Ruined By The Reckless Viscount. Sophia James
her. She could not understand them or interpret their true meaning. The inspiration for every portrait she had completed and sent to Mr Ward by mail had come from the pages of books of drawings in the extensive library at Albany. Fictional, altered or copied.
Save one, she amended, but then she did not think about that.
So many topics now that were out of bounds to her sense of peace. She wished she were different, but she did not know where to begin to become so.
‘We will go to the dressmaker in Bromley, Flora. She will fashion you some clothes and she is as talented as the expensive modistes in Paris. One of her patrons is a friend of mine and every person who ever orders a gown from her is more than delighted with it.’
Listening to Maria’s plans for their sojourn made the enormity of what she had agreed on to become real. Appearance was so important in the city and the old feelings of being not quite good enough resurfaced with a dread.
‘I don’t want anything fancy, Maria, and I shan’t be wearing bright colours at all.’ Last time their mother had insisted on gowns that were so dreadfully noticeable and so very wrong for their colouring. Since her abduction she’d never worn that shade of red again.
‘Roy prefers me in pastel,’ her sister was saying and even that sent a chill of horror down Florentia’s neck. Women in society had so little say in anything. They were mute beautiful things, needy and powerless. Well, the paintings had given her back her power and she knew that she would never willingly relinquish it.
‘I also need to visit Mr Ward in South London.’
Maria was silent, her brows knitted together. ‘He thinks you are a man, Florentia. How can you see him at all?’
‘It will just be quickly and I shall be dressed as Frederick Rutherford.’
‘I hardly think you could do that for it would be...scandalous.’
Flora laughed. ‘Well, I am an expert in that field by all accounts, so I should manage it effortlessly. I’ll wear Bryson’s clothes and his boots. They would fit me well.’
‘What of your hair? Mr Ward would not think that to belong to a boy.’
‘A wig and a hat would be an easy disguise. I can procure a moustache, too, and stuff paper in my cheeks to change the shape of my face. That should make me speak differently.’
‘My God, Florentia.’ Maria simply stared at her. ‘You have been thinking of this for a while? This dupe?’
‘The art of pretence lies in painting just as truly as it ever would in the world of acting. It just requires sure-mindedness, I think.’
‘And you truly imagine you could pull off such a character?’
‘I do.’ She smiled because her sister’s face was stiff with disbelief. ‘I’ve been practising, Maria. The walking. The talking. The sitting. I am sure I could be more than convincing.’
‘And what of the serving staff at the London town house of the Warrendens? I am certain they should notice if one moment you are a girl and the next a boy and goodness knows who they might tell. Your true identity would be all over London before we ever got to our next appointment if the stories of the gossip-mongering between the big houses is to be believed.’
‘Then perhaps I should simply go as Mr Frederick Rutherford right from the beginning. The Warrendens’ staff in London does not know me and it would completely do away with the need for new gowns and shoes. I shan’t have to even take a maid with me. I shall simply arrive as Mr Frederick Rutherford and leave as him with no questions asked.’
‘I don’t believe I am having this conversation with you, Florentia. You cannot possibly be serious.’
‘Oh, but I am, Maria. I have no wish to be out and about in society again, but I do have a need to continue selling my paintings. I could, of course, simply go up to the city alone and in disguise, but...’
‘No. If you are going to do this ridiculous thing I want to be there to help you, to make certain that you are safe.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You have forced my hand, dreadfully, but I do want to state quite forcefully that this is a terrible and dangerous idea.’
‘I know I can do it, Maria. Remember the plays we used to put on as children. You always said I was marvellous at acting my parts.’
‘That was make believe.’
‘As this is, too. It’s exactly the same.’
‘If you get caught—’
Florentia cut her off. ‘But I won’t. I promise.’
‘My God, I can’t believe I should even be considering this. I can’t believe you might talk me into it.’
‘Try, Maria. Try for my sake.’
‘All right. I’ll visit the wigmakers if you fashion a drawing of your wants and I can simply say it is for a play we are putting on at Albany for Christmas. Did you have a preference for a colour?’
‘Black.’ Flora was astonished to hear such certainty coming from her mouth. She could mimic Bryson because she had known him so very well, his habits, his stance, the way he walked and watched. His hair had been golden just like hers, so she needed something distinctly different.
‘And I would require some height inbuilt in the boots. I have seen that done so it should not be difficult.’
Maria groaned. ‘I cannot believe that we could even be contemplating this farce, Florentia. God, if we are discovered.’
‘It will never happen.’
‘Well, Roy needs to know at least. I will not lie to him.’
* * *
Flora walked to the stream late that afternoon through the small bushes and the flowering shrubs, through the birdsong and the rustle of the wind, through air filled with the smell of spring on its edge and the promise of renewed warmth.
She had always come here to think ever since the time she had returned in disgrace from London.
The glade reminded her slightly of the woods she had run through besides the North Road as she had tried to escape the carriage of the man who had abducted her.
Her kidnapper.
That was how she named him now and here she allowed him to come into her thoughts just as surely as she had banished him from everywhere else.
His smile was what she remembered most, slightly lopsided and very real. He had a dimple in his chin, too, a detail that she had forgotten about until, when painting from memory, she had rediscovered the small truths of him.
Beautiful. She had thought him such then and she still did now, his short hair marked in browns of all shades from russet to chestnut and threaded in lighter gold and wheat.
She wondered why she still recalled him with such a preciseness, but she knew the answer of course. He had died for a mistake, his own admittedly, but still... He was like a martyr perishing for a cause that was unknown, his blood running on the forecourt of the inn in runnels of red, the dust blending indistinctly at the sides so that it was darker. She had used that colour when she had drawn him, that particular red on the outlines when first she had formed his face and body on canvas and now even when the painting was finished the colour was a part of who he was, both his strength and his weakness.
She’d bundled up the portrait with its power of grace and covered it with a sheet before placing it at the very back of her large wardrobe. Often, though, she looked at him even as she meant not to. Often she lifted the fabric and ran her finger across his cheek, along his nose and around the line of his dimpled chin.
It made her feel better, this care of him, this gentle caress, this attention that she had not allowed him in life even after he saved her from the dogs and wrapped his jacket around