Here she was, surrounded by some of the most exciting and expertly executed works ever created, and somehow the one thing that seemed to hold her attention was the least known of all the painter’s accomplishments.
His son.
Chapter Eight
Beatrice was late, and she knew it. With the daylight fast fading to a dull gray twilight, she tightened her hold on her reticule and hurried forward, urging her maid, Rose, to keep up. The carriage would be waiting at the end of the street as ordered, but first they’d have to make their way through the growing crowd.
Whoever had decided that Bond Street was perfectly appropriate for ladies for half a day, at which time it suddenly transformed into a forbidden street acceptable only for the club-going gentlemen of the ton, clearly had never been caught up in a newly arrived shipment containing a gorgeous selection of red sable brushes imported directly from Italy.
But no one had consulted her on the issue, and the window for making it to the end of the street by five and then home before her family sent out a search party was fast closing. Already the pavement was emptying of swishing skirts and harried servants, replaced by the sure-footed thump of Hessian boots and the low rumble of male laughter.
Of course, even if she was late, it would be worth it. She could hardly wait to try out the new brushes she’d finally decided on. Viewing Sir Frederick’s incredible collection had redoubled her passion for capturing the world around her on canvas. She wanted to stretch her abilities, experimenting more with light and darkness to bring true depth to her paintings.
A silly grin came to her lips, and she pressed them together to keep from looking a fool in the middle of Bond Street. She couldn’t help it—every time she thought of Sir Frederick’s paintings, her mind inevitably slid toward thoughts of Colin and the magical afternoon they had spent. Was there any other man on the planet like him? With his cool, logical side underscored by unexpected whimsy and kindness, one never knew what he would say or do next.
Ahead of her, a trio of young bucks walked abreast of one another, completely unmindful of the fact they were blocking the way of anyone who might wish to pass them. Beatrice slowed, glaring at their dark greatcoats as they lumbered along, offering jovial jabs and slaps on one another’s backs as they walked, their voices gratingly loud.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. At this rate, she was sure to be here when the bells tolled the hour. She started to speed up, to attempt to slip between them and the storefronts on the right, when she suddenly realized she knew them.
On the outside was Lord Bridgemont, the young heir to the Earl of Marks, in the middle was Mr. Bickett, if she wasn’t mistaken, and on the left was Mr. Knight. It was jarring to see them so completely uninhibited. One would think they would at least wait until they were inside their club to engage in such behavior. They laughed in unison, the bawdy sort of sound that could only mean that they were speaking of the sort of things not meant for young ladies’ ears.
Which, of course, meant that she wanted to hear what they were saying.
Softening her footsteps, she steadily closed the distance between them, straining to filter out the sounds of the traffic. Keeping her head down and counting on her small stature to provide some amount of inconspicuousness, she advanced until she was only a few steps behind them and could clearly make out their words.
“You really should go to the Carlisle ball t’night, Knight.” Mr. Bickett paused, then promptly tilted his head back and laughed. “T’night, Knight!”
“S’right, Knight—you should spend the night with him,” added Bridgemont, and the three of them laughed all over again. The stagnant odor of spirits trailed in their wake, making Beatrice wrinkle her nose.
“You’re on your own, m’afraid. I’ve got my pockets lined with my father’s blunt, and I intend to spend every penny at the legendary Madam V’s tonight. I’ll leave you to your horse-faced heiresses—be sure to dance with one for me.”
Mr. Bickett groaned, shaking his head. “S’hardly worth it. Might as well hold out for the new crop come spring. God knows only the dregs are left now. ’Course, I’m still bitter over Rochester bagging that Dowling chit right out from under me. Now he’s free to tup his mistress, and I’m still trying to find a dowry attached to a female I can stand to look at for more than five minutes.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Mr. Knight said, elbowing his friend. “You can always look at the pretty ones while dancing with the rich ones.” More laughter and back-slapping.
Beatrice came to an abrupt halt, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. Of all the disgusting, vile, awful . . . She made a sound perilously close to a growl as she glared after the men. Rose came to stand beside her, worry clouding her dark eyes as she waited for Beatrice to move.
Clenching her jaw, Beatrice lifted her chin and started forward again. Her steps were heavy for once, her half boots connecting solidly with the pavement. It was all too much to bear. For Bickett to speak of Diana so callously, to actually envy her horrible husband, it was just so wrong.
She needed to get home. As anger built like trapped steam within her, propelling her forward, she felt compelled by the need to do something, to help protect the unsuspecting young women of the ton from such greedy scoundrels. Someone had to warn them of the nefarious intentions of single-minded fortune hunters like Bickett—and Godfrey for that matter. And Rochester and heaven knew how many others.
As if of its own volition, her right hand tingled with the need to pick up her tools and express her emotions in her artwork. An idea began to form in the back of her head, one that was risky and ill-advised and somewhat mad.
As far as she was concerned—it was perfect.
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
Beatrice smiled brightly as she strode to the counter of the artist supply shop, behind which she knew her quarry would be. The space was well lit by the huge front window, even with another cloudy day outside. At least it had stopped raining. Otherwise, her mother would never have let her out of the house with so vague an explanation.
Just as she expected, Monsieur Allard sat hunched on a stool at his worktable, his white hair poking from beneath his black cap. When she stopped just shy of the counter, he looked up, his curmudgeonly expression steadfastly in place. His great, crooked nose held up a pair of ancient spectacles, magnifying his eyes oddly.
“Mademoiselle. Back already, I see.”
It wasn’t so much a greeting as an unenthusiastic acknowledgment of her presence. Her grin widened—it was no less than she expected. “Oui. Ça va?”
His gaze returned to the half-finished engraving on the worktable in front of him. “This is London, my lady, and you are English. There is no place for français here today.” His heavily accented words were gruff, but not unkind.
Beatrice gave a small shrug. “As you wish, monsieur.” She clasped her hands and waited, allowing her gaze to wander around the plethora of supplies behind the counter. Easels, a huge selection of brushes of nearly any size, an array of canvases, and pigments enough to create every color known to man. It was the sort of place women were not generally allowed, but she spent enough money here for him to overlook that fact. Yes, she could send a footman in her stead, but no one else would know quite what she would want.