about was Benedict Cole. She longed to confront him. How could he make such assumptions about her, the kind she’d been fighting against all her life? If he knew...if she told him...
She leapt up so fast she almost hit her head on the carriage.
Out on the street, Bert, the coachman, had opened the door and put the box down for her. ‘Here we are.’ He rubbed his forehead and glanced about dubiously. ‘Are you sure this is the place you’re wanting?’
Briskly, she stepped down into the street and adjusted her skirt. No turning back now. ‘Yes, this is it. Will you mind waiting for me, Bert?’
‘I’ll be here.’ He grinned good-naturedly. ‘Anything for you, Lady Catherine Mary.’
Tying her bonnet with a firm bow, she set off against the wind. In spite of spending much of her life in London, there were parts of the city she barely knew. She certainly never stopped in Soho. The family carriage always drove through. She had expected the soot and dirt, certainly, but not the vibrant activity sweeping her along the cobbled road. Spread with straw and litter, the busy street echoed with the sounds of carriages and carts, horses’ hooves, and vendors shouting their wares. There were shops, too, with people going in and out, tinkling the doorbells. The smell from the fishmonger’s window, full of shoals of mussels and oysters, reached her before she saw it and a yeasty odour emanated from empty barrels outside a public house, a sign with a lamb painted on it swaying above the door.
Through the crowd she hurried, past two fighting boys, their mothers with baskets on their arms chatting to each other uncaring of the scuffle, and past a flower seller who offered with a toothless grin to sell her a bunch of daisies. A young woman in a low-cut bodice standing on a corner sent her a brazen glare. With a gulp Cameo hastened on.
In front of a tall red-brick building she checked the number. Yes, this was the address of the infuriating Benedict Cole, yet in front of her stood a bakery, the scent of hot bread and buns wafting out every time a customer opened the door. The artist must live upstairs, but there was no obvious way to get in.
A girl sat on the pavement nearby, shabby and meek, with bare feet and a shawl around her thin shoulders.
‘Matches,’ she called hoarsely, ‘matches.’
Cameo crouched down and smiled. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, miss.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘It’s Becky, miss. Do you want some matches?’
‘I don’t have any money with me.’ Why hadn’t she brought her reticule with her? She normally did, for she kept a tiny sketchbook and sharpened pencils inside, but she’d rushed out in such a hurry. ‘I’ll bring you some another day, I promise.’
The girl sighed. ‘That’s all right.’
‘I will, Becky. Perhaps now you can help me. Do you know how to get in to where the people live upstairs?’
‘You go round the back, miss, down that alleyway. There’s a red door.’
‘Thank you,’ Cameo called, already moving away.
A cat yowled as she entered the dingy alley. For a moment she hesitated before she picked her way through the sodden newspaper, broken glass bottles, cabbage stalks and something that looked like—no; it couldn’t be. Edging around the rubbish, she narrowly avoided a puddle of something that looked and smelled worse.
The red door, if the flakes of peeling paint identified it as such, was ajar. At her touch it swung open wider, creaking.
Inside the cramped entrance hall, she stared, half fascinated, half appalled. She’d never visited such a rundown establishment. The walls had been white once, perhaps, but now they were an indeterminate colour, yellow or cream, with water marks at the bottom, where the damp had crept in. A staircase with a worn green runner lay directly in front of her, the woodwork scuffed and dull.
Dust dirtied her white-kid gloves as she gripped the banister. She brushed them on her skirt. Up two narrow flights of steps she climbed, passing closed doors on each landing, checking numbers as she went and up a third flight, which was narrower still.
Out of breath, she reached the attic door at the top. It bore no number, just a name plate beside it, simple and beautiful. She hadn’t expected something so unique. Carved from a piece of oak, a pattern of leaves and berries had been etched on to its square edges, and at the centre scrolled the name: Benedict Cole.
Well, now, Benedict Cole. You’re about to receive a surprise visit from a society lady.
Her heart drummed as she rapped on the door. No reply.
Under her skirts she tapped her foot. She knocked again, harder.
The door flung open. Cameo gasped and fell backwards at the sheer force of the man who glowered in front of her, his fist gripping a paintbrush. Benedict Cole. She knew it with a certainty flaming inside her belly. Tall, with dark hair that swooped over his forehead, he wore a loose, unbuttoned painting shirt covered with blotches of dried oils in a frenzy of colours. Yet his eyes held her attention. Dark brown, under heavy black brows, they blazed with a fierce inner light that seared into her very soul.
‘You’re too late.’ His educated accent held an unexpected warm burr.
With a huge gulp of air she tried to steady her ragged breathing. ‘Too late?’
‘I’m too busy to see you now.’ He started to close the door.
‘Wait! I must see you. You are Benedict Cole?’
He scowled. ‘Who else would be working in my studio?’
‘Please. Just give me a few minutes of your time.’
Eyebrows drawn together, he studied her. ‘You’ve seen the notice.’
‘The notice...?’
‘Will you please stop repeating every word I say? Are you dim-witted as well as unpunctual? Yes, my notice seeking a new model. I have a major new work in mind.’
‘You’re looking for a model. For your painting.’
‘How many times do we have to have this conversation? If you’re not here to be considered, then why exactly are you here wasting my time?’
In a flash, she realised what had happened. ‘Well, actually...’
‘Well, actually what?’ he mimicked, the corner of his mouth lifting in a sneer.
How dare this man speak to her in such a manner? In person he was just as rude as in his letter, even ruder if that were possible. Cameo opened her mouth to tell him of his mistake in no uncertain terms and then snapped it shut again.
Her mind whirred. He’d made it clear he didn’t wish to provide painting lessons to Lady Catherine Mary St Clair. Now, upon seeing him, he appeared to be the kind of man who would never change his mind.
Cameo smiled. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late, Mr Cole. You’re quite right. I’ve come to be your model.’
