Enticing Benedict Cole. Eliza Redgold
fingers trembled with such excitement she could barely open the seal. At last, to be able to work with a true artist, someone who would understand. Eagerly, she began to read.
Dear Lady Catherine Mary St Clair
In response to your letter regarding painting lessons, I regret to inform you I will not be able to fulfil your request. I have neither the time nor inclination to teach aristocratic society ladies to dabble at art.
Benedict Cole
‘Oh!’ She gasped as if a pail of cold water had been thrown over her.
Tears smarted in her eyes. If he knew how hard she’d tried to learn, to teach herself. How hard she’d fought for lessons, of her desperation, her despair. No, he dismissed her, just as everyone else did.
Her heart sank as she crumpled onto the sofa. She’d convinced herself Benedict Cole was the guiding hand she so desperately needed. She dropped her head in her hands, wiped away another tear. Her hands clenched. She might as well give up.
Just the thought of giving up sparked the flame.
Cameo’s temper burst into life. Fury burned within her as hot as the coals in the grate. How dared he. Dabble at art. The nerve of the man. How dare he presume that simply because of her title she wasn’t serious about art? It was insulting.
Jumping to her feet, she crossed to the oval gilt-framed mirror by the door and surveyed her reflection. How could she convince him?
Off came her pearl earrings and the diamond-studded watch pinned to her bodice. She must appear a serious student of art to make him understand, not the kind of society lady about whom he made such infuriating assumptions. She straightened the white-lace collar and cuffs of her grey morning dress and smoothed down her hair with a nod. Yes, that would do.
For a moment she hesitated. Could she, Lady Catherine Mary St Clair, go to a painter’s studio unannounced when they hadn’t been formally introduced? Her mama would be horrified.
The spark surged inside her.
It wouldn’t be a social call.
Benedict Cole must teach her to paint. Somehow, she would change the artist’s mind.
* * *
The carriage rattled to a stop.
Cameo’s fury and determination had built with every turn of the carriage wheel. As they rolled out of the quiet, leafy square in Mayfair, with its large cream houses, glossy black-painted doors, marble steps and iron railings, onto Oxford St and the roaring bustle of the shops and crowds, all she could think about was Benedict Cole. She longed to confront him. How could he make such assumptions about her, the kind she’d been fighting against all her life? If he knew...if she told him...
She leapt up so fast she almost hit her head on the carriage.
Out on the street, Bert, the coachman, had opened the door and put the box down for her. ‘Here we are.’ He rubbed his forehead and glanced about dubiously. ‘Are you sure this is the place you’re wanting?’
Briskly, she stepped down into the street and adjusted her skirt. No turning back now. ‘Yes, this is it. Will you mind waiting for me, Bert?’
‘I’ll be here.’ He grinned good-naturedly. ‘Anything for you, Lady Catherine Mary.’
Tying her bonnet with a firm bow, she set off against the wind. In spite of spending much of her life in London, there were parts of the city she barely knew. She certainly never stopped in Soho. The family carriage always drove through. She had expected the soot and dirt, certainly, but not the vibrant activity sweeping her along the cobbled road. Spread with straw and litter, the busy street echoed with the sounds of carriages and carts, horses’ hooves, and vendors shouting their wares. There were shops, too, with people going in and out, tinkling the doorbells. The smell from the fishmonger’s window, full of shoals of mussels and oysters, reached her before she saw it and a yeasty odour emanated from empty barrels outside a public house, a sign with a lamb painted on it swaying above the door.
Through the crowd she hurried, past two fighting boys, their mothers with baskets on their arms chatting to each other uncaring of the scuffle, and past a flower seller who offered with a toothless grin to sell her a bunch of daisies. A young woman in a low-cut bodice standing on a corner sent her a brazen glare. With a gulp Cameo hastened on.
In front of a tall red-brick building she checked the number. Yes, this was the address of the infuriating Benedict Cole, yet in front of her stood a bakery, the scent of hot bread and buns wafting out every time a customer opened the door. The artist must live upstairs, but there was no obvious way to get in.
A girl sat on the pavement nearby, shabby and meek, with bare feet and a shawl around her thin shoulders.
‘Matches,’ she called hoarsely, ‘matches.’
Cameo crouched down and smiled. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, miss.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘It’s Becky, miss. Do you want some matches?’
‘I don’t have any money with me.’ Why hadn’t she brought her reticule with her? She normally did, for she kept a tiny sketchbook and sharpened pencils inside, but she’d rushed out in such a hurry. ‘I’ll bring you some another day, I promise.’
The girl sighed. ‘That’s all right.’
‘I will, Becky. Perhaps now you can help me. Do you know how to get in to where the people live upstairs?’
‘You go round the back, miss, down that alleyway. There’s a red door.’
‘Thank you,’ Cameo called, already moving away.
A cat yowled as she entered the dingy alley. For a moment she hesitated before she picked her way through the sodden newspaper, broken glass bottles, cabbage stalks and something that looked like—no; it couldn’t be. Edging around the rubbish, she narrowly avoided a puddle of something that looked and smelled worse.
The red door, if the flakes of peeling paint identified it as such, was ajar. At her touch it swung open wider, creaking.
Inside the cramped entrance hall, she stared, half fascinated, half appalled. She’d never visited such a rundown establishment. The walls had been white once, perhaps, but now they were an indeterminate colour, yellow or cream, with water marks at the bottom, where the damp had crept in. A staircase with a worn green runner lay directly in front of her, the woodwork scuffed and dull.
Dust dirtied her white-kid gloves as she gripped the banister. She brushed them on her skirt. Up two narrow flights of steps she climbed, passing closed doors on each landing, checking numbers as she went and up a third flight, which was narrower still.
Out of breath, she reached the attic door at the top. It bore no number, just a name plate beside it, simple and beautiful. She hadn’t expected something so unique. Carved from a piece of oak, a pattern of leaves and berries had been etched on to its square edges, and at the centre scrolled the name: Benedict Cole.
Well, now, Benedict Cole. You’re about to receive a surprise visit from a society lady.
Her heart drummed as she rapped on the door. No reply.
Under her skirts she tapped her foot. She knocked again, harder.
The door flung open. Cameo gasped and fell backwards at the sheer force of the man who glowered in front of her, his fist gripping a paintbrush. Benedict Cole. She knew it with a certainty flaming inside her belly. Tall, with dark hair that swooped over his forehead, he wore a loose, unbuttoned painting shirt covered with blotches of dried oils in a frenzy of colours. Yet his eyes held her attention. Dark brown, under heavy black brows, they blazed with a fierce inner light that seared into her very soul.
‘You’re too late.’ His educated