Enticing Benedict Cole. Eliza Redgold
now.’ She reached to pick up her bonnet. ‘Nor do I wish to do so if you’re going to be quite so rude.’
‘Wait.’ He made an apologetic gesture and sent her an unexpected smile. ‘You’ll have to forgive the moods of an artist. I’m not one for social niceties when I’m painting. You need to understand that.’
‘I do understand that,’ Cameo retorted. ‘But you have to understand. If I am to be your model, I will require them.’
‘You require social niceties?’ He studied her for a long moment with an expression impossible to fathom. He moved over to the fireplace and indicated a chair. ‘Come and sit down. There are a few questions I need to ask you.’
Cameo’s stomach lurched. She’d almost given herself away. Her temper mustn’t get the better of her.
This was her only chance.
Trying to appear subdued, she followed Benedict Cole to the fireplace. Papers and books lay on each available surface, even on the armchair.
‘Just move those,’ he said irritably.
She placed the pile of books on a gateleg table and sat. Horsehair poked out in tufts on the arms of the chair and, judging by the hard feel of it beneath her, there wasn’t much left in the seat either.
With one hand, he dragged a straight wooden chair opposite her after dropping more papers on the floor with an easy, casual gesture. No wonder his studio was so untidy. It was unimportant to him. His surroundings took second place to his work, while she spent most of her painting time spreading sheets and tidying away.
His face was half-shadowed and he didn’t speak for a long moment. Unnerving enough when he stood staring at her, now he was seated, his closeness became even more alarming.
Cameo’s heartbeat quickened.
‘So you want to be an artist’s model?’
‘Ah, yes.’
He gave her another of his long-considering examinations. ‘Forgive me. You’re different from the other girls I’ve seen who want to be models.’
He suspected her already, she realised with dismay. ‘Different? In what way?’
‘Your voice suggests you’ve been raised a lady,’ he said bluntly. ‘As does your request for social niceties. As do your clothes.’
‘I wore my best to see you.’ With trembling fingers she smoothed her foulard skirt, a mix of silk and cotton. Did she dare try to put on an accent? No. She’d never make it work and it seemed horrid, too. ‘This is my finest gown.’
His dark eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me, why is it you’re seeking employment?’
‘I have little choice in seeking employment.’ She put her hand to her forehead. ‘I’ve fallen on hard times.’
‘Have you indeed?’
‘Yes. I’m alone in the world and I have few options for an income.’
Crossing one long trousered leg over the other, he leaned back. ‘Tell me more about yourself. First, what’s your name?’
There was no way she could supply her real name. She cast a quick look down at her dress. The colour? Too obvious. ‘My name is Ashe. Miss Ashe. With an e.’
‘With an e,’ he drawled. ‘And your first name, if I may enquire?’
Surely it was safe enough to use her nickname. ‘It’s Cameo.’
His head reared. ‘Cameo? I’ve never heard of a girl named Cameo before.’
‘I was a foundling.’ She pointed to her necklace. ‘I was found with this necklace, so I was called Cameo.’
His intent gaze fell to the neck of her dress, where the stone nestled. He seemed to take in more than her necklace. ‘It’s a fine piece.’
Her cheeks burned. ‘Yes. It is very fine.’
‘You say you were found with it. Your mother must have been a person of quality.’
‘My mother may have been of quality. She may have been a lady.’ Cameo found she was quite enjoying making up a new life story, her indignation driving her imagination. ‘Though perhaps my father was a gentleman, perhaps he gave her the necklace. It’s often a gentleman who takes advantage of a poor, innocent girl.’
He arched a winged eyebrow. ‘Is it?’
‘I believe so.’
As he leaned over, a strong masculine scent mixed with turpentine and paint reached her. ‘Some people invite trouble, don’t you think?’
The horsehair prickled through her dress as she shifted away from him. Suddenly she became aware of the danger of being alone in a room with a man to whom she hadn’t been introduced. Her mama would have fainted away. ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’
‘Cameo.’ He lingered on the word. ‘The word is Greek. Tell me more about your necklace.’
‘There’s little else I know about it. Though I’m sure it was a tragedy. I have a strong feeling my mother never left me willingly. I think she was forced to give me up. Perhaps my wicked father gave her this necklace and she left it with me as a keepsake or perhaps, as you say, she was of quality and owned it herself. In any case, it was found with me.’
‘Where?’
‘In my swaddling clothes.’
‘No, where were you found?’
The question floored her, but only for a moment. ‘There’s a place near Coram Fields in Bloomsbury. Foundlings have long been left there.’ Luckily her mama had given money to help the unfortunate foundlings only a few months before.
Still he seemed suspicious. ‘And who found you?’
‘Nuns,’ Cameo replied wildly. ‘Nuns found me. Then a kind genteel lady took me in and raised me as her own.’
‘And her name was?’
‘A Mrs...’ From her sleeve she edged out her lace handkerchief to play for time. ‘Cotton. That was her name. Poor Mrs Cotton. She had no family of her own, so she took me in. As I grew up I became her companion.’ With a corner of the handkerchief she dabbed at her eyes. ‘It’s sad. She died close to a year ago. After that I was all alone. It is thus you find me, seeking employment.’
He crossed his arms. ‘It’s a strange story.’
‘Not so strange. There are many others who have found themselves in my sorry position. I cast myself upon your mercy, sir,’ she added, with a dramatic flourish.
A smile seemed to play at the corner of his lips and then vanished. ‘So you’re at my mercy, is that right?’
The sense of danger came back as she swallowed hard. ‘Yes.’
He stood and dropped a log on to the fire. With a blackened poker he made sparks fly. Turning back, he leaned casually against the chimney piece and crossed his long legs, the poker still in his grip. ‘There’s other, more suitable employment than being a model. You might work in a shop or be a governess or be a companion to another lady.’
The thought of Lady Catherine Mary St Clair working in a shop made her duck her head to hide a smile. ‘That’s true. And it may come to that now Mrs Cotton is gone.’ She dabbed at her eyes again with her handkerchief for effect.
Deftly he dropped the poker into a brass pot on the hearth. ‘Being an artist’s model is not the most respectable occupation, Miss Ashe. Not all the girls are from such a genteel background as yours, raised as you were by the good Mrs Cotton.’
‘What’s the usual background of models?’
‘They’re generally girls who work in shops and