That Scandalous Evening Page 19

She lifted her fist to knock on the bottle green door.

  Blackburn had worn a waistcoat of just that color this morning. Before her announcement, he’d looked at her with such heat that his gaze could fire clay.

  After, he had moved back to the front-facing seat.

  What was he feeling? How could she know, when she herself pivoted like a pendulum between every emotion?

  The door swung away from her hovering fist.

  “Miss, did you wish to come in?” Springall the butler waited, his expression perfectly composed, as though houseguests routinely stood immobile on his doorstep.

  Jane’s hand dropped. “Yes. Thank you.”

  She noted that the footman grinned as he took her redingote and bonnet, and she stared at him curiously. Springall did not normally allow such freedom of expression among his minions.

  “Miss, you have a letter from Mr. Morant.” Springall held out the sealed sheet on a silver salver.

  Jane took it with a secret, ironic smile. That was that she needed to finish off a simply dreadful day—another letter from Eleazer. Stripping off her gloves, she broke the seal and quickly scanned the words. It appeared to be more of the usual: how much money had they spent? How soon could Adorna contract a wealthy marriage?

  But today there was a new fillip to add to Jane’s tribulations—a message from Dame Olten written in Eleazer’s hand.

  There was no subtlety to the missive. She and Eleazer would marry by summer, and Dame Olten did not look forward to having a stepdaughter live with her in her new home, nor did she expect to see Jane begging for sanctuary at her new doorstep. So if Jane knew what was good for her, she would make her plans for a new residence now.

  Jane imagined how much Eleazer must have enjoyed penning those lines, and she laughed softly at the picture that formed in her mind. Two people, reveling in cruelty and crude boorishness, imagining themselves clever and proving themselves the opposite.

  “Good news, then, miss?” Springall asked.

  “Not news,” she answered. “But always amusing.”

  Springall’s austere expression appeared almost benevolent. “That’s lovely. Lady Tarlin and Miss Morant have requested your presence. If you would be so good?”

  “Certainly.” She would have to explain what had happened yesterday sometime, she supposed. “Where might I find them?”

  “In the garret.”

  Jane blinked. “The garret?”

  “Yes, miss.” He bowed her up the stairs.

  She went, but skeptically. She couldn’t dismiss her suspicions of Violet and Adorna. She knew them too well. If they found out about the proposal, they would have her wed to Blackburn by any trickery they could devise. Yet rationally she doubted they had stunned him and dragged him into the attic with any base objective. There had to be another reason why they summoned her to the dusty garret of Tarlin House—although Jane’s imagination could not supply it.

  “This way, miss.” A smiling housemaid curtsied, then led her up the final, narrow, creaking flight of stairs to a bare wooden door, and swung it open.

  The chamber was bright with the afternoon sunshine, full of large, dustcloth-covered objects, and lit by the beaming faces of the two women Jane loved most.

  “Surprise!” Adorna clapped her hands together. “Surprise, Aunt Jane. Aren’t you surprised?”

  “Very surprised.” Jane moved into the room and looked cautiously around. The room measured half the width of the town house, twenty feet across, and was about fourteen feet wide. The dormer windows all faced north, and were open to the fresh air. No dust or mildew tainted any corner of the garret, and except for the covered objects, one rather worn couch, and a dressing screen, it held no furniture.

  No long, man-shaped forms lay trussed up on the bare wooden floor.

  Jane relaxed marginally. “What is this?”

  Adorna took the corner of one of the dustcloths. Violet took the corner of another. Together they pulled them off to reveal a simple wooden modeling stand, complete with turntable, and a large, sturdy table covered with modeling instruments.

  Jane stared dumbly.

  “Aunt Jane, you don’t look happy. Aren’t you happy?”

  Jane didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

  “It’s your studio, Jane,” Violet said.

  “Studio.” Jane blinked, sure she had imagined the chisel, the wood blades, the wire-end tools.

  “For you to do your sculptures.” Adorna sounded a little tearful.

  “It is Adorna’s special surprise for you.” Violet was prompting her, wanting her to say something, to do something besides stand and stare in vast disbelief.

  “It’s…very nice.” More than nice. It was a miracle. If it was true, it would give Jane back the greatest pleasure of her life. “It’s…I…I don’t know what to say.” Funny. Her voice trembled and her vision blurred.

  Violet relaxed, the strained frown disappearing from between her brows.

  “But you like it?” Adorna still needed to be reassured.

  “Like it? Like it?” Jane tasted the phrase, giving it incredulous intonations. “ ‘Like’ is insufficient to describe my…” She faltered, holding her fist to her chest.

  Adorna laughed joyously. “It was my idea. After I heard about the statue, I knew what you’d been needing all these years and I wanted to get it for you because you’ve been so wonderful to me, but it was Lord Tarlin who suggested the garret, and Lady Tarlin who ordered the art supplies, and the maids who bustled around to get the room scrubbed because it was nothing but an old storage room, and everybody’s worked so hard to make you happy because we love you, Aunt Jane.”

  Everyone smiled at her. Violet, Adorna, the maids gathered in the doorway, Springall and the footmen behind. Jane knew of Violet’s and Adorna’s affection, but to think of such an elaborate gift! And for Lord Tarlin to take time from his day to concern himself with a place for her to practice her art! And the servants! All she’d done was to try and be a pleasant and unobtrusive houseguest, to help Violet if she could, to guide Adorna through the treacherous shoals of London society.

  And done a lamentably poor job because of one idiotic, irrational, handsome, and appealing Blackburn.

  But she couldn’t think of him now. She couldn’t allow him to intrude on this moment, as he had intruded on so many others.

  “This is so kind. I don’t know what to…how to thank you.” She dabbed at her eyes. “All of you.”

  Springall didn’t approve of aristocrats having emotion. He clapped his hands, two smart smacks that brought the lesser servants to attention. “All right. Back to work.”

  “Thank you,” Jane called to the departing servants. She needed a handkerchief.

  Violet handed her one.

  “Look, Aunt Jane. Here’s the clay, here in the bucket. Here are some work clothes hanging behind the screen. There’s a jug of water and a basin so you can wash up after you get done, and Lord Tarlin said the light was just right for an artist.” Adorna behaved like a street peddler selling chips to a potential client.

  Jane shared a smile with Violet. “It’s perfect.”

  Throwing her arms around Jane’s neck, Adorna asked, “Do you really like it?”

  “Very much.” Jane hugged her back, this little girl she raised when she was so inadequately prepared for such a responsibility. She’d always been afraid that the lack of a real mother would display itself in some horrible quirk of Adorna’s personality, but no. The only lack showed now, here in London, in herself.

  Yet Adorna loved her, despite her shortcomings. Again Jane blinked against the tears.

  “Don’t worry, Aunt Jane.” Adorna patted her back. “We’re well on the way to conquering London. When we’re done, nothing will be the same.”

  Jane gave a watery chuckle. No wonder the child had had a dozen proposals. “With that I must agree.” Her gaze strayed toward the covered bucket beside the modeling stand.

  “We thought you might have something you wanted to scu
lpt.” Violet moved toward the door.

  “Or someone.” Adorna followed Violet.

  Jane didn’t need the unsubtle suggestion. Already her palms could almost feel the sensation of cool clay as she shaped the jut of his jaw. “You’re inviting disaster,” she warned.

  Jane could have sworn she heard Violet mutter, “Yes, and I hope he accepts.”

  Then they were gone. She was alone, shut in with a bucket of clay, a plethora of tools, and her thoughts of Blackburn. Handsome, maddening, faithless Blackburn whose form had been almost completely revealed to her yesterday.

  She slipped behind the screen. With trembling hands she struggled to remove her intricately fastened gown. She replaced it with a simple gray work gown, loose and comfortable, with buttons up the front. She covered that with an unadorned black apron. Sitting on the sofa, she removed her boots and her socks—she could only work barefooted—then slowly walked toward the modeling stand.

  She laid her hand on the flat surface. It turned. She twirled it and laughed a quiet, exultant laugh. A turntable, just like a real artist. Gently she touched each of the tools, shining-new and crying out to be used. Lifting the cover on the bucket, she gazed at the clay. It smelled rich and moist, and its gray exterior gave no hint of the beauty, and the treachery, hiding within.

  But she knew it was there. She reached out and sank her hands into the cool depths of her beloved clay.

  * * *

  As Blackburn drove to Cavendish Square, he handled the ribbons with more than his usual care. The busy streets of London required all his attention, especially with the high-perch phaeton and his best pair of matched grays, and he was distracted by worry and speculation.

  Who wouldn’t be? After that distressing interview with Mr. Smith, he had arrived home to find an invitation to call on Jane.

  To call on her. After the things she’d said to him, after the contempt she’d heaped on his head! Disjointedly he had noted that Jane’s handwriting looked remarkably childlike, with letters that were large and open and with each i dotted by a heart. That surprised him, but not nearly as much as the cloyingly sweet tone of the note. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought someone else had sent it.

  But no. He had to face facts. Just as Mr. Smith had warned, Jane wanted something from him.

  She had arrived back in London, reported to her French superiors, and undoubtedly they had scolded her for allowing her emotions to divert her from her mission. Probably she had been instructed to cajole the sketch of the ship from him. Perhaps to try and discover what he knew about the workings of the Foreign Office. And maybe, just maybe, she had been told to apologize and beg him to take her as his wife.

  That apology would only double his suspicion of her, but he found himself wanting it very badly. Worse, he found himself contemplating accepting it. After all, if he wed her, he would control her.

  She was only a woman. He could control her.

  “Damn!” Rounding the corner, he saw the line of carriages and horses before Tarlin House. “Damn.” He pulled the phaeton to a standstill. Every bachelor in society was there, paying court to Miss Morant, and there was no chance his coming would escape anyone’s notice. He’d already made it clear that he was courting Miss Jane Higgenbothem. He had used it as a diversion to cover his activities. He should want the ton to buzz about his attentions…yet somewhere along the line Jane had become the most important matter of his life. To once more expose her to the swooping vultures, even for the good of England, gave him a vague, crawling sense of disgust.

  He was, as Mr. Smith accused, feeling queasy about betraying her.

  Stopping his phaeton at the corner, he said to the child who swept the street, “Excuse me. Can you tell me if Miss Higgenbothem is at home?”

  The saucy urchin grinned and winked at him. “Aye, m’lord, she is. Been out fer two walks today, but she’s back now.”

  “Really.” Blackburn considered the situation. “Would you happen to know if she went to that very special destination?”

  The girl glanced around, and seeing no one eavesdropped, she nodded.

  Blackburn nodded back. “Thank you, Wiggens.”

  “Nice ’orses, m’lord,” Wiggens said.

  “The best in my stables.” And appropriate for a man who wished to impress a woman.

  At an impatient shout from behind him, he drove away from his little spy to join the line at the Tarlins’. He noted a swift round of grins as he swung himself down and made his way to the door. Handing his beaver hat to Springall, he asked, “Is Miss Higgenbothem at home?”

  “The ladies are in the morning chamber,” Springall said.

  Blackburn started toward the door.

  “But Miss Higgenbothem is not there.”

  Blackburn paused. “Where is she?”

  “You’ll have to inquire of Lady Tarlin.” Springall sniffed. “She’s in the morning chamber.”

  Blackburn reflected that the butler matched his mistress—irritating and condescending. But he was in no mood for Violet’s mechanisms, and so he told her when he found her, surrounded by low-toned matrons. “I want to speak to Miss Higgenbothem, and I want to speak to her now.”

  Violet appeared singularly unimpressed by his impatience. “I’m afraid Jane is…busy at the moment. I’ll tell her you called, shall I?”

  “Busy.” Blackburn remembered Wiggens’s confirmation. Jane had walked to de Sainte-Amand’s today, possibly to deliver a sketch done from memory of the Virginia Belle and receive further instructions. “Doing what?”

  Violet’s gaze slid away from his. “I couldn’t say.”

  “You’d better say, or I’ll tell Tarlin about the time you drove his team through Hyde Park on a wager.”

  One of the eavesdropping matrons giggled, then subsided as Violet glared, first at her, then at him. “You are detestable, Ransom.”

  “Yes, and you’re guilty about something.” B’God, he was seeing treason everywhere he looked. He had to be going mad—or else the ladies of London had made treachery into a grand new entertainment. He wouldn’t put it past them, frivolous and silly as they were, but neither could he allow Violet to become entangled. “You’d best not be involved in Jane’s activities, Violet. This is not a game.”

  “No one knows that better than I, Ransom.” She tossed her head. “Very well. She’s upstairs in the garret.”

  “In the garret? What’s she doing there?”

  “What people do in a garret,” she replied coolly. “Go up and see.”

  He bowed, turned on his heel, and left, barely noting the satisfied smiles Violet and Adorna exchanged.

  Springall pointed him upward, and a wandering chambermaid nodded toward a narrow stairway. “Miss Higgenbothem’s up there, m’lord. Ye can tell which door—she’s singing.”

  And not well, if the maid’s puckered lips were anything to go by. He bounded up the stairs, his heels clattering on the wood, and heard Jane warbling in high, wavering tones of unqualified pleasure.

  Whatever she was doing, she was enjoying. He started to rap sharply at the door with his mahogany cane, then stopped in loathsome self-awareness. He was trying to warn her, to give her time to hide whatever contemptible project enthralled her. Surely he was tougher than that. If he found her drawing pictures of every ship and admiral in the navy, he would do his duty and send her to hang.

  Taking hold of the knob, he twisted and flung the door open—and saw Jane, dressed in work clothes and working on a rough, man-sized clay statue. A noble brow, a proud nose, a muscled chest…and…he squinted. Yes, every detail was just as before.

  Including a damned tiny, baby fig leaf.

  Chapter 24

  Treason? Treachery? Disloyalty to England? All these thoughts flew out of Blackburn’s mind.

  Frustration and rage sprang to the fore. Once again she had created a statue whose likeness could not be mistaken for someone else, yet that insulted him in the most basic way. No man could hide his equipment behind such a sma
ll leaf.

  Especially not a Quincy.

  Just as he had been so many years ago, he was reduced to primal humiliation and fury. “You still don’t have it right!” Stepping inside, he slammed the door behind him. “Damn it, Jane.” He ripped off his cravat and starched collar. He wrestled his way out of his coat and waistcoat and tossed them on the floor. He opened his shirt so abruptly that the neck string tore. “This! This is what I look like!”

  She stood posed, her hands gray with clay, staring with a kind of wonder, and for a brief moment, sanity overruled his rage. Did she think him a madman?

  But no. She stared with wonder blended with an abstract regard. Her work had cast a spell on her, removing the virginal shyness and replacing it with avid curiosity. Deliberately she put down her tools. She wiped her hands on her apron. She walked toward him, and circled him, slowly, looking at his bareness as if it were a marvel of aesthetic delight. Without shyness, her hands reached out and pushed the fine linen shirt off his shoulders. “Beautiful,” she murmured. “Better than I’d imagined.”

  She laid hands on him.

  She didn’t mean anything by it. He knew that. Her art held her in thrall; the conventions of society held no place in her thoughts.

  But he was here. He lived in the now. He was aware of his surroundings, of the proprieties, of himself, of her, of their previous eagerness and their future passion.

  Rage cooled. Fire smoldered.

  Her fingers molded the column of his neck.

  He swallowed, trying to ease the tightness of his throat. She followed the movement with nothing less than adoration, touching his Adam’s apple, caressing the muscles as they tensed and released.

  She pulled his shirt loose from his trousers, then touched each rib as she lifted the garment.

  He strove for breath.

  “Let me…” She struggled to pull the fine linen over his head.

  He ducked his head, lifted his arms, and the shirt slithered to the floor.

  She looked at his nipples, her eyes round. She glanced back at the statue. “I’ve almost got them right. Don’t you think so?”

  She didn’t wait for him to formulate an answer, but with her fingers circled the small disk, rode over the little bump in the middle. “Yes. They’re not so different from my own.”