Secret Admirer Page 7

  When did you start lying to yourself, my friend?

  SHUT UP.

  He had spent what remained of the evening, after his meeting with Miles, loafing in the back alleys of the houses that surrounded Worthington Hall, cajoling from the neighbors’ servants every detail he could about Lady Tuesday and her father, Sir Dennis. As Lawrence knew well, gossip ran between the kitchen yards of the large establishments like old bath water, carrying with it all the day’s dirt.

  And like bath water, it could use some filtering. Everyone Lawrence had spoken to that day about the Worthington household was extremely forthcoming, but none of them had said the same things. There appeared to be enormous disagreement about whether, in fact, Sir Dennis was an invalid as he claimed or some sort of demon who flew over the rooftops at night (two chambermaids swore they had seen his face peering into their windows as they changed for bed); whether the household’s handsome valet, Morse, had been forced to leave his last employer because he had been caught with his hand beneath Lady Beryl’s petticoats, or because he had been caught with his hand inside Lord Beryl’s cash box; whether that over-dressed fellow, George, who was around so often was in love with Tuesday or with her maid, CeCe; and whether CeCe could in fact be called a maid when Tuesday waited on her more than she waited on Tuesday. On three topics, however, there was perfect agreement—that Lady Tuesday Arlington, who somewhere had picked up the nickname “Lucky,” was supporting the household with her painting, that she had some sort of ability to know what was in your head just by drawing you, and that she was by far the sweetest, most even-tempered, most docile, most respectful, most dutiful, and most gentle creature anyone could ever hope to know.

  Docile.

  Given that assessment, Lawrence was tempted to toss all the other information. But there was one tidbit that he hung onto. It seemed that for years she had been keeping a book in which she sketched every kind of nose, eyes, chin, forehead, lips, and ears she saw. Each entry got a number and from these, so her neighbors claimed, she could draw anyone. One of his men had gotten a look at it, and returned to the office proudly displaying a quick charcoal portrait of himself and explaining in an undertone to his colleagues that no matter what Lawrence said it had been done “by a real Portuguese countess. From France.”

  After that, he had moved his men to the other side of the studio door, fearing for their reliability if they spent too much time near her, and eager to see if with the illusion of greater privacy she might give something away to the men he stationed outside her windows. But so far, during his watch anyway, she had given away nothing except the fact that she was a perfectionist.

  For the last hour she had been pouring over her face book, flipping back and forth among its pages, then rapidly making sketches on a paper lying next to her. After doing that four times she would pull away from the paper she had been drawing on, stare at it, glare at it, and scratch out whatever she had drawn. Lawrence had watched her repeat this process three times.

  The last time she worked with intense concentration for seven minutes, during which she flipped furiously back and forth through the book but drew almost nothing. Suddenly she stopped flipping and dropped her arms with frustration. It looked like she was going to put her head down on the table, but the door in the wall behind her opened to admit two people and she shoved the paper under her palette.

  CeCe was first, and behind her George Lyle, the supposed artist. It was impossible to say for certain, but it appeared that George’s collaboration with Tuesday had begun at least two years earlier, when the new young artist had taken London by storm. From what Lawrence had been able to learn that day, George received a commission; went to visit with the sitter, bringing Tuesday along in the guise of his assistant; chatted with the subject while Tuesday made sketches; and then went away, reappearing in a few weeks with a mouth-watering finished portrait no part of which he had painted. It was not even clear that he could paint. Indeed, there had been a period the year before when George refused all commissions, which Lawrence would have been willing to wager corresponded exactly with Tuesday’s honeymoon, that is, exactly with the time she would have been too busy enjoying the delights of marriage to pick up a brush.

  Lawrence did not know how much of the profit George took for his services as a front man, but given the quietly expensive tailoring of his Florentine silk suit and the size of the emerald that formed the eye of the boar’s head handle on his cane, Lawrence decided Tuesday was being much too generous. Also he thought George was taking liberties. Like the way he just sat down on the settee without making a bow to Tuesday or waiting for an invitation, and the possessive, smug expression in his eyes when he looked at her. It was clear to Lawrence that George was deeply in love with Tuesday and equally clear that she had no idea of just how strong his passion was.

  Lawrence had been surprised at his own feeling of disappointment earlier when his men came to report that George Lyle had apparently spent the previous night and morning drinking at a tavern, and therefore could not have murdered Curtis. He did not have anything, really, against the man. Except the way he was standing so close to Tuesday now. Or the way he accepted when she offered him a glass of whatever was in the decanter on her worktable. Couldn’t he tell she was exhausted? Couldn’t he see the way her shoulders were sloping downward and the corners of her smile were trembling slightly? Why was Tuesday taking care of CeCe and George when they should be taking care of her? Her husband had been brutally murdered that morning, and here they both were, coming in and bothering her—

  Lawrence cut his own thoughts off by reminding himself that whatever else he did not feel for Tuesday, the top of the list was sympathy. She was a liar and a consummate actress. He watched unsympathetically as she assured her friends that she was fine and then politely but firmly moved them toward the door.

  As soon as it was closed, she began again with the book, working more quickly this time. After a quarter of an hour of intense labor she sat up, rolling her neck in a circle and lifting her arms above her head to stretch them. She arched her back elegantly, pressing her chest out, tilting her head slightly toward the left. Lawrence unconsciously moved nearer to the window.

  He was close enough now to see her face change when she returned her gaze to the paper on which she had been drawing, and to hear her dispirited sigh. Something was wrong. All at once she struck the table with her fist, stood quickly, took her candle, and moved away from the window toward her bed. As she brushed by the table her skirt skimmed its edge and sent the paper fluttering to the floor, but she did not seem to notice. In another minute she would be shrugging out of her gown, blowing out the candle, and climbing into bed. Lawrence was debating the propriety of seeing her undress when the decision was made for him.

  There was a noise from the alley behind him. He had been plagued all day with the feeling that someone was following him, so when he turned, his hand was already on his sword, his muscles flexed for fight.

  “Oh. It’s you,” he said, relaxing slightly.

  “Yes, sir. To relieve you. It is midnight.”

  Lawrence nodded, suddenly aware of how tired he was. “Good night, Tom.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  Lawrence turned back to Tuesday’s windows and saw that the light was gone. Good night, Lady Arlington, he thought to himself as he walked away, tossing the gold piece in his right hand. See you in the morning.

  Although he was not consciously aware of it, for the first time in a long time Lawrence was looking forward to the next day.

  That feeling lasted approximately seven hours.

  Chapter 10

  Tuesday lay very still in bed. She could sense it, hovering nearby, on the edges of her mind. Not the dream, she never had the dream two nights in a row. What she was waiting for was more diffuse than that. She was waiting to feel something. Anything.

  Principally she knew she should be sad about Curtis. She had tried to cry, tried to make herself cry, e
arlier, but she could not. Maybe if every sign of his presence had not been removed from the house two months earlier, if she could have spent hours lovingly fondling his precisely folded linens, packing up his carefully polished gold shoe buckles (don’t rub too hard or the gilt will come off, she remembered him scolding her), or running her fingers over his shaving brush, it might have been easier. She could almost hear Curtis commenting without surprise that she would make as unsatisfactory a widow as she had a wife.

  It had been raining, a spring shower, the day they met. Howard had brought Curtis to dine one afternoon, and although he had not shown any interest in her at all during the meal, he had materialized the next day and asked for her hand in marriage. He said he had been too overcome to address her before, but he knew he had to make her his. All five of her previous engagements had been called off and after The Blot—the unfortunate incident when Tuesday managed to fall out of a tree and into the Thames, smack in the center of the dozen naked guardsmen who she had been sketching while they bathed—it had been assumed she would never get another offer. But then came Curtis and his proposal, and her entire family was thrilled.

  Tuesday shared their elation. It was as if Curtis’s approval of her was contagious, and for the first time in her memory her father and brother were pleased with her. She and Curtis were wed the next week.

  “Were you and your husband happy?” the third man sent by Lawrence Pickering to question her had asked that afternoon.

  She had not meant to be evasive. She imagined what Lawrence Pickering would think, that she was hiding something from him, that she knew more than she was saying. Which was true, of course. But the real reason she told all those stories was the same reason she always had. Stories kept you from remembering. The wilder the better. In stories, no one ever died or left you. In stories you never had to admit that you were a failure. In stories you never disappointed anyone.

  If you’re not happy with Curtis, it’ll be your fault, her brother, Howard, told Tuesday on the day of her marriage, and Tuesday had agreed. How could she not have been happy with the man who made her family love her? He was handsome and sought after and taking her despite the fact that she was twenty-six. If she made him happy, she would be happy herself.

  Happy. The way she felt when a portrait went well. The way she felt when she could make CeCe or George laugh. The way she had felt before.

  She had not known how to make Curtis happy.

  “Reasonably,” she had replied to her questioner. “We were reasonably happy.”

  “Reasonably,” the man had repeated, painstakingly forming the letters, and in the scratching of his pen Tuesday could have sworn she heard him mocking her. He could tell she knew nothing about making a man happy.

  He looked up from his paper. “When was the last time you saw your husband? Can you tell me the date?”

  How could she explain that time for her did not consist of dates? It consisted of events: the last time there was a chair in the house, the last time she had gone to the pawnbroker, the last time Curtis had taken her in his arms.

  He had rented a coach, a closed one, very fancy with a dusty red velvet interior and taken her for a drive out into the country one afternoon. She recalled the scenery they passed, the smell of freshly cut grass, a lazy cow suckling her rust-colored calves. She had watched all of that as he had pounded himself into her with the jerking of the coach. It had gone on for hours, she thought, past a village, pound, past an encampment of gypsies, pound, past other people’s lives. A young girl in a yellow dress with dust on her feet stood by the side of the road carelessly eating a red apple, and their eyes had almost met, but Tuesday had looked away so the girl would not see her embarrassment.

  “What are you thinking about?” Curtis had asked her when the pounding was done, his voice rich, warm, as if he really wanted to know. “What’s in your head today, Lucky?” Lucky. His own personal name for her—you’re lucky to have such a young handsome husband you’re lucky anyone would take you at all you’re damn lucky I picked you out when I did at twenty-six or you’d never have been married you’re so lucky—

  “I was noticing the fine scenery, my lord. It is an exceptionally lovely day.”

  She knew even before she was finished speaking that she had said the wrong thing. Curtis’s face clouded. “I give you the lay of your life, and all you can think about is the scenery? Have you been getting it from someone else, too? Is that it? I don’t impress you anymore?”

  The pain of these accusations had once been worse than the physical pain. “No,” she had rushed to appease him. Why? It never worked. “I was just so satisfied that my mind wandered.”

  His hand snaked out and slapped her cheek before she even realized what had happened. “Lying bitch,” he said. “If I had known what you really are, I never would have offered for you. Not for all the gold in Spain. I ought to tell your father about you. Tell him that his daughter is a cheap hussy.” His eyes glittered with malice.

  Tuesday had slid to her knees, practicing the subservience she knew he wanted, keeping her eyes riveted on a spot of dirt staining the red upholstery next to his shin. “My lord, Curtis, I am sorry if I did anything to displease you. I know I have been a disappointment to you, but I want to change. Please show me how. Please teach me to be the wife you’ve always wanted.” She looked up at him now and saw that he had not softened. “The wife that you deserve,” she added.

  It worked. The fire left his eyes and he pulled her onto the cushioned seat next to him. “Lucky, Lucky, Lucky. Why can’t you be that reasonable all the time?” He reached out and put a sweaty hand on her breast, holding it so tight it hurt her. “If only you showed your better self all the time, things could be sweet between us. You want that, don’t you Lucky?”

  Tuesday nodded and worked not to flinch as his lips came over hers, then his teeth. Soon, she knew, if she was lucky, the pounding would start again, and then the whole scene would be replayed. She was fighting not to gag as the coach pulled to a stop and the coachman banged on the roof.

  “We’re ’er, sir,” his muffled voice called into the interior of the vehicle.

  “Damn,” Sir Curtis muttered. His hand, which had been urging Tuesday’s head into his lap, instead hauled her up. “Get dressed. I don’t want everyone thinking my wife is a whore.”

  He had left her at the inn, saying he had business to conduct elsewhere. He did not think to leave her any money for a room and she did not dare ask for it, so she sat with her back against the wall in the corner through the night. In her entire life she had never felt as humiliated as she did then, abandoned by her husband, abandoned by her courage. She no longer recognized herself.

  The next morning Curtis had reappeared at the inn, unshaved, still drunk, and reeking of some other woman’s rose water. That was the moment she had remembered when Lawrence told her he was dead, the moment Curtis stood before her at the inn, his shirt open at the collar, smiling cockily beneath his mustache, hands on his hips. Tuesday had sensed what was about to happen. She could almost see the words hanging in the air before they were spoken. Could almost feel the label, “REJECTED” being stitched to her chest.

  He had not even bothered to sit. “You are a terrible wife and a terrible screw,” he announced loud enough for the tavern keeper and all the stable hands to hear. “I don’t know why I’ve put up with you for so long, but I’ve got better ways to spend my time. Goodbye, Lucky.” Then he had turned and left. Left her there, six hours by horse outside of London, with no money and no husband and no one to blame but herself.

  “Do you know what day it was when you last saw your husband?” Lawrence Pickering’s man had asked again, puncturing the web of her memory.

  “Not exactly,” Tuesday answered, grateful for the respite, the way back to the present. For a moment she wished she could explain to this stranger: it had been long enough so that her breast no longer bore the marks of his thumb. Long enough so that the bruises on her chee
k and shoulder (yes, I fell down the stairs again; yes, Father, I must learn not to be so clumsy) had healed. Long enough so that the blisters on her feet from walking for four days were gone. Long enough so that she had been able to repay the money the gypsies had lent her. She had looked for the girl in the yellow dress, just to touch her, maybe to warn her, but all that was left was an apple core.

  Not long enough so that it no longer hurt. “About two months I would say.”

  She knew Lawrence Pickering would think she was lying, but she did not care. And as she lay alone in the dark she realized that for the first time in her life, she did not care about pleasing a man.

  Curled in a tight ball in her bed, knees hugged to her chin, she did cry then, hard, but not out of sadness or grief. She cried out of shame. Shame that she would have done anything to make Curtis happy. Shame that she had not had the strength to hate him. Shame for what she had become. What she had let herself become.

  Shame because she had lost herself.

  Where are you, bitch?

  Tuesday’s eyes flew open but the rest of her was paralyzed. She heard the voice, the voice from her dreams, so clearly that it sounded real. And close. Her heart thudded against her knees.

  You are mine now, bitch.

  “Who are you?” she demanded. No response. Of course not. There was no one there, she knew. She would have heard them come in. She was alone in her studio. Just her and her memories.

  And the voice in her head. The voice of another man trying to bend her to his will. This one was more awful even than Curtis because he was inside her. She had often felt like she understood things about people, hidden things, when she looked at them, as though she had a special sense, but she had never experienced anything like this. This was not just knowing about someone else. It was almost like being them. She was trembling, terrified. No, not terrified.

  Angry.