The Earl and the Pickpocket. Helen Dickson
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over her face as if he were memorising it, and then, with a slight satisfied nod of his handsome head, he left her.
Chapter Four
T he thought of going with Adam to his home, working for him, had great appeal. It loomed on the horizon of Edwina’s mind like a sweet haven…waiting. Peace and quiet was what she wanted. No more Jack. No more Uncle Henry. No more Earl of Taplow.
No sooner had Adam left than Harriet breezed in. She was certainly different to anyone Edwina had ever known, and it was impossible not to warm to her.
‘So, you know the great Adam Rycroft!’ Harriet exclaimed, sitting on the edge of the silk-covered bed.
‘Yes, but not very well. He—he’s asked me to work for him.’
‘Oh? Doing what?’
‘That’s just it. I don’t know.’
‘He comes here often to see Mrs Drinkwater. She’s quite fond of him—known him since he was a lad, apparently. He’s very popular with the ladies, and he’s a connoisseur of beautiful women.’
‘And he makes love to them all, I expect,’ Edwina said laughing softly. Spectacularly good looking and imbued with potent masculine allure, she was sure Adam Rycroft was rarely refused.
Harriet smiled knowingly, lying back and propping herself up on her elbow. ‘More than likely. He’s no saint where women are concerned. But mostly he paints them—professionally, of course.’
Edwina looked at her with surprised amazement, settling herself down on the bed facing her. ‘He’s an artist?’ Recalling the sketch Adam had made of her, she should have known. She shook her head at the mysterious combination of gentleman and painter. ‘Is he good?’
‘I’m no judge, but some say he’s the best—a genius. His pictures cost the earth. You, I wager, are going to be the subject of a painting. He must want you to sit for him, that’ll be what he wants you to do.’
‘Sit?’
‘Be a model—so he can paint you. Make the most of it, love. Duchesses and the like consider it a privilege to sit for the great man. There are many women who would die to be in your shoes.’
Edwina was impressed. ‘You obviously like him.’
‘Oh, he’s quite endearing, really. He’s rich, has oodles of charm when he chooses to employ it, but the man’s like a human whirlwind and a positive despot when he’s at his easel. Don’t let him browbeat and bully you. When he’s involved in a painting he loses all track of time. He’ll have you sitting there for hours if you let him. I sat for him once—once was enough, believe me. A girl could catch her death sitting for him.’
‘Oh?’
‘He’s a master of the human form, love—the female form—and there’s more than one model he’s painted in the nude. Mind you, he has to pay extra for a girl to take her clothes off. Titled ladies flock to have him paint them, and they all fall prey to his fatal attraction. By the time he’s finished they’re head over heels in love with him—and more than one husband regrets his choice of artist to paint his wife.’
‘Goodness! Why on earth would he want to paint me?’
‘Probably because you’re different to all the other models who grace his couch. Your face is unusual—interesting, he would call it. He probably sees you as a challenge, love. Who knows—’ she laughed, tossing her head so her auburn curls bounced ‘—you might turn out to be his greatest masterpiece yet. He might even make you famous.’
‘I sincerely hope not. I don’t want to be famous. That kind of notoriety I can do without,’ she said, thinking of Uncle Henry. Her uncle was a man of fine tastes. In particular he was an avid admirer of paintings, and had built up an enviable collection over the years. Many of the paintings he hung for their quality rather than decoration, which was the case in many houses. If he were to see one of her, he would know exactly where to come looking for her. Her mind shied away from the thought. ‘But what’s Adam like, Harriet, really?’
‘Well,’ she said, lowering her eyes and reflecting for a moment, ‘he’s certainly a complex character, and he can be utterly ruthless at times. So be warned, Edwina. His fury is unequalled when roused—as I and some of the other girls who have sat for him know to our cost, having been on the receiving end.’
‘Is he married?’ Edwina asked, thinking of the stunningly beautiful brunette she had seen him with outside the theatre.
‘No, love. Adam Rycroft is a self-proclaimed single man, although he’s always careful to choose a mistress whose company he enjoys. She has to be unmarried, passionate and experienced, and highly pleasurable in bed, a woman who will not mistake lovemaking and desire with love—who will make no demands and expect no promises.’
‘Goodness, you make him sound cold hearted and self-centred.’
‘He’s certainly volatile. I don’t think anyone’s got his true measure—except Mrs Drinkwater, perhaps, but she guards her tongue whenever she speaks of him. He’s totally committed to his work, a perfectionist, and he won’t allow anything or anyone to interfere with that. Have you given any thought as to where you will live?’
‘He—he’s offered to let me stay in his house.’
The words brought Harriet upright. ‘Ooh—now that is a first! And you said yes.’
She nodded. ‘I’ve nowhere else to go, Harriet—only back to the streets and my life as a thief.’
Harriet’s eyes opened wide in shocked amazement. ‘Thief?’
‘Yes. I picked pockets.’ Edwina smiled, feeling a slight unease at disclosing her criminal past, but somehow she didn’t think Harriet would judge her.
She was right. Harriet sat up with a joyous laugh. ‘I insist that you tell me every single detail of this unbelievable story if I have to wring it out of you with my own bare hands. Now, begin at the beginning.’
Edwina started to refuse, but Harriet looked so determined that it was useless. Besides, she suddenly wanted to talk about it, and found herself giving Harriet a brief account of what her life had been like working for Jack for the past six months, talking to this engaging girl as she had never talked to anyone before. At the end of the story Harriet stared at her with a combination of mirth and wonder. ‘Does that shock you?’
‘No more than you were, when you realised the great Adam Rycroft had brought you to a brothel and I was one of Mrs Drinkwater’s whores,’ she remarked, gulping down a giggle. ‘It’s too delicious for words.’
‘Do you live here, Harriet?’
‘No. Some of the girls do, but I don’t. I’ve got a room over a bakery off Drury Lane. It’s not very big, and it’s by no means grand, but it’s mine. Every night I work one of the gaming tables at Dolly’s Place, and afterwards…’ she shrugged, unabashed ‘…well, you know.’
‘Yes. Haven’t you got a family, Harriet?’
She nodded. ‘Across the river in Rotherhithe. Why?’
‘And—do they approve of what you do?’
A frown marred Harriet’s smooth forehead as she considered the question for a moment before replying. ‘I suppose not. It did cross my mind in the beginning that there is something to be ashamed of in my profession—and, in fact, there is, but my mother is poor with four little ones to bring up alone since my father died. He worked in the shipbuilding trade and met with an accident, which killed him. I send my mother what I can. She doesn’t question me how I earn it.’ She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t mean she doesn’t love me. It doesn’t matter,’ she said simply.
Edwina shook her head, unconvinced, and then, placing a hand over Harriet’s, said, ‘It doesn’t matter to me, either, Harriet.’ There could be nothing wonderful