Silver Splendor

Silver Splendor

Olivia Drake

Copyright © 1989 by Barbara Dawson Smith

To my parents

Acknowledgments

I am deeply indebted to the following:

Merri Ferrell, Associate Curator, The Museums at Stony Brook, Long Island, for sharing her extensive knowledge of carriages; Arthur Goddard, instructor of Latin, The Kinkaid School; Pat Foley, sculptor-in-residence, The Kinkaid School; the people at the Art Students League of New York; Joyce Bell, Alice Borchardt, Arnette Lamb, and Susan Wiggs, whose criticism and support have meant so much to me; my husband for his unflagging patience; and my daughter, Jessica, for making it so easy for daddy to be patient.

London, 1880

He was still following her. Frowning, Elizabeth Hastings returned her gaze to the mist hung street ahead, where a gas lamp cast a hazy sulfur circle over the cobblestones. In the distance Big Ben chimed eight times. In fair weather the sky would be a palette of pinks and purples, the byways crammed with laborers and tradesmen. But tonight a veil of vapor brought an early dusk, the chilly June drizzle driving all but a few hardy Londoners indoors.

Elizabeth shivered, uneasy and cold. Rounding the corner onto Maiden Lane, she darted another glance behind her. Half a block away, through the scattering of pedestrians, she glimpsed the man again. His thickset shoulders were hunched inside a tattered frock coat, his crudely drawn face shadowed by a porkpie hat. She’d first noticed him while boarding the Strand omnibus, then again when he’d disembarked at her stop. Intent on reaching home before nightfall, she had afforded him scant notice, filing away an absentminded catalogue of his bulldog features.

But now her senses were sharpened.

Clutching her artist’s satchel with cold numbed fingers, Elizabeth forced herself to remain calm. She was being overimaginative, that was all. The stranger had made no threatening gesture; their paths merely lay in a similar direction.

Still, she quickened her pace. A hansom cab rattled past, its high perched driver huddled against the bleak drizzle. The misty twilight softened the edges of buildings and made poetry of the dingy brick tenements on the fringes of Covent Garden. The scents of cooking cabbage and rotting garbage mingled in the damp, smoke laden air. From somewhere came a burst of male laughter.

A ragged urchin darted past and vanished into a shadowed alleyway. Elizabeth felt a sudden longing for Kipp’s company, but as usual, when wanted, the unkempt boy was nowhere to be seen. Like so many other street Arabs roaming this section of the city, he was probably haunting the marketplace in hope of scrounging some supper.

The tap of her footsteps sounded louder on the wet pavement now that she’d left the clatter of traffic on the Strand. The main roads were well lit by gas lamps, but here in the narrow side streets, the slate gray of dusk rapidly yielded to the charcoal of night. An occasional passerby carried a torch or lantern, but for the most part her way lay in shadow.

Elizabeth considered seeking refuge in a coffee house or tavern. But if she tarried, her father might worry needlessly. She felt a familiar rush of affection laced with concern. Provided, of course, her father was at home and not drowning his sorrows in drink at The Lion and the Lamb.

She glanced back again. The man had gained ground. A shudder prickled her skin. Yet even as she watched he paused to peer into the window of a boot maker’s shop.

It was fanciful to think he was stalking her,
Elizabeth told herself firmly. If the stranger were bent on robbery, he’d be lurking about the nearby marketplace and awaiting a chance to waylay one of the rich gentlemen who came there to taunt the porters or buy nosegays. Her worn leather satchel contained only a few farthings and her sketch pad.

Not for the first time she chided herself for lingering so late in the magnificence of Westminster Abbey. Daring another look around, Elizabeth found to her relief that the stranger was gone. Still, she wouldn’t rest easy until she was safely within her own lodgings.

The chilly mist penetrated her shawl and curled tendrils of hair around her face. Gripping her satchel tightly, she hurried over the rain slick cobbles toward the quiet, shabby street where she lived. From a window high above, someone’s laundry hung pale and limp against the darkened brick like white chalk drawings on a blackboard. Her anxiety began to abate as the familiar shape of Mrs. Chesnev’s lodging house loomed through the night. The glow of a gaslight inside promised warmth and safety —

Something scraped within the inky interior of an alleyway ahead. Her heart vaulted in alarm. Elizabeth swung toward the sound. But the shadows were deep, the narrow passageway eerily silent.

Pausing no more than an instant, she walked on swiftly, avoiding the alley. She was being foolish, jumping at a noise probably made by a prowling tomcat —

In a sudden rush of movement something barreled out of the darkness at her. A stocky man, a porkpie hat…
him!

A scream tore from her throat. She turned, already running. Rough hands damped onto her shoulders and jerked ner back around. The stench of fetid breath struck her face. Through the gloom, she glimpsed his coarse features.

Wildly she swung the satchel. Its sharp edge caught him hard under the chin. He grunted in pain, his grip loosening just enough for her to wrench free.

Sobbing with panic, she darted toward the rooming house. Her shawl dropped somewhere along with the satchel. Over her gasping breath she heard the thud of footsteps. Her feet slipped on cobbles slick with moisture. Terrified, she fought for balance. The hands of her pursuer bit into her shoulders again.

With a ragged cry, she tried to twist away. But he was too strong. Another scream swelled within her. Suddenly his fingers were tightening around her neck and cutting off her air.

She struggled, kicking and pummeling. His hands were a closing noose, squeezing and strangling. Blood roared in her ears; pain seared her lungs. A tide of darkness poured over her, drowning her strength.

The brougham negotiated the traffic at the Piccadilly intersection and carved a path through the congestion of fine carriages and hansom cabs. The coachman shook his whip at a slow moving cart, his curse lost in the clatter of hooves and the shouts of tradesmen. At the rear of the vehicle two liveried footmen stood stiff as statues, seemingly oblivious of the cold drizzle.

Inside, Lord Nicholas Ware, Earl of Hawkesford, leaned against the luxurious leather seat and glared out the window. He saw not the bleak night but the obstinate face of his sister. By God, Cicely had gone too far this time. She had never been one to heed propriety. Yet skipping a French lesson or letting loose a frog at Lady Foster’s soiree was nothing compared to what Cicely had done now.

The news of her scandalous behavior had taken a day to reach him. The maid told the footman, the footman told the butler, the butler told the valet, and the valet — quite gingerly — told the earl.

Appalled and angry, Nicholas had canceled his plan to escort Cicely and Aunt Beatrice to the theatre. He’d wrested the details of the transgression from Cicely and then laid down the law. She had been penitent… far too penitent. And entirely too eager to promise more circumspect behavior in the future.

Nicholas was well acquainted with that soulful smile and those appealing blue eyes. Rather than trust his sister’s word, he meant to put a stop to this latest indiscretion once and for all. Tonight, before she ruined her reputation and soiled the Ware family honor.

Consorting with artists, for God’s sake!
His mouth tightened. It was sheer luck only the maid caught Cicely stealing back into the house, her gown speckled with dried sculpting clay. Sheer luck that no one of consequence had spied his sister in the company of this immoral bohemian artist.

The fact that his sister’s mentor was female did nothing to mollify Nicholas’s sense of outrage. If Cicely’s gushing testimony could be credited, Elizabeth Hastings was a sculptress of incredible talent and impeccable repute. More likely, Nicholas reflected with distaste, Miss Hastings was a bluestocking of vulgar manners and doubtful virtue.

The distant chime of Big Ben tolled the hour of eight. The brougham jolted more slowly over the cobblestones, the coachman apparently searching for the artist’s address. Nicholas peered outside. The coach lanterns afforded him a glimpse of shadowy tenements and sinister alleyways; the mist lent an unearthly quality to the scene. The damp air had crept up from the Thames, hastening nightfall and clearing the streets of all but those on the most urgent of errands.

Errands as urgent as his own.

Nicholas felt his sense of purpose intensify as he gazed at the seedy district so unlike the discreetly elegant homes to which he was accustomed. Laundry hung pale and ghostly against the shabby buildings outside. Despite the brougham’s closed windows, he could detect the stench of rubbish.

The thought of Cicely frequenting such a hellhole — unchaperoned, no less — angered Nicholas anew. Yet he could not place the entire blame for this affair on his sister’s pretty shoulders. For all her air of sophistication, Cicely was only seventeen and naive in the ways of the world. Doubtless she had been duped… duped by an artist who sought to take advantage of Cicely’s rank.

Staring moodily across the darkened interior of the carriage, Nicholas clenched his jaw against a twist of affection and frustration. Perhaps this present predicament was a direct result of his soft hearted desire to see his sister happy. Perhaps if the responsibility of the earldom had not been thrust upon him at so young an age —

From somewhere nearby came the piercing cry of a woman.

Nicholas started. Whipping his eyes back out into the night, he told himself she was none of his concern, that he needn’t entangle himself in what was likely a commonplace family squabble.

Yet he found the thought of a woman being abused intolerable.

He rapped sharply on the front glass. The coachman brought the pair of matched grays to a quick halt.

Before the footman could open the door, Nicholas slid down the window and thrust his head into the drizzle. “Greaves!”

The stout coachman twisted on his perch and aimed a startled look down at Nicholas. “Yes, m’lord?”

“Did you hear that scream?”

Greaves nodded. “Came from ‘round about there as best I could tell.” He pointed his whip toward the far end of the darkened street.

“Drive on down there.”

“M’lord?” In the lamp glow the coachman’s beetle browed eyes went wide with surprise and doubt. “Beggin’your pardon, but it’s likely just some doxy —”

“Do as I say,” Nicholas snapped. “And be quick about it.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Greaves cracked his whip and the carriage started with a jolt. Heedless of the cold mist, Nicholas peered ahead into the gloom and sought some sign of the woman. But he could see little beyond the circle of light cast by the twin coach lamps, and he could hear nothing but the swift clop of hooves on the cobblestones.