Christmas Charity (Fair Cyprians of London 5)

Charity’s tried to turn an unladylike snort into a delicate cough. “How can that be? I’ve barely left the house.” She gathered her courage and asked, “Do you know where I live?”

“Mr Adams wouldn’t tell me and, quite frankly, I don’t want to know. I’m not interested in your sorry tale of penny-pinching and poverty but I am interested in what can be of benefit to both of us.” He dabbed at his moustache with his napkin. “Excellent soup this. Do you like leek and cauliflower? Good. But yes, apparently your painting has garnered a reputation as a point of discussion for the young men who pass a certain hoarding on a busy street corner in Soho. Not just the men, either, I’m told.”

Charity frowned, not understanding him but not interrupting as he went on, “Usually the posters are removed or plastered over but this one — and the poster of the lovely young lady touting the benefits of her electric corset — have proved especially popular and have remained.”

“What on earth can you mean? A poster on a hoarding? An electric corset?” Charity felt her face burning.

Her father leaned back in his chair and grinned, a gold eyetooth in evidence. He looked prosperous and at ease. Yet what suffering he’d caused her mother. She reigned in her resentment because she had no other choice. Only her father could save her now, it seemed.

“Yes, Mr Adams took me there and while I was admiring your excellent likeness, I was informed of these facts I’ve just told you by a number of the gentlemen — and some ladies, too — many of whom evinced wonder and admiration when I told them I was acquainted with the young lady. A young lady, I informed them, who was gaining quite a reputation for her piquant looks and shapely dimensions.”

“Mr Riverdale, how can you tell me such things? Patently they’re not true! And it’s scandalous!”

Her companion put out his hand to calm Charity though his smile had a more instant effect. “Mr Riverdale.” He repeated her words, his expression quizzical. “How formal that sounds when I know, now, what you are to me. And yet, I would not have you call me father.” Taking a final sip of his soup, he looked regretful. “Not in public, at least. No, I’m afraid there is no advantage to either of us in acknowledging who and what we are to one another.”

Charity felt her stomach clench at his callous words. Like most men, he was interested only in how he could use her. “How could my mother have fallen in love with you?” She didn’t care that this might sound the death knell to their brief relationship. The man had no moral fibre.

“Did she speak of me often?” He seemed entirely unperturbed by Charity’s bitterness.

For a split-second, Charity considered rising and walking out of the dining room before she realised the consequences of such prideful behaviour.

She inhaled carefully. Hugo needed to be reassured that she was safe and she could only truly do that if she could garner some funds to tide her over the next few weeks. Regardless of what she thought of Mr Riverdale — her father — she had to be civil. She had to court his good nature and if he saw some means to profit by her it surely could not be as bad as the way Madame sought to profit by her.

“My mother spoke of you all the time. Well, on the few occasions I saw her, for of course she could not keep a chi

ld and stay in work. My grandmother housed me while I looked after a mentally deficient relative. I did that until I came to London to find work.”

“Good, I was going to get to all of that. And, will return, I assure you. First, though, I truly am sorry for what your mother went through. If it’s any consolation, I was deeply in love with her, too.” He had the grace to at least try to look regretful. “It’s true, I had mentioned marriage but this was before I came of age when my head was filled with romantic nonsense. Maybe I would have followed through but I can’t be sure.”

“You abandoned my mother and left to bring up a child, alone and without support!”

Mr Riverdale sent her a cautionary look. “My dear, do not berate me for what you cannot know. I had no idea your mother was pregnant when I boarded a boat for my tour of the Continent.”

“She wrote!”

“I doubt my mother forwarded her letters. Listen, Charity — and goodness, that name hardly has the ring of gentility about it — marriage with your mother was not something I’d have entered into due to the inequity of our respective stations, though maybe I bandied the word around loosely in conversation with her. But I do have some scruples and I certainly wouldn’t have simply abandoned her had I known about you. But I was young and foolish. Anyway, now that I have the chance to atone, I will do so.”

Pique and relief swept through Charity at the same time, followed by a wave of concern. What might she have to do in return for his assistance? He had not just offered to support her, outright, after all.

She must have been transparent for he laughed. “Your artist friend has managed to convey that pretty face of yours quite exquisitely in all your moods. Those sketches and paintings are a treasure trove. His poems and drawings of foreign lands are quite extraordinary, too, I must say.”

Charity couldn’t believe what he was saying. “I’ve seen no poems or drawings of foreign lands,” she gasped. “Mr Cyril Adams has kept them from me, hasn’t he? How dare he do so! He cheated Hugo, you know. You cannot believe a word he says.” She paused, adding dubiously, “Though he claims to be trying to reform himself. And he did seek you out so I suppose he’s been some help.”

“That is a very grudging acceptance of his role in our reunification and not to be downplayed, my dear, for he has useful connections. Indeed, we both have in our respective provinces. However, to return to the part you will play, might I point out that pouting does not become you. When you finally meet and greet all of those who are mad to catch a glimpse of the mysterious Adams Girl, muse of the acclaimed artist who has been banished by his cruel father to far-flung empires where he’s in danger of dying of a broken heart, you can’t be adopting any such childish affectations. Now come along, flash me a smile of allure, or outrage or simple gratitude. Oh, never mind!” He picked up his knife and fork to begin on the sole that had just been put in front of him. “We have plenty of time to work on it. I’ll have you coached to perfection before you are ready to face your public.”

Chapter 12

Hugo removed his panama hat and slicked back his sweat-soaked hair before taking to the steps of the modest bungalow he’d called home during the one hundred miles of railway track construction he was overseeing.

Despite the heat and humidity, the last three weeks had been bearable. His uncle had been on a visit to Madras where he’d been consulting with investors of the private railway construction he and his brother had established a decade earlier.

Trade was in their blood. Maximising profits and exploiting their workers was in their blood.

But when Hugo looked at a ledger, his eyes couldn’t focus.

Of course, he’d done as he’d been directed to do. He’d had little choice, after all; and none when his uncle had been in residence. Eight months in the sun, on horseback and on foot, overseeing the painstaking laying of hundreds of miles of railway track had browned his skin and given him strength and bulk.

His footsteps provided the signal for the household servants to begin the evening ritual that brought some relief after his daily rigours and as he stepped onto the verandah the punkawallah was in place with his fan while his gin and tonic was brought in on a tray.