As he leaned over, a strong masculine scent mixed with turpentine and paint reached her. ‘Some people invite trouble, don’t you think?’
The horsehair prickled through her dress as she shifted away from him. Suddenly she became aware of the danger of being alone in a room with a man to whom she hadn’t been introduced. Her mama would have fainted away. ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir.’
‘Cameo.’ He lingered on the word. ‘The word is Greek. Tell me more about your necklace.’
‘There’s little else I know about it. Though I’m sure it was a tragedy. I have a strong feeling my mother never left me willingly. I think she was forced to give me up. Perhaps my wicked father gave her this necklace and she left it with me as a keepsake or perhaps, as you say, she was of quality and owned it herself. In any case, it was found with me.’
‘Where?’
‘In my swaddling clothes.’
‘No, where were you found?’
The question floored her, but only for a moment. ‘There’s a place near Coram Fields in Bloomsbury. Foundlings have long been left there.’ Luckily her mama had given money to help the unfortunate foundlings only a few months before.
Still he seemed suspicious. ‘And who found you?’
‘Nuns,’ Cameo replied wildly. ‘Nuns found me. Then a kind genteel lady took me in and raised me as her own.’
‘And her name was?’
‘A Mrs...’ From her sleeve she edged out her lace handkerchief to play for time. ‘Cotton. That was her name. Poor Mrs Cotton. She had no family of her own, so she took me in. As I grew up I became her companion.’ With a corner of the handkerchief she dabbed at her eyes. ‘It’s sad. She died close to a year ago. After that I was all alone. It is thus you find me, seeking employment.’
He crossed his arms. ‘It’s a strange story.’
‘Not so strange. There are many others who have found themselves in my sorry position. I cast myself upon your mercy, sir,’ she added, with a dramatic flourish.
A smile seemed to play at the corner of his lips and then vanished. ‘So you’re at my mercy, is that right?’
The sense of danger came back as she swallowed hard. ‘Yes.’
He stood and dropped a log on to the fire. With a blackened poker he made sparks fly. Turning back, he leaned casually against the chimney piece and crossed his long legs, the poker still in his grip. ‘There’s other, more suitable employment than being a model. You might work in a shop or be a governess or be a companion to another lady.’
The thought of Lady Catherine Mary St Clair working in a shop made her duck her head to hide a smile. ‘That’s true. And it may come to that now Mrs Cotton is gone.’ She dabbed at her eyes again with her handkerchief for effect.
Deftly he dropped the poker into a brass pot on the hearth. ‘Being an artist’s model is not the most respectable occupation, Miss Ashe. Not all the girls are from such a genteel background as yours, raised as you were by the good Mrs Cotton.’
‘What’s the usual background of models?’
‘They’re generally girls who work in shops and factories. Have you heard of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood?’
Had she heard of them? ‘Yes, I’ve heard of them... I mean, I think so.’
‘One of the Brotherhood, John Everett Millais, has recently been painting Shakespeare’s Ophelia. The model for his painting is called Lizzie Siddal and she was discovered working in a hat shop. She’s going to be married to another member of the Brotherhood, Dante Gabriel Rossetti.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Not many do. But the artist-and-model relationship is one that often becomes...intimate.’
Cameo’s cheeks tinted yet again. How she wished she might stop blushing in this man’s presence.
‘Lizzie had to lie in water for hours on end in the painting to show Ophelia drowning and she nearly died. Modelling can be dangerous.’
‘I’m not afraid of danger.’ If only he knew. Just by being here she risked everything.
His brow lifted. ‘Is that right?’
‘Where else do artists’ models come from?’ she asked quickly to change the subject.
‘In the past it’s not been unknown for models to have come from the streets.’ An alarming glint sparked in his eyes. ‘As I said, modelling is not the most reputable occupation. Fallen women, kept women, mistresses, whatever you wish to call them—many have modelled for paintings.’
Cameo gripped her gloves together. She refused to reveal to Benedict Cole that his mention of mistresses and kept women shocked her, even if she never openly discussed such scandalous topics. ‘I’m merely an admirer of art. That’s why I seek employment as a model. Many a wet afternoon have I spent looking at paintings in a gallery.’ No need to mention that the gallery where she’d spent most time recently was the Royal Academy, where she’d been spellbound by his work.
‘I’m not sure you’re being entirely honest with me, Miss Ashe. But...’
Her breath caught in her throat.
‘But you’re ideal for my next painting. You’re hired.’
She exhaled. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m not sure you’ll thank me when we’re working,’ he warned. ‘Being a model is not the easy job many young women think it will be. I shall require you to sit without moving for hours at a time, every day. Do you think you can do that?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Wasn’t half her life spent sitting bored at dining tables and in drawing rooms? ‘I’ll have no trouble with that.’
‘I’ve already completed a lot of the background work so I don’t need you for that. The work is partly complete.’ The wooden chair scraped across the floor as Benedict sat by the fire again and pushed his dark hair from his brow. ‘Do you have any questions for me?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then you’re unusual. You haven’t asked the question most models ask the minute they walk in the door.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Payment, Miss Ashe,’ he drawled. ‘Most models are interested in how much they will be paid. Since you’re experiencing such—how did you put it?—hard times, I expected payment to be of the utmost importance to you.’
Beneath her layers of petticoats she gave herself a kick. ‘Oh.’
‘Perhaps it is your preference for social niceties preventing you making mention of the sordid topic of coin? Will a shilling each session be satisfactory?’
‘Is that the customary rate?’ she asked
