Keeping Faith (Fair Cyprians of London 3)

“It is true; you have caught me at a disadvantage,” she admitted, gently extracting her hands and making her way leisurely to the sofa in front of the fire. “Perhaps you’d pour us both a drink,” she suggested, indicating the decanter on the sideboard as she sank against the cushions. “I do not come cheaply.”

“You are not actually in a position to make too many demands, my dear,” he reminded her as

he poured them both a brandy before seating himself beside her, so close that his thigh was pressed against hers.

Faith managed not to flinch. “Thank you, Lord Harkom,” she murmured, taking the brandy from him while she sought desperately for a means to play her cards so that she was not his victim—his plaything. At his mercy in any way. “Mr Westaway knows that to his cost.”

Lord Harkom let out a bark of laughter. “Who played who for a fool? No, don’t even try to make me think that you ever had the upper hand in that little affair, Miss Montague. Faith.” He stilled and, with his eyes fixed on her face, ran the forefinger of his right hand gently around the edge of her décolletage. It was such a bold, proprietorial, and insulting action but Faith dared not move. She could not risk insulting him when she had no idea how to play this game. Lord Harkom was dangerous. One misstep on her part and he’d tumble her here and now. He’d force himself on her, and not a single person would come to her aid. Not only that; the whole world would consider she deserved it. That was perhaps the most painful reflection of all. She had not a single person she could depend upon. No friend. No lover. No family. No one would defend her honour. Everyone believed she was a liar and a whore.

“Mr Westaway paid a high price to enjoy me.” She stared back at him, steadily, trying to still her breathing and keep her bosom from rising against his wandering fingers. “What price are you offering me, Lord Harkom? I do not work on a one-night, rotational basis. And while I have always brought value, I don’t come cheaply. As I said.”

Two small lines appeared between his eyes as he seemed to weigh up her words. Perhaps see her in a new light? As less of the victim than he’d come here believing?

“I don’t know what Madame Chambon has told you, but this plan to humiliate Mr Westaway has been three years in the making. Do you know what care and consideration goes into achieving such a public fall from grace? Yes, two days ago he was society’s darling for the talent that saw him carrying off the greatest prize money ever offered in an art competition. Now it’s been revealed he was set up from the start. Brought down by the beautiful muse he fell in love with and was going to run away with. And that the art competition was rigged!” A tremor of self-disgust ran through her to even utter the words, but he seemed to be paying attention.

Good. She needed him to redress the power balance, even just a little. She needed all her wiles and cunning; all that intelligence about strategy and human behaviour that she’d honed over the past three years, to come to her aid.

“Why are you here, Lord Harkom? Surely not for a quick rutting to enjoy the spoils for just one night only. I thought you were playing the longer game. Given the enmity between your two families, I thought you’d come here to offer me something that I would consider attractive, and that would strike at the heart of Mr Westaway and his father’s ability to enjoy peaceful nights.”

Oh, Faith was sure Lord Harkom had considered both and that the longer-term proposition would follow naturally upon the immediate gratification of his carnal desires right here and now. But Faith had to show herself as a woman of business.

She drew her shoulders back and increased the space between them, just a little. Thank God he’d removed his hand as he clearly contemplated what she was saying.

She smiled at him, her confidence growing. “Have you made an agreement with Madame Chambon? I need it in writing, Lord Harkom. A six-month contract with an exclusive residence for me. If I am to be kept, it will be by a rich man who does not stint when it comes to showering largesse upon his most treasured possession—the woman who brought down his enemy.”

Yes, she’d sown the seed. He’d probably had something in mind that would involve keeping her as his mistress in order to rub the noses of Crispin and his father more thoroughly into how they’d been played. But Faith’s plan suggested she’d come more willingly, and play her part more convincingly, if he met her part way. And that could only be to his benefit.

When he didn’t speak, she rose. “Well, perhaps you and Madame Chambon should speak together right now, Lord Harkom.” She smiled sweetly at him and offered him her hand before indicating the door with a nod of her head. “Lady Chambon’s office is just down the corridor, as I’m sure you know. Meanwhile, I need to change into something a little more…appropriate.” She glanced down at her gown then moved towards the door, pausing with her hand on the doorknob. “When an arrangement is in writing, you know where to find me.”

He did not stop her. Clearly, he took her at her word and would, most likely, follow through with a meeting with Madame Chambon to nut out the details, knowing, as Madame Chambon had probably told him, that she had nowhere in the world to go.

For she didn’t.

The street was deserted when Faith arrived at the small cottage by the river where she’d been conveyed so many times during the past three years. She’d been utterly terrified going by foot, carrying a carpetbag with one simple, old gown she’d snatched from her wardrobe together with the few possessions she had that might be worth anything.

It took several bouts of knocking before there was any response, and she nearly wept with relief when it was opened by a frightened-looking scullery maid.

“Mary, can you tell your master that he has a visitor,” Faith exhorted her as she pushed her way past the child and into the familiar space.

The girl blinked open sleep-laden eyes. Faith suspected she’d been sleeping in front of the kitchen fire. Indeed, that’s exactly where Faith hoped she might find some rest for the few hours that remained of tonight.

“Master’s been long abed,” the girl protested mildly though she didn’t look as if she’d outright deny Faith. She was too young for that. And not as desperate as Faith to have her way, for the master was not an unkind man.

Faith waited nervously in the small back parlour where she’d spent so many hours at her lessons during the past three years.

Her first thought was that Professor Monk must receive her. Well, she was certain of that, at least. But what if he was part of Madame Chambon and Mrs Gedge’s evil plan?

No, surely not. Not the kindly professor who took such pride in Faith’s intelligent answers when he quizzed her on world diplomacy and the historical relations between countries.

But if he was not part of the evil plan, he must surely know what had happened to her since all of London could talk about nothing else, it would seem.

What would he say when she told him she had nowhere to go? That it was her own fault she’d fallen the way she had? That he was a man of learning and moral rectitude and their past association meant nothing to him?

Everyone else in Faith’s life had forsaken her. The few friends she had were in no position to help her. Professor Monk would be like the rest of them—filled with moral outrage that would require her to pay for her sins.

Instead, his greeting was fatherly, and his first words suggested he’d not even heard what all London had been talking about.

“My dear Faith! Has your carriage broken down? Is Lady Vernon injured? Oh, dear me, I can’t think why else you’d be on my doorstep all alone at this hour of the evening.”