a smile to his face, but it faded fast. Her innocence felt too pure for a display like this.
The fops moved on to a similar Egyptian painting, leaving the Roman woman and her lover to their joy. Randall followed the line of the Roman woman’s arm and the long strokes of cream paint giving it a fleshlike texture. He stopped at the smudge of black in the corner of her elbow, the same speck of paint he’d fixed on the morning Uncle Edmund had called him into the study.
I like Cecelia, she’s a good girl, full of spirit. Uncle Edmund rubbed the wood of the hunting rifle lying across his lap, the smell of oil mixing with the dust of old books. But she’s poor and you’ll be a Marquess some day. Don’t think she doesn’t know it and won’t try to land you. Don’t let her, my boy, don’t let any of them ever trap you. Bored wives and widows, that’s what you need to keep you amused. They ask less of a man.
Randall had refused to believe him, until the morning in the conservatory when Cecelia had pressed him about their future together.
Randal dropped his hands to his sides, trying to laugh as another footman collided with the Duke of St Avery, but the little joy he’d gleaned from this ridiculous display was gone. He hated it and everyone here. For all the sideways glances and whispered remarks they made about him, he might as well crawl up on a dais like Cecelia, wrap his body in a toga and display himself to the crowd.
He clasped his hands tight behind his back, wanting to knock the filthy art off the easels and toss everyone from his house. Let them find some other fool to feed their need for amusement. He was tired of performing for them.
He turned and started up the stairs before stopping on the landing, his hand tight on the banister. No, he was not part of their amusement, but the lord and master of this game. He turned, resuming his imperious stance, meeting Lord Bolton’s eyes and smirking in triumph when the young lord dropped his gaze into his drink. The Marquess of Falconbridge would not run from society like some coward, no more than he’d run from Cecelia’s rebukes. Let them whisper and gawk at him, it was to his benefit, not theirs.
* * *
‘You mean I won’t receive a payment from my father’s inheritance until December?’ Cecelia blurted across the desk at Mr Watkins, the solicitor responsible for distributing the Barbados payments. In the chair next to hers, Theresa squeaked out a worried gasp and Cecelia reached over, giving her cousin’s hand a reassuring squeeze.
‘I’m afraid so.’ Mr Watkins sat back, his leather chair creaking. ‘And perhaps not even then. The hurricane devastated the harvest and though it’s expected to recover, as is always the case with crops, there is no guarantee.’
‘Perhaps I may receive an advance on future earnings?’ Cecelia asked, struggling to keep the desperation from her voice, feeling the blow to her situation as if Mr Watkins had struck her. ‘My income from Virginia has also been delayed. I was counting on this money to see me through until it arrives.’
It was a plausible enough lie, for there were many in London who received income from abroad and often found regular payments interrupted by storms or pirates.
‘There’s nothing I can do. The plantation doesn’t have the money to spare and there are other recipients waiting to be paid as well. If there are no further disasters, the harvest will recover and you may see a payment in December.’ He flicked the file on his desk closed, making it plain he intended to do no more for her than deliver this devastating news. Even if he wished to help them, what could he do? He couldn’t make the crops fruitful or force the ships transporting the money to sail faster.
‘I look forward to speaking with you then.’ She nodded for Theresa to rise, the strain on her cousin’s face striking Cecelia harder than Mr Watkins’s news. It ripped at her to see Theresa so worried instead of carefree and happy like she used to be before Daniel’s death. It reminded her too much of herself at sixteen.
‘I don’t normally recommend this measure, but I sense you may be in need of such services.’ Mr Watkins’s words stopped them and they settled back on the edges of their chairs. He removed a slip of paper from the desk drawer, laid it on the blotter and began to write. ‘This is the name of a gentleman who may be able to help you.’
He handed the paper across the desk. Cecelia took it and looked at the name and address.
Philip Rathbone, 25 Fleet Street.
‘A gentleman? You mean a moneylender.’
Mr Watkins nodded. ‘I would not recommend him except among his class he is exceptional.’
‘You mean he doesn’t ruin people as quickly as the others.’
Mr Watkins steepled his fingers in front of him. ‘He’ll deal fairly with you, more so than any other man in the Fleet.’
‘I’ll take it into consideration.’ She slipped the paper into her reticule. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Watkins.’
The solicitor escorted them through the front room past two clerks copying documents. ‘I’ll notify you if anything changes.’
She caught a slight sympathy in the older man’s words and, though she appreciated it, hated being in a position to need it. ‘Of course, you’ll be discreet concerning this matter.’
‘I’m always discreet.’
‘Thank you. Good day.’
Cecelia slipped her arm in Theresa’s and guided her down the pavement.
‘What are we going to do?’ Theresa whispered, looking nervously over the passing people as if expecting someone to stop, point and announce their secret.
She didn’t blame her for being nervous. There were many times when she had wondered if everyone already knew and if that’s why they kept their distance.
Cecelia clutched the top of the reticule and the paper inside crinkled. Having Mr Rathbone’s name in the bag made it, along with all the other burdens she carried, seem heavier. She stood up straight, trying not to let this new setback weigh her down, to be brave for Theresa’s sake and ease some of her cousin’s fears. ‘I may have to visit the moneylender.’
‘But you can’t.’ Theresa’s voice rose high with panic before she clamped her mouth closed, leaning in close to Cecelia. ‘We haven’t the means to repay a man like him.’
‘I know, but it’s better to owe one discreet man than to have the butcher and grocer declaring our debts through town. I can make arrangements with Mr Rathbone, then only use the money if things turn dire.’ Though at the moment, they were teetering precariously close to dire.
London was proving far more expensive than she’d anticipated. They reworked old dresses, made do with only Mary, shivered through the night to avoid burning coal and relied on refreshments at soirées and dances to help keep them fed, yet still it wasn’t enough. She’d sold the silver yesterday, the small amount it brought already spent to secure their town house for the next three months. Hopefully, it would be enough time for either her or Theresa to find a husband. If not, she wasn’t sure how they would survive. Except for their simple jewellery, fine clothes and the books, there was little left to sell.
‘Miss Domville told me all sorts of horrible stories about people being threatened by creditors,’ Theresa protested, stepping closer to Cecelia when the pavement narrowed and the crowd thickened. ‘It isn’t
