Page 17 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
Cordelia joined her in a facing chair. “Lord Theodore thinks I should serve as a companion to the Lady Balantine. Seeing as how I’m good for nothing else.”
Miss Williams tilted her head, a concession. “Hm. The name is familiar. Balantine…”
“She’s a patron of the arts. I’ve met her a few times, including today. Lord Theodore took me to her home to, I don’t know… I suppose he thought to drop me off like a parcel of packages for her disposal.”
“You didn’t let him.”
“Certainly not. I worked to gain Lady Balantine’s patronage for our school. But she’s a bit strapped at the moment. The desire is there, but the funds…”
“A familiar dilemma. What shall you do next? What shallwedo next?”
Cordelia shook her head, rubbing her thumb across the arch of one eyebrow. “I was hoping you’d have an idea.”
Miss Williams bounced to her feet and scratched her chin, pulled at her nose, her earlobe, her eyes narrowed. “It was a good idea to seek the baroness’s patronage. We need more like her.”
“Your other employers perhaps. The other instructors’ employers. I have my list of names you gave me.” To which she’d added her own names from the masquerade months ago.
“Yes. We must move up our timeline. You must visit as many as you can as quickly as possible.”
“We do not yet have a perfect product to show them, tosellthem.”
Miss Williams sliced her narrowed gaze onto Cordelia. “We do not have time for that now.”
“You may be right. I had hoped, also, to procure at least one respectable donor before I began to solicit further donations. I am not… the kind of person others readily invite into their homes. I am well aware of how my situation appears to outsiders. It would be better if my association to the entire project remains secret. I’m quite content to remain behind the scenes.”
“True. Perhaps you can ask Lady Balantine to speak for you, on behalf of the school. Even if she does not donate yet.”
“An excellent idea.” Money often spoke louder than words, but words were all they could afford at the moment. “I’ll pay her another visit tomorrow, give her my list. She does seem terribly knowledgeable about the goings-on of the art world. Have you heard of a house party to be hosted near Manchester? At the Earl of Pentshire’s estate?”
“No. I’ve not. But I’m not the sort to be invited to those things.”
“You were never invited to the Marquess of Waneborough’s house party?”
“I was,” Miss Williams said. “But I did not wish to go. Seemed a waste of time when I could be earning my rent teaching lessons in London.”
“You could have, perhaps, gained a patron, someone to pay for you to work only on your art.”
“And to dispose of me when they ran out of money or got bored with me. Whichever came first. I do not like to live at the whims of others. I’d rather work for my own keep.”
“Very smart of you, Miss Williams.” Cordelia’s voice echoed a bit hollow, and it coursed their conversation toward a tight silence until Cordelia cleared her throat and found her smile. Her entire life had been lived at the whims of others, after all. But not for much longer. “You are wise, but a house party like the one Lord Waneborough used to hold, and like the one Lord Pentshire is hosting, would be quite an opportunity for our school. No knocking on doors or requesting invitations or accosting in the park to find funds for our school. All those likely to support it under one roof, their love for art at its peak for a fortnight.”
“I do see how it would prove convenient to attend such a thing with our aims in sight. Perhaps you should attend it, Lady Cordelia.”
“Me? No. Lady Balantine said the earl was being quite persnickety about invitations. Only painters and their muses. I am neither.”
“But we know a painter, do we not? Mr. Samuels.”
“And Mr. Samuels has a wife who would likely not appreciate him attending a house party with another woman.”
Miss Williams jumped to her feet again, and a few long steps brought her to the fireplace where she swung around, throwing her arms out wide then dropping them. “It just seems a waste. We should find you a painter to attend with. You can be a muse, surely. All it takes is sitting there and being pretty, two things you do well.”
Cordelia’s hands, hidden by her skirts, raked lines into the silk of the chair cushion, but she kept her face from twisting into a portrait of disgust because she could not quite tell who disgusted her more—herself for having no talent or Miss Williams for saying so. She inhaled one almost calming breath and continued smiling, a steady show of optimism and good spirit.
“Yes, surely I could do even that. But what man would we find willing to travel with me, paint me, pretend to be enraptured with me, and whom… whom I could trust.” The idea of traveling with a man she did not know sent a shiver of unease through her.
“Quite right.” Miss Williams pounded a fist on the fireplace mantel. “He must be trustworthy. Or a eunuch.”
“Miss Williams!”
