The Earl and the Pickpocket

The driver whipped up the horses and the carriage slowly negotiated the congested, twisting alleyways. Covent Garden had long been the most popular haunt of painters, with several resident on the piazza, so Edwina was pleasantly surprised when the carriage rumbled north towards Mayfair, where Adam told her he had a house on the Grosvenor Estate.

No one took any notice of the man standing across the street from Dolly’s place. It was Jack Pierce. After his assault on Edwina, but before disappearing into London’s back streets, he’d glanced back just in time to see Adam carry the unconscious form inside Dolly’s Place. Determined not to let Ed slip away without him seeing, he’d come back to watch the building and learn the identity of the man who’d interfered, surprised to discover his name was Adam Rycroft, the man who’d hired Ed to find the boy Toby. Jack had thought his luck was in when Rycroft appeared earlier in his carriage and entered the building. Convinced they would emerge together, he’d been disappointed when he left with a young woman and drove away.

Seated across from Edwina, Adam stretched his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. He eyed her in watchful curiosity, dwelling on the perverse quirk of fate that had caused her to be sitting opposite him, and wondering what he had let himself in for by inviting this curious, fascinating young woman into his home. Hers was not a soothing or a restful presence, and he strongly suspected that she did not intend it to be. The impression she conveyed was one of confidence and intense and challenging self-knowledge, defying anyone to catch her out in complacency or self-delusion, but he was not to know that at that moment, under his watchful and penetrating gaze, some of Edwina’s confidence was sliding away.

Studying him surreptitiously, she sensed that beneath his relaxed exterior there was a power and forcefulness carefully restrained, and she wondered how different the tyrannical artist Harriet had described to her differed from this gentleman of leisure. It had been so long since she had conversed with people other than beggars and thieves, that now she found herself alone with Adam she suddenly felt gauche and ill at ease.

‘So, Edwina,’ Adam said at length. ‘No doubt Harriet or one of the other girls has enlightened you as to what your work will involve.’

Edwina watched him settle himself more comfortably with that same natural grace that seemed so much a part of him. She gave him a direct, appraising stare. ‘Not very much, it would seem. Do you really want to paint me?’

‘I do. I must,’ he replied quietly, watching her.

‘I can’t imagine why.’

Adam’s brows lifted over sardonic blue eyes. ‘I can.’

She flushed softly, deciding it best not to proceed along this path, and to turn the conversation from herself. ‘What else do you paint—or do you just paint people?’

‘I paint all manner of things—landscapes and whatever else takes my fancy, but painting people is my bread and butter. I find it necessary to cater to the whims and predilections of my commissioners.’

‘In which case I would imagine it’s unlikely that such paintings will have appeal to anyone other than the client.’

‘True. Unfortunately most of my clients are infatuated with “face painting”, and fill their houses with family portraits, leaving little scope for the artist to indulge upon. These paintings rarely enter the open market. No one wants to buy paintings of another person’s family.’

‘I can understand that. And are you good at what you do?’

‘I think the people who view my paintings are the ones you ought to ask.’

He was watching her thoughtfully, a strange, unfathomable smile tugging at his lips. He seemed so strong, so self-assured, appearing to hold himself apart from the world, and yet, with his mere presence, dominating the scene around him as he did now. His voice was rich and pleasing to the ear, and Edwina began to wonder if he had any flaw she could touch upon. Watching the satisfied look on his face, she gave up trying to discern what his faults might be. Tipping her head on one side she remarked, ‘You look rather pleased with yourself.’

‘I should. I have just acquired the most enchanting model. You played the part of a lad so well it’s difficult to keep in mind you are, in fact, a very lovely young lady. I look forward to painting you Edwina…?’

His gaze was searching, delving, and Edwina met it directly. ‘Just Edwina,’ she replied, feeling no compunction to enlighten him beyond that. She was not yet ready to divulge her surname, and she liked and respected him too much to lie by fabricating another. Besides, precepts of conscience forbade it. ‘I don’t think you need to know more than that if all you are going to do is paint me.’

The bright blue eyes considered the young woman opposite without a hint of expression. When he realised that she had no intention of elaborating further, with slow deliberation he nodded. ‘I have many skeletons in my own cupboard, Edwina, that I’m careful not to rattle for fear of which one will tumble out first. Since you are obviously reluctant to share your name with me, I will respect your wish for privacy and not persist.’

‘I am obliged,’ she said, thinking it a strange thing for him to say and wondering at his own secrets. ‘Do you have a family?’ she asked, unable to staunch her own curiosity about him.

His expression became guarded. All his life he had kept his emotions locked in an iron heart. He wasn’t about to change that. ‘My parents died when I was a boy. I have no other relatives.’

‘I see. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. That’s how I like it,’ he retorted, his tone harsher than he intended as he turned away.

Edwina watched him. She sensed that his ruthlessness, his power over others, the sheer devil-may-care brilliance of his life, were not the reality of him. He seemed to have come from nowhere. He didn’t have a father or mother. That struck a perfect chord in Edwina. That was how she came to detect the loneliness in him.

‘Why did you offer to let me stay at your house? According to Harriet, you never extend the same hospitality to any of your other models.’

‘That’s because my other models are not usually homeless. You are. Besides, I consider you an investment. I don’t want you disappearing when I’m halfway through painting you. There is, of course, the rather delicate matter of your reputation to consider. It’s hardly a respectable situation. I trust there will be no irate relative who will come and snatch you away?’

‘Being respectable doesn’t concern me any more. It’s a little late in the day to begin worrying about my reputation. Whatever reputation I had to speak of was shredded long ago. I took care of that myself,’ she said quietly.

The blue eyes lightly swept her, and, catching her own, held them with a smiling warmth. ‘Do you never think about your life before you became a thief?’

‘Not if I can help it. That way life is bearable. I am no longer the girl I was before I came to London. That girl has ceased to exist. In her place stands another, no longer a prisoner of convention, but most of all a woman who is mistress of her own fate. So, you see, you needn’t worry, Adam. No irate relative will come knocking at your door.’ After a moment she said, ‘Harriet says you’re extremely talented.’

‘Do you doubt it?’

‘No. That sketch you did of me was very good. I still have it,’ she said, patting the brocade-and-beaded bag by her side, which one of Mrs Drinkwater’s girls had given to her. ‘I shall keep it always.’

‘Why? It was done in a hurry and is not very good. I’ll sketch you another—a better one.’

‘I shall still keep that one. It will always remind me of a time when I was as low as I could get and pretty desperate—and prevent me from ever becoming that desperate again.’ She fixed him with a level gaze. ‘How much will you pay me for being a model?’

Adam became thoughtful. In any of his business ventures he was regarded as a tough negotiator and he would never ruin his own negotiating position by helping his opponents to see the worth of what they held, and the beneficial terms they might extract from him because of it. In Edwina’s case, however, he would do just that. ‘What are your terms?’ he countered. ‘I’ve made no secret of how much I want to paint you. I’m scarcely in a position to argue.’

Edwina hesitated, half-embarrassed. She hadn’t expected him to tip the balance of power into her hands. ‘I suppose we’ll have to negotiate,’ she said with imperturbable feminine logic.

‘That seems reasonable to me.’

‘Money is the solution to all my troubles. Of course, I do understand that, if you are to house and feed me until the painting is completed, you will have to deduct the cost from whatever I earn as your muse. I—I shall want enough to take me to France.’

‘Done,’ he agreed with alacrity, while wondering what there was for her in France that was so important. ‘I will be generous with you, Edwina,’ he said gently. ‘You hold something of value that I want. I am willing to pay you dearly. When the painting is finished I will furnish you with more than enough money to take you round the world if need be.’

Edwina saw the admiration in his smile and smiled a little in return. ‘Thank you—but I have no wish to travel to such lengths. France will do. In return, I will endeavour to be a good model and keep very quiet so as not to distract you from your work.’

Adam grinned. ‘Never waver when you’ve successfully negotiated terms and won. Would you like what we’ve agreed written down and witnessed, or—in the light of your recent masquerade—shall we shake on it and call it a gentleman’s agreement?’

Edwina’s smile widened at the teasing light that twinkled in his eyes. She reached out and shook his proffered hand firmly. ‘A gentleman’s agreement will suffice, I think. I trust you implicitly. Am I likely to meet any of your other models?’

‘At present, no. One model at a time is enough for any artist to have to cope with.’

‘But what about all those people who commission you to paint them?’

‘I’ve put them on hold for the time being. I have a far more interesting subject to paint,’ he murmured, his voice silky soft.

The effect of that warmly intimate look in his eyes, which was vibrantly, alarmingly alive, and the full import of the risk she was taking by being with him, made Edwina quake inside. She did not know this man at all, and yet he was watching her with a look that was much too personal—and possessive. ‘I—I have never considered myself interesting,’ she stammered. ‘I’ve never had any pretensions to beauty—in fact, I’ve always considered my looks, like my views, unconventional.’

‘I won’t argue with that. To me you are unusual, Edwina, an individual, and luckily for you, you are sufficiently sensible to be neither ostracised nor derided for it, but admired, which is the reaction I hope my painting of you will provoke in those who look at it.’ He grinned when he saw his remark pleased her. ‘Don’t let it go to your head. If you’re to sit for me, you’ll have to learn to sit still and not fidget like that,’ he chided gently, observing how uneasy she seemed to be. With her hands fluttering in her lap, she radiated a nervous energy. ‘We’ll begin work in the morning. Early.’

She scowled across at him, irritated by his imperious tone. ‘I do hope you’re not going to turn out to be the temperamental monster everyone accuses you of being?’

He arched a lazy black brow. ‘Everyone?’

‘Harriet,’ she confessed. ‘She also told me you have a vile temper.’

‘Harriet always did have plenty to say,’ he retorted drily. ‘You’ll have to get used to the way I am. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together.’ He chuckled. ‘Does my being a monster worry you?’