Page 207 of The Ladies Least Likely
“I’ll gladly sell you the sketch if you’ve taken a liking for it, sir,” she said. “Five guineas.”
The third one giggled and slurred his words. “And does that give possession for only the afternoon, or the ‘ole night?” Was he tipsy? At this time of day? “Any mon c’n get a print o’ Miss Smythe for—” he hiccupped— “a farthing or two, can’t ‘ee?”
Harriette didn’t miss his implication in the wordprint.“Only the sketch is for sale,” she said coldly. “And the cost is ten guineas.”
“Oh, it prices itself high, it does!” exclaimed the first rogue. He plucked her portfolio from her hands, flipping past her current sketch to the more recent ones. He sneered as he saw the several studies of Ren, various angles of his head, three quarters, and the full-body sketch of him lounging on the couch, looking directly at the viewer with a wicked come-hither gaze.
“Coming up in the world, are ye, Miss Smythe?” the dandy said. “Can this be due to your association with the Earl of Runtwick?”
Harriette saw red. That awful nickname couldn’t still be circulating about, not after he’d come so far and matured so much. If she were a man, she could challenge this macaroni to a duel for such an insult. As a woman, she had no weapon but words.
“You dare,” she said quietly, looking the man in the eye. “Youdare. Give me back my sketches.”
“What will his lordship do?” the second sneered. “Chase us?” His fellows guffawed at this.
Harriette pushed on the walking stick he held under his arm, using it to knock the first man in the leg. He yelped and dropped her portfolio. She snatched it up, dusting gravel and dirt from the cracks and creases.
“His lordship deserves your respect,” she said in outrage. She’d faced down the young bullies of Shepton Mallet, only this time she did not have her slingshot. She could not command these fops to give Renwick his due.
“Why don’t you lick his boots for us,” sniggered the third man. “Add it to your other services.”
They strolled away, laughing amongst themselves, and Harriette shook the last bit of gravel from her papers. Her hands trembled with anger, but her heart clenched with a heavier emotion. There would be no denying her ownership, once they circulated, of these daring pictures of Ren with his coat off, his neck bared to the gaze. These men had seen the sketches and would make the connection.
She’d promised Ren the popularity of her sketches would make him admired, just as her prior efforts had made the Graf von Hardenburg society’s darling. But perhaps the attention that resulted for Ren might not be approving. Perhaps his peers would buy the sketches and make him an object of ridicule. Think him tainted by his association with Harriette.
And in the meantime, her reputation was in tatters. All of Society would assume she was his mistress.
She dusted off the skirts of her worn polonaise, which she didn’t have the funds to replace. Foresight was not Harriette’s strong suit, she would be the first to admit. But it now occurred to her that her sinking could bring any number of other people down with her. Association with her might injure Ren’s prospects for marriage. And a stain on his image might affect hissister’s prospects as well, for surely she had hopes of her own, no matter what her mother thought.
The papers would have far worse to say about the Countess of Calenberg’s household than that they were unconventional. And Harriette would never be granted commissions from rich patrons if she were a scarlet woman. Families wouldn’t hire her to paint them if they thought they could be tainted by the association. Only the curious would enlist her, and it would be a repeat of her sittings with the squire, who had assumed she was sexually promiscuous because she was an independent woman with a skill.
She couldn’t have an affair with Ren, much as she wished to. She needed to salvage her reputation. She wanted entrée into the salons of the great, and she wanted their commissions.
She started in the direction of Cranbourne Street, overtaken by remorse. She must go back to The Acorn and tell Mrs. Darly she’d reconsidered selling her those sketches. They might harm Ren and they would certainly harm her.
But the weight of guineas in her reticule slowed and then stopped her before she had reached the cabriolet where Jock and Beater sat, still watching the parade of people about the square. Her sketches of the Graf von Hardenburg had been a sensation; there was every possibility that Ren’s portraits would be even more popular. With those profits she could send funds to the Demants to pay her mother’s doctor fees or provide her a small luxury. A handful of the coins in her purse could let Sorcha do a month of marketing and pay for the roof over all of their heads. The rest could buy Harriette pigments and canvas and a new set of brushes, all of which she needed if she wanted more work. She owed her aunt for supporting her all of these years.
Looking up, Harriette realized she stood before the house that belonged to Sir Joshua Reynolds, one of England’s most admired painters and a man of unlimited talent and esteem.Reynolds could command virtually any price for his portraits. He was admitted into any circle and lauded for his skill.
She couldn’t achieve what he had by producing racy sketches, or if she were thought a demirep. Popular prints wouldn’t bring her the acclaim she wanted, the regard that someone like Angelica Kauffman could command as a member of the Royal Academy of Arts, or Adelaide Labille-Guiard, painter to the French princes.
She couldn’t become Ren’s mistress. She would paint a wonderful portrait of him, the most beautiful and noble portrait she’d ever done, but she wouldn’t allow herself his kisses or his bed. He might not like her change of heart, but surely he would understand. He wanted a respectable wife, a household with happy children. Those were things Harriette could not give him.
To admit that felt like covering over a canvas she’d labored over for hours and days. It felt like cutting out a piece of her. But she had to do what was best for them both.
Blinking back tears, Harriette recognized one of the glamorous figures parading toward her as Princess, looking smug and satisfied and with a blush to her cheeks not caused by rouge.
“Finished and ready to head back to Charles Street, are we?” Harriette snapped.
“What is it biting me for?” Princess blinked heavy-lidded eyes. “Did my assignation go better than yours, then?”
There wouldn’t be an assignation. Not for Harriette. She had to avoid the temptation of grown-up Ren, so handsome, so wicked, so wonderful.
The unshed tears stung Harriette’s eyes as the women crammed themselves into the tiny carriage. Princess took the ribbons from Jock, and they jostled together as the back of the carriage dropped when Beater climbed to the groom’s platform.Harriette steeled herself for the conversation she would have to have with Renwick.
No more foolish mistakes, no more short-sighted thinking. No more living for the sheer pleasure of the moment. She had a life to build and so did he, and in neither was there room for anything more than friendship.
CHAPTER NINE
