‘So should you. Where have you been? At your club, I suppose?’
‘Got it in one.’ With a yawn he stretched his legs out on the window seat and propped a chintz cushion behind his brown hair. ‘What a night. I’ve been playing cards. I say, I ran into Warley. He’s coming to the ball. Frightfully keen on you, isn’t he?’
Cameo grimaced. ‘Unfortunately.’
‘He lost a lot of money tonight, I believe.’ George craned his neck to look at her. ‘And what have you been doing? Painting?’
With her pencil she pointed to the pile of discarded paper. ‘Just drawing, trying to improve.’
He shook his head. ‘You’re a strange sister for a fellow to have, Cameo, with all this fuss about art. Why can’t you just be interested in gloves and bonnets like a girl ought to be?’
‘Like someone we both know, is that it?’
To her astonishment George coloured bright red. ‘Actually, there’s something I wanted to tell you.’ He grabbed another cushion and tossed it in the air, catching it neatly. ‘The thing is, I’ve decided to ask Maud Cartwright to marry me.’
‘Finally!’ Cameo wanted to leap up and hug her brother, but they never did such a thing in their family. ‘I thought you’d never ask her.’
‘Well, it takes me a while to come to a decision, but once I’ve made it I stick to it. That’s my way.’
‘Have you decided when?’
‘I thought I’d pop the question quite soon if I can get my courage up. Maybe at the ball.’ He tossed the cushion up again but she wasn’t fooled by his nonchalance. ‘Not sure she’ll have me.’
‘How could you possibly think Maud doesn’t want to marry you?’
‘I haven’t been entirely sure.’ He flushed redder and added, ‘Whether it’s more than friendship. We’ve all known each other so long.’
‘Since we were children and used to play in the square together.’
George grinned. ‘You were constantly in trouble for climbing trees.’
‘Nanny always shouted at me about the dirt and grass stains. You scaled trees as well, George, and you never got into trouble for it but Maud never wanted to climb. She always looked perfect in her pinafore and curls. Do you remember how she clapped when you got up on to the top branches?’ Cameo laughed softly. ‘Maud always loved you, I think. Oh, I’ll be so happy to have her as a sister.’
‘I expect it’s mutual.’
‘Everyone will be delighted.’ She mimicked their father’s gruff tone: ‘“You’ve made an excellent choice for your future wife, George.”’
They both laughed.
‘I’m so pleased for you,’ she said simply.
‘I’m rather pleased myself.’ He stood and tousled her hair on his way out the door.
How lucky George and Maud were to have each other, Cameo thought, as she stared out the window.
Benedict Cole’s mocking expression flashed into her mind. Until tomorrow, Miss Ashe.
There was no doubt he suspected her. Her temper red-hot, she’d grasped the opportunity to learn from him, but there was a deeper part of her that disliked being forced to deceive him, the same way she was deceiving her parents. It troubled her even though she didn’t want to admit it.
With a sigh she blew out the candle. Somehow, she had to keep his suspicions and her own doubts at bay. She wanted—no, she needed—to learn to paint.
Yet as she lay in bed, the sudden recollection of the artist’s sardonic gaze gave her stomach a sharp twist.
Cameo had to wonder if she would learn more than she’d bargained for from Benedict Cole.
‘And stirr’d her lips
For some sweet answer...’
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
‘The Gardener’s Daughter’
Cameo hitched up the skirt of her blue-poplin gown, avoiding the puddles in the alleyway. She’d dressed with care, avoiding her finer gowns. Benedict Cole mustn’t have any more clues as to her real identity.
In Soho, amidst the morning bustle, she made sure her family’s crested carriage stayed out of sight. Bert obligingly agreed to collect her later. For a moment she stood and watched as the shopkeepers rolled up their awnings and opened their shutters to reveal their goods on display in the windows, the apprentices washing down the windows and stoops. How she wished for time to sketch the lively scene. She wasn’t often out so early and she certainly had never seen the fresh fruit and vegetables being delivered in old carts pulled by heavy horses and one small cart pulled by a donkey.
Outside the bakery she stopped to pass some money to Becky, sitting with her matches forlornly laid out in front of her on the cobbles.
‘Thank you, miss. I never thought you’d remember.’
‘Of course I remembered, Becky. I promised.’
The girl sighed. ‘Lots wouldn’t, what if they promised or not.’
Becky would have the money Benedict Cole had promised her for being a model, Cameo decided, as she ascended the narrow staircase to the studio. It seemed deceitful to take payment from the artist when she knew she received a fair exchange, with the painting lessons he was unsuspectingly providing. It wasn’t as if she needed the pin money. It would be shoddy, as though she were cheating him.
On the attic landing Benedict opened the door wide. ‘Ah, Miss Ashe, you’re on time today.’
Cameo swept by him. As Lady Catherine Mary St Clair she would have made a spirited response. As Miss Ashe she must keep her temper.
‘I’ll endeavour to be punctual from now on, Mr Cole,’ she said with assumed meekness, as she removed her bonnet and cloak.
He seemed to hide a smile as he appropriated them from her and dropped them over the armchair by the fire. He hadn’t fallen for her obedient act.
Retreating to the window, she raised her arms, curving them above her. ‘Do you need me to take my hair down again?’
Her movement held his brooding glance. ‘I ought to paint you like that. No, leave your hair up for now. I wish to focus on your face. I need to get that right first.’
And she’d styled her hair in a simple knot to ensure she might easily put it up again. Vexed, she dropped her arms.
As she glanced out of the window at the rooftops and chimneys, towards the clouded sky, it struck her again how wonderful it was to have no curtains. What a contrast with the thick-cut velvet cloths of the drawing room in Mayfair that constantly felt as if they stifled her.
An acid voice broke her reverie. ‘If I might have your attention, Miss Ashe.’
Biting her lip to prevent a retort, she queried, ‘Where do you want me?’
He paused for a moment before he pushed out the shabby gold-brocade chaise longue. ‘Here. Sit down. Don’t go slouching into the side. Keep your spine straight and face me.’
How she would continue to obey his curt instructions without a quick rejoinder she simply didn’t know. Squarely she placed her feet in front of her and crossed them at the ankle, wishing for something to lean against. Still, the chaise longue was softer than his armchair and she would allow no fault to be found with her posture.
‘That will do.’
As