The Earl and the Pickpocket. Helen Dickson
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and wicked in the eyes of some, but in this age of cruelty and unconcern she had a caring nature and a kind heart, and these were rare. ‘Do you know, I’m glad I’ve met you.’
‘Really? I feel the same way,’ Harriet confessed ingenuously. ‘I wish you weren’t leaving.’ With a disheartened sigh she stood up, eyeing the dress Edwina was wearing. ‘I’m glad the dress fits. I’ll try and find you some more clothes. You’ll have to have something to wear until you can buy some of your own.’ She smiled, holding out her hand. ‘Before the great man comes to fetch you, come and meet the others girls—the ones who have managed to crawl out of bed, that is.’
The afternoon was hot and sultry when Edwina, clad in her donated finery, climbed into Adam Rycroft’s shiny black carriage. It was drawn by a matching pair of prancing bays and driven by a scarlet-and-gold-liveried servant. She settled back against the luxurious cream upholstery, wondering if all that was happening to her was a continuing dream. Was she really sitting in a grand carriage with a handsome stranger, travelling across London to goodness knows where? She also wondered how foolhardy she had been to accept Adam’s proposal that she stay at his house.
The driver whipped up the horses and the carriage slowly negotiated the congested, twisting alleyways. Covent Garden had long been the most popular haunt of painters, with several resident on the piazza, so Edwina was pleasantly surprised when the carriage rumbled north towards Mayfair, where Adam told her he had a house on the Grosvenor Estate.
No one took any notice of the man standing across the street from Dolly’s place. It was Jack Pierce. After his assault on Edwina, but before disappearing into London’s back streets, he’d glanced back just in time to see Adam carry the unconscious form inside Dolly’s Place. Determined not to let Ed slip away without him seeing, he’d come back to watch the building and learn the identity of the man who’d interfered, surprised to discover his name was Adam Rycroft, the man who’d hired Ed to find the boy Toby. Jack had thought his luck was in when Rycroft appeared earlier in his carriage and entered the building. Convinced they would emerge together, he’d been disappointed when he left with a young woman and drove away.
Seated across from Edwina, Adam stretched his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. He eyed her in watchful curiosity, dwelling on the perverse quirk of fate that had caused her to be sitting opposite him, and wondering what he had let himself in for by inviting this curious, fascinating young woman into his home. Hers was not a soothing or a restful presence, and he strongly suspected that she did not intend it to be. The impression she conveyed was one of confidence and intense and challenging self-knowledge, defying anyone to catch her out in complacency or self-delusion, but he was not to know that at that moment, under his watchful and penetrating gaze, some of Edwina’s confidence was sliding away.
Studying him surreptitiously, she sensed that beneath his relaxed exterior there was a power and forcefulness carefully restrained, and she wondered how different the tyrannical artist Harriet had described to her differed from this gentleman of leisure. It had been so long since she had conversed with people other than beggars and thieves, that now she found herself alone with Adam she suddenly felt gauche and ill at ease.
‘So, Edwina,’ Adam said at length. ‘No doubt Harriet or one of the other girls has enlightened you as to what your work will involve.’
Edwina watched him settle himself more comfortably with that same natural grace that seemed so much a part of him. She gave him a direct, appraising stare. ‘Not very much, it would seem. Do you really want to paint me?’
‘I do. I must,’ he replied quietly, watching her.
‘I can’t imagine why.’
Adam’s brows lifted over sardonic blue eyes. ‘I can.’
She flushed softly, deciding it best not to proceed along this path, and to turn the conversation from herself. ‘What else do you paint—or do you just paint people?’
‘I paint all manner of things—landscapes and whatever else takes my fancy, but painting people is my bread and butter. I find it necessary to cater to the whims and predilections of my commissioners.’
‘In which case I would imagine it’s unlikely that such paintings will have appeal to anyone other than the client.’
‘True. Unfortunately most of my clients are infatuated with “face painting”, and fill their houses with family portraits, leaving little scope for the artist to indulge upon. These paintings rarely enter the open market. No one wants to buy paintings of another person’s family.’
‘I can understand that. And are you good at what you do?’
‘I think the people who view my paintings are the ones you ought to ask.’
He was watching her thoughtfully, a strange, unfathomable smile tugging at his lips. He seemed so strong, so self-assured, appearing to hold himself apart from the world, and yet, with his mere presence, dominating the scene around him as he did now. His voice was rich and pleasing to the ear, and Edwina began to wonder if he had any flaw she could touch upon. Watching the satisfied look on his face, she gave up trying to discern what his faults might be. Tipping her head on one side she remarked, ‘You look rather pleased with yourself.’
‘I should. I have just acquired the most enchanting model. You played the part of a lad so well it’s difficult to keep in mind you are, in fact, a very lovely young lady. I look forward to painting you Edwina…?’
His gaze was searching, delving, and Edwina met it directly. ‘Just Edwina,’ she replied, feeling no compunction to enlighten him beyond that. She was not yet ready to divulge her surname, and she liked and respected him too much to lie by fabricating another. Besides, precepts of conscience forbade it. ‘I don’t think you need to know more than that if all you are going to do is paint me.’
The bright blue eyes considered the young woman opposite without a hint of expression. When he realised that she had no intention of elaborating further, with slow deliberation he nodded. ‘I have many skeletons in my own cupboard, Edwina, that I’m careful not to rattle for fear of which one will tumble out first. Since you are obviously reluctant to share your name with me, I will respect your wish for privacy and not persist.’
‘I am obliged,’ she said, thinking it a strange thing for him to say and wondering at his own secrets. ‘Do you have a family?’ she asked, unable to staunch her own curiosity about him.
His expression became guarded. All his life he had kept his emotions locked in an iron heart. He wasn’t about to change that. ‘My parents died when I was a boy. I have no other relatives.’
‘I see. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. That’s how I like it,’ he retorted, his tone harsher than he intended as he turned away.
Edwina watched him. She sensed that his ruthlessness, his power over others, the sheer devil-may-care brilliance of his life, were not the reality of him. He seemed to have come from nowhere. He didn’t have a father or mother. That struck a perfect chord in Edwina. That was how she came to detect the loneliness in him.
‘Why did you offer to let me stay at your house? According to Harriet, you never extend the same hospitality to any of your other models.’
‘That’s because my other models are not usually homeless. You are. Besides, I consider you an investment. I don’t want you disappearing when I’m halfway through painting you. There is, of course, the rather delicate matter of your reputation to consider. It’s hardly a respectable situation. I trust there will be no irate relative who will come and snatch you away?’
‘Being respectable doesn’t concern me any more. It’s a little late in the day to begin worrying about my reputation. Whatever reputation I had to speak of was shredded long ago. I took care of that myself,’ she said quietly.
The blue eyes lightly swept her, and, catching her own, held them with a smiling warmth. ‘Do you never think about your life before you became a thief?’
‘Not