Guilty Series (32 page)

He'd send her to relatives in the country until she was old enough for school. She certainly could not live with him.

“Dylan!”

The exclamation of greeting had him rising to his feet as Lady Hammond entered the room. Viola was as feminine as her surroundings, with her small, shapely figure, creamy complexion, honey-colored hair, and delicate features. Looking as lovely as sunrise in an apricot-colored morning gown, she held out her hands to greet him as he crossed the room to her.

“It is barely eleven o'clock,” she said with a smile, followed at once by a pretty yawn. “Only from you, darling, would I accept a call at this ungodly hour.”

She accepted the kisses he pressed to each of her cheeks with all the ease of their long acquaintance, then seated herself on the white chintz settee opposite the striped chair in which Dylan had been sitting when she'd entered the room. “What brings you here?” she asked.

“My apologies for the timing of my call,” he answered, resuming his seat, “but I assure you that this is a matter of vital importance. You were one of the lady patronesses for that charity ball last evening, I believe.”

“The one for London hospitals? I did not feel very well and was unable to be there, but yes, I was one of the patronesses. Did you attend?”

The question held a hint of surprise, for charity balls were not really in keeping with Dylan's idea of amusement. Though he did not often go to such events, he knew Viola always put him on the invitation lists because his famous name impelled any music lover or scandal-sheet reader to attend in the faint hope of meeting him, and thereby raised more money for whatever charity was involved.

“I did,” he confirmed. “A whim, I suppose. If I do not occasionally appear at one of these things, rumors start to circulate that I've finally come a cropper. I came to see you because I want to know who that violinist was last evening.”

“Violinist?” She laughed. “Only you, Dylan, would call at this hour to inquire about the musicians at a ball and call that important.”

“I am interested in one musician in particular. She was one of four violins, costumed as a highwayman with a mask across her eyes.”

“A woman?”

“Her name is Grace. How can I find her?”

“Heavens, I don't know,” Viola cried in lively amusement. “What is this all about? A female violinist costumed as a highwayman. How intriguing! Did she play so beautifully that you want her for your next concert, or do you simply want her?”

An appealing idea, but he pushed it aside for the moment. “Neither,” he lied and met Viola's laughing hazel eyes with a serious gaze of his own. “My dear friend, this is more important to me than you could possibly imagine.”

Viola knew nothing of his affliction, but something of the desperation he felt must have shown in his countenance, for her amusement faded. “I could ask Miss Tate. She would know, I daresay.”

Rising to her feet, the viscountess walked to the bellpull against the wall and gave the rope a tug. Within moments, a footman came running. “Stephens, please have Tate found at once, and send her to me.”

It was about five minutes later that Viola's personal secretary entered the room.

The viscountess asked her to find out about the musicians from the ball the night before, and the secretary departed, returning moments later with a sheet of paper in her hand. “The octet was hired from the Musicians' Company of the City Livery, my lady,” she said, handing the paper to Viola. “These are the names.”

Viola dismissed Miss Tate and scanned the list. “Are you certain you went to my charity ball? All the musicians there last evening were men. The four violinists were Cecil Howard, Edward Finnes, William Fraser, and James Broderick.”

“Viola, I met her. I spoke to her.”
Kissed her,
he added to himself, for the memory of his muse was still vivid in his mind, the soft warmth of her skin, the feel of her body in his arms, the passion that had revealed itself the moment he had touched her. “She was dressed as a man, but she was very much a woman, believe me. I must find her.”

Dylan looked at Viola, noticing the hint of concern in her expression at the vehemence of his last words. Given his deepening moodiness and increasingly volatile behavior during the past five years, he knew Viola had a tendency to worry about him far more than was necessary. “I am quite well,” he told her. “I can assure you I have no need to conjure women in my imagination.”

“Of course not!” Viola came to stand beside his chair and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “But I cannot help being concerned about you, about your—” She paused, trying to define what she meant.

“Eccentricities,” he supplied, “might be a tactful way of putting it.”

Her hand squeezed his shoulder. “Anthony and Daphne are worried about you as well. And Ian—”

“Ian?” Dylan laughed at the mention of his older brother as he rose to his feet. “Ian is far too busy gadding about the Continent to worry about me. He's at some congress in Venice at the moment, a diplomatic crisis of gargantuan proportions. Good thing he was the good boy and became an ambassador. The family doesn't need two black sheep.”

He took the list of names from Viola's hand and put it in his pocket, then he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Thank you, Viscountess. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“But I have done so little.”

“On the contrary.” He let go of her hand and bowed, then started for the door. Though he could never explain it to her, Viola had just done more for him than she would ever know.

T
he rain was pouring down as Grace lugged her orange basket across the new London Bridge. She spent her days selling oranges on the corner of Ludgate Hill and the Old Bailey for a penny apiece, and on cold, wet days like this, it was a hard job indeed. She was glad to be headed home.

The basket was nearly full, and that meant she still didn't have enough money this week to pay Mrs. Abbott. Because of last night's ball, she had been able to give her landlady half the three weeks' back rent she owed, and she had promised to pay the remainder on Friday, along with the full rent for next week. An empty promise at the moment, since she had no more than sixpence in her pocket.

Sixpence would cut no ice with Mrs. Abbott. The landlady had only let her remain this long because, during the previous six months, she had paid every penny owed every week. She was also quiet, didn't entertain gentlemen in her room, and didn't complain. Mrs. Abbott's beneficence would not last beyond Friday, only two days away.

Grace had felt fear seeping into her mind all day, fear that had grown with each person who had passed her by today, for on a day like this people were more concerned with getting out of the wet than buying her oranges. Grace's dark mood was not helped by her lack of sleep the night before, since the ball had prevented her from getting more than two hours of that precious commodity.

As Grace turned onto St. Thomas Street toward her lodgings in Crucifix Lane, she wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself against the rain. Her room wasn't a very good one, for it was only a tiny garret on the edge of a rookery slum, but at least it was clean, respectable, and had good, strong locks. Most important, it was hers, at least for two more precious days.

She shuddered to think what would happen to her if she could not pay what she owed. Mrs. Abbott would turn her out, and she'd have no choice but to move to one of those horrid boardinghouses again, where women were crowded together like sardines in tins. She could pawn her violin, the only thing of value she had left, but that would not save her in the long run, since music was her most profitable form of income when she could get the work. That wasn't often, since she was not a member of the Musician's Livery.

She had none of the money her brother had given her when she had gone home last autumn. Her mother and father were dead, and James had been the only surviving member of her family who had even agreed to see her. The visit had not been a success. He had told her to leave Stillmouth and never return. She suspected he had given her the money only to get quit of her as quickly as possible.

Grace tightened her grip on her basket and quickened her steps against the wet weather and the deepening darkness. She did not want to sell her violin or move back into a sardine tin. The idea of prostitution made her sick with fear. Her only other option was to write to James and beg.

Or she could pose.

Grace had never had any modest illusions about her looks, nor any conceit. She was beautiful, and she accepted it, just as she accepted other irrefutable facts of life. Her beauty was what had first caused the great Cheval to fall in love with her, beauty that had impelled Etienne's friends and pupils to constantly ask if they could paint her. There must be artists in England who would be willing to do the same. She would have to pose nude, of course, since she required more than the usual payment of a free meal and indecent suggestions. To pay Mrs. Abbott, she needed cold, hard sterling.

She had never posed without her clothes for anyone but Etienne, and the idea of doing so made her uneasy, especially since she would have to deal with forceful male expectations that had nothing to do with art, but it was a far better choice than prostitution.

Her stomach rumbled with hunger. A few bits of tongue and ham from the ball last night and an orange from her basket this morning hadn't been enough to sustain her through an entire working day. She pressed her free hand to her midsection. As she traced the hard, unmistakable lines of her ribs beneath her wool cloak and gown, Grace realized that not many artists would want to paint nudes of her now. They liked their models with lush, generous curves, and she was so thin.

Grace resumed walking. Tomorrow, she would write to James, but it would take longer than two days for her to receive the money, even if he sent it. In the meantime, she would try to earn money posing. If that did not work, she would have to pawn her violin. If James refused to send her money, prostitution would be the only choice she had left.

To distract her mind from such grim circumstances, Grace thought instead of her cottage in the country. As she walked, she envisioned its thatched roof, fat dormers, and blue shutters. On dark, dreary days like this, when she was afraid to think of the harsh realities in her life now, it helped to believe finding such a place was possible. It had been so long since she'd had a home.

She and Etienne had traveled all over the Continent, back and forth to England, going anywhere his whims to paint had taken them. At first, their life together had seemed like such a grand, romantic adventure, and the first two years had been the happiest of her life. She could not pin down just when everything had started to go wrong, but sometime in their third year together, the dark side of her husband's temperament had begun to show itself. Etienne had become hell to live with, but God, how she had loved him. Far longer than she should have.

He was dead two years now, and it was very hard for Grace to remember what had prompted a respectable Cornish girl of seventeen to disgrace her family and run off with a Frenchman she'd known only a week. Looking back on it years after the love had died, the fact that Cheval had been captivated by the color of her eyes didn't seem quite so romantic any more.

It was dark by the time Grace turned into Crucifix Lane. As she walked toward her lodging house halfway down the block, she noticed the luxurious town coach nearby, but she was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to wonder what such a vehicle was doing in her neighborhood. She paused before the front door of her lodgings, reluctant to go in and face the inevitable confrontation with her landlady, but she was already soaking, it was cold, and she couldn't afford to catch a chill. Grace gave a resigned sigh and pulled her door key out of her pocket.

A hand touched her shoulder. Startled, she jumped with a cry of alarm as the key slipped from her fingers. It hit the cobblestones with a clink as she turned around to find herself face-to-face with Dylan Moore.

“You!” she cried, not knowing if it was panic at his sudden appearance that surged through her, or relief that he wasn't some thug bent on stealing her precious oranges. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you, of course. What else would I be doing in Bermondsey?”

Grace stared at him as the rain poured over them both, as the wind whipped at the edges of his cloak and hers, and she remembered his words that they would meet again. She tightened her grip on the handle of her basket, dismayed by how quickly his prediction had come true. “How did you find me?”

“Your friend Teddy is a member of the Musician's Livery.” Moore bent to retrieve her key from where it had landed beside her feet. Key in hand, he straightened again. “The fellow did not wish to tell me anything about you, but he changed his mind when he saw the shine on a sovereign. His heroic attempts to protect you wilted in an instant, and he gave me the direction of your lodgings.”

Grace was not surprised. After all, Teddy was as poor as she. “You paid him a quid to find me? Whatever for?”

Instead of answering, he held out the latch key to her and said, “Might we continue this discussion indoors, where it is warm and dry?”

She did not move, and he went on, “I have a business proposal to discuss with you.”

A business proposal from a man. She knew what
that
meant.

He heard her sound of derision. “I only want you to listen to what I have to say,” he told her.

“Listening?” she countered. “Is that what the fashionable people are calling it these days?”

A smile curved his mouth at that question. “I simply want to
talk
with you. I will pay you for your time.” He took in her worn wool cloak and orange basket and added, “You seem to be in need of the funds.”