Passion Wears Pearls (13 page)

He bowed playfully but looked at her with a new respect. “As you wish.”

“You rang?” Escher asked breathlessly as he came through the door, one hand on the small of his back.

“Can you ask your wife if she’ll meet Miss Beckett downstairs and help the lady change her dress?” Josiah asked.

The man’s facial expression was truly comical in his shock. “
My
wife? She’ll not say no, but … there’s no telling what else she’ll say to that, sir.”

“Thank you, Escher. I’m sure we can weather the storm. If you’ll just ask her and tell her I’d be ever so grateful. …”

“Will do.” The houseman turned and left to carry out the orders and Josiah watched him go, fully aware that stirring Rita from her kitchen was like luring a bear out of its cave midwinter. Not always wise, but there was no other way.

“Miss Beckett. I’ll walk you downstairs and Mrs. Escher will come up and help you change. Then when you’re ready, you can just come back to the studio where I’ll be waiting.” He held out his arm. “Does that sound acceptable?”

It wasn’t an arbitrary question. The shy lady had yet to remove her gloves, and Josiah knew that it was a bit
unsettling to discuss changing her clothes as the first order of business.

“Yes, although, I hate to cause trouble.” She put a hand around his elbow and allowed him to escort her out. “From the way Mr. Escher was looking at you—”

“Don’t pay that any attention. I know the Eschers may not be the most polished people in the world, but for all the growls and misplaced courtesies, I trust them both and they’ve become an odd kind of family for me. Just don’t take anything Rita says to heart, and you’ll be fine.” He walked her down the stairs, secretly enjoying the heat of her hands through the cloth of his shirt and coat sleeve. He kept a free hand on the banister to make sure he didn’t lose his balance and spoil the moment. “She’s as sweet as a kitten when you get to know her.”

Miss Beckett didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t argue so he decided that would suffice for now. Reaching the landing outside the doors to his rooms on the fourth floor, he heard the telltale faint sounds of pots banging and raised voices below before continuing inside.

“And here we are.” He opened the doors, glad he’d remembered to have the curtains drawn so that the room appeared more cheerful. “My home, such as it is.”

Unlike the unfinished attic floor above, the salon was tastefully furnished and outfitted to rival any manse in London. Even so, he knew that there was a vacant feel to the apartment because he spent so little time in its rooms.

Original art from his peers graced his walls, as well as a few works of his own, but he could hardly see them anymore, so her exclamations and sighs of approval were a good reminder that he’d once had a keen eye for setting out rooms. Now the layout of the room had far more to do with clear pathways and minimized clutter than comfort or care. The fourth floor had been beautifully renovated using his architectural designs and ambitious sketches. When they’d come back to England, he’d enthusiastically embraced change, intending to quietly thumb his nose at his life in exile. Before India, even with empty pockets, he’d always
been welcome in many elite circles because of his heritage and because it was fashionable to have at least one or two artistic acquaintances who shocked and inspired good gossip. He’d spanned both worlds and enjoyed the game, even as he’d struggled to pay his tailors.

But he’d dreamt of having a place of his own without feeling like a trained monkey or a poor relative expected to earn an invitation by providing entertainment and witty conversation.

So when his adventures with the Jaded had ultimately lined his pockets, Josiah had built a luxurious home in an unlikely place, with the very latest in gas fixtures and indoor plumbing. His plans had even grandly included guest rooms, a music salon, and a small ballroom. He’d had visions of the parties and gatherings he would hold, turning this odd factory into a creative draw to the Ton, where artists and art lovers could mingle and enjoy a mutually beneficial association.

Then when his eyes had started to fail, he’d modified those plans very quickly and abandoned the rest of the renovation and construction on the other floors. His “hidden” mansion had transformed into a sanctuary from the world instead of a showplace to bring the world to his doorstep.

Hell, I don’t even think I’ve ever had anyone up here—besides the Jaded—and they never needed an invitation, so I’m not sure if they count as guests.

The temptation to offer her a tour of the house and earn her approval was very strong. But he damped it down. He didn’t want it to look like boasting or shameless self-promotion; and to what purpose? To feel like he had more worth in her eyes?

If wealth made a man more worthy or honorable, it would be a world of poets and kings, wouldn’t it? But I don’t think Eleanor Beckett is the kind of woman to bat an eye at a man’s wallet or think more of him for showing off his assets.

She relinquished his arm and circled the room in a slow,
graceful stroll. At last, she returned to him. “You continue to surprise, Mr. Hastings.”

“It’s just a room.”

She laughed. “If you insist!”

“It’s a reception area and a salon. I once—had ambitions to be more social.”

“But no more?”

He shook his head. “Ambitions change. It’s just a room.” He walked over to the inside doors leading to the hallway. “There is a guest room this way that you may use to change your dress. The third door down on the left. I’ll send Mrs. Escher in to you as soon as she comes up.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hastings.”

He deliberately hung back, newly aware of the delightful Miss Beckett’s sensitivities and adherence to etiquette. He didn’t think she’d appreciate his very male presence within twenty feet of a doorway that led into a bedchamber. Ironically, the thought immediately evoked the image of his own large, empty bed and how remarkable she would look lying across it. Josiah caught himself before a hundred more erotic scenes flooded his mind, and bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to guarantee a redirection of his concentration to matters at hand. “You’re welcome, Miss Beckett.”

He turned back, already aware of the echo of Mrs. Escher’s boot heels on the stairs as he moved to intercept her in the vestibule. “Ah, there you are, Mrs. Escher!”

“I ain’t no ladies’ maid,” she gruffly announced, “but I suppose I could lend a hand if there’s buttons.”

“You are an angel, Mrs. Escher.”

The words prompted the portly bulldog of a woman to turn into a giggling schoolgirl. “And you’re a trickster to say such things!”

“I sent her to the blue guest room and told her you would follow. Thank you, Mrs. Escher.”

She waved him off, bustling through the doorway to the hall, and he waited until he heard her brisk knock and the guest room door closing behind her before making his way back up to the studio.

Whatever her objections to the red dress, there’ll be no dissuading Rita from her mission, but I just hope Miss Beckett isn’t bruised in the process. …

Eleanor laid the dress out on the bed, turned up the lamps, and stood in new wonder as she surveyed the room. The walls and matching upholstery were a deep French blue, accented in gilt silver. The furniture was ornately carved wood that was almost blond in color, polished and graceful. It was a room designed for a woman, with a vanity table and every detail set out with elegant care. The bedding was sumptuous blue quilted silk and lace, and the bedposts were covered in flowers and vines carved in relief and painted with silver accents that gave it a fairylike appearance.

Even so, there were signs of dust and cobwebs in the corners.

It was as if the house had been decorated and arranged to perfection, and then abandoned. He lived here. But nothing echoed of his presence. Even the beautiful vestibule and receiving room he’d shown her had made the same impression. It had dazzled her senses, but then felt a little empty and unoccupied.

A knock at the door ended her reverie. “Come in.”

“I’m Rita Escher.” The woman at the door marched in, firmly closing the door behind her. “Mr. Hastings has it that you needed a woman’s hand getting changed. I’ll do what I can, mind. But I’m no ladies’ maid, so if it’s hair curling or frippery, you’ll be left to your own, I’m afraid.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Escher. Any help would be appreciated.” She began to cross over to a dressing screen in the corner. “I’ll just see about …”

“Oh, don’t mind with that! Here, let me help with the back of that and let’s see you out of it. You’re a modest thing, aren’t you, Miss Beckett?”

Eleanor yielded, blushing. “I suppose I am.”

“Hmm.” Rita’s hands were efficient, if not altogether
gentle, as she tackled the buttons of Eleanor’s dress. “Good enough quality in a lady, modesty, I’d say.”

Eleanor helped the process along as best she could, smiling at the woman’s gruff manners.
As sweet as a kitten, are you?
“So, you have the run of the house for Mr. Hastings?”

“I’m a cook, mind. And I do a bit of laundry and tidying up around here when I can. But it’s twelve rooms on this floor and eleven of them generally empty, since himself keeps to his room when he’s not painting upstairs—so who’s to say when I dusted last!”

“Such a large house! All by yourself?”

Mrs. Escher reddened with pride. “It’s not easy, but I manage—and Mr. Hastings is as easy as a pup. My own man is harder to pick up after in just two rooms, and what a lot of fuss! But Mr. Hastings keeps himself to himself these days. Too much, if you ask me!”

“Perhaps painting is such a solitary task, he prefers it that way.”

Mrs. Escher grunted. “It’s not healthy, prowling about up there, banging into the furniture and using enough candles to light half of London. But Mr. Escher worships him—besotted old fool!”

Mr. Escher isn’t alone by the looks of you and the way you’re worrying over him like a mother hen.

“Then Mr. Hastings is lucky to have you.”

“He’s off his beam. A gentleman, like that, with more money than God can reckon, I suspect, and my man and I are all he’s got? He should have a house full of boot kissers instead of the likes of us. I can’t keep ahead of a house this size as well as I’d like—and those stairs, mind! But we’d die for him, him giving Mr. Escher the work and paying like he does and then letting us live with him. Never complaining! I don’t care if artists are supposed to be strange in their ways. Mr. Hastings can stroll about naked if he wants. I ain’t sayin’ a word.”

“D-does Mr. Hastings stroll about naked?”

“Never! I’m just saying he could! He could put a cat on
his head and talk about the weather! You’ll not get me to make a fuss!” Mrs. Escher’s hands fisted at her hips as if this settled the matter. “Now, let’s see about this dress.”

Eleanor was down to her petticoats and undergarments, and lifted the evening gown to see how best to draw it over her head, but Mrs. Escher was shaking her head.

“The dress has stays, miss. Not that I stand to be an experienced maid or nothin’, but I’m eyein’ that hardware you’ve got on and I think you’re not going to manage both.”

“Oh.” Eleanor blushed. Her corset was covered with thick ivory brocade underpinned with what the maker had assured her mother was a sufficient amount of steel supports to allow any woman to carry herself like a true lady. It was an endorsement she remembered her mother repeating when the garment was purchased, and it was one of the conventions she’d clung to. “Will it look proper without …”

“More proper than you tryin’ to force it and tearin’ a seam out. Let’s see you out of it.”

The corset was sacrificed, but the dress itself had light boning sewn in for structure, and Eleanor accepted the loss as the red velvet encased her slender figure, the heavy skirt drifting down and around her.

It was a sumptuous evening gown; the silk velvet was heavy and soft, giving the dress a softer shape than most fashions of the day. Unlike the lofty bell-shaped skirts and embroidered and beaded satins usually seen for London’s evening revels, this was a fall of crimson glory about her. It was a full skirt, without any ruffles or flounces, and only the bottom had been hemmed in the simplest matching ribbon to protect the skirt’s trailing edges. The décolletage was cut low off the shoulders, and again was edged only in a simple matching silk ribbon, without a single flower or bow. The color alone was the adornment of the gown, and it shamelessly drew the eye to Eleanor’s creamy skin, ripe figure, and tiny waist.

I thought Miss Lawson looked like a confection in that peach organza. But I look like … a very wicked dessert,
indeed. No wonder Mrs. Carlisle didn’t buy it! It sighs of scandal, doesn’t it?

But the silk velvet invited the touch of her fingers and elicited nothing but admiration. For all its decadent color, the dress was too beautiful to dislike.

“Oh, miss!” Even the gruff Mrs. Escher was overcome. “It’s like a dream, ain’t it? And you look like a ruby of a thing!”

The compliment was sincere, even if it did make Eleanor instantly color in embarrassment. “Well, we’ll see if it will do for Mr. Hastings and his painting. Thank you, Mrs. Escher, for your help.”