The Fashionable Spy (6 page)

“I suppose I ought to be grateful. Miss Dancy. A man can always benefit from practice at making an offer of marriage.” He smiled, a lopsided arrangement of muscles that proved oddly attractive.

Victoria resolved that she most definitely would sculpture his head. Her fingers fairly itched to get at her clay.

Almost, she asked him if he had proposed to another, then caught herself short. It would be highly improper and she was a little shocked that she might have even considered such a thing for a moment.

Then he sobered. “Please keep in mind that should word of this escapade be made known, your circumstances will alter greatly.”

“Allow me to brood about that, sir. I suspect it would be for nothing.”

Sir Edward rose from the sofa, a bit stiff and with an awkwardness she’d wager he’d not known before. No doubt his tight pantaloons added to the difficulty of his injured leg. What a good thing he had not attempted his offer of marriage on bended knee, not that she expected such. She watched him with sharp eyes, wondering what he thought.

She walked with him to the door, then down the stairs to where the butler waited with a bland countenance.

“Good day. Sir Edward,” Victoria said with the best of manners. “I shall inform my sisters of your gracious expression of concern. I am certain they will agree with me on the matter at hand, that you need have no fears on the subject.” She dipped a faint curtsy, enough to be proper, then bustled off down the hall to the morning room, her soft muslin skirts swishing about her legs as she went.

Edward observed that graceful walk, the charming picture she made, then turned to the butler, who waited to help him.

He donned his beaver, then nodded to the butler as the door was cordially opened for him, and he was assisted to his coach with all pleasant goodwill. Edward couldn’t help but wonder what the old man would say if he knew that his cherished mistress had spent two nights with Edward in a remote windmill on a hill between Dover and Canterbury: Alone but for the dog.

* * * *

In the next few days Edward made it his business to nose about Town, discreetly asking leading questions and hoping that no one found them to be so. He wanted to know why Victoria Dancy sculptured mostly politicians. Oh, he had seen the head of a young girl, exquisitely done, but the girl had been the daughter of a prominent member of Parliament, one active in the war debates. Most curious.

If someone had asked him why he was so inquisitive, he would have had to reply that he found Miss Dancy something of a mystery. Fortunately for him, not a soul wondered.

However, he did acquire a basket of information about the young woman. He brought her name up with the wives, and found, somewhat to his disappointment, that Miss Dancy was indeed the soul of propriety, always insisting that doors be left open and requiring things from time to time so maids or footmen were frequently in and about the rooms where she worked.

The wives confided that they found Miss Dancy to be unthreatening. Oh, they didn’t phrase it in precisely those words. Rather, Edward heard them say things like, “Miss Dancy is such a polite young woman, and dresses in such a modest way.” He took that to mean that she hadn’t been observed flirting and that while in residence her gowns were not the sort to be envied.

That she had that monster of a dog made her all the more welcome, oddly enough. Few cared to get close to her, for it seemed that Sable appeared ferocious and growled when anyone neared his mistress. The women felt even their husbands received a message from Sable:

they must keep their distance. The smiles of delight were not missed by Edward. A few had gone so far as to purchase large dogs.

The most disturbing event occurred when he went to visit a friend known by him to be less than discreet upon occasion. A pity he couldn’t make this known to his superiors, but Edward had avoided placing Haycroft in any position of security consequence.

“Edward, old boy how are you?” Robert Haycroft exclaimed as Edward joined him in the musty study where Robert had lately spent a great deal of his time poring over dispatches for the war office. The room had that look of a well-loved place, with stacks of leather-bound books here and there, an antique globe in a dim corner, and with comfortable chairs for a man to enjoy, not those spindly things one often found in the drawing room.

“Well enough.” Edward gestured to his leg with his cane. “Had a bit of trouble with a nasty piece of road in a spot of bad weather. Other than that, I’m as right as rain. And you? What do you find to keep busy?”

While he spoke, Edward’s eyes had been caught by a recently acquired bust near the window. Upon closer inspection it was revealed to be a bust of Haycroft, a truly excellent representation. Edward strolled over to look at the bust more closely, then turned to find Haycroft as his side.

“Dashed fine work, what?” Haycroft demanded.

“Extremely so. You commissioned this?”

“Miss Dancy. All the rage, y’know, and most choosy. Won’t do just anyone. Why, had a devil of a time convincing her to do my likeness.” Haycroft struck a proud pose not far from the window to ensure that his friend couldn’t fail to note the splendid resemblance between the bust and his face, his poetic curls.

“Hm,” Edward mused. “I must confess that every work of hers that I have seen has been first-rate.” He bent over to study the fine detailing that seemed to be a part of Miss Dancy’s technique. Such an approach would be time-consuming and require meticulous attention to specifics. She would need to study her subject
very
closely indeed. “How did you manage to persuade her? Money?”

A cagey look crept over Robert’s face, and he grinned at his good friend. “No trouble, really. Knew old Pottinger over in the war office, and had him put in a good word for me. Worked like a charm. Helps to know someone she has done, y’see.”

“I see,” Edward murmured. It seemed that being an up-and-coming baronet would not be sufficient, nor the ability to pay handsomely for her talent. One needed credentials. He wondered wryly just what percentage of her clients had come through the war office. Well, he could satisfy that requirement fairly easily. He knew any number of people in the war office, and it ought to be a simple matter to obtain the necessary recommendation. Perhaps Castlereagh would oblige?

He smiled at his old friend, then drifted over to sit down while they covered other interesting topics, such as who was dangling after whom, which horse they favored at the next Newmarket race, and other vital Society issues.

* * * *

Victoria had been busy as well. In her social life, which was nicely active, she discreetly probed, quietly questioned, and learned much that disturbed her.

“As near as I can figure,” she confided to Julia over the nuncheon table, “he makes quite a number of quick little trips about the country, usually south into Kent. While it is true he appears to have an estate there, it seems his destination all too frequently is Dover. It is amazing what can be pieced together from the artless conversation with ladies who are cast off.

“I thought you told me he is unattached.”

“He is at the present, but there have been a number of rather attractive women who held great hopes of being Lady Hawkswood. I heard a rumor that he might be elevated to a higher rank before too long, and that always attracts a certain sort of woman. Some service to the crown, according to my source.”

“I cannot say I approve of the methods you use to extract this information,” Julia replied, her glance measuring. “It seems to me perilously close to gossip, and so unladylike.”

“Do not be absurd. All I need to do is drop the hint, then listen. Do you know that a wounded heart heals rather quickly? But the lady never seems to forget an imagined slight.” Victoria grinned at Julia, then attacked her food with a healthy appetite.

“Do you know that I have at last had opportunity,” Julia said, changing the topic from wounded hearts to a more agreeable one, “to read that book
Pride and Prejudice?
“ ‘Tis vastly enjoyable. I believe I should enjoy meeting the woman who wrote that. Do you think she would ever appear at Lady Titchbourne’s? I found Miss Edgeworth rather charming when she came.”

“The conversaziones? I doubt it. I have heard that the author is a rather retiring person.”

“As we ought to be, my dear.”

“How dreadfully dull.”

“What is dreadfully dull?” Elizabeth inquired as she rounded the corner of the dining room. “Why does no one ever call me to meals?” She flounced over to the sideboard to fill a plate with a selection of food.

“You know all the servants respect our creative privacy when we are at work. We wished it so, to prevent any problems, particularly with your engraving.”

“How did it go this morning?” Victoria said, reaching out to wipe off a spot of ink from her sister’s cheek.

“I do believe I am becoming rather good at duplicating French banknotes. I doubt if Napoleon himself could detect the difference.” Elizabeth grinned at her sisters.

Every stroke they could aim at bringing the downfall of the hated Corsican, no matter how small, was cause for jubilation in the Dancy household. Napoleon was responsible for their parents’ death. The Dancys all nurtured an intense desire for revenge on the man, if not the country.

“Well, I hope we can continue to keep our efforts a secret,” Victoria murmured. “Only Julia is able to paint, secure in the knowledge she’ll not be asked to spy.’’

Julia smiled. “I have been invited to do a painting of a very notable person. I am to do his
eye,
no less!”

“No!” Victoria and Elizabeth exclaimed in unison, with Elizabeth dissolving into giggles.

“At least no one can accuse you of looking for secrets in a gentleman’s eye,” Victoria added with a chuckle.

“I shall do my utmost to keep questions about our behavior from arising,” Julia said with a look of concern.

“As long as no one suspects a thing, we shall be fine.” Victoria gave her sisters a smug look and sat back in her chair to sip her cup of tea. “And I doubt if anyone does.’’

Chapter 4

“There, now, to be done with this head,” murmured Victoria as she vigorously stirred a pot of white goo.

An enormous white canvas apron nearly engulfed her as she worked on a plaster cast of the head she had completed before stopping at Dover. How fortunate her patron was not the sort to be anxious and in a rush, but a relaxed gentleman . . . who also had proved to be quite innocent of any possible charges of spying, as far as Victoria could find out during her stay. Her report to the war office was no doubt a disappointment, but she had done what she could. Now she took a needed break from her efforts at deciphering. She’d go mad, otherwise.

She stirred the plaster until it reached the thick, creamy consistency she preferred, then began to coat the clay head, section by section, taking care to smooth the plaster right up against the shims. These formed the sections that would enable her to separate the plaster of Paris from the original model once it hardened.

“Well, you certainly have been busy,” Elizabeth commented as she bounced into the room. Taking care not to come too close, she watched as the final strokes of plaster were applied with the spatula and Victoria set the head on its stand to complete the drying process.

“Believe me, I was most thankful to see my careful packing has saved the head from any damage. I did not dare inspect it until I reached home, for fear something would go wrong. That is another good reason for sculpturing in wax—it is so tough and durable, I believe I shall do all my work in wax after this. This clay gave me anxious moments.” She gave a considering nod as she studied her efforts. “Wait until you see the old gentleman, I think him quite handsome in his own peculiar way.”

“You flatter these men shamelessly.” Elizabeth giggled as she strolled across to study other models sitting neatly upon a shelf. “Just look at them, so stately, all in a row.”

There were several wax busts, quite a few plaster-of-Paris heads, and one figure that had been cast in bronze and awaited delivery to the man who had commissioned it.

“Nonsense,” denied Victoria, with an answering grin. “I merely try to bring out the best in each person. Even his friends will see a strong likeness, and by emphasizing the finer points, the patron will be pleased.”

She thought of Sir Edward, resolving to try to meet him again. Her sketches of him were lacking something. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was, and it frustrated her to no end. Never would she admit that she desired to see him because she found him quite fascinating as a man.

“You have a spot of plaster on your nose,” Elizabeth offered kindly.

“I see you do not offer to remove it.” Victoria glanced at her sister before checking the clock on the mantel of the fireplace across the room. It was a plain timepiece with large, easily read numbers, the sort to be seen from a distance. She walked to the small sink at the end wall. This was the only room in the house, other than the kitchen, that had water piped from the cistern to a sink. The girls had determined that they did not want a servant in and out while bringing all the water they required for cleaning up after their various projects. They all made frequent use of it, thankful for their foresight. How lovely it would be if it might have been heated first!

“You will take care of it. ‘Tis not like ink, after all.” Elizabeth walked to her desk.

Victoria turned the handle of the faucet and watched a bit of water run into a basin. Shutting off the water, she cleaned her hands and the spatula before returning to work, quite forgetting the spot of plaster on her nose. Clean hands were a necessity while working, and she hated the feel of the plaster on her hands.

Elizabeth checked the Argand lamp that sat in readiness to light her work. She demanded strong light and had magnifying glasses in several strengths. Pots of ink stood in a ragged row, with pens and nibs tumbled in a heap. Etching needles and gravers, burnishers, and other necessary items were scattered about. A copper plate waited her touch. A sheet of thin transparent paper lay atop a sketch she had done earlier. She was not as tidy with her area as Victoria. Nor was Julia, come to think of it. A casual inspection revealed her elder sister’s portion of the high-ceilinged room was littered with chunks of ore for grinding to make her own special paint colors, bottles of oil and other media, small sections of canvas. Protected by placement in a cabinet were the delicate ovals of ivory, a favorite surface for her miniatures.