Page 18 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
She showed wide eyes behind her spectacles. “It is not true? Those who knowofyou likely think you a… a tart, but those who are actually acquainted with you realize you’re innocent indeed.”
Innocent. Ha. If only they knew. She’d had to accept Lord Waneborough’s help for several reasons. But the most pressing had been fear. She could have been with child, after all. She’d been set to marry Simon, had not thought much about giving into her—their—desires a few months before the wedding. She should have. She truly should have. Then she’d not have stood on the doorstep of a man who’d rejected her looking at a man offering her a safe harbor and thought only of how her friends would spurn her once they knew. If her belly swelled. Thank heavens there’d been no babe.
The screech of violin notes stopped, and Miss Williams’s attention snapped toward the door. “I must go. This is a paying client, and we clearly cannot afford to anger one of those.”
“No. We can’t. You’re right. Go.”
Miss Williams grabbed the door handle but hesitated before opening it. “Well? What will you do?”
“Think on it. Today and tonight. And take action tomorrow. The party is clearly not an option, but I’ll speak to Lady Balantine, see if she’ll be the face of the school, a vocal supporter if nothing else.” So that Cordelia could live in the shadows where no one would have to be reminded of her flaws, her mistakes.
“A good start. I’ll speak with Mr. Spencer to see if he has any ideas.” Then Miss Williams flung the door open and disappeared across the hall with the precise movements of a military officer.
Cordelia sighed, alone once more, the air buzzing again, her body heavy and jittery at the same time. What to do? How to move forward? She’d figure it out. She had to, despite her lack of talent. Because everything seemed to be falling apart. If she did not figure it out, she must leave in a month’s time, and her instructors, who had flung themselves behind this project with as much passion as she had, would find themselves lost as well. Their dream of a school was dissolving before her eyes.
No. She must remain positive. Lady Balantine would help, and she would know others interested in financing the school. As the old marquess used to say, things would work out as they should. She must not give up hope.
Five
The thorn in his backside could remain thorny and immovable for a while longer. Theo had work to do revealing the corruption of powerful men. He set his steps toward White’s and held his metaphorical lance tight to his side for the great battle lying ahead of him—securing an invitation to a house party.
He found the Earl of Pentshire in the coffee room drinking port.
Theo sat across from him. “I want in.”
Pentshire jumped to his feet, port sloshing over the rim of his cup, and pressed a hand to his heart. He returned slowly to his seat. “Damn me. You’re likely to kill a fellow that way.” Pentshire was tall and lanky and golden, his brown eyes soft with, somehow, a puppy dog’s innocence. He dressed in clothes too big and too out of fashion for a man of his youth. Couldn’t be any older than Theo’s own six and twenty years. He appeared to be a boy playing at manhood.
But Theo knew he harbored hidden depths. The house party would reveal every league beneath the placid surface.
“I want in,” Theo demanded, slamming his templed fingers on the tabletop to punctuate his points. Surely he wouldn’t have to be more specific than that. Surely Pentshire wouldn’t want him to be.
Pentshire fell into the back of his armchair and focused on his coffee cup. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”
“You wish me to speak of your upcoming house party in public and”—Theo raised his voice—“quite loudly? Very well—”
“Desist.” Pentshire’s blond brows flew together.
“I want in.”
“Hm.” Pentshire studied him from boot to hat. “Your father had the greatest personal art collection in the country. And by all accounts was quite charitable. Radical, even, in his social attitudes.”
“I’m aware.”
“I’ve heard he taught his children to be the same, but… do you paint? The party is a”—he rolled his hand between them as if searching for the right term—“an artist’s retreat, a way of filling the gap created by the loss of your parents’ yearly house party. A place for like-minded individuals stifled by too-stringent social rules to… exist. Without judgment.”
Theo blinked. He’d never considered the party his parents held each year in that particular light. He’d loved it at one time, considered it a learning experience from those more skilled than himself. He knew better now, celebrated his brother’s abolishment of the event. Every artist with any talent and every patron with any intent to nurture that talent had attended. And all had drained their pantry and their coffers for weeks on end to their father and mother’s great delight, and to the detriment of those who relied on them. After each party, a new batch of servants lost their jobs, the family unable to afford them.
Felt right to sneak into a similar party and reveal the bad things done there. With his own art, nonetheless. Something poetic about that.
“I paint,” Theo said. “Until now it’s been a private hobby. But I’m considering submitting to a gallery next year, and I need to create my best work.” A good enough lie, that.
Pentshire rubbed his knuckles up and down the bridge of his nose. “Bold. But… what is your subject?”
“My subject?”
“What sorts of things do you paint?”
Hell. “The usual. Still lifes.” Pentshire wrinkled his nose, his hand stilling. “Portraits too.”
