Читать книгу The Earl and the Pickpocket - Хелен Диксон, Хелен Диксон, Helen Dickson - Страница 9

T he thought of going with Adam to his home, working for him, had great appeal. It loomed on the horizon of Edwina’s mind like a sweet haven…waiting. Peace and quiet was what she wanted. No more Jack. No more Uncle Henry. No more Earl of Taplow.

No sooner had Adam left than Harriet breezed in. She was certainly different to anyone Edwina had ever known, and it was impossible not to warm to her.

‘So, you know the great Adam Rycroft!’ Harriet exclaimed, sitting on the edge of the silk-covered bed.

‘Yes, but not very well. He—he’s asked me to work for him.’

‘Oh? Doing what?’

‘That’s just it. I don’t know.’

‘He comes here often to see Mrs Drinkwater. She’s quite fond of him—known him since he was a lad, apparently. He’s very popular with the ladies, and he’s a connoisseur of beautiful women.’

‘And he makes love to them all, I expect,’ Edwina said laughing softly. Spectacularly good looking and imbued with potent masculine allure, she was sure Adam Rycroft was rarely refused.

Harriet smiled knowingly, lying back and propping herself up on her elbow. ‘More than likely. He’s no saint where women are concerned. But mostly he paints them—professionally, of course.’

Edwina looked at her with surprised amazement, settling herself down on the bed facing her. ‘He’s an artist?’ Recalling the sketch Adam had made of her, she should have known. She shook her head at the mysterious combination of gentleman and painter. ‘Is he good?’

‘I’m no judge, but some say he’s the best—a genius. His pictures cost the earth. You, I wager, are going to be the subject of a painting. He must want you to sit for him, that’ll be what he wants you to do.’

‘Sit?’

‘Be a model—so he can paint you. Make the most of it, love. Duchesses and the like consider it a privilege to sit for the great man. There are many women who would die to be in your shoes.’

Edwina was impressed. ‘You obviously like him.’

‘Oh, he’s quite endearing, really. He’s rich, has oodles of charm when he chooses to employ it, but the man’s like a human whirlwind and a positive despot when he’s at his easel. Don’t let him browbeat and bully you. When he’s involved in a painting he loses all track of time. He’ll have you sitting there for hours if you let him. I sat for him once—once was enough, believe me. A girl could catch her death sitting for him.’

‘Oh?’

‘He’s a master of the human form, love—the female form—and there’s more than one model he’s painted in the nude. Mind you, he has to pay extra for a girl to take her clothes off. Titled ladies flock to have him paint them, and they all fall prey to his fatal attraction. By the time he’s finished they’re head over heels in love with him—and more than one husband regrets his choice of artist to paint his wife.’

‘Goodness! Why on earth would he want to paint me?’

‘Probably because you’re different to all the other models who grace his couch. Your face is unusual—interesting, he would call it. He probably sees you as a challenge, love. Who knows—’ she laughed, tossing her head so her auburn curls bounced ‘—you might turn out to be his greatest masterpiece yet. He might even make you famous.’

‘I sincerely hope not. I don’t want to be famous. That kind of notoriety I can do without,’ she said, thinking of Uncle Henry. Her uncle was a man of fine tastes. In particular he was an avid admirer of paintings, and had built up an enviable collection over the years. Many of the paintings he hung for their quality rather than decoration, which was the case in many houses. If he were to see one of her, he would know exactly where to come looking for her. Her mind shied away from the thought. ‘But what’s Adam like, Harriet, really?’

‘Well,’ she said, lowering her eyes and reflecting for a moment, ‘he’s certainly a complex character, and he can be utterly ruthless at times. So be warned, Edwina. His fury is unequalled when roused—as I and some of the other girls who have sat for him know to our cost, having been on the receiving end.’

‘Is he married?’ Edwina asked, thinking of the stunningly beautiful brunette she had seen him with outside the theatre.

‘No, love. Adam Rycroft is a self-proclaimed single man, although he’s always careful to choose a mistress whose company he enjoys. She has to be unmarried, passionate and experienced, and highly pleasurable in bed, a woman who will not mistake lovemaking and desire with love—who will make no demands and expect no promises.’

‘Goodness, you make him sound cold hearted and self-centred.’

‘He’s certainly volatile. I don’t think anyone’s got his true measure—except Mrs Drinkwater, perhaps, but she guards her tongue whenever she speaks of him. He’s totally committed to his work, a perfectionist, and he won’t allow anything or anyone to interfere with that. Have you given any thought as to where you will live?’

‘He—he’s offered to let me stay in his house.’

The words brought Harriet upright. ‘Ooh—now that is a first! And you said yes.’

She nodded. ‘I’ve nowhere else to go, Harriet—only back to the streets and my life as a thief.’

Harriet’s eyes opened wide in shocked amazement. ‘Thief?’

‘Yes. I picked pockets.’ Edwina smiled, feeling a slight unease at disclosing her criminal past, but somehow she didn’t think Harriet would judge her.

She was right. Harriet sat up with a joyous laugh. ‘I insist that you tell me every single detail of this unbelievable story if I have to wring it out of you with my own bare hands. Now, begin at the beginning.’

Edwina started to refuse, but Harriet looked so determined that it was useless. Besides, she suddenly wanted to talk about it, and found herself giving Harriet a brief account of what her life had been like working for Jack for the past six months, talking to this engaging girl as she had never talked to anyone before. At the end of the story Harriet stared at her with a combination of mirth and wonder. ‘Does that shock you?’

‘No more than you were, when you realised the great Adam Rycroft had brought you to a brothel and I was one of Mrs Drinkwater’s whores,’ she remarked, gulping down a giggle. ‘It’s too delicious for words.’

‘Do you live here, Harriet?’

‘No. Some of the girls do, but I don’t. I’ve got a room over a bakery off Drury Lane. It’s not very big, and it’s by no means grand, but it’s mine. Every night I work one of the gaming tables at Dolly’s Place, and afterwards…’ she shrugged, unabashed ‘…well, you know.’

‘Yes. Haven’t you got a family, Harriet?’

She nodded. ‘Across the river in Rotherhithe. Why?’

‘And—do they approve of what you do?’

A frown marred Harriet’s smooth forehead as she considered the question for a moment before replying. ‘I suppose not. It did cross my mind in the beginning that there is something to be ashamed of in my profession—and, in fact, there is, but my mother is poor with four little ones to bring up alone since my father died. He worked in the shipbuilding trade and met with an accident, which killed him. I send my mother what I can. She doesn’t question me how I earn it.’ She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t mean she doesn’t love me. It doesn’t matter,’ she said simply.

Edwina shook her head, unconvinced, and then, placing a hand over Harriet’s, said, ‘It doesn’t matter to me, either, Harriet.’ There could be nothing wonderful or exciting about Harriet’s profession, but her open friendliness spoke volumes about her. There was something about her that inspired trust and put one completely at ease. Harriet Crabtree might be a whore and wicked in the eyes of some, but in this age of cruelty and unconcern she had a caring nature and a kind heart, and these were rare. ‘Do you know, I’m glad I’ve met you.’

‘Really? I feel the same way,’ Harriet confessed ingenuously. ‘I wish you weren’t leaving.’ With a disheartened sigh she stood up, eyeing the dress Edwina was wearing. ‘I’m glad the dress fits. I’ll try and find you some more clothes. You’ll have to have something to wear until you can buy some of your own.’ She smiled, holding out her hand. ‘Before the great man comes to fetch you, come and meet the others girls—the ones who have managed to crawl out of bed, that is.’

The afternoon was hot and sultry when Edwina, clad in her donated finery, climbed into Adam Rycroft’s shiny black carriage. It was drawn by a matching pair of prancing bays and driven by a scarlet-and-gold-liveried servant. She settled back against the luxurious cream upholstery, wondering if all that was happening to her was a continuing dream. Was she really sitting in a grand carriage with a handsome stranger, travelling across London to goodness knows where? She also wondered how foolhardy she had been to accept Adam’s proposal that she stay at his house.

The driver whipped up the horses and the carriage slowly negotiated the congested, twisting alleyways. Covent Garden had long been the most popular haunt of painters, with several resident on the piazza, so Edwina was pleasantly surprised when the carriage rumbled north towards Mayfair, where Adam told her he had a house on the Grosvenor Estate.

No one took any notice of the man standing across the street from Dolly’s place. It was Jack Pierce. After his assault on Edwina, but before disappearing into London’s back streets, he’d glanced back just in time to see Adam carry the unconscious form inside Dolly’s Place. Determined not to let Ed slip away without him seeing, he’d come back to watch the building and learn the identity of the man who’d interfered, surprised to discover his name was Adam Rycroft, the man who’d hired Ed to find the boy Toby. Jack had thought his luck was in when Rycroft appeared earlier in his carriage and entered the building. Convinced they would emerge together, he’d been disappointed when he left with a young woman and drove away.

Seated across from Edwina, Adam stretched his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. He eyed her in watchful curiosity, dwelling on the perverse quirk of fate that had caused her to be sitting opposite him, and wondering what he had let himself in for by inviting this curious, fascinating young woman into his home. Hers was not a soothing or a restful presence, and he strongly suspected that she did not intend it to be. The impression she conveyed was one of confidence and intense and challenging self-knowledge, defying anyone to catch her out in complacency or self-delusion, but he was not to know that at that moment, under his watchful and penetrating gaze, some of Edwina’s confidence was sliding away.

Studying him surreptitiously, she sensed that beneath his relaxed exterior there was a power and forcefulness carefully restrained, and she wondered how different the tyrannical artist Harriet had described to her differed from this gentleman of leisure. It had been so long since she had conversed with people other than beggars and thieves, that now she found herself alone with Adam she suddenly felt gauche and ill at ease.

‘So, Edwina,’ Adam said at length. ‘No doubt Harriet or one of the other girls has enlightened you as to what your work will involve.’

Edwina watched him settle himself more comfortably with that same natural grace that seemed so much a part of him. She gave him a direct, appraising stare. ‘Not very much, it would seem. Do you really want to paint me?’

‘I do. I must,’ he replied quietly, watching her.

‘I can’t imagine why.’

Adam’s brows lifted over sardonic blue eyes. ‘I can.’

She flushed softly, deciding it best not to proceed along this path, and to turn the conversation from herself. ‘What else do you paint—or do you just paint people?’

‘I paint all manner of things—landscapes and whatever else takes my fancy, but painting people is my bread and butter. I find it necessary to cater to the whims and predilections of my commissioners.’

‘In which case I would imagine it’s unlikely that such paintings will have appeal to anyone other than the client.’

‘True. Unfortunately most of my clients are infatuated with “face painting”, and fill their houses with family portraits, leaving little scope for the artist to indulge upon. These paintings rarely enter the open market. No one wants to buy paintings of another person’s family.’

‘I can understand that. And are you good at what you do?’

‘I think the people who view my paintings are the ones you ought to ask.’

He was watching her thoughtfully, a strange, unfathomable smile tugging at his lips. He seemed so strong, so self-assured, appearing to hold himself apart from the world, and yet, with his mere presence, dominating the scene around him as he did now. His voice was rich and pleasing to the ear, and Edwina began to wonder if he had any flaw she could touch upon. Watching the satisfied look on his face, she gave up trying to discern what his faults might be. Tipping her head on one side she remarked, ‘You look rather pleased with yourself.’

‘I should. I have just acquired the most enchanting model. You played the part of a lad so well it’s difficult to keep in mind you are, in fact, a very lovely young lady. I look forward to painting you Edwina…?’

His gaze was searching, delving, and Edwina met it directly. ‘Just Edwina,’ she replied, feeling no compunction to enlighten him beyond that. She was not yet ready to divulge her surname, and she liked and respected him too much to lie by fabricating another. Besides, precepts of conscience forbade it. ‘I don’t think you need to know more than that if all you are going to do is paint me.’

The bright blue eyes considered the young woman opposite without a hint of expression. When he realised that she had no intention of elaborating further, with slow deliberation he nodded. ‘I have many skeletons in my own cupboard, Edwina, that I’m careful not to rattle for fear of which one will tumble out first. Since you are obviously reluctant to share your name with me, I will respect your wish for privacy and not persist.’

‘I am obliged,’ she said, thinking it a strange thing for him to say and wondering at his own secrets. ‘Do you have a family?’ she asked, unable to staunch her own curiosity about him.

His expression became guarded. All his life he had kept his emotions locked in an iron heart. He wasn’t about to change that. ‘My parents died when I was a boy. I have no other relatives.’

‘I see. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. That’s how I like it,’ he retorted, his tone harsher than he intended as he turned away.

Edwina watched him. She sensed that his ruthlessness, his power over others, the sheer devil-may-care brilliance of his life, were not the reality of him. He seemed to have come from nowhere. He didn’t have a father or mother. That struck a perfect chord in Edwina. That was how she came to detect the loneliness in him.

‘Why did you offer to let me stay at your house? According to Harriet, you never extend the same hospitality to any of your other models.’

‘That’s because my other models are not usually homeless. You are. Besides, I consider you an investment. I don’t want you disappearing when I’m halfway through painting you. There is, of course, the rather delicate matter of your reputation to consider. It’s hardly a respectable situation. I trust there will be no irate relative who will come and snatch you away?’

‘Being respectable doesn’t concern me any more. It’s a little late in the day to begin worrying about my reputation. Whatever reputation I had to speak of was shredded long ago. I took care of that myself,’ she said quietly.

The blue eyes lightly swept her, and, catching her own, held them with a smiling warmth. ‘Do you never think about your life before you became a thief?’

‘Not if I can help it. That way life is bearable. I am no longer the girl I was before I came to London. That girl has ceased to exist. In her place stands another, no longer a prisoner of convention, but most of all a woman who is mistress of her own fate. So, you see, you needn’t worry, Adam. No irate relative will come knocking at your door.’ After a moment she said, ‘Harriet says you’re extremely talented.’

‘Do you doubt it?’

‘No. That sketch you did of me was very good. I still have it,’ she said, patting the brocade-and-beaded bag by her side, which one of Mrs Drinkwater’s girls had given to her. ‘I shall keep it always.’

‘Why? It was done in a hurry and is not very good. I’ll sketch you another—a better one.’

‘I shall still keep that one. It will always remind me of a time when I was as low as I could get and pretty desperate—and prevent me from ever becoming that desperate again.’ She fixed him with a level gaze. ‘How much will you pay me for being a model?’

Adam became thoughtful. In any of his business ventures he was regarded as a tough negotiator and he would never ruin his own negotiating position by helping his opponents to see the worth of what they held, and the beneficial terms they might extract from him because of it. In Edwina’s case, however, he would do just that. ‘What are your terms?’ he countered. ‘I’ve made no secret of how much I want to paint you. I’m scarcely in a position to argue.’

Edwina hesitated, half-embarrassed. She hadn’t expected him to tip the balance of power into her hands. ‘I suppose we’ll have to negotiate,’ she said with imperturbable feminine logic.

‘That seems reasonable to me.’

‘Money is the solution to all my troubles. Of course, I do understand that, if you are to house and feed me until the painting is completed, you will have to deduct the cost from whatever I earn as your muse. I—I shall want enough to take me to France.’

‘Done,’ he agreed with alacrity, while wondering what there was for her in France that was so important. ‘I will be generous with you, Edwina,’ he said gently. ‘You hold something of value that I want. I am willing to pay you dearly. When the painting is finished I will furnish you with more than enough money to take you round the world if need be.’

Edwina saw the admiration in his smile and smiled a little in return. ‘Thank you—but I have no wish to travel to such lengths. France will do. In return, I will endeavour to be a good model and keep very quiet so as not to distract you from your work.’

Adam grinned. ‘Never waver when you’ve successfully negotiated terms and won. Would you like what we’ve agreed written down and witnessed, or—in the light of your recent masquerade—shall we shake on it and call it a gentleman’s agreement?’

Edwina’s smile widened at the teasing light that twinkled in his eyes. She reached out and shook his proffered hand firmly. ‘A gentleman’s agreement will suffice, I think. I trust you implicitly. Am I likely to meet any of your other models?’

‘At present, no. One model at a time is enough for any artist to have to cope with.’

‘But what about all those people who commission you to paint them?’

‘I’ve put them on hold for the time being. I have a far more interesting subject to paint,’ he murmured, his voice silky soft.

The effect of that warmly intimate look in his eyes, which was vibrantly, alarmingly alive, and the full import of the risk she was taking by being with him, made Edwina quake inside. She did not know this man at all, and yet he was watching her with a look that was much too personal—and possessive. ‘I—I have never considered myself interesting,’ she stammered. ‘I’ve never had any pretensions to beauty—in fact, I’ve always considered my looks, like my views, unconventional.’

‘I won’t argue with that. To me you are unusual, Edwina, an individual, and luckily for you, you are sufficiently sensible to be neither ostracised nor derided for it, but admired, which is the reaction I hope my painting of you will provoke in those who look at it.’ He grinned when he saw his remark pleased her. ‘Don’t let it go to your head. If you’re to sit for me, you’ll have to learn to sit still and not fidget like that,’ he chided gently, observing how uneasy she seemed to be. With her hands fluttering in her lap, she radiated a nervous energy. ‘We’ll begin work in the morning. Early.’

She scowled across at him, irritated by his imperious tone. ‘I do hope you’re not going to turn out to be the temperamental monster everyone accuses you of being?’

He arched a lazy black brow. ‘Everyone?’

‘Harriet,’ she confessed. ‘She also told me you have a vile temper.’

‘Harriet always did have plenty to say,’ he retorted drily. ‘You’ll have to get used to the way I am. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together.’ He chuckled. ‘Does my being a monster worry you?’

She shrugged, giving a little laugh that Adam found utterly endearing. ‘No. I can be temperamental myself on occasion.’

‘Intractable and impudent, too, and frequently stubborn, I don’t doubt. You’ll probably be more troublesome than all my other models put together.’

‘Only if you drive me to it.’

‘My temper can be awesome—that I freely admit, but Harriet maligns me most dreadfully and does me a terrible injustice. You shouldn’t believe all the gossip you hear about me. In fact,’ he murmured, a slow, roguish grin dawning across his handsome features, ‘I can be quite delightful—malleable, too, in the right hands.’

Edwina’s lips curved slightly with wry amusement, trying hard to ignore the gentle caress in his voice and the pull in his eyes. ‘From now on I fully intend to keep my hands to myself,’ she remarked pointedly, ‘and I shall reserve judgement as to the true nature of your character until I have gotten the full measure of you.’

‘And I should have known that a defiant young pickpocket with an unpredictable disposition and no regard for convention would insist on prolonging a disagreement instead of politely letting the matter drop,’ Adam said smoothly.

‘My disposition!’ Edwin exclaimed sharply, her delicate brows snapping together. ‘There is nothing wrong with my disposition.’

‘No? I find it quarrelsome,’ he told her, losing the battle to suppress his smile.

‘And still you want to paint me. Are you sure you’re up to the challenge?’ she quipped playfully.

‘I shall prevail, you’ll see,’ he told her firmly. ‘However, I foresee many skirmishes ahead.’

He laughed and Edwina felt curiously lightened by it. ‘Then I shall strive to have the upper hand every time and out-manoeuvre you at every turn.’

Adam looked at her for a long moment with those magnificent deep blue eyes, knowing that undoubtedly she would pit her will against his, and he already looked forward to the challenge. His firm chiselled lips curved in a slow smile. ‘I wouldn’t advise it. I always win,’ he stated, with the supreme confidence of one who succeeded in all he set out to do, and with the experience gained from years of intimate dalliance with the opposite sex.

Edwina returned his smile calmly. ‘We’ll see about that,’ she told him, at which she decided to let the matter rest. She directed her gaze to the passing scenery, but felt almost smothered by a perusal she knew by instinct never left her. She smiled to herself, knowing that the time she was with him would probably be the most exciting and stimulating time of her life.

They were travelling through a more rural neighbourhood, where the streets were wide and straight, the houses spacious and more gracious, with white columns. The carriage came to a halt before a large three-storey building with a plain brick façade. Suddenly nervous about beginning this new stage in her life, which would happen the moment she entered this grand house—the kind of house that she was familiar with and rekindled memories of a past she had put behind her—she shrank back.

‘This—this is where you live?’

‘It is my home. Do you like it?’

‘It—it’s very grand.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’

‘And—this is where I am to stay?’

Adam’s lips twitched with wry amusement. ‘It’s not outside the realms of possibility—if you should feel inclined to stay. Come in and meet Mrs Harrison.’ Still she held back. In silence he contemplated her face. She was pale, with just a faint smattering of pale golden freckles over her nose. Sunlight gilded her hair, which was a mass of short, wispy copper curls. Her large eyes were a darkly anxious shade of green. He sensed she was afraid. ‘You look nervous.’

‘Forgive me, but I can’t help it.’

Adam leisurely raised an eyebrow. ‘It is uncommonly warm. You don’t feel faint?’ he queried with a hint of mockery.

She gave him a withering look. ‘I never faint.’

Adam smiled to himself. He should have known better than to ask. ‘Good. Don’t be nervous. You’ll be perfectly safe here with me. Mrs Harrison is my housekeeper. Come. I instructed her to have cold drinks ready on our arrival, and a room has been prepared for you. Tomorrow I’ll show you my studio.’

‘Studio? What studio?’ The absurdity of her stilted words struck her, but her stomach had worked itself into such a knot she was unable to help it.

‘Where I work.’

On entering the house they were met by Mrs Harrison, a neat little woman of a cheerful disposition. She was dressed in black, the only relief being a white lace collar and cap, which completely concealed her hair. Out of her lined, round face peered two faded grey eyes.

‘So, this is your guest, sir?’

‘Quite right, Mrs Harrison. I trust you have everything prepared?’

‘Indeed I have.’

‘My name is Edwina,’ Edwina offered.

‘Oh, but I couldn’t possibly address you by your Christian name,’ Mrs Harrison countered, clearly shocked at the very idea of it. ‘It would be most disrespectful.’

‘Please do. Everyone else does.’

‘I’d do as she says, Mrs Harrison,’ Adam commented with irony. ‘I don’t doubt for one minute that Edwina has good reason for keeping her surname to herself.’

Mrs Harrison silently conveyed her disapproval to the master but could only resign herself. When she had told him he was behaving in an extraordinary manner—moving a young lady he knew nothing about into his house and hastily packing his apprentices off on holiday—he had grinned quite boyishly and told her there was nothing ordinary about his guest. And as she looked at her she completely agreed.