Smirke 01 - An Unlikely Hero (4 page)

“You missed a
treat Collins. There were soldiers in blood soaked uniforms telling
their stories, sketches of the battle and even Napoleon’s eagle. I
got to touch it. I was so engaged I forgot my brother was arriving.
Have you met my little brother? John?” The poke bonnet turned
eagerly to inspect the sullen pretty man leaning heavily on his
umbrella. “I’d like you to meet my old school chum Robbie Collins.”
John held out his hand, but couldn’t pretend to care. “He’s not
well. He should be in bed. Some evil blackguard ran him through the
chest a month ago while he was still recovering from a gunshot
wound in his shoulder. Can you believe England spawns creatures
capable of such villainy?” James didn’t attach his friend’s
sceptical expression with the improbability of his brother’s
multiple wounds being undeserved. “It’s a miracle he’s alive.”

Ignoring his
brother and the slender looking woman in a dull black poke bonnet,
John approached the tempting curvaceous woman at the counter,
“Excuse me?” A pretty round face glanced up and shrunk away from
his half hearted leer. “Is your name Joan?” The lady silently shook
her head, picked up her brown wrapped package and hurried from the
store. Sighing in disappointment, John turned towards the smiling
shop keeper. “I need a sketchbook.” He didn’t notice the black poke
bonnet abandon the quills and pencils and wander across to his
side.

“Will this one
do Sir? Lawrence, the greatest portraitist of our age, uses one
just like it. It’s the softest calf skin protecting a fine heavy
paper that will take ink, pencil or light watercolour washes…”

“I don’t care
who uses it. I’m not going to sit in the park and pretend I’m
Gainsborough. I just want a blasted sketchbook. How much is
it?”

“That will be
three pounds Sir. Did you need any pencils to go with that?”

The brim of
the black poke bonnet lightly came to rest against the back of
Smirke’s neck, “I wouldn’t buy that sketchbook if I were you.”

John half
pivoted on his umbrella and glared at a long black brim an inch
under his nose, completely shielding the occupant’s identity. She
was a faceless interfering woman whose figure was hidden under a
hip length grey wool shawl and heavy black satin. He wasn’t
remotely tempted. “And if I were you Madam, I’d take my nose
and…mind your own business.”

“I still
wouldn’t buy it, it’s far too precious. Nothing you sketch ever
feels good enough for such a cover. I was given a similar one as a
gift several years ago and had to tear all the paper out. I’d get
that one on the end if I were you.” A small black glove rested
briefly on his coat sleeve sending shivers up his arm before
pointing towards a cheap black papier-mâché covered sketch
book.

“Don’t mind
her Sir. She’s an irritating female who erroneously thinks she can
draw and paint as well as a man. There’s never been a female artist
that’s ever painted a decent picture and there never will. I’m sure
you’ll fill any number of fine leather sketchbooks with beautiful
sketches Sir.”

John Smirke
flushed in anger. “My mother is a damn site more talented than
Lawrence, which is why she’s paid more per picture. I’ll take the
cheap one.”

The shop
keeper gave the young woman a dark look and plonked the cheaper
product on the counter. “Will you choose a pencil Sir or defer to
Madam’s choice?”

The cheap jibe
at John’s manhood set his teeth on edge. He kindly restrained an
impulse to whack the shopkeeper over the head with his umbrella.
“Just give me one of each and wrap them up before I take my custom
elsewhere.”

“You tell him
Mr Smirke…he’s always rude to me, but then I’m just a Vicar’s
daughter.”

“I don’t care
if you’re Satan’s daughter, take your blasted bonnet away and poke
it into some other man’s affairs.”

The bonnet
merely moved closer. “Smirke is very unusual name. Would you be the
depraved libertine who owns Bolingbroke House in Lincolnshire? You
resemble his portrait.”

Smirke took a
deep breath causing more pain in his chest and increasing his
irritation. “Yes, I own Bolingbroke House and if you’re thinking to
crawl into my bed…” Smirke sighed with relief. “…I’m not remotely
tempted you scrawny pigeon. Fly away and pester some other
wretch.”

“As if I’d
ever sleep in your hideous red velvet bed; I’d probably wake up
thinking I was in a Punch and Judy show. I’d hate to see your
beautiful nose grow long, red and ugly. The thought makes me want
to cry. Have you married?”

“No…”

“Are you in
love?”

“I don’t
discuss emotions with strangers.”

“So you’re not
in love.”

“I’m not in
love. I’m not married, and I’m not going to be sane much longer
either unless you go away.”

“Don’t you
want to know my name?”

“I don’t want
to know anything about you.”

“Why did you
ask that woman if her name was Joan?”

“None of your
business; go tell your father you’ve been speaking to the
Honourable John Smirke and if I’m lucky, he’ll whip you.” John
turned back to pay for his purchases.

“Do you think
I’d wear black and grey for the fun of it? My father’s been dead
for nearly eight months.”

“No doubt he
shot himself to escape you.”

“Actually he
was giving a sermon. He thumped the pulpit and died right in front
of the congregation, slumped over the bible and just hung there
like a wet shift drying in the…Oh no, it’s starting to rain.” John
tucked his package under his good arm and turned around to tell the
woman to go to blazes, but the black poke bonnet had vanished. As
he sighed with relief, a keenly unpleasant feeling swept through
his insides protesting that he’d just lost something precious.

James Smirke
put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, “Who was that?”

“No one and if
I never see her again it’ll be too soon. I feel odd…”

“You’re
clearly in need of a lemon drop. I’ll run down the street and buy
you a bag.” John allowed the footman to help him back into the
carriage and sighed in despair at the impossible task of finding
the one wretched woman who’d love him. With his luck she was in the
Welsh hills speaking in some ungodly Celtic tongue. His heart
slumped. How would she fall in love with him if she didn’t speak
English? He sighed in disgust as his mutinous heart spewed an
uncomfortable feeling that he’d missed something important in the
irritating young woman’s conversation. Shaking his head in defiance
he forced his thoughts back to the more pleasant subject of finding
the mysterious Joan.

The rest of
John’s week passed in relative melancholy, most of the days spent
lying on a daybed haunting his sister-in-law. When he wasn’t
grilling pretty unmarried female callers for their first names, he
was sucking on lemon drops dreaming of adventures he’d have with
his imaginary Joan. His inquiries exposed nothing, but how many
young women were saddled with abominable names. He couldn’t imagine
being romantic with someone named Bertha, Henrietta or Leticia, but
then he couldn’t actually imagine being romantic until he
understood what the word meant. All it brought to mind were hazy
memories of his parents sitting next to each other at the dining
table and laughing. It was a senseless word hungry for definition.
He couldn’t really comprehend the word charity either, but he was
trying. Instead of screaming obscenities at the maid who took
forever to bring him a lukewarm morning cup of chocolate, he
sarcastically thanked her for bringing it before sunset. It was
such a drastic reformation he was sure he was nearing sainthood.
His mental halo slipped after pinching his nieces for helping
themselves to lemon drops while he dozed through a particularly
boring caller, but overall he was quite pleased with himself. When
his sneering valet laid out a black silk suit with black waistcoat,
stockings and shoes for Sunday’s morning church service John
swallowed a protest that he’d look like Satan and meekly allowed
himself to be dressed. With his blonde hair tide back with a black
ribbon he was quite pleased with the affect even if he did look a
little too wicked for comfort.

John wasn’t a
stranger to church pews. He’d always found them excellent
situations to spy out unguarded lambs, but he’d never actually
listened to a sermon until the venomous Reverend Sylvester Lark
pointed at him from the pulpit and used him as an example of
immoral heartless depravity. John’s ability to take revenge on the
God fearing man was scuppered when the wretch died two days after
tricking John into accepting the wardship of an eighteen year old
Miss J. Lark. The wench had been away at school practically since
birth. The girl was doubtless a severe antidote bred to save
sinners. Seven months before, the wench had been sent to his
Lincolnshire home sight unseen in hopes that his vast collection of
obscene art would inspire her to run away. His hopes were dashed
along with several of his more lurid sculptures. His bank account
was the next victim. The virtuous young woman had no qualms about
redecorating his home or replenishing her mourning wardrobe. Miss
Lark was a royal pain in the backside; her endless letters begging
him to come home for a visit almost worse than the bills. Now he’d
have to find a kind way to get rid of her. It was too late to offer
her in marriage to the Earl of Mulgrave using a large dowry as
bate, even if it was tempting. Throwing any woman at Mulgrave would
be unkind. John was smiling from the thought of Mulgrave suffering
Miss Lark’s company as he took his umbrella and made his way
downstairs and out the door; tipping his hat at a cheerful angle he
hailed a hackney. His brother’s family attended the evening
service, but John was determined to brave the early congregation on
his own and swallow his dose of hellfire for the week as quickly as
possible.

Smirke slid
into his brother’s pew and looked around for a friendly face, but
the sleepy crowd was full of strangers eager to remain unknown. He
sighed with disappointment and took out a deep snuff box filled
with lemon drops and put one in his mouth. He crossed his legs and
tried in vain to ease himself into a comfortable position as he
wondered where he was supposed to begin contemplating his
wickedness. Did one start at the end, the beginning or the middle?
He settled on trying to recall his earliest wickedness as the
preacher began to drone from the pulpit.

“Psst.” Lost
in the past, John didn’t notice the young woman open the Smirke pew
door. “Pssst.” She’d slid onto the bench. “Pssssst!” John jumped as
she hissed directly into his ear, jolting both his wounds. He
turned to snarl at his tormentor, but pain dimmed as large blue
eyes the color of cornflowers sent delicious shivers through his
pleasure deprived body. If only this innocent looking lamb was his
Joan. He gulped down his next thought and leered as he took in
delicate high cheek bones and bowed lips designed to be kissed. “I
was hoping to find you here…” The familiar voice plucked at his
taut nerves like a rusty garden fork. His contemplation of her
elegant slender figure swathed in black and white striped silk
outlining understated, but perfectly balanced curves was cut short
as his pleasant thoughts were shattered. He blinked away
disappointment as the young woman from the stationers leaned
closer, enveloping him in a fog of lavender perfume. “You shouldn’t
wear so much black Mr Smirke. It makes you look like a
villain.”

“Sshhh!”
People sitting all around turned to hush at the couple with various
expressions of irritation.

“This pew is
for the Smirke family and friends.”

“I know.”

“That was a
broad hint to go to the devil. Pray do!”

“It’s very
wicked to wish someone to the devil.”

“Yes, one more
thing I have to repent of. Now go away before I do something really
wicked.” John forcefully abandoned contemplating the long elegant
neck and turned back to face front and popped another lemon drop
into his mouth. The conversation was over.

“May I have a
boiled sweet?”

“Shhhh!” The
hushing noises were coming from every direction of the chapel.

“You may have
anything as long as you promise to go sit somewhere else.” She
helped herself to several lemon drops earning another scowl.

“Where are you
staying? I need to know where to send my bills.”

The words
globbed into John’s conscious like too much honey on a perfect
piece of toast. “I was being sarcastic.” The words were as tight as
his throat. He hadn’t had a woman in months. His crossed legs
tightened uncomfortably as he foolishly glanced again at the curve
of her throat. She didn’t look like a whore, but she was obviously
offering herself for sale. John felt the darkness in his mind
recede as he folded his arms and hissed, “I’m not interested. Take
your wares elsewhere.”

“What do you
mean take my wares elsewhere? I’m not selling anything.” Her loud
whisper left the people in the nearby pews gaping in shock. “I just
need to know where you’re living. There’s no point sending my bills
to Bolingbroke if you’re in Bath.” She calmly helped herself to
another lemon drop as black marble eyes chilled with rage. “Why are
you angry? You’ve been paying my bills for almost a year. It’s
never bothered you before.”

“How dare you
sponge off me you hussy, I’ve killed men for less.”

“You shouldn’t
have killed anyone. It’s very wicked. You were probably spoiled as
a child. I understand pretty boys usually are. Has anyone ever told
you, you look like a painted Fragonard come to life? I’ve only seen
prints of course. It’s a good thing we’re in church or I might kiss
you to see if your lips taste of lacquer. These are nice lemon
drops…can I have another one?” There was a bewitching gleam in her
large blue eyes that was making John’s head spin in the opposite
direction of his rage. His innards twisted in confusion as the
congregation openly listened to the conversation on the Smirke
family pew.