Page 4 of Indecently Employed
“Oh, no need for gratitude, just…” he raised the glass in mock salute, “submit your notice to the Earl of Clifton. Soon.” He threw back the rest of the liquor.
Susanna nodded, then stood. “As soon as possible, sir.”
She left as quickly as she could without appearing overeager. Once outside, she exhaled again, not quite believing what had just happened.
She’d done it. She’d secured another position. She’d be leaving the de Vauvilles. She would not have to return home to Dorset. Susanna closed her eyes and offered a hasty, silent prayer of thanks.
Chapter Two
Ajax stepped out ofhis carriage on Haymarket, deliberately avoiding the classical edifice of the theater behind him. The theater where Nancy Jutton had played the innocent young wife inThe Old Chateauon the night he’d first laid eyes upon her. He wanted to forget.
Forget that he’d gotten a child on Nancy before moving on to whoever it was next—he couldn’t even recollect. Some admiral’s wife, was it? Augusta something or other? He’d been gone before Nancy even knew she was in the family way, likely. As washisway.
He sighed, supposing that jarring fact deserved some sort of punishment.
He turned and faced the building, forcing a look of disinterest as a hedge against the shame. A banner advertisingThe Palace of Truth, starring the Kendals, hung prominently from the exterior. Ajax didn’t care. Ever since the letter from Charlotte’s horrified maternal relations had reached his inner sanctum of the solar at Gallox Castle, he hadn’t the stomach to set foot in a theater of any kind. And yet he still couldn’t forget. How it washe, and his ribald attitudes and appetites, that had brought his daughter—a girl unwanted by her own family—into the world. Ajax knew that pain all too well; it festered in him, even now. He was determined to not let her suffer from it as he had, not anymore.
With startling clarity, his new governess came to mind.All children need is one good person to care for them, to love them, she’d said. He could still see her pretty mouth and the tight, fine curls that had escaped her bonnet.
He rushed toward Nos. 5 and 6 Haymarket, hoping that the familiar interior of the gallery, the soothing walls displaying exciting new works, would usher away these mawkish thoughts.
It didn’t. Instead of focusing on the current exhibition, his mind dredged up thoughts of Miss Abbotts–not–Abbott. Who was rather fetching as far as governesses went and, tragically, much older than she appeared. If only she’d been in her first blush of youth—nineteen or twenty, say. Some men enjoyed that, chasing after girls who’d only just pinned their hair up. But not Ajax. When he was entertaining the fairer sex, he expected a bit more than bedsport as part of the bargain. She must speak with substance and from lived experience. Wit was nice, charm enjoyable. Confidence and a quick mind an absolute necessity. For if he merely needed to slake his thirst for a pretty young thing, he’d patronize a house of ill repute.
No, Harmonia had saddled him with a buxom, dewy-skinnedspinster. One who spoke casually of German mathematicians. To sleep under his roof. Curse his niece and all the damn Sedleys. When would they cease to torture him?
Ajax pulled a face. He’d already seen this exhibit, and it had once again failed to capture his attention.Landscapes, he silently scoffed. With a nod to the clerk, he moved deeper into the gallery, hungry for something new. That was why he had come here instead of the bustling Goupil Gallery, or Agnew’s,where he’d hitherto been accustomed to splashing out most of his income. Arthur Tooth & Sons had only been in business a few years, but they had immediately impressed him with their novel inventory. His favorites were the inexpensive pictures by new or unknown names, usually costing no more than twenty pounds apiece. One could buy heaps of interesting sketches, oils, watercolors, or what have you—some promising, others poorly done, but none of them stilted and boring in the traditional, Royal Academy–approved vein.
Something inside him was drawn to these cheap thrills over the more expensive investments at the other galleries. Much as he was drawn time and again to the singers, the actresses, the admirals’ wives—thoughts of which had not left him alone as he’d hoped they would, and thus the breaking wheel of his mind was brought forth, ready to dwell on the subject until he was shattered by self-loathing.
Blessedly, a small canvas, no larger than a sheet of letter paper, arrested that line of thought. The hand was loose but dainty, imparting a wistful sort of feel on the oils. It was a domestic scene—a woman in a nightgown, her wrapper undone, her dark, curly hair long and loose. She was seated next to an open fire, needlework in her lap, her feet bare, and she wore a faint smile, one that indicated a contented ease. An exceptional feat, given that the piece was barely two sizes away from being a miniature.
It wasn’t the sort of subject matter he usually gravitated toward. He preferred architecture, or riotous depictions of action, full of movement. He also possessed somewhat of a predilection for the nude female form, but this somehow felt more erotic than that—the lady’s bare feet and loosely done-up nightclothes signaled no need for modesty in the presence of the viewer.
Ajax glanced at the placard:Untitled, Rose Verdier. The piece was certainly intriguing. But where would he put it? It was so different from the collection of small works that graced his London study, and it would be completely out of place in the Gallox Castle solar, with its medieval painted ceiling and heavy wooden antiques.
So preoccupied was he with how this small, domiciliary oil might fit into his life, Ajax failed to notice the gentleman who had sidled up next to him until he heard his voice.
“Hiding, Sedley?”
A shock went through Ajax, but it immediately dissipated when he saw the portly, exhausted figure of Chester Rokeby standing alongside him.
“Egad, man, have a care. I’m not young, you know. Wouldn’t want to do off your favorite writer, would you?” He clutched his chest in mock panic.
“Stuff it, you’re in perfectly good health. I didn’t chase you down through several galleries to hear this kind of tosh.” Rokeby adjusted his greatcoat, which strained valiantly over his middle.
“Several galleries, you say?” Ajax replied. “I’m rather flattered; I didn’t know you cared so much.”
The older man scoffed. “Of course I didn’t. I asked your butler.” He reached up to scratch his magnificent mutton chops; they burned a bright reddish auburn that contrasted sharply with the scant brown hair remaining on his head.
“Nonsense,” Ajax responded good-naturedly as he turned away from the diminutive painting that had captured his interest, suddenly worried Rokeby might comment on it in an unflattering way. “I bet you think of me daily, wondering what sort of ingenious melodrama I’ve concocted in this handsome head of mine.” He tapped his temple.
Used to such bluster, Rokeby coughed and cut straight to the point.Really, his worst quality, this efficiency,Ajax groused silently.
“The December edition is ready for the typesetter. We teased the first installment of your next story.”
“Wonderful,” Ajax said, now forcing a genial tone as anger rose in his throat. “Mind telling me what’s it about? Because I haven’t the foggiest.”
Rokeby came to a slow, purposeful stop, right in front of the bland landscape exhibit. “You know we had been hoping for the actual installment itself. And when that failed to arrive, three months on, we took the liberty of announcing it.”
