“The viscount is as kind as he is handsome,” Daphne added.
“Here he comes,” Miss Seaton said in an urgent whisper, “and Lord Foxburn is with him.”
“Good evening, ladies.” The timbre of the earl’s voice made Daphne’s body thrum like the violin’s strings. “Miss Seaton, you are to be commended for your flawless execution of the songs as rendered on sheet music.”
“Why, thank you, Lord Foxburn.” Miss Seaton beamed, clearly unaware that he was having fun at her expense. Daphne made a mental note to swat him with her fan later.
“It is a wonderful performance,” Lord Biltmore said, “and I look forward to the second half.”
Miss Seaton smiled shyly. “Thank you for your encouragement earlier. I realize my playing is far from perfect.”
“Nonsense,” Lord Biltmore said.
“The fourth string is a tad sharp.” Lord Foxburn inclined his head toward Miss Seaton’s instrument.
Her smile faded, and Daphne clenched her fan as she shot him a scolding look.
“Though it’s hardly noticeable,” he amended. “Miss Honeycote, I wonder if I might have a word?”
“Of course.”
Placing his hand at the small of her back, he guided her to the side of the stage. She tried to ignore the breathless feeling that overcame her the moment the earl touched her, and as soon as Miss Seaton and Lord Biltmore were out of earshot, she whirled to face Lord Foxburn.
“You were very rude just then.”
“Would you rather I be dishonest?”
“Yes! Well, no…”
“I must go,” he said abruptly. “I just wanted to let you know that I’ll contact you so that we may formulate a plan. Soon.”
“I can’t believe we’re having supper at Vauxhall Gardens!” Olivia sat at her dressing table, scrutinizing her new pearl earbobs in the looking glass. “Are you eager to see Lord Biltmore?”
Daphne, who was standing behind Olivia, met her gaze in the mirror and shrugged. “I’m looking forward to a pleasant evening with our entire party.”
Their party consisted of Lord Biltmore, Olivia, Rose, James Averill, Daphne, and Lord Foxburn. He’d arranged it all, of course, and Daphne was certain that he’d gone to the trouble just so that he could speak to her about the next steps in their quest to locate the second portrait. She hadn’t realized that the undertaking would require this level of subterfuge and didn’t like the idea of the earl going to such lengths and such expense. She would prefer not to be beholden to him—or any man. But that was the problem with secrets.
Lord Foxburn had invited Anabelle and Owen as well, but her sister had confessed she was quite possibly expecting—if her violent nausea of the past few days was any indication. Owen, ever the doting husband, had been simultaneously horrified and elated and insisted on calling for the doctor at once. Doctor Loxton confirmed the happy diagnosis and prescribed plenty of rest for the duchess.
Olivia turned her attention back to her reflection and pulled out the pink ribbon that Rose had painstakingly woven into her curls just a half hour before. “I think I should use the gold instead.” She held up a length of shimmery silk. “Will you help me?”
“Of course.” Daphne plucked the ribbon from her
fingers and plotted out a course through Olivia’s chestnut tresses.
“It’s a bit more sophisticated, don’t you think? I want James to see me as a woman—not as the adoring girl who tirelessly dug up worms for him to use as bait.”
“I should think he’d owe you a debt of gratitude after that.”
“I don’t want his gratitude, Daph. I want his admiration, his devotion… his love.”
“I know.” Inviting Mr. Averill had been a brilliant move on the earl’s part. Olivia would be unable to focus on anyone but the handsome solicitor, and Rose would be busy keeping watch over her sister. That left just Lord Biltmore to occupy, and Daphne felt sure that Lord Foxburn would have a plan.
All she had to concern herself with was how much to reveal to him.
His carriage arrived at eight sharp. Dressed in a claret evening jacket, black breeches, and gleaming Hessians, he looked breathlessly dashing. He’d offered to escort Daphne, Olivia, and Rose. Mr. Averill and Lord Biltmore would meet them at the private supper box that the earl had reserved for the evening.
They took the Westminster Bridge route, and if Daphne was the tiniest bit disappointed that they didn’t use the water entrance, well, that was absurd. The point of this excursion was to initiate their search; any fun that she gleaned from the evening’s amusements was purely incidental.
And yet, the atmosphere at Vauxhall Gardens was too festive and exciting for Daphne to remain unaffected. The other gentlemen joined them and the party dined on ham, chicken, and hearty salads.
After supper, they ventured onto the promenade and enjoyed the many sights. Mr. Averill was drawn to the artificial ruins, and Olivia was drawn to Mr. Averill. Rather than chase after the pair, the remaining four chose to sit on a couple of benches where they could observe the amusements and hear the orchestra playing. Daphne was so caught up in the merry music that she was startled by the sound of the earl’s voice.
“My leg is in need of a stretch,” he said, standing. “Might I prevail upon one of you lovely ladies to stroll through the gardens with me?”
This was her chance, and yet she didn’t wish to appear too eager.
“I should stay close by and wait for Olivia,” Rose said.
Daphne let out the breath she’d been holding. “I’d be delighted to see more of the beautiful scenery, if you’re sure you don’t mind, Rose.”
“Not at all. I could listen to this orchestra all night.”
“I’m sure Averill and Lady Olivia will return soon,” said Lord Biltmore. “We shall join you on the trails then. We’ll want to secure a prime spot for watching the fireworks later.”
“Quite right. Shall we, Miss Honeycote?”
Lord Foxburn might have been a little less abrupt, but Lord Biltmore was no doubt used to the earl’s abrasive manner. Daphne took the arm he offered and gave Rose a reassuring smile as they wandered down a pebbled path, away from the music and the crowds.
When they were relatively alone, Daphne said, “Thank you for arranging this. You must have gone to a great deal of trouble.”
“Indeed. Walking with a pretty young woman in
Vauxhall Gardens is a great sacrifice, I assure you. You look especially lovely this evening, by the way.”
She checked his expression to be sure he was not mocking her. He was not the type of gentleman who handed out compliments freely. Or ever. “Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “What would you like to know? I shall attempt to answer your questions as completely and honestly as I can.”
“Who is the artist?”
“A family friend, Thomas Slate. Both of our mothers are widows and pooled what few resources they had in order to see that Thomas, Anabelle, and I had food in our bellies and a roof over our heads. The three of us were often thrown together, and when Thomas grew tired of sketching the chipped vases and ramshackle furniture in our apartments, he began drawing my sister and me. He was quite good.”
“His technique leaves something to be desired. The proportions are off. For example, in the portrait I have, your nose should be slightly higher on your face.”
Daphne blinked. She supposed she should have been offended, but he stated his opinion so matter-of-factly that she couldn’t summon indignation. “I thought you liked the portrait.”
“I do. In spite of the fact that it lacks technical merit.”
“And yet you were able to identify me as the subject almost immediately. Were you bluffing, then, when you claimed you knew it was me?”
“Oh, I knew it was you. Your friend may not have the best eye for scale, but he captured your essence beautifully, as only a good friend—or a lover—could.”
Daphne stopped in her tracks and whirled to face him. “What are you implying, my lord?”
“That this Thomas person was either an intimate friend or your lover. He would have to have been in order to paint you with that kind of clarity and truth.”
He was trying to provoke her, and for that reason alone, she refused to be baited. Let him think what he liked.
They began walking again, winding their way down a narrow path lined with thick hedges. Lamps hung from festoons in tree branches, swaying in the night breeze like tremulous stars. He steered her to a bench in a little alcove formed by a semicircle of dense shrubbery, and they sat, admiring the softly gurgling fountain in the small clearing in front of them.
Daphne reminded herself of the business at hand. “So you will concede that Thomas is talented, then.”
Lord Foxburn inclined his head noncommittally. “I admire his work.”
Heat crept up her neck, dash it all. “He is the person I was waiting for at Gunter’s.”
The muscles in his forearm flexed beneath her hand. “Ah, yes. The gentleman who left you standing in the rain.”
“It wasn’t his fault. I discovered the next day that he’s on the Continent having a grand tour.”
The earl seemed to consider this. “Who did he paint the portraits for? Does he have a patron?”
“A country squire commissioned most of his work, including the portraits of me. I don’t know much about him. Thomas said he wasn’t fond of town life and spent most of his time rusticating in the country.”
Lord Foxburn grunted.
“What?” she demanded.
“It sounds like the sort of thing a scheming artist would
say to convince a young woman to pose for a scandalous painting.”
Daphne bristled. “Thomas isn’t like that—he didn’t coerce me in the slightest. You must think me quite dimwitted if you imagine that I would allow myself to be manipulated or taken advantage of so easily.”
The earl’s eyes flashed with interest and… something else. Perhaps respect. “Why don’t you tell me the real story, Miss Honeycote. Why
did
you do it?”
Tint: (1) Any color or hue that is mixed with white. (2) A pale, delicate color, as in
Her skin, smooth as cream, had the tint of a ripe peach.
T
his was the moment Ben had been waiting for, the reason he had arranged the entire evening. He needed to understand why Miss Honeycote had risked her reputation—the only thing she’d really had. But mostly he needed to understand her. To be close to her light for a while.
The lanterns above lent a soft glow to the Eden-like setting. Her cheeks had turned a lovely shade of pink.
“It’s quite simple.” She flicked her tongue over her lips as though it were anything but. “My mother was sick—dying, actually. For months on end she suffered from raging fevers and violent coughing attacks. I’ll never forget how pale and thin her face looked as she lay in bed. Her skin was like white parchment stretched over bone.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
She paused for a moment, and when she resumed her
story, her voice was clear and strong. “Anabelle and I believed Mama had consumption. The doctor prescribed various vapors and medicines to restore her lungs and keep her comfortable. He was expensive, and so was the medicine. My sister was working twelve-hour days as a seamstress to try to raise the money we needed. I did the occasional mending, but my priority was caring for Mama. The money I made from the portraits… well, it was my contribution.”
As Ben imagined Daphne’s desperation and worry for her mother, his chest tightened. But the angle at which she held her chin told him she didn’t want pity. “What does your sister think about your current dilemma?”
She grasped his wrist and locked her gaze with his. “She knows nothing about the paintings, and she mustn’t find out.”
He shook his head. This grew more interesting by the moment. “Where did she think the money came from?”
“It wasn’t as much as you might expect. We owed everybody money—the doctor, the apothecary, our landlady, and the butcher. I used the funds to pay down our debt, but we never caught up—not until the duke stepped in to help. Before that, most of the burden fell on Anabelle.”
“I’m surprised you were able to keep your activities a secret from her.”
“I keep very few secrets from my sister, but I couldn’t tell her. She would never have permitted me to do it.”
Using his cane, Ben drew small circles on the ground between his feet and hers. “Why do you want to keep the truth from her now?”
Miss Honeycote fingered the purple ribbon sash of her
dress. “Anabelle has always taken care of me, and I don’t want to be a burden to her anymore. She would worry herself sick, and she’s already feeling poorly because of her condition. I need to fix this problem on my own.” She chuckled self-consciously. “With a little help from you.”
He stroked his chin, debating how best to make his next inquiry, then decided to go with his usual method—bluntness. “May I call you Daphne?”
Her eyes went wide and her lips formed a perfect circle.
Before she could respond, he said, “When we’re in private, I mean. Since we are to work closely together, it would behoove us to drop some of the formalities. Considering the nature of our mission, I see no point in standing on ceremony.”
“What, then, shall I call you?”
He shrugged. “Call me what you like—nothing could shock me. If you lack imagination, you could always use my given name, Benjamin—or, simply, Ben.”
She looked at him oddly, as though it were quite a surprise to learn that he had a first name. “Benjamin suits you. Very well, we will use our Christian names when speaking in private. What shall our first step be?”
“Wait. You never told me how your mother recovered from consumption.”
“Er, she was misdiagnosed. Once the duke sent his doctor to examine her, he realized the mistake and prescribed a new course of treatment. It took her a while, but she is much improved.”
He sensed there was more to the story—she glossed over it too much for there not to be—but he was willing to let it go for now. “Does anyone else know that you posed for the paintings?”
“No. Thomas nicked some sheets and lanterns, bought a worn settee at a pawnshop, and set up a temporary studio in the abandoned factory near our apartments. No one ever bothered us there, save for a few rats.”
“Sounds charming.”