His Wicked Smile Page 12

  By the end of the day, he’d purchased a new brick row house on Kelmscott Road. Only a ten-minute walk to Clapham Junction railway station, it seemed perfect for his growing family’s needs. The six miles it placed between him and the family home on St. James’s Square seemed a perfect amount of distance between his old life and his new. He appreciated the cosmopolitan, bustling atmosphere of this newly developed area, which would still be fields if not for the railway.

  After finishing his business, he found his way back to the family home and dressed for an evening at the club. He hoped he’d see Lewis there so he could share the news of his purchase.

  His valet came in with a tray holding a card. “The comtesse is here to see you, Mr. Redcake.”

  Gawain straightened his bow tie in the mirror and turned to his valet with a frown. “She’s never come here before.”

  “It has been some time since you’ve seen her.”

  “Nearly a year,” Gawain agreed. He’d always gone to the comtesse’s home for their assignations when she had been his mistress. Why was she visiting him? Surely she hadn’t lost her looks and position as one of London’s premiere courtesans in less than a year.

  “Will you see her, sir?”

  “Put her in the green parlor,” Gawain said. “I’ll be down shortly.” He didn’t want her in any of the family rooms, but the green parlor was small and rarely used. After finishing his toilette, he went downstairs.

  “Marie,” he said, walking into the room. It had given him a thrill to bed a titled lady when he’d first known her, even if her favors were for sale, but she was never formal in private.

  Dressed in luxurious purple silk with gold accents, Marie’s pale skin and dark hair gave her the appearance of a fairy tale princess. Gawain still found her beautiful, but not sexually appealing. No, his tastes might still be on the mysterious side, but give him his Indian princess any day. As Marie stalked toward him and rapped him on the arm with her ever-present fan, he thought he saw the start of wrinkles in the pinched look of her mouth.

  “I thought you sacrificed me to les loups for a pink, aristocratic child, Gawain, not for some black girl!”

  He took a small cigar from his case and toyed with it for a moment before responding. “So you’ve heard about my engagement.”

  “An Indian? How you insult me.”

  “In what way?” He took out his clip and removed the tip of his cigar, then held it to the fire.

  Marie swiped it from his hand and put it to her lips. Yes, he could see the beginning of lines around her eyes now, when she squinted against the smoke. She was a few years older than he, perhaps thirty-two or thirty-three now? Ann, at twenty-five and not a smoker, had far better skin.

  “Why on earth would you marry such a creature?” Marie demanded.

  “First of all, I would have married my pink, aristocratic girl, as you call Lady Elizabeth, if I could have found her. But she has vanished. I met Mrs. Haldene during my travels and we suit very well.”

  “A widow,” Marie sniffed, seating herself on an ornate chair.

  “Yes,” he affirmed, lowering himself to a spot on the sofa next to the chair. “Her first husband was murdered a few years ago. She inherited his inn up in Leeds. That’s where we met.”

  “And she’s black.”

  “Half-Indian. Her mother was a maharani.”

  “Oh?” Marie waved the cigar. “Are you sure that isn’t just a story?”

  “I didn’t hear it from her,” Gawain said. “Yes, I’m sure. Her parents were rather famous in their day.”

  “I suppose she is quite exotic in her saris and gems,” Marie sneered.

  “No, she is very English in most ways. Her mother taught her traditional medical practices of her people, but other than that, it is only her skin that gives away her foreign background.”

  “Does she have a title? No, I would imagine not,” Marie sniffed. “I cannot imagine why you would give up your plans for such a creature. She does not sound at all intéressant.”

  “On the contrary. She is a sensual, appealing creature, just like you. Not so young as Lady Elizabeth, but younger than me.”

  “She has studied the Indian arts of lovemaking then,” Marie said. “I can see you being fascinated by that.”

  He laughed and took the cigar from her fingers. “Is this why you pay me a visit? To berate me?”

  “To warn you, darling. You will lose your place in Society if you marry such a creature. She can be your mistress, if necessary, but do not marry her.” She placed one arm on the back of the chair, displaying her décolletage.

  “I will do exactly that, and succeed despite her if necessary,” Gawain said, finding himself immune to his former mistress’s practiced wiles. “I will not abandon my private goals. And she will be my wife very soon.”

  Chapter Nine

  Ann pushed Noel’s pram through the door of the select Pim’s Photography on Regent Street, followed by Gawain. He’d insisted their family be photographed with the intentions of offering cartes de visite to their wedding guests. She liked the idea of having Noel immortalized on paper so she had agreed. Fern trailed in the rear. Ann felt for her, sensing the girl did not know her place in this new family unit, despite Gawain’s promises of a better life for her.

  “Welcome, welcome!” said a thin man with an even slimmer moustache, emerging from behind a velvet curtain dripping with tassels. Ann smiled politely, but before she could respond to his greeting he walked forward and looked down at Noel. “What a lovely child. Just the baby today, or baby and father?”

  She glanced back, confused. Had Gawain made this arrangement?

  No, he was frowning as he came to her side. “What is the procedure here?”

  “Four poses for five shillings, sir. We could do you and your baby, the baby alone, perhaps the baby with his ayah, people do like to see a hint of the exotic, and then,” he gestured at Fern, “the baby and his sister?”

  Ann’s fingers tightened around the pram’s handle. She wore her best dress, but it wasn’t new, and could easily have been her mistress’s cast off, were she indeed an ayah, an Indian baby nurse. How could she fault him for his misunderstanding when she wasn’t dressed as the wife of a successful businessman, but as a provincial innkeeper in her Sunday best?

  Gawain put his hand on her shoulder. “This is my child’s mother, sir.”

  The man stroked his moustache with spidery fingers. Without a hint of embarrassment, he continued smoothly. “A family portrait then. Four poses of all four of you? Or some other combination? Or perhaps you want more than the standard package?”

  Ann’s fingers relaxed. There wouldn’t be a problem.

  “Let us take the photographs of us together first and then we will see. If you do a proper job, I will be purchasing one hundred copies,” Gawain said.

  He clapped his hands together. “I see, I see. Let us get to our work then, and perhaps you would like to step into the bookshop next door while I develop the photographs? It should only take an hour or so.”

  Gawain patted Ann’s shoulder again. “No, I will come back tomorrow to see the results. We don’t want the baby out that long.”

  “No, no, filthy air,” the man agreed. “Please, come into the studio. We can take you right away.” He held open the curtain.

  Gawain tossed shillings on the counter, then gestured Ann and Fern to move ahead. Should she have asked Gawain to bring along a maid from his family mansion to make them look more respectable? She needed to start thinking of these things now, for Noel’s sake. Whatever she had to do to prevent future misunderstandings must be done. She glanced down at her fingers. No wedding ring. Now that was an obvious error. For the first time, she wished a gold band rested there.

  A mother’s love could move mountains, but a father’s position held the kernel of his son’s future. She was right to marry Gawain. The sense of this sank into her bones.

  She turned and whispered. “Should we return after I’ve had a new dress
made? Something more suitable? My bustle is all wrong for this year, and my neckline too, I suspect.”

  “I forgot.” Gawain reached into his pocket and pulled out a jewelry case. He opened it, displaying a pearl collar with an exquisite pagan cameo in the center, backed by onyx. “I thought this would look glorious against your skin.”

  Fern let out a sharp exhalation and looked at Gawain in wonder.

  “It’s gorgeous,” Ann said, astounded by the beauty of the gift. The necklace was fit for a princess. Her mother might have worn something like this if she’d been raised in London rather than in Caliata.

  “What do you think? For the portrait? And our wedding, if you like.”

  She nodded. He handed the box to Fern and turned Ann gently so he could close the clasp around her neck. Inside the studio was a small mirror, presumably so ladies could make final adjustments. She looked at herself with the collar, and for the first time, saw a prosperous tradesman’s wife. Gawain must treasure her, to bestow a gift like this. The rumblings in her stomach, like so many bees buzzing, calmed instantly. She knew no one smiled in portraits, but she saw her teeth in the mirror now, her expression one of peace and happiness.

  “I am ready,” she told Gawain, her dress all but forgotten. “Thank you, my dear.”

  He nodded silently. She reached her hand up to his hat and removed it, then checked over his hair, sorting through the lightly pomaded blond locks, until his part was perfect. Then she confirmed that Fern and Noel looked their best.

  “Do you know what kind of backdrop you would like?” asked the photographer as he turned on bright electric lights. “I have a number of choices.”

  Ann inspected the canvases. “I like the columns,” she told Gawain, pulling back a couple of backcloths on poles, one of a simple dark fabric and another simulating ferns and statuary.

  “I have some lovely tree stumps you can sit on,” the photographer volunteered. “With ivy.”

  “Why would we be outside?” Gawain asked. “Why don’t we sit on chairs?”

  “The first one then?” Ann said.

  “That is very popular,” the photographer said. “But simulating the outdoors is a common fashion for portraiture.”

  “We’ll take that sofa,” Gawain said, pointing to a heavily tasseled and padded loveseat in a corner. “For us. Fern can sit on that stool there, next to Ann, who will hold Noel.”

  Ann let the cloths fall from her fingers. A sober grouping would be more refined than a more fanciful background, after all.

  “Just the wall, then?” asked the photographer. “Any art? Ferns?”

  Gawain went to the cloths and pulled them away to expose the painted wall. “Yes, it is fine.”

  Ann took Noel from his pram while the photographer fussed, then seated herself on the sofa. Fern perched next to her.

  “Any other poses, sir?” the photographer asked Gawain.

  “No, just take our picture four times. No doubt our expressions will change.” He glanced at Ann. “Is this acceptable to you?”

  She nodded. “It is a simple family portrait, after all.”

  “We can come back another time and do the columns if you like. Just the two of us.”

  She touched the pearl collar. “That would be nice.”

  “With a new dress.”

  She smiled at him. How could he read her so well? “Of course.”

  “I’m ready,” the photographer said, glancing up from his camera and tripod. “Stay still, please.”

  “They say you can tell the difference between the living and the dead in photographs because the living are often slightly blurred,” Gawain said.

  Ann felt her eyebrows lift, just as the photographer took the first picture. That would not be an attractive pose. Quickly, she schooled her features to impassivity. She adjusted Noel subtly for each of the last two photographs, having no idea how he might best be displayed.

  “We are done,” the photographer said. “Thank you for your patience.”

  Gawain stood and held out his arms for Noel, cuddling him for a moment while Ann and Fern stood and straightened their clothing. “I will return tomorrow for the results.”

  “Could you take one more?” Ann asked impulsively. “Just like this? Of Mr. Redcake and Noel?”

  Gawain looked quizzical as the man eagerly complied, but he sat back down with Noel in his arms. Ann smiled as the picture was taken. This would be the best of all. Gawain hadn’t had time to erase the tenderness from his expression. She wondered if he ever would look that way when he saw her.

  Gawain was far too busy with house arrangements to check on the results of their sitting until late the next day. He chose the third photograph for their wedding cards, because Noel’s mouth was closed in an adorable little pout. Other than in the first photograph, where Ann looked startled, the three older subjects looked much the same in all the portraits. When he ordered his one hundred, he also ordered a larger portrait of the final option, the one with him and Noel alone. He could not be impressed by his appearance, but nonetheless, the sentimental pose, the way Noel’s chubby arm had been captured, lifting toward his father’s chin, made the photograph an instant keepsake. “I’ll take two of those,” he told the photographer, “mounted and framed.”

  “Very good, sir. Will you pick them up tomorrow?”

  Gawain received his package the next day, and was on Ann’s doorstep around 3:00 PM. He knew she wouldn’t have returned from Redcake’s yet, but thought he’d leave a copy of each portrait with Fern while having some quiet time with Noel, if he wasn’t with the wet nurse. To think he had run the risk of never meeting his son.

  He knocked at their door and was surprised to see Ann opening it, not Fern. “Home so soon? Did I have your schedule wrong?”

  She bit her lip, looking both guilty and troubled. “Come in, Gawain. Was I expecting you?”

  “I have the photographs.”

  “So soon? How lovely.” She shut the door behind him.

  He handed her the package and unraveled his muffler. Though it was the first day of March, the weather still felt decidedly wintry, though at least he was covered with rain, not snow. The smell of damp wool overpowered the scent of a spicy curry bubbling in the kitchen. “What are you doing home so early? Do I have your schedule wrong? I hope you are not ill.”

  “No.” She walked in and set the package down on a small table next to her armchair. Then, she stood with her back to the fireplace, her hands behind her back as if she were a soldier about to receive discipline.

  He pressed on. “Clearly I have some misunderstanding.”

  “I do not work at Redcake’s anymore.”

  He blinked, his bad eye feeling gritty behind the eye patch. Lately, it had seemed to feel better when he left it exposed, instead of hidden behind the black square. He took it off and wiped the corner of his eye.

  “Do you feel a change in your eye?” she asked eagerly, reaching for his face.

  He tilted away from her. “Ann, what is going on?”

  “They terminated me weeks ago,” she said calmly. “But your eye, Gawain. Are you having unusual sensations? Let me light a lamp so I can see it.”

  “The only thing that matters is whether or not I can see better,” he said testily.

  “Can you?” She lit a small lamp and held it up to his face.

  “No, but it feels different.”

  “Close your left eye,” she instructed.

  His vision vanished as he complied.

  “Can you see the lamp moving?”

  “The flame, you mean?”

  “Move your eye to what you see.”

  He concentrated, following a vague lightness, which did indeed move around. “I could see light and dark before.”

  “You couldn’t follow it.” The light stopped moving.

  He heard the sound of her setting the lamp down.

  “Can you see my fingers?”

  He waited, but no aspect of his vision changed. He did, however, hear a
rustling as Noel moved in the cradle behind them. “Noel is stirring.”

  “My fingers?” she repeated.

  “No, Ann. Now stop this nonsense and tell me about your position.”

  She sighed, making it clear she cared more about her medical interests than her employment. “I had to go up to the bakery to deliver a cake and a customer objected to being served by a woman with dark skin. I was rude to her and was fired.”

  He hated the rote way she said the words. Where was her anger at being mistreated? “What happened exactly?”

  “She claimed I wasn’t clean and I said I was cleaner than she was, given that she had a stain on her glove. So Ralph Popham fired me.”

  He opened his good eye so he could see her. She appeared as calm as she sounded. “You worked for Alfred Melville, not Popham.”

  “He said Mr. Melville would do the same, once he told him that I’d shouted. Though I didn’t, not really.”

  “Either way, it sounds like you had adequate provocation.”

  She blew air through her nose. “I was impolite to a duchess.”

  “Judah wouldn’t have fired you,” Gawain said, wanting some kind of emotion from her. Perhaps she had already made her peace with it, but she hadn’t reacted to the photographer’s assumption that she was a servant yesterday either.

  She looked away.

  “When exactly did this happen?”

  She stared at the floor. “February eleventh.”

  “The same day you accepted my proposal,” he said slowly. He found his patch in his pocket and tied it back on. “I see. I did wonder why you changed your mind.”

  He expected some word of comfort to him, or some hint of defiance, or words about protecting Noel, but there was nothing. How could he blame her for her actions? Yet, a sensation of lightheadedness crept over him, as if trying to focus his bad eye had sapped his strength. He cleared his throat. “I came to show you the photographs. I believe I will let you see them on your own time. Good evening, Ann.”

  She didn’t stop him as he walked from the room, pulling his things from the hook by the door as he exited. He couldn’t remember how he got there, but eventually found himself entering his club.