Passion Wears Pearls (17 page)

Rutherford bristled a bit. “As if my nerves weren’t already on edge! I can’t help but worry that you’ve brought this woman into things at the worst time, Hastings. You’re making light of it, but—”

“I’m not making light of anything.” Josiah held his ground. “The work is begun, and it’s going fast. I won’t stop now.”

Michael shook his head. “Two or three weeks and this will be behind us. Whatever this work entails, what is a fortnight? You’re being selfish, Hastings.”

“Perhaps I am. But I’ll hire the man you provided references for as a guard for the ground floor. I’ll take any measures you recommend to guarantee her safety or mine, but I
can’t
stop now. I have to finish this painting, Michael. As soon as I’m done, she’ll end our association and be out of harm’s way, but I’m not relinquishing this until I’m forced to it! And you, Michael Rutherford, are not going to force me to do anything!”

Rowan stepped in between them. “Let the man paint, Michael. None of the rest of us have suspended our lives. We’ve become more cautious, but we haven’t ceased our professions or our pursuits. You cannot single out Hastings.”

Michael shifted back, and the tension began to ease. “I apologize. The mysteries of painting are beyond me, and it’s a failing of mine to see things only in terms of defense and strategy. I didn’t mean to single you out, Hastings. It’s only that …”

“It’s only what?” Josiah asked.

“Something else is going on with you. Something you’re not saying, because the man I know would never be so cavalier about risking someone’s life. You cannot be so blind as to think—”

“Peace, Rutherford!” Rowan interjected.

Michael turned and left without another word, the firm closing of the study door creating a pall over the gathering.

“What was that all about?” Galen asked.

Josiah pulled up his collar, shielding his face from his friends as he turned to follow Michael out. “Just an exercise in defense and strategy, gentlemen. Nothing more.”

Josiah left the brownstone, as distracted by the furious twists of his thoughts as the dark shadows that had settled into the left side of his vision for the day. Michael’s words
had cut too close to the painful truth, and Rutherford, as always, was not a man to hold his opinion back.

But Josiah couldn’t argue his case without giving secrets away and sacrificing the last of his pride. And he wasn’t oblivious to the dangers of the threat to the Jaded. But Michael’s point had been well made. There was no denying that in recent months Josiah had somehow decided that ignoring the matter equated to an ability to avoid it. It was difficult to imagine the drama of hidden assassins and sacred treasures even remotely existing, much less in the stark world of London in winter. It didn’t seem real, even now, despite everything that had happened to his friends.

I should know better.

Or is it that I’ve already become a bit blind? I’ve been so caught up in my own frustration and the struggle to come to terms with the darkness ahead, I believed it would be a mercy if some knife-wielding figure had leapt from the shadows. …

Until I met Eleanor.

Now I’m blinded by her colors and her beauty and Rutherford is right—I’m selfish.

Damn it. I want this.

But there was something else circling his senses, and Josiah finally acknowledged it with one long, heavy sigh.

I want more than just to complete a painting.

I want her. Ravenously. Mindlessly.

The revelation didn’t bring him any comfort. It was beyond impossible. He’d vowed not to touch her, and Miss Eleanor Beckett wasn’t the sort of woman that would allow him even the hint of a liberty. Hell, it was one of the reasons she probably appealed so strongly. It was human nature to seek forbidden fruit, and she was a woman out of his reach. Even if he hadn’t been teetering on the brink of uselessness, her firm sensibilities and adherence to all things proper made him a terrible choice for her, with his artist’s reputation for wild aesthetics and erratic morals.

And now that he was going blind, nothing was simple.
It didn’t matter if he had two king’s ransoms at his fingertips or an acceptable pedigree—ultimately he would be a burden to her.

If she learned his secret, she might come to him out of pity and misguided affection, or convince herself that it was her Christian duty to see to him since he’d “saved her life.” Josiah shuddered at the idea.

His desire for Eleanor wanted nothing to do with pity. In his fantasies, he was whole and there was a conquest to be made—with no room for his failings or the lack of a future. But the fantasy never held for long, disintegrating into a tender tangle that he suspected was far more dangerous than any straightforward seduction a man could envision.

By the time he reached his own home, he knew only one thing for certain.

He could no longer afford to be cavalier about anything.

Nothing is worth risking her life. But there’s a compromise if I’m careful. I’ll add the security that Rutherford’s been after, and more.

I’ll push harder to finish this painting before this other business comes to a head, and guarantee that Miss Eleanor Beckett will be free and beyond the reach of any of it.

It was the worst kind of irony that he would have to rush to see things finished when finishing meant losing her company. But there was nothing else to be done. If he didn’t finish it, he would never have another chance to see his work come to life.

The darkness was coming. Time was his relentless adversary and he’d already chosen his path.

He would complete the work as quickly as he could and pray that his hunger for Eleanor didn’t get in the way.

“You look like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, Mr. Hastings.”

He tried to smile, and shook his head. “I’m pouting like a spoiled boy. It’s snowing and the light isn’t good today. I shouldn’t have sent for you at all, but we’ll push ahead with the candlelight and make do.”

He wasn’t ready to admit that he’d grown used to her presence, and after the foolish argument he’d had with Rutherford several nights before, Josiah knew it was his own stubborn pride that had insisted on continuing to summon her.

Besides, this morning he’d awoken to a nearly clear field of vision. Escher had already replaced most of the melted candles and even found two more candelabras to suit his employer’s mood. Josiah lit one candle and then began to use it to light the others while she waited.

Eleanor walked over to the table. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I imagine ballrooms don’t have this many candles, Mr. Hastings.”

“Have you never been to a ball, Miss Beckett?”

She laughed. “No!”

“To a country dance, then?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Eleanor smoothed her hands gently against the velvet at her waist. “My father was a self-made man who always aspired to higher society. We read all the social pages and he used to memorize etiquette books because I think he was afraid of anyone thinking less of him for not being born with a fortune. He had great hopes for me. …”

“And what were your hopes?”

“Mine?” she asked in astonishment.

“You seem to have memorized all those etiquette books as well. Were you not hoping to attend a ball? Meet some wealthy industrialist or aspiring politician and join a ladies’ social club or two?” he asked, deliberately keeping his tone light despite his keen interest in her reply. “Or did you aspire to the peerage?”

She laughed. “I have never met a titled peer nor do I expect to, Mr. Hastings. I am a realistic woman and it is not in my future.”

He had to bite his tongue to keep from correcting her since the Jaded’s inner circle included a future earl. “What did you want, then, Miss Beckett?”

“I wanted to please my father.”

“Is that all?”

“No.” She trailed a finger along the tabletop. “But what does it matter?”

His hand froze midair and a single wax drop fell onto the table. “Out with it, Miss Beckett. Or I’ll threaten to paint a big wart on your nose.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Tell me what you hoped for.”

“Why?”

“Because guessing is going to keep me from sleeping for years to come, so I’m begging you to share your confidences with me. Let’s call it curiosity, and leave it at that.”

“What if my hopes are mundane?”

“Are they?”

She looked away from him, shyness overcoming her. “You dream of immortality and freedom. You’ve sacrificed everything in their pursuit, Mr. Hastings. I have no wish to suffer your derision if I say I wish simply to be respected and to feel a sense of … order and belonging. I was so frightened after …” She straightened her shoulders and looked at him again, her green eyes teeming with the ghosts of hunger and depravation. “I wish never to be at the whim of Fate again. I would master my own life, Mr. Hastings, and never be in anyone’s debt or service.”

“Ah, I can directly relate to that wish, Miss Beckett.”

“Can you? I find that hard to believe.” She smiled, her eyes clearing. “All my life I’ve strived to be conventional, Mr. Hastings. Is that wrong of me?”

“Not at all. Don’t forget, you’re a woman of means again, Miss Beckett. Once you’re through with me, there is nothing to keep you from charting your own course, free of debt and the burden of scandal. Please, sit down, Miss Beckett, and let’s get to work.” He held out his hand to escort her up onto the dais, hating the lump in his throat.

She arranged herself, taking her position carefully. “How is it possible? I look at you and you seem so courageous and content—and none of the rules apply to you at all, do they?”

He sat on a low stool to work, the canvas sitting practically on the floor between his long legs. It was unconventional, to say the least, but he didn’t seem to care. From here, he was so close she could admire the shape of his hands as he worked, the sinews of his frame, and even see the thrum and throb of his pulse when he tipped his head to the side. Here was a proximity that she had never dreamt of only weeks ago, but with Josiah, it was easy.

“They apply to me, Miss Beckett. But I hate rules.”

“I love them. They make me feel … safe. I know what to expect and what’s expected of me.”

“But it’s an illusion, Eleanor. Even if you follow every rule, you can never know what to expect in life. Never.”

“I hadn’t looked at it that way. But surely it’s better to try. Isn’t that what makes life more civilized? Our rules and social niceties?”

He shook his head. “It’s what makes life appear to be more civilized, but I fear it’s only a veneer. And so thin. If you scrutinize it too much, it gives way so quickly. And then you’ve earned yourself the heartache of disappointment.”

“So melancholy!”

“Am I?”

“You are, indeed.”

“And how would you describe it, then? Our true natures?” he asked.

“I don’t know. But when I look at you—purely as an example of an Englishman, of course!”

“Of course.”

“You don’t seem … disappointing.”

“I am relieved.” He smiled, but the light of it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re a good man, Josiah Hastings.”

The hand holding the brush froze in midair, as if her proclamation had stopped time. “I’m terribly flawed. Perhaps more than most, Miss Beckett. Besides,” he said, as the brush once again touched the canvas, “good men don’t break the rules, and since you’ve already learned of my penchant for rebellion, I don’t think I can genuinely make that claim.”

“But you rescued me from that dreadful Mr. Perring, and Mrs. Clay told me of your first meeting. Even when it isn’t to your advantage, you help others. We are all flawed, are we not? But you seem to think nothing of helping others. In my opinion, that’s very meritable.”

“You, Miss Beckett, make a man wish to improve himself.” He looked up at her with a smoldering glance that made her breath catch in her throat. “Helping anyone in need is merely the right thing to do. All that means is that I have a terrible habit of following my impulses—good and bad. I am far from saintly, and daily struggle to live up to the few rules I do have.”