Page 24 of His Mistress, His Muse, and Other Madness
“Lady Cordelia.”
She grinned up at him.
“Desist.”
She sighed and sank back into her seat. “As you wish, my lord.”
He sniffed, trained his lips into a tight line once more. Momentarily. That corner popped back up.
She pointed. “Aha! Explain yourself, sir!”
“I’m amused, is all. I promised to tell you why I must attend this house party, and we’ve come to the point.”
“Which you find amusing.”
Something heavy in his gaze settled on her, making her squirm.
“Do you pay attention to satirical prints?” he asked.
“Yes, I suppose,” she said. “There was one a few months back Mr. Spencer tried to hide from me. Regarding the Achilles statue in Hyde Park. Such a fuss about a fig leaf.”
“The fuss was less about the fig leaf and more about the ladies’ reaction to it. Yes, I know the print. It’s quite good. I admit to some envy there.”
“Envy? Wait.” Surely not, but what other direction could the conversation be taking? “You’re an illustrator, too? A satirist?”
“I am. But it is not well known. My family knows. And now you. I publish under the pseudonym Sir George.”
She gripped the edge of the seat to keep from leaping out of it. “Oh! I’ve seen your work, and—”
“You’ll not speak of it. Ever. We attend this house party to obtain secrets these men do not wish the world to know.” The corner of his lips popped up again, impossible, it seemed, to suppress entirely. “Then reveal them.”
The man used art as a weapon, and the knowledge of it made a wicked blade of his half smile. His work was good. It had the same blade edge to it, as if every stroke of the pen swiped at the jugular. She could not call it beautiful. Too grotesque, too angry, for beauty, but it showed immense talent. His curved lips no longer made her heart leap. He smiled for all the wrong reasons. But… she wished to creep closer to him, to know why he wore a blade for a mouth and splashed bitterness across paper with such finesse and always to expose evils. She remembered one sketch quite well, published just yesterday. A man had sold his daughter into marriage to another man triple her age and known for his ill treatment of women. She hoped the two men were shunned, that they paid for their actions, perhaps shamed into better behavior.
But would it work that way? Or would the daughter pay the price of their public shame? Still, the motivation behind the caricature had been clear—the men were villains. And Cordelia admired the complicated man sitting across from her for putting the notion into the air. If Lord Theodore wielded art as a weapon, he did so for good reasons.
She shivered. “Very well. I’ll help you acquire secrets.”
“You’ll pretend to be my mistress. I’ll acquire the secrets myself.” He spoke with utter certainty, each word a boulder like himself, immovable. “You woo the guests with talk of charitable art schools.”
Yes, an excellent reminder. An excellent partnership. They may hate one another, but they’d help each other to victory.
Silence stretched between them once more, and soon the muddy, crowded streets of London gave way to fields, open and green and such as she hadn’t seen since her father’s funeral. A gray day, that, but still the colors of the country had glowed bright, spring flowers in early bloom, her father carried from the house, stiff and cold.
She peeked away from the window to find Lord Theodore resting in the opposite corner of the coach, shoulders squeezed by the confines at his back. His eyes were not closed in rest. They studied her, though with what emotion she could not say.
He scratched his jaw, an idle gesture, then he spoke. “I’ll protect you.”
Not a response to her comment, not anything she could have ever expected to leap from his tongue.
He leaned forward, elbows bracing his wide-spread knees. “No harm will come to you or your name through me. If I can help it. I swear it.”
There it was again—his honor, the valiant impulses driven by anger. The power of his words felt like a kick to the chest. He meant it. He’d protect her as he fished for secrets from unknowing men. And on top of his earlier compliment! The gargoyle had a heart. Or a conscience at the very least. And knowing that did curious things to her, made her want to study him more closely.
“Sir George indeed,” she whispered, ducking her head and watching the shadows of the sun and tree boughs outside the carriage dapple her skirts. “It is not necessary, though. Everyone already thinks the worst of me.” She could no longer hold his gaze. It felt too heavy and her own will too weak, so she avoided it, peering out the window at the sun shining there. Would he ask about her past?
She held her breath, but he asked no questions, so she breathed easy once more. This man had already seen her Gallery of Shame. No need to share her other shames with him, the ones that shaped her bones and carved her hollow.
No need for her own inspection of her faults and failures from here on out. In two weeks, she’d have the funds needed to purchase or rent a location for her school, and she’d be free of Lord Theodore for good.
