Keeping Faith (Fair Cyprians of London 3)

Benson rose with difficulty having secured the strap buckle. He gave the wooden trunk a firm pat for good measure.

“Knowing his lordship, sir, I’d say the latter were more likely. Not that it’ll be of consequence, for soon you’ll be departing for foreign shores, so there’ll be little more that your father has to say that will greatly impact you, sir.” He gave a short bow. “If that’ll be all, sir.”

“No, that is not all, Benson. I need your opinion on whether I will cut a more sartorial figure in the green or burgundy striped waistcoat.”

“If you wish to impress the gentlemen, I would suggest the burgundy.”

“And if it is not the gentlemen I wish to impress?”

Benson smiled a little. “Then I shall lay out the green waistcoat for you this evening, sir. What time will you be going out?”

This time it was Crispin’s turn to smile. How could he not as he contemplated the happy outcome of this evening’s wilful escapade—certainly wilful in his father’s eyes. For the first time in a long while, he felt ridiculously confident that Faith would win over Lord Maxwell.

When the time was right.

“I shall leave here at eight this evening. Don’t wait up for me.” No, he and Faith would want a leisurely time to consummate the marriage that he had absolutely no qualms about contracting now.

“Very good, sir.” Benson bowed and backed up a few steps to the doorway where Crispin was surprised to see Carter, the butler, hovering in the passageway before the older man moved on. Crispin moved back to the trunk, turning to glance back through the open door, for the two servants remained outside, apparently conferring with each other. Crispin was about to turn back to his work when his attention was caught by the expression on Carter’s face.

Carter was the archetypal impassive retainer while Benson, the younger man, enjoyed a bit of levity.

There was no sign of levity on Benson’s face now, however, as Carter whispered in his ear. In fact, in terms of disgust and horror, it very much resembled Carter’s.

And that’s when he noticed what it was that had occasioned such altered behaviour as he straightened and took a few steps towards the door.

The two men had their heads bent over a newspaper.

“I think, sir, you ought to see this.” Benson cleared his throat and placed the newspaper upon Crispin’s writing desk.

His hand shook.

And a great premonition swept away Crispin’s perplexity as he glanced at the headline—The Elaborate Ruse of the Painter’s Muse.

Dear God, someone had discovered the fact that Faith was not the penniless debutante whom all those who believed it thought. The truth was out, and now those well-upholstered society matrons who decided who was acceptable, would be conferring right now as to whether to allow a former servant into their rarefied domains.

He felt sick. Faith had so perfected her role as a well-brought

-up lady, that she could have been accepted, without question, anyway.

And now this.

He put his hand over the newspaper article and looked at Benson. “I don’t need to read it for she has told me of her past,” he said gravely. “Nevertheless, I refuse to hold it against the lady, or to judge her harshly, though I’ve no doubt my father will.”

Benson blinked. In fact, his mobile face betrayed such surprise at Crispin’s words that Crispin was angered. He’d not thought the young Benson would be so easily shocked.

“I see you have your own opinion,” he said, drawing back his shoulders. “Yet I would suggest you judge her over harshly when she is guilty of no more than your own sister.”

This brought a sound of such apoplexy from both Benson and Carter that Crispin’s ire was fairly whipped up, but before Crispin could speak, the young servant burst out, “With all due respect, my sister does not even know that…such establishments exist, and if she did, she’d hardly be one to step across the threshold—with all due respect, sir.” Benson’s nostrils flared and his colour heightened. “And considering your father’s long-established enmity with Lord Harkom...well, I can’t imagine what he’s going to say!”

“What on earth are you talking about, Benson?” Crispin was more confused than angered by the young man’s feisty response. “And what’s Lord Harkom got to do with any of this?”

Crispin had no doubt Benson’s sister had stepped across the threshold of many a dwelling as humble as the one in which Faith had been brought up.

And yet even as this thought registered, so too did a kernel of fear that he had missed a fundamental piece of what was under discussion.

Carter cleared his throat and tapped the newspaper. His bald pate was sweating. “I think, sir, that as you clearly have not read in its entirety the published facts, it is not my place to acquaint you with what will come as a great shock and perhaps disappointment.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and his breathing was laboured. He looked nervously at Benson who said, in halting tones, “Given the fact, sir, that I surmise the green waistcoat was to have been worn to impress the lady in question.” His elegant finger tapped the newspaper article that Crispin now pulled more closely towards him, while he considered whether to reprimand Benson on such an appalling impudence as Benson went on, “I think we should perhaps retire and allow you to…digest what has recently come to light.

Clearly, Benson was outraged by the fact that Miss Montague had insinuated herself so thoroughly with the rich and titled.