiah was too stubborn to let it go. He held out his hand to help her down from the carriage, smiling at the picture she presented of feminine allure and terror.

“You’re right.” She smiled but didn’t quite manage to unclench her hands from themselves in her lap. “You’re sure this is just a … friendly gathering.”

“Completely! Mr. Wall bought my first painting and is known for his lively and varied salon guests. No one will raise an eyebrow in this company! I’ve seen ballerinas sitting next to bishops and animal tamers trading philosophical arguments with reformists. Trust me, your elegant manners will stand you in good stead in a drawing room or a palace. There is nothing to fear.”

She took his hand, alighting from the carriage step gracefully to stand beside him. In a gesture that warmed him to his core, she’d yielded to his wishes and worn the infamous red velvet, aware of the theatrical presentation they would make and the stir it would cause. “Easy for you to say, Josiah. I’ve never heard you express a single fear of your own.”

“That’s because you banish them all, my dear Miss Beckett.” He leaned over, using the guise of readjusting her coat’s mantle to whisper against the sensitive white curve of her ear, “You’re a goddess, Eleanor.”

“Mr. Hastings! What a shocking thing to say!”

His arm pulled her against him, tucking her up against the warm wall of his chest. “Not at all. And since your followers are about to increase, I’d say that was a prophetic thing to say, woman.”

She pushed away from him as they reached the door, blushing but clearly pleased at the flattery.

“Ah! Here is the man of the hour!” Mr. Wall greeted them, enthusiastically pumping Josiah’s arm until it ached. Gus was as round as he was tall, and a comical figure, considering his complete lack of reserve—in all things. “Every name you gave me is here with bells on. You’ve sold it already, Hastings!”

“It’s not for sale, Mr. Wall.”

“I know, you wicked man, which is making the price absolutely scandalous as my guests fight to convince you otherwise! Very clever, Hastings, very clever—but who is this? Is it possible you have brought the delectable and original Lady in Red to my home?”

“I have. Miss Eleanor Beckett, may I introduce our host, Mr. Augustine Wall.” Josiah watched with pride as Gus fell into spasms of excitement at the thrill of meeting the portrait’s subject.

“Miss Beckett, you are a dream to behold! You are my guest of honor!”

Eleanor shyly tried to demur. “It is Mr. Hastings who has that place, sir. I couldn’t possibly think to—”

“Nonsense! Never argue with a man who is eternally correct and wise! Now, come, escape Mr. Hastings’s selfish hold on your arm and come meet my wife and allow her the pleasure of showing you off to our jealous friends and dangerous acquaintances!” He tucked Eleanor’s hand into the crook of his arm and led her away.

“But Mr. Hastings—” she began to protest weakly.

“He will have to survive without you for a time. After all, once everyone has seen the Lady in Red, the bidding will become even more frenetic, and Hastings will thank you for it.” Mr. Wall was like a general commanding an army, and Eleanor had no choice but to brace herself for the social games ahead without Josiah at her side.

Mrs. Wall was equally eccentric and lively, making the pair both delightful and frightening from Eleanor’s perspective. She was as thin and tall as her husband was stout and portly, but Mrs. Wall was just as loud and talkative. Every social rule she’d ever memorized was apparently ill applied when it came to the Walls and their salon. It was all Eleanor could do to keep from laughing and simply hang on as she was whisked from introduction to introduction.

Elegantly appointed with marble floors, it was a large room clearly designed as a private performance hall. Tonight it was transformed with clusters of sofas and chairs throughout into a vast conversation area, with servants
offering refreshments and a small trio of musicians playing from a far corner they’d been banished into. For the dais where they would normally perform held a gilt easel with Josiah’s painting displayed for all to see.

It was distracting to see herself there in oil paints, brazen and proud, while strangers stood around and openly admired her. The terror that had paralyzed her in the carriage threatened to return, but Mrs. Wall at her side was an unstoppable force, and she caught sight of Josiah across the room, and the calm quiet of his gaze soothed her nerves.

“Have you met the Lady in Red?” Mrs. Wall was asking yet another guest. Eleanor was desperate to ask her to stop using such a scandalous name, but she wasn’t sure how to politely suggest that she had a proper name like every other woman in the room and would prefer that Mrs. Wall use it.

“Ah! Dear lady! My husband has fallen in love with you and was just threatening to throw me off if you truly existed!” The lady laughed, as if losing husbands were cause for celebration.

“Mrs. Buchard!” Mrs. Wall clapped her hands, adding to the jest. “Bertram will faint at the sight of her beauty and that’s an end to it!”

“Poor man, you are undoubtedly right.” Mrs. Buchard sighed. “But how thrilling to meet the model! Aren’t you a pretty bird?”

Eleanor did her best to tamp down her ire at being addressed like an ignorant object. “I am no classic beauty, Mrs. Buchard, but I am pleased that you find Mr. Hastings’s interpretation enjoyable. He labored tirelessly on the piece and I was merely honored to contribute what I could.”

Mrs. Buchard gasped. “Oh my! Why you’re no street bird! What a lovely little speech and so refined!” She smiled, patting Eleanor on the hand like a child. “I apologize. You must tell me your name!”

“Eleanor Beckett,” she supplied, relieved to finally be on familiar footing with her manners intact.

“Miss Beckett, I vow you’ll be the toast of London next Season!” Mrs. Buchard proclaimed.

“And I will have the singular right to boast that I was the first to have you on a guest list,” Mrs. Wall crowed.

“I wouldn’t wish to rob you of your triumph, Mrs. Wall, but I have no intention of … participating in the social season. It would be completely inappropriate!” Eleanor began to explain, convinced that if they knew of her lack of family they would retreat from the subject.

“Nonsense. There is nothing the peerage love more than being inappropriate,” Mrs. Buchard said firmly. “Bertram is an authority on being inappropriate, and our social calendar is exhausting. Exhausting, Miss Beckett! But his cousin is one of Her Majesty’s favorite ladies in waiting, and I will impress upon her the significance of our discovery so that the lady can make mention of it in court.”

“Your discovery?” Eleanor asked, lost at the turn in the conversation and unsure of where it was heading.

“The Prince Consort is an avid supporter of the arts, and once we have Mr. Hastings’s latest work pushed under his nose—well, who’s to say that I didn’t discover him?”

“Mr. Wall may beat you to it, Mrs. Buchard!” Mrs. Wall protested. “You wicked thing!”

A man in an evening coat and dark gray clothes cleared his throat behind the women, and Mrs. Wall recalled her hostess’s duties.

“May I introduce you to Mr. Thomas Keller? He is the most serious and humorless young man in London, but terribly clever! His family’s fortunes are recently made in the business of apothecaries, of all outlandish things! This lovely woman is Miss Eleanor Beckett, and I am just newly acquainted with her as a guest of Hastings, but I could not be remiss in sharing her!” Mrs. Wall said merrily. “Now, won’t you exchange small talk while I excuse myself and Mrs. Buchard to chase down some more wine?”

“Of course,” Mr. Keller replied before Eleanor could think of an appropriate excuse to prevent Mrs. Wall from leaving them alone.

Keller. He is so much younger than I imagined him, but for all my brave talk, now that I’m faced with the villain
who ruined my father, all I want to do is escape before I empty my stomach on the man’s shoes.

“M-Mr. Keller, I … am not one for small talk. I apologize—” she began.

“You. Miss Beckett, is it in fact you? Eleanor Beckett?”

It was an unexpected question that caught her off guard. “I suppose I am.”

“I overheard you give your name and I couldn’t believe the hand of Fate would allow it. Our fathers did business together, I believe, and I can tell by your expression that there is nothing of the worrying matter you are not already familiar with.” His voice was low, but gentle, and his face reflected true concern at her distress. “My father died two months ago and I only just learned of his—misdeeds. I made inquiries on Orchard Street, but you had effectively disappeared.”

“You made inquiries? Whatever for?” she asked.

“To apologize and to see if there was any chance for amends.”

Her mouth fell open slightly in shock. “Truly?”

“I know it seems unlikely, but I had prayed that we would meet. My father spent a lifetime in ruthless pursuit of profit, in neglect of his character. I was in pursuit of a degree in religious studies when I was called to London to his bedside.”

“He confessed to you what he did?”

Thomas’s eyes reflected a terrible sadness. “No, Miss Beckett. He was proud to the end of his financial legacy. But in his final delirium, he did say something odd about your father, about how the most brilliant are the easiest to trick, and I had my first clue. After he’d passed, I had the accountants begin to dig and the legal documents spoke for themselves.”

The most brilliant are the easiest to trick. Father was the cleverest man I ever knew.

“I am sorry for your loss. I should have said it before, but …” Eleanor reached out to touch his sleeve, a small gesture of comfort. “We are orphans together, then, Mr. Keller.”

“I swear to you, Miss Beckett, I had nothing to do with my father’s business.”

She smiled. “It seems not. And I’m glad for your peace of mind that you didn’t. What little I’ve gleaned about their partnership has been unsettling, sir, and frankly, once the lawyers had their way, I was almost glad to be done with it all.”