Page 34 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

The bedchamber window showed nothing but the night sky, and the only light came from the lamp in the sitting room. She couldn’t easily read Lord Ryland’s face, which was in shadow. But she saw his hand twitch, almost as if he wanted to reach for her, to console her.

“I succeeded, you know,” she said warningly. “The steel. The spine.”

He turned his head, and when the little bit of light struck his profile, she watched wry amusement slide across his features. “Of that, Constantia, I’m certain. What happened next?”

“I found a girls’ school, concocted a story almost as unbelievable as the truth, persuaded them to let me take classes in exchange for housework. The other pupils . . . tolerated me, I suppose you could say.” She smoothed her hands over her knees, wishing unpleasant memories could be brushed away as easily as wrinkles in wool. “Anyway, I stayed for six years and I learned two things, one of which was that I had inherited my father’s artistic gift.”

“And the other?”

“That the portrait frame has a hidden compartment, into which my mother had tucked a pair of earbobs. When it became necessary to leave that place, I hocked one and lived off the money until I could hone my skills enough to live by my art.”

Even in the dimness, she could see his eyes widen. “I take it there has been more to your career than sketching mocking cartoons for a ladies’ magazine.”

In spite of herself, a smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “A bit. But the work Lady Stalbridge had me do was of a piece. I draw and paint to suit my patrons, not myself. It’s the rare artist who can afford to do otherwise.”

Let him think what he would of the drawings she had made of him. They had paid her rent. She refused to speak of them, or of the watercolor she had entered in the exhibition, the only art she had made in recent memory that was solely hers.

“So, you claim that for”—his eyes traveled over her, assessing, and then he lifted one shoulder—“ten years, more or less, you have been moving from place to place, working under a variety of assumed names, drawing and painting whatever others will pay you to produce, and keeping the real you hidden away.”

He finished with another sweep of his dark gaze, recalling her to the fact that she had sneaked into his rooms in her nightgown. He had held her, just for a moment, in his arms, and she had pressed her lips to his. Awareness prickled over her skin and raised gooseflesh.

“I have done what I had to do, told whatever lies would serve, in order to keep myself safe.”

If he had any sense at all, he would take those words as a warning.

“Forgive me, but given your . . . unassuming history,” he asked, “why should someone mean you harm? Did you paint an unflattering portrait, perhaps?”

She leaped up and stepped toward the bedchamber. “Mock me if you must. I suppose I deserve that.” She had meant, after all, to mock him and everything he stood for with all those cartoons and sketches.

Though she had never dreamed that he cared.

“No.” He, too, had got to his feet, and he came to stand beside her, head tilted so she could not easily avoid his eyes. “I apologize. That remark was unworthy of both of us.”

Oddly, she believed him—not just that he was sorry, but that he thought her worthy of some respect, in spite of her parentage and the tale she had told. She dipped her chin in acknowledgment, and to her relief, he took a step back.

“It was the earring,” she explained, when her head had stopped swimming from the sudden rush of standing up too quickly, or her too acute awareness of his proximity. “It was more valuable than I expected. And evidently more important. I sold it when I first came to London, and even after all the time that had passed, I think someone must have recognized it and alerted my grandfather. That was when I first became aware of being followed, and when odd little incidents started to occur.

“So I began to move about regularly, changed my name, stayed vigilant. It worked well enough for a while,” she insisted. “It’s not difficult to hide in the hustle and bustle of Town. Sometimes months would go by with no trouble. Most recently, I enjoyed the better part of a year free from harassment. But now the Magazine for Misses has attracted unwelcome attention. Someone has discovered the identity of every contributor, even Mrs. Goode, and intends to expose us. I couldn’t stay and find out what might happen to everyone else. I—I ran.”

“Into the street. In front of my house.” His voice was steady and even—alarmingly so. He sounded almost bored. “Were you being chased?”

“I don’t know. That’s the only part of my past that truly is a blank.”

A pause ensued while he paced twice across the room and back. Evidently it required some effort to take in everything she had told him. “It doesn’t quite add up. All this trouble over an earring?”

She shrugged. “An heirloom, I suppose. Although I have wondered . . .”

“Yes?”

“Whether my mother’s family knows about the picture. And if so, how far might they go to be rid of the only evidence, the last reminder of her indiscretion?”

But of course, if that were the case, why stop at the portrait? Constantia hadn’t realized or remembered until she saw it how remarkably similar in appearance she was to the woman who had brought her into the world. More recently, she had begun to consider how awkward it would be to cross paths with someone to whom her face was eerily familiar.

She knew nothing more of her grandfather’s character than that he was a nobleman, and thus powerful. It was terrible to think he might be the sort of man to use his power to make absolutely certain such a meeting could never happen. But once the idea had occurred to her, she could not shake it.

By the light from the sitting room, she saw Lord Ryland’s eyes narrow. An expression of disbelief. His gaze did not meet hers.

But then he said, “When I first saw the Unfashionable Plates, I supposed that you didn’t like men very much. Now I understand that it is not really a matter of dislike. You do not trust them—and with good reason, it would seem.”