Keeping Faith (Fair Cyprians of London 3)

“Regardless of what did or didn’t happen, you’d do well to preserve the fiction you’re a virgin if you wish to keep Mrs Gedge as a benefactress.” Lady Vernon sounded bolder now. “If you’re not, and word gets out, then you’re no good to anyone. And if you’re no good to anyone, you’ll starve, my girl, so consider yourself lucky that you’re here with me.”

Faith looked out of the window at the passing countryside. It looked green and lovely, the air fresh and clean now they were out of London. “As if anyone would know or care to wonder if I was a virgin if they knew where I’ve spent the last three years,” she muttered. Lady Vernon looked so harmless, so utterly inconsequential, sitting in the corner like a bundle of rags, except that the gown that covered her bones was silk. Very old silk, now dusty with age. But perhaps she was even more ruthless than Madame. Or Mrs Gedge? Faith would have to remember that as she embarked upon the next part of her journey.

“Now, I understand that you are aware of the requirement that you’re to enslave this young man’s heart, but don’t be too eager,” Lady Vernon said, changing the subject. As if she knew anything about enticing a young man—or any man.

Faith sent her the filthiest look she could but said nothing.

“We both know that your future, and mine, hinge upon your success.”

“How do you know his heart isn’t already engaged?” Faith asked. “How do you know he’ll even like me?”

“His heart is not engaged, and you are just the kind of young lady to appeal to this young man. Appeal to his chivalrous nature; his protective instincts. Don’t be too eager for intimacy or it won’t ring true. Reel him in, slowly.”

“Have you had much success using this strategy yourself, Lady Vernon?” Faith enquired politely and was rewarded with a bitter smile. Good, she’d touched a nerve.

“What if I feel sorry for him and don’t wish to ruin him?” Faith added. “I’m not cruel by nature. Not like you and Mrs Gedge.” She gave a short laugh. “If he falls in love with me, then I may think it more worthwhile to run away with him than accept Mrs Gedge’s fee with my freedom.”

“My dear girl, I certainly don’t think you’re quite so stupid.” Lady Vernon pulled out her wire-rimmed spectacles to examine Faith as if she honestly believed the girl could be mentally deficient. “You surely must realise that Mrs Gedge will reveal everything about you to him if you were to do that. And then what future could there be for you? Do you think his father would allow him to marry a prostitute, even if you both were madly in love with one another? No, break the boy’s heart, wait for further instructions, and when you’ve fulfilled your duty to Mrs Gedge’s satisfaction, you will be given your freedom and assured that your prospects for making a respectable match with some other worthy gentleman will be fostered by the woman who has been so good to you all these years.”

Faith sighed. The prospect of her journey into Mr Westaway’s arms and into his bed didn’t particularly move her, though she supposed anything was preferable to being pounded into submission like Lord Harkom had nearly done.

But at least Mr Westaway seemed pleasant enough.

Though falling in love was not something Faith intended doing for a long time.

Chapter 10

Crispin couldn’t remember the last time he’d whiled away a few hours in a hammock. He should have done this a long time ago—had a few days’ break from London and his father’s scrutiny.

He raised the book resting over his face by a few inches and waved it in the air to shoo away the bee or fly that threatened to settle on his chin. For the moment, the enjoyment of simply doing nothing was almost more enticing than picking up a paintbrush. Perhaps his father’s strictures that he give up his art until he was well entrenched in his new position was not such a bad one.

He wondered now at the wisdom of asking Miss Montague to be his model for the painting he intended entering into the prestigious art competition that had so stirred his blood a few short days ago.

For today, languid in the sun, he had no urge to do anything very much except rest completely. His brain was tired; his body was tired. In the three short weeks before he was due to board a packet to France and begin his journey to the country that would be his home for the next few years, perhaps he should simply rest.

He’d have to compensate Miss Montague for her time, of course. He’d been fired up by the idea of furthering her acquaintance, but over the past few days, her image had dimmed. And over the past day and a half spent lazing in the lovely cottage garden of the small manor house that had been given over to his use by his aunt and uncle, all his desires and ambitions had quite drained away.

He was drifting off when he heard a clear voice say, “The History of a Crime. I enjoyed Victor Hugo’s essay about Napoleon III's takeover of France, though I did find it heavy in parts.”

He opened his eyes, astonished to find himself staring at Miss Montague, dressed simply in white and flanked by the funereal-looking Lady Vernon.

“When did you read that?” he was startled into asking, before good manners came to the fore, and he removed himself from the hammock and ushered the ladies to a garden bench nearby.

“As soon as it was published. I love anything by Victor Hugo though my papa feels he’s unsuitable.”

“Unsuitable?”

“Yes. Do you think it’s unsuitable for a young lady to read Victor Hugo? And if so, why?”

He hadn’t expected she’d be so direct when given the chance to converse with her beyond the confines of the ballroom.

“Unexpected, perhaps, is a better term. It was recommended reading by my papa in view of my imminent posting. I must admit I find it heavy going too. If you gleaned anything from it, you’ll have to impart your insights when you pose for me.” He studied her covertly while pretending to arrange the cushions in the chair upon which he sat opposite her. Her hair had the look of newly threshed corn. There was a golden glow about the rippling tresses that immediately had him envisioning his palette of oils.

“It would be a pleasure. I’m very good at keeping still, but the time passes more quickly if we’re discussing something interesting. That’s if your concentration is up to it.”

Crispin smiled. Her transformation was astonishing. She looked much more at home in the colourful summer garden in the country discussing an intellectual topic than when she’d been so obviously on disp

lay in a public arena.