The City’s most successful financier smiled indulgently at his daughter. “Sebastian and I have just been going over the settlement and, as one would expect, he has been exceedingly generous, as have I. Not only are you to be a countess, my dear, but you will be an exceedingly wealthy one. See that you use it well, for that wealth, combined with your beauty and grace will soon put the world at your feet.”
“Yes, Papa.” Barbara’s eyes sparkled at the prospect. A bewitching dimple flashed at the corner of her mouth as she tossed a challenging look at her betrothed. “But I will count myself fortunate if my husband is at my feet. I know how you City men are, spending all your time making fortunes and none of it enjoying them. When I become Countess of Charrington I mean to make sure that both of you are seen as often at Almack’s and in the ballrooms of the
ton
as you are on the Exchange, and I shall be the very picture of fashion.”
“You are now, my dear.”
“Papa, you
know
I am not.” His daughter regarded Sir Richard with indulgent exasperation. “One is not the picture of fashion unless one is born to the Upper Ten Thousand, or marries into it.” She smiled at Sebastian, whose mind suddenly seem to have wandered elsewhere.
“Picture.” He murmured and then hastily banished the image of a thoughtful face framed by masses of flyaway golden hair. “A picture is just the thing to celebrate our betrothal. I shall commission a portrait of you as a wedding present.”
“Splendid.” Barbara clapped her hands in delight. “Sir Thomas Lawrence is a neighbor of ours, so it will be no trouble at all.”
“Actually, I had not been thinking of Lawrence.”
“Not thinking of Lawrence?” The look of delight faded from his fiancée’s face. “But there is no one else. He has done likenesses of the prince regent. Lord Castlereagh and the queen and ...”
“Lawrence is all very well for solemn portraits of elder statesmen and pompous peers, but there is someone new whose pictures of women at the Royal Academy exhibition were most captivating. It is a C. A. Manners, whose portrait of Lady Cowper was so lifelike that one almost felt that it was alive and breathing. In fact, there were portraits of several Almack’s patronesses—Lady Cowper and Princess Esterhazy I remember quite distinctly. Surely,” Sebastian raised a quizzical eyebrow, “you would not object to finding yourself among that illustrious company?”
“No,
but...”
Knowing he had caught her attention, Sebastian continued persuasively, “In fact, now that I consider it, you do bear a remarkable resemblance to Lady Cowper though your complexion is far more delicate and your figure far more elegant—both of which will be portrayed to their utmost advantage by Manners, who seems to have a knack for capturing the very essence of his subjects.
“Besides, if one aspires to a premier position in the
ton,
it is always better to set a trend than to follow one. Everyone commissions a portrait by Lawrence; Manners, on the other hand, is still being discovered. You will have your chance to make him all the rage, which will only redound to your credit.”
Sebastian knew the weakness of his wife-to-be. At the mention of Almack’s most celebrated patronesses, the stubborn look vanished, and as he pointed out the possibility of setting a fashion, the sparkle returned to Barbara’s eyes and the smile to her lips. “If you agree, I shall call on Emily Cowper and find out C. A. Manners’s direction from her.”
That settled it. Sebastian’s obvious familiarity with one of the beau monde’s fashionable arbiters made the choice unarguable, and the very thought of having something in common with Lady Cowper was irresistible. “Very well, then.” Barbara relented.
“Never mind, Puss,” her father interjected. “A woman as beautiful as my daughter—and a countess, besides—cannot have too many portraits painted of her. When you are married, my dear, I shall ask Sir Thomas to paint you in your court dress, and you will see your portrait hold pride of place in the Academy’s exhibition.”
Completely satisfied, Barbara thanked her fiancé very prettily and Sebastian, having finished his business in Russell Square, picked up his hat and gloves and prepared to take his leave after promising to escort his betrothed to C. A. Manners’s studio once he had learned its direction. “And I feel certain that once he has seen you, Mr. Manners will drop all his commissions to paint the most beautiful woman in London.” Sebastian bowed low over his fiancée’s hand.
Accepting her due, Barbara smiled graciously.
Another bow, and Sebastian was off to the City, making a mental note to call on Lady Cowper.
Chapter Two
Unaware of the impending honor about to be bestowed on a relatively unknown artist, C. A. Manners, clad in a paint-daubed smock, was frowning thoughtfully at a half-finished portrait that held pride of place in the artist’s Golden Square studio.
“Something about the jaw is not quite right,” she muttered thoughtfully, tilting her head to scrutinize the image from another angle.
“I fail to understand why you are wasting your time agonizing over infinitesimal details,” a voice spoke from a sofa that was nearly obscured by the blank canvases leaning against it.
“Oh do give over, Neville,” Cecilia turned to regard her brother with an exasperated sigh.
Neville Manners, the eighth Marquess of Shelburne, who was draped along the sofa, his long legs dangling over one end, as he leisurely scanned
The Sporting Magazine,
looked up from his reading. “I shall not give over as long as you remain so ridiculously obstinate. It is bad enough that you insist upon painting portraits at all, but to waste your time on a brewer? It is not at all the thing.”
“Sir Jasper is a very
wealthy
brewer. And he is paying most handsomely for the privilege of being immortalized by me. Furthermore, he has a wife and several daughters whose portraits would add considerable charm to the sumptuous furnishings in either his mansion in Hanover Square or his elegant villa at Richmond. What you consistently fail to realize, Neville, is that these pictures you sneer at pay for the coats you purchase from Weston and boots from Hoby—not to mention snuffboxes from Fribourg and Treyer and cravats by the score, in addition to all the numerous household expenses you consider too plebeian even to contemplate.” His sister’s voice was calm enough, but it was clear from the militant sparkle in her hazel eyes and the stubborn set of her jaw that this was a topic that had been discussed numerous times before without hope of an amicable resolution.
“Expenses that you are pleased to point out at every opportunity,” her brother replied. “And as
I
have told you times out of mind, you are concerning yourself over nothing. Paying tradesmen’s bills is simply bad
ton.
And painting portraits for a living, for someone in our circle, is simply not done, especially if they are portraits of vulgar Cits.”
“In our circle?
Most people who have lost an entire fortune have the good sense not to try to continue to move
in our circle
as you call it. Most people would adopt the simple expedient of retiring to their estate in the country or removing themselves to the Continent.”
A barely perceptible shudder shook the Marquess of Shelburne’s well-knit but lanky frame. “Rustication is not my style, and the only habitable place on the Continent is Paris, where everything is just as dear as it is in London. Besides, though they may have tailors equal to ours, their bootmakers and their horses are decidedly inferior.”
“We could have returned to Naples.”
“That
backwater?” Neville was horrified.
“Papa did not call it so.”
“And that is hardly a recommendation for a place. The Pater held some very ramshackle notions about places, indeed—as most people who knew him would undoubtedly agree.”
“Well, I do not agree. And I do not think it was a backwater, either. There was more culture to be had there, more interesting conversations—especially at Sir William’s—more people of intellectual curiosity than any I have yet had the pleasure to enjoy here.”
“Hamilton,” her brother scoffed. “Now there was another ramshackle fellow. Artists and grave robbers grubbing around Pompeii like common laborers, and Sir William was the worst of the lot. No, it is far better to be here where I can be tolerably amused, where we’re among people of our own kind, and where we can find you a husband worthy of your heritage. If, that is, you would stop burying yourself in this wretched studio with your paints and your canvases and behave like the gentlewoman you are, by cultivating the acquaintance of the proper sort of people instead of people like
him.”
Neville indicated the half-finished portrait of Sir Jasper with a derogatory wave of his hand.
“Do let up, Neville, you—” his sister began, only to be interrupted by a soft knock at the door.
“Begging your pardon, my lady, but Mr. Tredlow said to bring this to you right away, as it looks rather important.” The fresh-faced young maid held out a silver salver on which lay a note addressed, in a dashing masculine script, to Mr. C. A. Manners.
“Thank you, Susan.” Barely glancing at the impressive seal, Cecilia tore the note open with little ceremony and, oblivious to the crest embossed on the heavy cream-colored paper, scanned it hastily. “There, Neville, you may rest more easily now, since my new patronage is bound to be rather more to your liking. This is from the Earl of Charrington asking for a moment of my time this afternoon to discuss the commissioning of his fiancée’s portrait.”
An impish smile hovered at the corner of Cecilia’s mouth as she read further. “He says he got my direction from Lady Cowper, and from the way he is addressing me, it is clear that she has failed to enlighten him as to the gender of C. A. Manners. A very clever woman is Emily Cowper, and a very useful friend indeed.”
“Charrington, eh?” Neville rose to his considerable height, yawning hugely as he stepped over his discarded magazine and headed toward the door. “A step up from Sir Jasper, to be sure, and of a good enough family, but hardly the best of
ton.
He is rich as Croesus, they say, but unfortunately, he actually earned his own fortune.”
“Earned it? How novel. How did he do that?”
“Lord, I don’t know. Whatever one does to earn money.” The heavy sarcasm in his sister’s tone was utterly lost on Neville. “Speculation in something, I suppose—the consols, annuities—I have no idea and even less interest. The man is the very devil with cards and there is no doubt that he is a very clever fellow. Bit of a rum touch, though.”
“Rum touch?
Why? What do you mean?”
“How should I know?” Neville’s handsome features twisted into an exasperated grimace. “You are the one who is forever prosing on about studying character and all. All I mean is that a man who has as much blunt as Charrington does ought to be enjoying himself—ought to be at Newmarket or race meetings or following the fancy, or
something
amusing—not wasting his time in the City with as dull a set of fellows as ever drew breath. A bit high in the instep, he is—not particular cronies with anyone. They say his father lost his fortune and killed himself; perhaps it put a permanent damper on his spirits.” Neville opened the door. “At any rate, he is bound to pay you handsomely for whatever he asks of you. I wish you joy of him, and now I am going to Tatt’s.”
And with that parting shot, he slammed the door behind him leaving his sister prey to a host of uneasy feelings—not the least of which was wondering how much her brother was likely to squander at the most famous equestrian haunt in all of England, if not the world. For it went without saying that Neville could never go anywhere, especially to Tattersall’s, without parting with a good deal of
the ready,
as he so casually referred to it.
Sighing heavily, Cecilia returned to her painting. At least her reputation seemed to be growing, if the Earl of Charrington’s note was anything to go by. Commissions were trickling in at an increasingly steady rate, largely thanks to the exhibit at the Royal Academy, where she had been fortunate enough to display her portrait of Lady Cowper, among others. And perhaps the Earl of Charrington, rum touch though he might be, would be sufficiently impressed by her portrayal of his fiancée that he would recommend her to his wealthy friends, even if they were a dull set of fellows. She just prayed that the future Countess of Charrington was sufficiently pretty that her portrait would be worthy of favorable comment.
In fact, Cecilia was still working steadily on Sir Jasper’s portrait several hours later when Tredlow came to inform her that the Earl of Charrington and his fiancée had arrived.
“Oh Lord!” She cast a horrified glance in the looking glass that hung over the mantel. If anything, her smock was even more paint-spattered than it had been earlier when her brother had been surveying it with critical eyes, and the tendrils of golden hair that had escaped from the knot at the back of her head were now curling wildly about her face. There was nothing she could do about her hair in such a short space of time, but she hastily untied her smock, dumping it unceremoniously over a nearby stool, and did her best to smooth out the falling lace collar that was the only ornamentation on her simple round robe of primrose muslin. Ruefully, she cast one more look into the glass as the door opened. She could not help thinking how horrified Neville—who never spent less than an hour with his valet before going out—would be at her cavalier preparation. But somehow the thought of his inevitable dismay only served to amuse her and, despite her best efforts to appear as properly impressive as a member of the Royal Academy should appear, she could not stifle a wicked grin as she turned to greet her visitors.
Chapter Three
“The Earl of Charrington and Miss Wyatt to see you, my lady,” Tredlow announced with as much dignified formality as if he were bringing guests into the impressively draughty drawing room at Shelburne Hall instead of Cecilia’s cluttered studio. Despite the irregularity of his wages, not to mention the ever-changing, ever-decreasing grandeur of his surroundings, Tredlow never forgot what was due to the family. He served it with all the deference with which generations of Tredlows had served the Marquesses of Shelburne, despite their current reduced circumstances.