Blackstone's Bride (18 page)

Outside her bedroom door, he stopped her briefly.

“It’s time to move your guests out of the house. I will make sure the hotel is ready for them tomorrow.”

“I won’t let you betray Frank to the government.”

“I know.”

Chapter Sixteen

“. . . I have always observed, that they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world.”

—Jane Austen,
Pride and Prejudice

The five patronesses of the Spitalfields Seamstresses’ Benefit Ball and the five women who had produced their gowns gathered in Penelope Frayne’s back drawing room overlooking her garden. Penelope was her husband’s second duchess, the comfort of his old age. His heir, her stepson, was away at university. Violet had actually seen the duke just once, a tall strikingly handsome man, whose age she guessed to be seventy.

Gauzy curtains drawn to shield the room from sun and prying eyes billowed in a slight breeze. Silks and female voices rustled with a constant sound. Ross, Penelope’s lady’s maid, an austerely elegant woman of fifty, oversaw lesser servants who moved cheval glasses and provided refreshments and supplied pins and tape and extra hands as each lady ascended a small sturdy box for adjustments to her hem or stood in front of the glass to admire her silhouette.

Violet smiled and nodded mechanically, one part of her mind consumed with the mortifying awareness that she had responded to Blackstone’s kiss and touch, another part of her mind thinking of Frank. This second betrayal of Blackstone’s, treating Frank as a thief and a murderer, went far beyond the first. Today Blackstone was to accompany the prince to meet the foreign secretary, and the prince’s entourage was to move into Milvert’s Hotel. By afternoon Violet should be free of spies and duties, free to think how she might find Frank without Blackstone’s interference.

In between fittings, the ladies lounged in wrappers sipping tea, eating lemon cakes, and commenting. Violet had known from the moment she entered the room that her connection with Blackstone, not her gown, would be under scrutiny. Her ring drew sly and open stares.

Arabella Young was the first to comment. “The joke will be on Lady Ravenhurst. One wonders whether she will ever find a lover. I thought Blackstone was her last hope. What was that rhyme about him? You remember, Victoria?”

“Oh, it was something about his yard, I believe.”

“I remember, ‘London’s ladies flock to him—’”

Penelope glanced at Violet and spoke. “Enough, ladies. Miss Hammersley is an unmarried girl yet. You must not embarrass her with such frank talk.”

“Now, Penelope, you know we are not being truly frank.” Arabella smiled wickedly.

“Don’t worry, dear Miss Hammersley, Blackstone will want his heir, of course, then you’ll be free to do as you please.”

“Penelope, you haven’t taken her to see the painting, have you?”

“I have not.”

They all grew quiet. Charlotte, who had not spoken earlier looked quite earnest. “She should see the painting. She should not become Blackstone’s bride without knowing what everyone else has known for years.”

All eyes turned to Violet. She could see in their faces not malice, but pity. They pitied her ignorance. They knew more of Blackstone than she did. Only Penelope’s gaze differed. Penelope’s gaze dared Violet to face the whole truth, to let go of any illusions about him. She had only one, really: the illusion that he had once loved her.

“Very well, if Violet is willing, I will take her to see the painting. Her royal visitor is quite eager to see some artists’ studios, I believe.”

The patronesses agreed. Violet should go at once before she lost her nerve.

* * *

Blackstone had to admire the prince’s outrage. He strode from the secretary’s office in full military splendor, his boots ringing on the marble flagstones. “Lord Blackstone, I don’t think your Mr. Secretary understands Moldova at all. An army such as mine, such as my imperial guard, costs money. I have spent no more than I was required to do by the needs of my country.”

Blackstone fell into step beside the prince, and the others scrambled after them. “What did the secretary say, Prince?”

“He told me his majesty’s government will no longer be of assistance. I brought him my fine report, everything exact, the way Miss Hammersley’s brother likes.”

Blackstone shot a quick glance back at the rest of the party. They were out of earshot. “You had a copy of Frank’s report?”

The prince looked offended. “Of course. No longer of assistance? All my money goes to the army. I keep nothing for myself. But your secretary will see. He may read. It is all there.” The prince stopped and shook a fist back at the closed door. “You will see. Not a penny for me.”

“Did the secretary explain his refusal to offer more aid?”

“He tells me to retrench. Retrench? I do not understand the term. I would live in a field tent for the sake of my country. Perhaps the secretary has a tent to spare, eh? I will set it up in your Regent’s Park, see if I don’t.” He turned to Blackstone. “After Miss Hammersley’s ball, of course. I must not miss that.”

* * *

Violet returned from the fitting in Penelope’s carriage, intent to set off once again as soon as she could change. She found Blackstone’s additional housemaid waiting for her.

“Miss Hammersley, I came direct to you.” The girl held out a smoke-discolored bit of paper with a charred edge.

When Violet took it, she saw that it was Frank’s writing again. It was an accounts page, lined and divided by red columns, with dates and items listed on the left and amounts on the right.

“I found it in the countess’s room when I went to clean the fireplace. It had settled in a corner.”

“Thank you. There were no other pages?”

The girl shook her head. “None that survived the burning.”

“No one saw you?”

“No, miss. They’d all gone.”

“Of course. To the hotel.”

The girl nodded, bobbed a curtsy, and let herself out. Violet took the charred paper to her desk. The fire had consumed the lower right side of the page. The upper left showed that the page had been ripped from the middle of a ledger book, a right-hand page. She laid the paper down gently. The burnt edges crumbled, leaving black flakes of ash on her desk. The dates spanned a month of the previous year, and the items listed were expenditures for such goods as an army might need—canvas tents, wagons, hay, cords of wood, cooking pots. The costs did not seem unreasonable to Violet. Each line had the cost of a single item and the cost of the total number of items purchased. The math seemed sound enough for the entries that had survived the fire. The suppliers from whom the items were purchased would have appeared on the facing page. She looked again. The page had an odd lopsided appearance even though the columns were perfectly aligned in Frank’s careful hand. When she ran her finger down the page, she saw what it was. One letter in each entry was slightly darker than its neighbors, as if Frank had traced over the letter a second time. The result was a faint line of darker letters that ran in a diagonal down the page.

Violet took a fresh sheet of paper and a pen and wrote out the sequence of the darker letters—“prince leave engl.” There it was again, her brother’s incomplete message. She was sure that the ledger was meant to be part of the documents the prince presented to the foreign secretary. Frank knew exactly who would read them. But someone had read them first and decided to destroy them.

And now the prince’s party was removed from her reach. This morning Violet had welcomed the change. Blackstone was not a friend or a partner, but an agent of a suspicious government. She had wanted him gone so that she might find Frank herself, but now she needed to know what Blackstone had learned this morning. She would not mistake his intentions or be distracted by his kindness. She would use him to get to Frank before he did. Going with Penelope to see the famous painting would ensure that Violet made no further mistake of Blackstone’s feelings, and it would allow her to see the prince and his party without Blackstone’s distracting presence.

She summoned her own maid, changed her dress, and sent for the footman who could be trusted to convey a message to Blackstone about the burnt ledger pages. Then she descended to meet Penelope’s carriage. When she next saw Blackstone, there would be no danger or confusion. She would know the truth about him that had eluded her for so long.

* * *

The last artist on the duchess’s hastily arranged tour was no member of the Royal Academy like the others they had visited. The elegant carriage with its ducal coronet roused rude comments from a brawny, big-bellied knife sharpener as they passed his barrow in the crowded street. They encountered cattle bound for a nearby slaughterhouse and active bustling citizens, more inclined to use their own two feet than to rely on liveried coachmen.

Violet knew the raffish neighborhood well. It lay to the east of Regent Street, that bit of city planning designed to cut rich Mayfair off from its less affluent neighbors. Still the neighborhood was a thriving one, businesses jammed up against one another—a grocer next to a bonnet maker, an engraver next to a pub, a dressmaker next to a baker, round bow windows next to columns and arches. Violet passed along the same crowded streets to visit St. Luke’s workhouse two blocks away. Her Committee for the Welfare of Widows and Orphans of Servicemen often found positions for the women of St. Luke’s.

In all her visits Violet had not imagined that the artist Reynolds Royce kept his studio at Number 33 Compton Street. She had apparently passed the place dozens of times, unaware that the painter whose scandalous painting had separated her from Blackstone was happily pursuing his profession so close to her. Penelope set two stout footmen to guard the carriage.

Royce’s studio took up the top floor of what had once been a grand home for a family and its servants before the neighborhood changed. Now Royce had the original servants’ bedrooms converted into a single stretch of space with dormers and skylights letting in light. At one end of the long room were his domestic arrangements, a sink, a bed, and a sitting area. At the other end the walls were crowded with paintings of nudes in gauzy drapery that exposed creamy, rounded limbs. Each bore the name of some lofty virtue or aspiration. Violet recognized the style made popular by Emma Hamilton’s “Attitudes.” Royce’s paintings had rather a smirk to them than earnestness.
Chastity
with raised arms and bared breasts wore the most clothing of the lot.

Violet felt a twinge of sympathy for the man with the coarse, misshapen face, who painted so much smooth-skinned beauty. But his crooked mouth twisted in a sneer, and she turned away.

The brief formalities of greeting barely held the prince’s attention. He strode to the wall of nudes and began to gesture excitedly. His party followed, Cahul frowning, Dubusari lifting his glass, and the countess looking disdainful. The prince spread his arms wide encompassing the whole wall. “Ah, I see, we’ve come to the right place.”

Royce bowed to the duchess and turned to Violet. “Miss Hammersley, have we met?”

“Never.”

“You look away from my work. Are you offended by the human body?”

Violet smiled politely, aware of the countess’s attention shifting to her. “Oh no, Mr. Royce. I’m rather fond of the human body. Where would a woman be without one?”

“Ah, but displays of the human form—the female form—in all its glory—these alarm you?”

“Not at all. I am perfectly equal to seeing what my sisters are willing to display in the service of art.”

Penelope laughed and slipped her arm through Violet’s. “You must not attempt to discompose my friend, Royce. It’s the prince who most wants to see your work. He’s been to see all the members of the Royal Academy and purchased nothing.”

“Bah, cowards the lot of them. You’ll find my work quite different, Prince.”

The prince picked up a canvas, which Royce snatched from his hand. “I beg your pardon, majesty, but you must not touch what you are not willing to buy.”

“But I am willing to buy. That is why I have come. They say that you have painted the most beautiful women in England. My taste is excellent. You will benefit when it is known that I, Moldova, buy your work.”

Royce perked up at once. “In that case, your majesty, come this way.” He rummaged through a pile of canvases and picked one that showed a woman in a scarlet coat of military cut standing with a brown horse before a grand country house.

The prince gave the painting a quick dismissive scrutiny. “No, no, no, too much landscape and a horse not as good as my Oberon. You are famous, Mr. Royce, for more attention to the form than the clothes of a woman.”

Royce drew their attention to a velvet curtain covering a portion of the wall. “No one draws that curtain except me, your majesty, and only for those who appreciate my work.” Royce rubbed his thumb across the tips of his fingers, like a street vendor demanding to see coins.

The prince laughed. “Ah, like everything in England, there is a price to be paid, even for a few minutes enjoyment of beauty.”

“Especially, for beauty.”

“But you do not offer the painting behind the curtain for sale?” Dubusari asked.

Royce shook his head. “I did once, but the man to whom I offered it would not meet my price. I keep it to teach a lesson to those who think they can refuse to pay a true artist.”

“But also to make the public curious.”

Royce laughed. He reminded Violet of the touts at sideshows with their taunting dares to spectators to step inside and see some poor creature made freakish by deformity.

The prince, of course, wanted to see what was behind the curtain.

Penelope watched Violet. She tried to brace herself for the revelation. It was what Penelope wanted her to see. It was the reason they had come to Royce’s studio to see the portrait of Blackstone’s mistress, the cause of the scandal associated with his name. She had sought the truth about him, and now she felt unready for it, uneasy about it. There was something wrong even with the desire to see the woman with whom Blackstone had once been intimate. She didn’t understand herself.

The prince turned to Dubusari. “Dubusari, Royce drives a hard bargain. It appears we must buy something. What do you recommend?” The two men strolled to the far wall of the studio to study the nudes.