A Lady of Talent (4 page)

From the moment Sebastian and his fiancée had entered the studio it appeared that all of Lady Cecilia’s concentration had been focused on Barbara—her perfect features, her graceful figure, her elegant carriage—and it had taken a good deal of effort on Sebastian’s part to draw her attention to him even for the briefest of moments.

“... most surprised to find someone of such excellent family and connections in such dowdy attire. Why one might even be pardoned for not realizing she was a lady at all if it were not for the fortuitous appearance of her brother. Poor man. It was easy to see how embarrassed he is by the casual nature of her dress and the deplorable lack of decoration in her surroundings.” Barbara’s voice finally penetrated Sebastian’s consciousness.

“What was wrong with her attire? I thought it quite becoming: simple, yet elegant and—”

“Hideously outmoded. Why, I am sure that no one has worn sleeves like that for an age.”

“Perhaps they are easier to work in. Someone who paints would not wish to have her movements constrained in the slightest degree by her clothing.”

Barbara did not even deign to respond to such an absurd notion. “And to think that she is sister to a man who is so clearly alive to all that is the best in manners and costume. Did you not find the Marquess all that was charming?”

“Who? Shelburne? I thought him what he is: a most frippery fellow whose only interest in life is consorting with other frippery fellows who waste their time, talents, and money on idle diversions. He must be a trial to someone like Lady Cecilia who undoubtedly has little enough time to fritter away on such empty amusements or on fashion.”

“How can you say such a thing? Why his air of fashion and his address alone would make him stand out even among superior gentlemen of the
ton.
And as to his sister, whose sense of fashion is obviously vastly inferior, I do not know why you say that it is a question of time. Why any—”

“But it
is
a question of time. A woman—or any person, for that matter, but especially a woman—who has developed her skills to such a degree that she exhibits her work at the Royal Academy is someone who is devoted to her vocation, regardless of how much natural talent she might possess. No one achieves that level of skill at anything without a great deal of work and dedication.”

“Work.” Barbara shuddered delicately. “One wonders why she does it, for it can only be turning her into a very dull person indeed—a veritable bluestocking—when with just a little bit of help she could be almost attractive. It is a wonder her brother allows such a thing. Surely he could use his influence to introduce her to some fashionable modiste who could make her look much more the thing.”

“From the look of it, I would say that there is very little influence anyone could exert over Lady Cecilia Manners to make her do anything she does not wish to.” Sebastian grinned at the memory of the defiant tilt of Cecilia’s chin as she had withstood his initial scrutiny. “Besides, I think her quite pretty the way she is. There is an unaffected naturalness about her that is most appealing.”

“Naturalness?”
Barbara’s delicate brows rose in horror. “That flyaway hair and paint all over her hands? She will never get anyone to marry her if she does not take more care of her appearance, title or no title.”

“Somehow, I get the feeling that though Lady Cecilia’s interests lie in many directions, none of them is matrimonial.” Sebastian thought wistfully of the crowded studio filled with books and paintings, statuary and archeological treasures. What would it be like to know a woman who had led such an exciting life—a life that had taken her from England to Naples, to Vesuvius and Pompeii? What would it be like to talk to a woman who read instead of shopped, who spent hours in front of an easel instead of a looking glass—a woman whose conversation would focus on many things instead of mostly on herself?

“But it is a woman’s duty to be married. How else can she look after herself? Surely Lady Cecilia is not planning to be a burden on her brother for the rest of her life? It would be most unfair of her not to exert herself in seeking out a husband.”

“From the little I saw, I would venture to say that it is not Lady Cecilia who is the burden. It appears to me that she is doing quite well at looking after herself and possibly her brother as well, if her patrons number Princess Esterhazy, Countess Lieven, and Sir Jasper Chase among them.”

“Sir Jasper Chase?” Barbara, who had been smiling complacently at the mention of two of Almack’s patronesses looked blankly at her fiancé.

“The gentleman in the portrait on the easel in Lady Cecilia’s studio.”

“What has he to do with anything? No one has ever heard of Sir Jasper Chase.”

“I have. He is one of the most well-regarded men in the City, not to mention a devoted patron of the arts. Believe me, his interest in Lady Cecilia’s career will do more to advance it than all the others put together.”

“And what woman in her right mind would want a career when she appears to be on the best of terms with people like Princess Esterhazy and Countess Lieven who can really do something to help her?” Barbara shook her head wonderingly at the sheer naiveté of her fiancé. For a reputedly clever man, he could be remarkably stupid and not at all wise in the ways of the world. Her father could say all he wanted about the power exerted by the wealthy men of the City, but she knew very well that true power resided in the drawing rooms of the
ton—
drawing rooms from which she previously had been excluded, but in which she intended to play a crucial role, now that she had secured herself a place on the first rung of a ladder that was bound to lead her to more dizzying heights than her father could even imagine. And, as the Countess of Charrington, she was going to have a good deal more fun rising to the top of her world than either her father or her husband had had rising to the top of theirs.

But the first thing Barbara needed to accomplish her goal was visibility, and she was not going to get that if Sebastian continued to bury himself in his work. She simply could not allow him to continue to excuse himself from the balls and routs so necessary to her success, on the pretext that they were nothing but overheated crushes with dull conversations and tepid champagne.

No, Barbara was going to see to it that Sebastian escorted her to every affair hosted by every member of the Upper Ten Thousand, and if he would not, then she would just have to find someone else who would. Someone like the Marquess of Shelburne, for instance, someone who knew just how to cut a dash at such things, someone who knew that a person’s reputation could be made or unmade by appearing at just the right place at just the right time in highest kick of fashion.

Chapter Five

Sebastian was entirely correct in thinking that Lady Cecilia Manners was doing quite well in looking after herself and her brother. However, he was not correct in thinking that she was satisfied with the state of affairs.

“Really, Neville, is it absolutely necessary for you to have
another
snuffbox from Rundell and Bridge,” she asked the next morning as she stared aghast at the jeweler’s bill.

“Surely you would not have me carry a Sevres snuffbox with a striped waistcoat.” Neville shuddered at the very thought of such a thing. “The clash in design would be ... well, it simply would not do.”

Cecilia bit her lip in frustration as she recorded the figure in her account book and laid the bill in the
to be paid
pile. It never did the least good to remonstrate with her brother; at best she found herself drawn into absurd discussions of fashion, and at worst she wound up being angry with him for his irresponsibility and self-centeredness, both of which were a waste of her time and energy.

Neville looked at his sister in horror. “Never tell me you are going to pay for the thing! I have only just purchased it.” Seeing the mulish set of her lips, he sighed with exasperation. “Cecilia, if you are going to insist on paying tradesmen’s bills, the least you can do is wait six months or more until they have sent you several dunning letters. If you do not, they will have no more respect for you than they would for some shopkeeper’s daughter. Besides, if you stopped paying tradesmen, we could afford better lodgings. Golden Square may have been a respectable enough address half a century ago, but no one of any consequence lives here any more. There are nothing but foreigners here now.”

“You may not consider them to be of any consequence, but I do. There are more artists, musicians, and diplomats than there were half a century ago—all people who have more of interest to contribute to a conversation than the empty-headed gossip that is usually to be heard at functions where people of
consequence
are to be found.”

“And how would you know what is to be heard at such functions, since you so steadfastly refuse to honor any of those gatherings with your presence?”

Cecilia’s brows rose in mock disdain. “If the
on-dits
you shared with us today are any indication of the level of conversation to be had at these functions, then I see absolutely no reason to waste my time at any of them.”

“Miss Wyatt found my stories entertaining enough.” Neville retorted huffily. “But then it is clear that
she
has an appreciation for the elegancies of life.”

“Miss Wyatt?” His sister did not even bother to try to stifle a derisive snort. “Miss Wyatt is no more than a pretty simpleton willing to devote what little thought she is capable of to the latest cut in bodices or whatever color and material has been declared to be
le dernier cri.”

“She at least can carry on a polite conversation. Her fiancé, on the other hand, has nothing to recommend him except his birth. If I did not already know he was of a good family, there would be no way to identify him as a man of breeding. There was none of that easy address that characterizes a true gentleman, and there was a false air of reserve about him that I found most unattractive.”

“I thought it dignified. He at least had an air of distinction—cold though it appeared to be—and he certainly had more to offer than his empty-headed fiancée. His remarks were intelligent after all, even if they were uncomplimentary,” Cecilia recalled with kindling look.

“Poor creature. Miss Wyatt is such a beauty—certainly she could have done better than that, even if he is rich as Croesus. Surely she is plump in the pocket as well, if the stories are true. Far better for her to have found herself an amusing man with better manners and less fortune. You cannot tell me that there are not other men of rank in London who would not welcome a wealthy, if less-than-distinguished, bride.”

“Why? Who is she?”

Neville smiled slyly at his sister. “And here I thought you had nothing but scorn for gossip, Cecy.”

“I wish you would not call me that absurd name.” But despite her haughty tone, Cecilia had the grace to blush ever so slightly. “It is merely that I am curious about the person whose portrait I am about to paint. The more I know about someone, the more I understand their character and the more successful I am at capturing their likeness.”

“And here I thought you were wondering how a highly finished article like Miss Wyatt came to be engaged to an old stick like Charrington.”

“If you mean a man is an old stick simply because he is not enthralled by a retelling of gossip gleaned from the worst of the town tabbies the way his fiancée was, then yes, you could call the Earl of Charrington an old stick—and me as well. I, however, considered his total lack of interest to be the one sign he had in his favor.”

“Ah.” Neville grinned at her. “Still, I can see you cannot help wondering what brought this ill-assorted couple together, even though you yourself would never indulge in anything as frivolous as speculation or the scandal broth you accuse me of spreading. Well,” he shrugged eloquently, “have it your way. But scandal broth can be very revealing at times and one can learn the reasons behind any number of things, such as why a man like the Earl of Charrington is to be wed to a woman like Miss Wyatt. It is quite simple, really: in spite of her enchanting person and equally enchanting fortune, Miss Wyatt is the daughter of a Cit. Presumably she aspires to being something more than the daughter of a Cit—like a countess, perhaps. Why she chose Charrington, of course, is anybody’s guess, but I would venture to suggest that as someone who himself has amassed a fortune in the City, he has less objection to Cits and their daughters than most men of his station. And, then again, I do believe rumor has it that Sir Richard Wyatt was the one who gave him his start in whatever it was that earned him so much money. If I were so naive to believe that such a thing as gratitude exists, I might hazard a guess that it was gratitude that made the Earl of Charrington offer to make Miss Wyatt his countess. Gratitude and a well-developed sense of... er... aesthetics. For there is not the least doubt that she will make a truly beautiful countess.”

“So you do not think it a love match, then.”    

“A love match?” Neville snorted. “Good heavens, no! I cannot imagine how even you would come by such a gothic notion. Besides, Charrington is well known to be utterly immune to any of the tenderer emotions. Women have been casting their lures at him for years without any success. He has never shown the least interest, romantic or otherwise, in any of them. And even his, ah,
other
liaisons never last long enough to suggest any level of passionate inclination on his part. No, I fear the lively Miss Wyatt will find she has settled for a very dull dog indeed, title or no title.”

“Perhaps she too is immune to the tenderer emotions.” Cecilia could not say why it pleased her to discover that the vapid Miss Wyatt and her haughty fiancé possessed nothing more in common than a sense of obligation to Sir Richard Wyatt, but it did. Even though Cecilia had been irked by the earl’s coolly superior air, she had been intrigued by the obvious intelligence behind it. Even more intriguing was the fact that he was not at pains to hide that intelligence as her brother’s acquaintances did—if they even possessed it in the first place.