But Lord Harkom?
Crispin had little liking for Harkom, whom he considered a devious, self-serving creature, and the fact that Faith’s name had obviously become mixed up with his to the extent that it had made it into print, was deepening his concern.
“Like my sister I, myself, naturally have not stepped over the threshold of this…this…” his colour heightened “…Madam Chambon’s, and nor am I suggesting that you know anyone who has, sir.” He sent a pointed look at Crispin. “But that a…creature…who has been indentured to the woman who owns such an establishment, who has carried out her evil designs in order to entrap a good man such as yourself…should have insinuated herself into your good offices and become your muse, well, sir, I cannot bring myself to utter the extent of my horror and outrage.” His shoulders rose and fell as he struggled to control his feelings while Crispin stared at the two men, confounded. “But she has been exposed. She and Harkom will no longer be able to carry out the devious plan they no doubt were hatching to cause you ill. Yes, I would go so far as to suggest that you were her quarry from the very beginning, sir. In fact, it is Mr Carter’s opinion that this was her very plan, hatched in concert with this…Madame Chambon and Lord Harkom, no less. Why, the photograph of the two of them together in that very house says all that needs to be said.”
And indeed, after Crispin had pushed away Benson’s hand in order to properly make out the photograph that went with the text so damningly summed up by his valet, a great pounding in his ears left him with a feeling akin to being shaken by a monstrously large and glossy cat whose meows of self-satisfied relish indicated his lowliness in the great order of things.
There was his Faith, wearing the simple gown she’d worn when he’d first met her those few short weeks ago, in the arms of a gentleman who looked as if he would like to devour her on the spot. It was little consolation that Faith was looking serious. As if she wanted to be elsewhere. Lord Harkom, as Crispin could now distinguish him, was leering, proprietorial. Like he’d come to the house—yes, Madame Chambon’s nunnery—in expectation of securing a great conquest.
And he’d secured Faith.
“You may go now, Benson,” Crispin said, tracing the picture with his forefinger, lingering on the damning title of the article which had been penned, he now saw, by Miss Eaves.
Meddling, interfering Miss Eaves, who’d come to London to establish her future at the expense of Crispin’s.
The fact that Faith had been ruined in the process was, at this very moment, immaterial. For, in the intensity of this moment of discovery, the enormity of her crimes was laid so bare as to reveal the fact she could have had no real feelings for Crispin.
And that she probably never had.
There was room for one more dress in her carpetbag. Not that Faith had many that would be appropriate for the life she’d soon be living. How would the wife of a diplomat, a future British envoy, be expected to dress? Something modest would be appropriate in the interim, but after that?
Well, Faith was excellent at research. She’d researched everything that would make her beguiling and differently exciting in Mr Westaway’s eyes. Fortunately, it hadn’t been hard to find herself excited over international politics while she’d had to stop herself from overdosing on intrigue. The relationship between Germany and Great Britain at the moment was volatile, to say the least, and she was confident she could be a great asset to Crispin.
She could hear Lady Vernon issuing orders to a servant in the passage. Faith dropped in her tooth powder and brush, a thrill of excitement rippling through her. Lady Vernon planned to whisk Faith away later this evening, but by then, Faith would have been whisked away by someone far more exciting. Yes, Crispin had accepted the truth of her altered situation in his eyes. She’d told him the truth of her humble beginnings, and he had still accepted her.
“Mrs Gedge is looking forward to handing over the cheque you so deserve, Faith.” Lady Vernon stood in the doorway looking like a smudge of something unpleasant, thought Faith as she glanced from the grey-pallored creature with her yellowing teeth, to the smooth line of her own fashionable princess-line pelisse.
“I’m sure she is. I’ve done her bidding thoroughly. Mr Westaway will be bereft.” Faith’s gaze didn’t linger on Lady Vernon’s face. She returned to her packing and wondered why Lady Vernon still lingered in the doorway. Was she Faith’s gaoler now? Faith tried to keep her face impassive. If Lady Vernon wasn’t going to let her out of her sight, then Faith would have to climb out of her bedchamber window in the middle of the night to escape. She would do whatever she had to.
“I believe you still have a few gowns and pieces to collect from Madame Chambon’s.”
Surprised, Faith looked up to see Lady Vernon studying her with interest. “I would be careful of crossing that threshold in daylight. Or any time, for that matter. Perhaps you should send for your possessions.”
Faith pretended to consider the option. The term possessions really encompassed only a few trinkets and a ring given her by her grandmother. In total, they were worth very little, but they were all she had to remind her…of a past she wanted to forget.
The only reason she’d especially want to visit would be to say farewell to Charity. The only other real connection she’d made in her life was with Crispin.
He’d opened her heart and poured music into it. She’d become the person she’d always wanted to be: alive, interested, allowing her intelligence free rein.
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However, if she were being allowed to leave the house alone to go to Madame Chambon’s, it was greater good fortune than she could have hoped for.
“Yes, of course I’ll be careful,” she said. She glanced through the window at the sun dipping in the blue sky. Before nightfall, Faith would be out of here. Away from Lady Vernon and her life of pretence and subterfuge.
Soon she’d be with Crispin and, if he entertained any doubts, she’d prove to her new husband that a girl brought up in poverty truly could be worthy of a respected diplomat and a celebrated painter. She relished the challenge. She would be the best, most devoted, most educated wife he could wish for.
A little later, Faith stood up from her chair and faced Lady Vernon across the three feet of Aubusson carpet that separated them in the old lady’s spartan townhouse.
“It’s growing late. Perhaps I should make a quick visit to Madame Chambon’s.” Her trunk was packed in her bedchamber, ready to be carried into the carriage that would be called later this evening to take her to Mrs Gedge’s, and thence on to an unknown location for an unspecified waiting period. Faith hadn’t asked too many questions for she’d never intended travelling that route.
Lady Vernon’s change in plans, in that she was no longer visiting a friend and was now going to remain indoors, meant Faith would have to arrange to have her trunk collected later. She had a brush, a change of linen, and a few necessities in a small carpetbag so this would have to suffice.
“Send my regards to Madame Chambon.” Lady Vernon looked up from her tatting. “And don’t be too long, my girl.”
Faith shook her head. This would be the last time she’d see Lady Vernon. And what a relief that was.
“Oh, do give her this now that I’ve finished with it. It might entertain her.” Lady Vernon brandished a newspaper as Faith passed her chair. “Don’t stay talking too long. Half an hour is the limit. You’re to come right back, for at eleven o’ clock tonight you’re going on a different journey.”