The Scandalous Life of a True Lady (21 page)

The crude curses that met Claire’s announcement proved it: these might be the cream of the courtesans, the highest paid, most in demand of the demi-mondaine, but they were no ladies.

As Lord Gorham quietly said to Harry, “You can take a wench off the streets, but you cannot take the streets off the wench.”

Some of the women chose to withdraw from the artistic event they had no chance of winning. They’d play lawn tennis or pall mall instead, both of which Claire considered beneath her dignity, so they were not included in the tournament. The non-artistic Fashionable Impures could also laze about the house, seeing to their looks and apparel, their two favorite entertainments. No one wished to stroll the gardens or sightsee, not without their escorts to admire them, not with the sun out to destroy their complexions, not with a mad dog on the loose.

Ellsworth’s mistress, Madeline Harbough, declared she had to practice dressage, which was not, she told the less well informed, putting on a corset by herself. She was going to perform her circus act this evening.

Other strumpets gave up on the whole contest altogether. They hadn’t the looks, the clothes, the talent, or the cleverness of Claire, so why let their gents see that? London had more to offer than this rubbishing house party where one had to watch one’s manners and watch Claire or Miss Royale to see which fork to use. There was more fun at the gaming clubs, the theater, the shops, and the daily drives in Hyde Park to be seen and to see if perhaps a nob with deeper pockets showed any interest. Their companions agreed. Wagering on a losing prospect held no appeal, nor did endangering themselves going after a rabid beast. Besides, some of them had to get back to their wives or their businesses. They’d return for the ball, of course, and the final judging, to pay their debts and negotiate for the favors of the winning women.

As a result, only seven artists sat at portable easels or with lap desks on the north lawn, looking up at the sprawling brick manor house. Four others sat watching from beneath a large awning, where servants served iced lemonade and biscuits, tea and tiny sandwiches, even though luncheon was just past. Sandaree sat on a cushion on the ground, midway between the painters and the gossipers, shivering in her thin garments despite the spring sunshine.

Simone sent Sarah back to her room for a shawl for the poor girl. Sandaree thanked her, then confessed she was more disconsolate than cold. Sir James was going to be angry at her again, because she was not going to win. She’d never used watercolors or drawn a landscape.

“Then you should paint the wonderful designs you have on your hands. That is a real skill, too.”

Sandaree smiled and took up a brush, but she soon grew frustrated at the drips and smears she produced. Instead she politely inquired of the females under the awning if they would like her to paint on them, not with her henna dye, but using these bright colors. The bored nonpainters were delighted, especially knowing the vines and chains would wash off. One wanted a butterfly on her cheek, another a heart on her shoulder. Soon they were all laughing except for Claire, who was painting with dark intensity.

Miss Althorp, the poetess, was also ignoring the happy chatter, so Simone decided she’d better get to work. Both of their paintings were starting well with the bright blue sky, she saw as she passed behind their positions. They knew what they were doing and had command of the flowing medium. The other artistes were not as proficient, or as fast.

Simone knew she could never match Claire’s skill, but she’d always loved painting, and rejoiced when her students were old enough or interested enough to pursue one of Simone’s favorite pastimes. Without a governess post, she could not afford paints for her own pleasure. Or a horse, naturally. Just think, today she’d enjoy both of her best-loved pleasures. And last night— No, she was not going to think of last night, pleasure, love, or Harry. Which meant she saw him, his bare chest and devilish smile, instead of the landscape. She thought of painting him, for her own enjoyment, her own keepsake, instead of trying to compete with Claire and Elizabeth Althorp. Then she thought of her brother and her own future. Even third place was worth points in the overall contest. She’d paint Harry another time, in private. Perhaps he’d pose. As the rugged sportsman he’d appeared after lunch? In evening wear, the perfect gentleman? In his robe? Bare-chested in her bed?

Simone stood to fetch a lemonade to cool her suddenly heated cheeks rather than calling for a servant. She walked behind Claire, not to disturb the opera-singer’s view or concentration. Claire never noticed her presence, or Simone’s sigh when she saw the lovely picture coming to life on her paper.

Then she stepped behind Miss Althorp, who hunched over her easel, hiding her work. The Frenchwoman, the real Parisian, was muttering French blasphemies as her brush dripped a muddy streak and she had to start over. Miss Hanson, the banker’s convenient, had more paint on her apron than on her paper; Miss Mary Connors, the actress who shared a love of the theater and a flat in Kensington with Sir John Foley, laughed and admitted she’d only painted back drops before. Her sketch looked like it.

Simone sipped her lemonade and studied the manor, then she studied the nearby flower gardens, the stream, the beginning of the forest that gave Griffin Woods its name. Then she looked at her blank paper again and knew what she wanted to paint.

She made a hasty mental sketch, then quickly began adding shape and color to the real page. She used a dry brush on top, to keep the bright hues from bleeding into each other and then a thinner brush for detail work. She wondered if Harry would like it or, like Sandaree’s Lord James, he’d be disappointed she could not measure up to Gorham’s mistress. Harry certainly surpassed Gorham and Lord James, in any contest she could think of.

The devil take him, she felt heated again, despite the wide straw bonnet that shielded her from the sun. And her mouth was dry. Sarah was not in sight, and the others had wandered over to watch the lawn games, so Simone simply walked around the circle of painters again. This time she could see Miss Althorp’s painting, and was surprised. The landscape’s sky was now overcast, while the afternoon was a clear one. How odd.

Claire stood to stretch too, smiling contentedly. Her painting must be perfect, Simone thought in despair. Then Claire started screaming like a fish wife, losing all semblance of polite manners. She snatched up Miss Althorp’s painting and shook it under the blonde-haired poetess’s nose.

“This is my painting, you cheating bitch! I did it last month. I know my own work.” She waved the painting for Simone and the others to see. “I wished to catch the heaviness in the air just before a rain storm. Gorham and I had to run back to the house with it. See? There’s a smudge on the corner. And look, here is her painting still on the easel, as ugly as she is with her long nose and her fancy airs. You stole my work, you sneak. And your poetry reeks too!”

“
Mon dieu
,” the Frenchwoman exclaimed.

Simone whispered another blasphemy, but to herself. The vicar’s daughter? The one who held literary salons? Simone looked, and sure enough, another painting was on the easel, this one not half as well executed. But the sun was shining in it, and the flowers were the same ones in bloom today.

“I did it in my bedroom,” Miss Althorp claimed.

“You found it, more like,” Claire screeched. “Lud knows what you do in your bedroom with that chinless viscount of yours.”

The other lady shrieked right back. “You cheat at everything else. And you don’t need blunt like the rest of us do.”

“Hah! Your viscount has deep pockets.”

“And he needs to marry, for the succession, a lady with a dowry. He’s too honorable to keep a mistress while he goes courting this Season, unlike Gorham.”

“How dare you pick on my lord when you stole my painting!”

“You called my lover chinless!”

“And witless to take up with a pretentious, priggish female like you.”

Miss Althorp grabbed for the disputed drawing. Claire swiped at the blonde’s bonnet. Miss Althorp kicked grass on Claire’s skirts, and Claire picked up the jug of dirty water filled with used paint brushes. She would have tossed it but Simone held her arm. “Ladies, the gentlemen are returning.”

That stopped the argument before it turned into a melee among mistresses. Simone felt as if she were back in the classroom, with the petulant, spoiled children of her employers. She was happier to see Harry than she thought possible and ran to meet him and the other men on foot before they got to the easels.

He raised a dark eyebrow, but followed her lead and folded her into a hug, kissing the top of her head. “What, were you worried about me, sweetheart?”

She was worried she’d have to referee dueling paint brushes at twenty paces. “Of course, darling. Did you find the dog?”

Now he raised two eyebrows at the endearment, but said, “Yes, we started at the farm where he’d been spotted, and the poor beast was still there. Gorham and Caldwell had their rifles on him, but we wanted to keep our distance, not jeopardizing the horses. There’s no telling what a rabid animal will do.”

Gorham took up the story. “The cur was slobbering at the mouth, all right, skinny and trembling, unsteady on its feet. Sick. We knew we had to put it out of its misery before it bit another dog, or one of my tenants’ children.”

“Then he wagged his tail,” Harry added.

Gorham shook his head. “Who would have thought Harry Harmon had such a soft heart? We had the beast cornered, and damn if Harry didn’t dismount and approach the cur, right in the line of fire.”

“You didn’t!” Simone cried, knowing that was just what he would do.

“I thought I saw something, and I was right.”

“A fish hook, by damn,” Sir Chauncey Phipps said. “The mongrel’s mouth was all swollen. Not rabid a’tall, just starving and in pain.”

Another of the riders said, “Harry proved it to us by offering the dog water. A rabid animal won’t touch it, you know.”

Sir Chauncey pretended to shudder. “Water? I won’t drink the stuff either.”

Simone hadn’t recovered from the thought of Harry on foot, facing a deadly threat. “So you put it down humanely?”

He brushed at his sleeve, where she now saw black hair. “Not exactly.”

“He dragged the blasted creature back to my stable, dash it!” Gorham took a lemonade from a servant who appeared with a tray. “Harry insisted, and carried it in front of him on that brute he rides.”

“Fidus did not mind,” Harry said, “nor did I. Jem and the head groom are doctoring the dog now, after we removed the fish hook so he could eat. He appears to be some kind of sheepdog, but he’s all matted and filthy. There’s no telling how long he was out there on his own. I was hoping you’d look in on him, since you had such success cleaning up Miss White.”

“Of course. Um, he doesn’t bite, does he?”

Gorham snorted. “I wouldn’t have let the gudgeon bring it home if it was vicious. Claire doesn’t like dogs, do you, dearest?” he called over to where his mistress was still standing.

“Calmed right down, it did, as if it knew Harry was a friend,” Sir Chauncey added. “He’s got the touch, old Harry does, doesn’t he?”

Harry winked at Simone. She blushed, thinking of his touch, knowing that he was thinking of it too.

She quickly agreed to go with him right away. “I’m done with my painting. We all are.” She said it loudly enough for the women to understand the argument and the competition were both over. “But you cannot see it, or any of them, to keep the judging fair.” She went back to the easels and took hers, Claire’s, the three others’, and the one Miss Althorp had actually done. She left Claire clutching the rainstorm painting, looking like thunderclouds herself.

Simone handed the paintings to Sarah, Sandaree, and the servants, keeping them separate in case they needed more drying time. “Give them to the butler, please. I understand they are to be displayed in the drawing room before dinner.” She only prayed the ladies displayed better behavior.

*

Simone spent the rest of the afternoon trying to rid the dog of knots, burrs, and vermin while Harry held him and talked softly. He kept stroking the dog’s head and back while she worked, getting hair and drool all over him. Simone still wore her painting apron, so her clothes were safe, but Metlock was going to be furious, she warned Harry.

He did not care, too concerned with the animal’s condition after Simone cut away enough of the matted mess to show its bare ribs. “We can’t feed him too much at once, you know. And only broth and a bit of boiled beef at first.” Except he was breaking one of the tea sandwiches into tiny bits for the dog to swallow.

“I think the dog values your attention more than food right now. He must know you saved his life. What shall you name him?”

“A better question is what I am going to do with him. Gorham won’t keep him. He’ll likely shut down the manor house after the party, when Claire leaves. I’m thinking the animal might make an excellent gift for my godson.”

“I thought the boy was only an infant.”

“You can see how gentle he is.”

Simone saw how big the dog still was, without the mass of hair. “Maybe you should ask your sister-in-law first.”

“I’m not worried about Amanda. It’s Verity, Rex’s mastiff, who might not take to a strange animal in the house.”

“Why don’t you keep him, then?”

Because he never knew who he was going to be, or where. Because a dog could give away any disguise he might put on. Because he had enough responsibilities in his damned life. “No.”

“Mr. Black.”

“You know someone who’d want him?”

“No, that is what you should call him,” Simone said, ignoring his refusal. “Miss White can learn to live with him. So can Mrs. Judd.”

“Blackie? Black boy?” The dog’s ears perked up. “I never had a dog of my own, you know.” The dog rolled over for his belly to be scratched, moaning with joy.

“You do now.”

And now Simone was jealous.

Chapter Eighteen

Simone took a second glass of sherry before dinner that night, to settle her nerves. Three would not be enough, not during the exhibition of the watercolors. She also held tightly onto Harry’s hand at the side of the drawing room where all the house guests were gathered for the judging. She was used to such familiarity in public now. Goodness, hand-holding was nothing compared to the blatantly sexual displays of affection, or lust, she had seen at this party. Lord Gorham had his arm around Claire’s shoulder, and Lord Caldwell had his hand in Maura Doyle’s bodice. Before dinner? Simone turned away. Hand-holding was sufficient for her needs right now.