Christmas Charity (Fair Cyprians of London 5)

The information that Charity had not received a penny from him since her last, fearful and desperate letter, was enough to send him insane.

Slowly, he exhaled, then quietly and with deliberate care, he walked past his uncle.

“What are you doing?”

Hugo paused in the midst of gathering writing materials from the desk and putting them into his satchel. “I’m leaving tonight. Now, in fact.”

“Good lord, boy! I’d never have told you if I knew you’d be so...juvenile in your response.” Septimus glanced across the room as if to emphasise the pitch dark that had fallen so suddenly beyond the shutters. A servant had lit lamps in the meantime and the smell of spiced food wafted from the distant kitchen.

“In the morning we can talk about this. Yes, you’re a man, not a boy, and entitled to free will but your father would never forgive me if I let you jeopardise everything we’ve been working towards. The company’s future growth and prospects. Your future growth and prospects.”

Hugo ignored him. He fastened the clasps of the satchel and reached for his hat which he’d tossed onto a side table.

“For God’s sake, be reasonable, Hugo.” His uncle sounded rattled. Hugo didn’t acknowledge him as he evaded his grasping hand on the way to the door. “Hugo! If you walk away now, you walk away from everything your grandfather has left in trust for you to receive in just a matter of months!”

Behind him, he could hear Septimus’s footsteps on the soft runner, Hugo’s final journey that led from this hated prison. “Hugo, don’t be a fool! Think with your head, for once!”

Hugo turned on the front verandah. The wide, shuttered expanse was illuminated by the waxy yellow glow from the lamps placed around the perimeter. He thought how much he’d like to paint Charity reclining against the pile of cushions upon the low bench by the far wall. The light would imbue her chestnut hair with a glorious lustre, highlighting that creamy complexion of hers. He thought of how he might find her when he returned. With Cyril? Another man? Many other men?

He didn’t care.

“I no longer care about my inheritance.” His heart quickened. He took the first step into the inky blackness. He’d send a servant to fetch the trunk from his room, packed with his belongings.

“Hugo!”

Hugo ignored him. “There comes a time when one must stop thinking with one’s head.” He didn’t care if his uncle was out of earshot though he could hear Septimus’s footsteps nearing the edge of the verandah. He turned and spoke into the darkness, uncaring whether his uncle heard him or not. “When one must think with one’s heart and one’s conscience.”

Like a wraith, the night embraced him. “I’ve realised it’s the only way I can live with myself,” he muttered as he walked away.

Chapter 13

“It strikes just the right note, Charity. Perfect!” Madame Chambon circled Charity with a critical eye though her mouth was curved into a smile. “What gentleman will not want to devour you but he will have to think such thoughts inside, no? You are not just anyone’s.”

“Charity! Mr Riverdale is here!”

Charity pinched her lips and clasped her hands together, swinging around for a final beseeching look at Madame. “Is it a mistake?” she asked.

“A mistake?” Madame cocked an eyebrow as she smiled, though her expression was tinged with sadness. “How wonderful if I could accompany you. A woman like me, however, could never gain entry to such society. Besides, half the gentlemen there tonight would know me.”

“Charity! He says you’ll be late!”

Charity took a few steps towards the door then turned back towards Madame. “Arabella will be magnificent. I’ll tell you everything that happens, every gentleman who engages her!”

“It is not Arabella’s night to shine,” said Madame. “Tonight will only prove if she can survive in a snake pit. It is her testing time but it is your moment to triumph over your past. Now go! Mr Riverdale is waiting.”

She did not call him her father, just as Charity had never called him her father. But he had been assiduous in following through everything that he had promised that first night at dinner.

First the drawings, the paintings had been disseminated, placed in prominent places, in news sheets, magazines, usually with a snippet of verse, a teaser. Words that Hugo had used to describe Charity; his love for her; the essence of her.

She’d become a talking point. An enigma. An icon.

Oh, her father had managed it so well. As if he were born to tease, just as he’d done so successfully with her mother. His real line of work had been more prosaic. A desultory interest in a publishing firm established by his grandfather and which he used to visit if he had the inclination to go to work that morning.

But since making Charity’s acquaintance it seemed he’d been inspired by work rather than visiting his club.

“Perfect! Just perfect!” Her father smiled approvingly as he opened the door of the carriage that waited for them around the corner. “Your Madame Chambon has a good eye. And she’s a woman of the utmost discretion. Why, how many entrances are there to that building, including underground. No spy could run you to ground there. But soon you will be moving out, Charity, my dear. This is no place for a girl like you. Tonight will change everything. You’ll see.”

Charity shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t want to move out. Not until my Hugo comes back and I can live with him. As his wife.”