Page 18 of The Scoundrel of Drury Lane
“Sir, as much as I appreciate your offer, I cannot accept. I may be poor, but I am a lady. It would be highly improper. And not to be rude, but safety is a concern. You must understand that women cannot undertake such spontaneous requests the way a man so easily can.” She had the strangest sense that he wouldn’t let the matter go, and she wasn’t sure she could deny this man for long. Something about him got under her skin, making her blood hum and her knees quite weak, something she’d never had the occasion to feel before. It worried her more that she couldn’t think clearly around him.
“I will triple your current rates, and I guarantee that you will have a number of new clients when we are through.” He didn’t sound desperate. If anything, he sounded casual, like this was a fun lark and she should relax. But she saw some hint of urgency in his eyes as well. What could be so important about a portrait?
“You couldn’t possibly promise that,” she argued. “You cannot guarantee future clients. You haven’t even seen my work.”
“The Duke of Tiverton is a close friend of mine. He will wish to have his portrait done after me. As well as Viscount Basildon and the Marquess of Grey. These are simply my titled friends. I have others who will gladly commission portraits. And as for your talent, I see the sets behind you. They are exquisite. I can only imagine how you would bring life to human subjects.”
“Even if I did agree to your proposal... I would need much more than your word that I will not suffer an assault on my person. You seem to have a great many titled friends, sir, but I do not know you or them. What assurances could you give me, aside from the word of an unknown gentleman, that I would be safe with you? I would have to have a chaperone present.”
The gentleman frowned. His mouth, rather too sensual to be safe for a woman’s virtue, had somehow become even more attractive. She’d never been drawn to a man when he was cross, but there was something wicked in the expression, as though he’d kiss her senseless rather than hurt her. Not that she had any personal experience with such things, but as a woman she knew on some instinctive level what this man could give her.
“What about that lad, the one who is watching us from the wings. Do you know him?”
She turned around and caught a glimpse of a boy who quickly ducked behind the curtains on the stage. It was Henry Lovelace, a fifteen-year-old boy she had convinced Flory to take in last year as a stagehand. He’d had no family and no place to sleep until she and Flory had set aside a small room at the back of the theater for him. Suzannah considered Henry not only trustworthy but a friend, and in some ways like a little brother.
A sudden heat behind her made her tremble as she realized the gentleman had come up right behind her. He leaned down, whispering in her ear.
“Have him accompany you each night. Would that be acceptable?”
She had to crane her neck to look up at him, and her stomach flipped as he shot her a bittersweet smile.
“You will see that I am no brute, Miss Townsend.”
Suzannah still should have said no, but if he was honest about his offer—triple the current rate with more commissions from some of London’s elite—she would be able to make a name for herself. She could afford new clothes and perhaps a better place to live that would attract more clients. She could even take Henry with her if she could afford two rooms. While he was older than most lads on their own, she worried about him being led astray or hurt by the dangers of the world.
“Must we start tonight?” she asked.
“Yes. I’ve been away from society for some time, and it has been pointed out to me that unveiling a new portrait is a good excuse to invite people to one’s home, so the sooner we begin, the better.” He held out one hand. “Do we have a deal, Miss Townsend?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she reached out to shake his hand.
“We have a deal, Mr.... I’m afraid I don’t even know your name.”
“Kit... Mr. Kit,” he said.
“Mr. Kit,” she echoed.
“I have my coach waiting outside. Collect whatever you require and bring your lad along. I shall be waiting for you.”
He placed his hat back on his head and turned away. As he exited the theater, Suzannah could strangely feel his absence in a way she’d never felt anyone else’s before. She stood in the shadows, a heaviness of something settling in the air as his words lingered in the silence.
I shall be waiting for you...
5
This was impossible.
The pretty little artist he had rescued, the one whose touch had made him feel human for the first time in seven years, was the daughter of the man who’d helped destroy his life.
Perhaps he was still in Australia, still waiting to wake up and begin another grueling day of backbreaking labor, and this was yet another dream that had devolved into a nightmare.
He stepped out of the theater and onto the moonlit street. He closed his eyes and held himself very still, focused on his breathing. It was a technique he’d used to survive in the penal colony. When things became too much, he stopped and focused inward on the sound of the air pushing in and out of his lungs. If he did that long enough, the ringing in his ears would stop and the tightness in his chest would ease.
Thoughts of that green ribbon threaded through Suzannah’s hair, then wrapped around his fingers, kept intruding on his calming routine.
Christ...He’d told her his name was Kit. Would she figure out who he really was? What the devil would he do when Palmer opened the door and called him Lord Kentwell? The girl would likely turn and run, fearing for her life. It would be hard to blame her, given the dark places his mind had gone in recent days.
Feeling not at all well, he closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe in and out again.
