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PURCHASE

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PROLOGUE

The Past

March 1845

The first time Musa Bartham’s father saw the woman who’d become her mother, it was at a masked ball in Venice during Carnivale. The lady in question was the only one without a mask in a crowd of over a hundred. However, instead of standing out from a lack of sophistication, she glowed like a daffodil in a field of lavender. A falling star amid a cloudless night.

Later, Musa’s father would tell his children this was the moment he knew he’d marry her.

He was not wrong. But it wouldn’t be as simple as anticipated.

“Who is she?” he begged the ball’s hostess, Lady Minerva Hadley. She was a widowed art collector with a palazzo on the Grand Canal in Venice.

“Neil Bartham? Is that you?” Lady Minerva retorted. “I must admit I hadn’t expected your attendance! I thought you were too busy painting to mingle with society.” She tapped his hand with her ivory fan. “You’re interested in her?”

I’m not just interested, Neil thought. I plan to wed her. But this wasn’t what one said, especially if one was an impoverished English artist in Venice.

While he considered the best way to reply to Lady Minerva’s inquiry, he stole another look at the object of his marital ambitions.

The lady in question appeared only a year or two junior to his three and twenty. She wore no adornment save a slender choker of pearls and a cluster of pale gardenias pinned to her bodice. Necklace and flower were nearly the same shade as her silver-blonde hair, which hung in well-behaved curls to her waist. Her petite figure was set off in a simple ecru gown sewn of damask. A matching set of opera gloves covered her fingers, leaving Neil unable to tell whether she’d been claimed as someone’s wife. This troubled him deeply.

But she’s meant to be my wife, he thought madly and improbably.

And then her eyes met his. They widened as though she was struck by something wonderful yet terrifying. Her eyes were the same shade as cornflowers on an Alpine meadow. Not only were they beautiful, they bore kindness. An element of mercy. Even more so, he made out a spark of recognition in her eyes, as though they’d met before in another time and place.

This made no sense, but there it was.

“Well, Mr. Bartham?” Lady Minerva prodded. “Answer my question! Are you interested in her?”

“I-I’d like her to pose for me, my lady. Do you know her?”

Lady Minerva laughed. “Oh, I know her all right. She’s my niece.”

“What’s your niece’s name?”

Neil hadn’t the self-control to play coy. By then he’d nicknamed Musa’s future mother La Dame avec Merci, for she was as different from the La Dame sans Merci of Keat’s poem as sugar from salt. As mad as it was, Neil sensed a thread tying him to his La Dame avec Merci—a thread that led all the way to his future, and his children’s future, and beyond.

He saw his La Dame avec Merci seated beside him in his painting studio. He saw her in his future home, a mansion created by art and love. But, most of all, he saw four children tumbling about their feet, three girls and a boy, some bearing her light hair, others with his dark.

Before Lady Minerva could supply her niece’s name, a rise of applause intervened. The guest of honor had arrived. Ethan Sutton, the powerful art critic who’d bankrolled Neil’s travel from England to Venice and had insured his invitation to Lady Minerva’s ball. Neil forced himself to turn from his La Dame avec Merci to acknowledge his benefactor. Besides, Neil hadn’t seen Sutton in over six months, since the art critic’s marriage to a woman whom Neil had yet to meet.

As for Neil’s La Dame avec Merci, she approached Sutton. And then she was beside Sutton. Clutching Sutton’s hand.

No. Neil was unable to think beyond that one panicked syllable.

“Here she is!” Sutton called to the crowd. “The former Miss Clio Hadley, now my bride!”

No, Neil thought again.

Neil awaited the thread he’d sensed to break, all those ripe scenes of artistic and domestic bliss scattering like beads from a broken necklace. The house, the children, the artistic renown. But, if anything, his desire was only renewed.

Even then, Neil knew this was not good. He didn’t care.

“We’re here on our honeymoon,” Sutton continued. “But we’re not without companions . . .” He pointed toward Neil, voice booming. “I see you, Bartham! Everyone, my protégé, Neil Bartham, the artist who will save British painting. Come, join us here!”

Somehow Neil set one foot in front of the other as he approached his benefactor. One step, another. And then he was before her, his Dame avec Merci who bore the unexpected name of Mrs. Clio Sutton.

The woman married to his benefactor.

The bride now on her honeymoon in Venice, the most romantic city in the world.

The muse who was meant to be his wife, not Sutton’s.

“Good evening, Mr. Bartham,” Clio said in a musical voice.

“The same to you, Mrs. Sutton,” Neil replied.

And then Clio set her gloved hand in Neil’s. The unexpected contact thrilled him beyond anything he’d ever experienced in his life.

Clio whispered, “Have we met before?”

“I was wondering the same, Mrs. Sutton,” Neil whispered back. “I’ve never felt like this—”

He broke off, knowing he’d been madly forward. But, to his relief, a tremulous smile crowned her lips.

“I feel the exact same way, Mr. Bartham—I can’t explain it.” Then she pronounced the words that would seal their fates. “You must call on me tomorrow. I won’t accept a refusal.”

Ten minutes later, Clio and Neil were on an overly familiar first name basis.

Ten days later, they fled Venice together in the dead of night, winning Musa’s future mother the snide nickname of the Muse of Scandal. The moniker was inspired by both circumstances and her namesake—Clio had been named after the Greek muse of history.

Ten months later, Clio and Neil returned to London. They wed after the Suttons’ marriage was annulled for reasons Clio refused to reveal; her belly already swelled with child. The resulting scandal left the newlyweds exiled from polite society, but burnished Neil’s artistic reputation to a fine sheen.

Ten years later, their four children, the first of whom was Musa, tumbled about their feet. Alas, as Musa and her siblings grew into adulthood, no one would receive them in society, leaving her sisters without marriage prospects, her brother shunned of opportunity. By the time Musa turned twenty, this realization led her father to undertake a desperate sacrifice—one which would have lasting repercussions for his family.

Neil gathered his paints and brushes. He kissed his beloved wife and children goodbye. Then he set off on a long and arduous pilgrimage for the Holy Land, where he planned to spend two years painting religious scenes of a treacle-hued sentimentality guaranteed to melt the heart of the frostiest London doyen. Through this act, Neil would rehabilitate the Bartham name into society’s graces, thus restoring his children’s futures and his wife’s reputation.

He would never return.

CHAPTER ONE

The Present

In January of 1872, the inglorious Bartham family had been reduced from a West Kensington mansion of art to a shabby two-story townhouse in Brompton. This townhouse had been let only through the practical enterprises of Neil and Clio’s eldest daughter, Musa. By then, Musa had reached the ripe age of twenty-six without an offer for her hand. This was in spite of her lustrous chestnut hair, willowy figure, and considerable intelligence—for the Barthams remained as outcast from society as they had prior to Neil’s departure for the Holy Land.

For the best, Musa told herself. She didn’t mind being a spinster. Unlike her tragically romantic parents, Musa bore a practical mind, the sort able to find solutions where others gave up. Thus, after a number of unsuccessful financial attempts, she’d taken upon herself to support her family through the means of poetry—and not just any poetry.

Poetry that dripped with florid emotion.

Poetry with rhyme schemes that brought flushes to cheeks and heat to groins.

Poetry that proved lucrative with gentlemen who yearned for forbidden encounters in nocturnal gardens scented with jasmine, and ladies who fantasized of kisses on chaise lounges hidden behind gilt-lacquered screens.

In other words, love poetry.

The irony that this love poetry was written by a young woman resolved never to wed was not lost on Musa, though her poems were shockingly passionate for one whose heart had never sped at the clandestine brush of a hand. But Musa had seen enough during the course of her life. She’d learned that grand passions, such as the one leading to her parents’ marriage, led to grand scandals—and, if Musa were to have only one rule for her family, it would be no more scandals. To prevent further damage to their Bartham name, Musa’s poetry books were written under the pen name of Felicity Vita.

Outside of her publisher, only Musa’s sister Angela knew of Felicity’s existence; their mother Clio remained too bereft to notice much beyond Neil’s absence. She just assumed Musa found some way to monetize their father’s art. Musa didn’t dissuade her.

However, considerations of scandals were far from Musa’s mind that winter morning. She thought only of providing for her family. Her father, for all his intentions, had left her mother with only enough income to survive for three years while he was off seeking respectability. Now, six years after his departure, they’d have been forced into the poorhouse had it not been for Musa’s literary enterprises.

As Musa prepared to depart the Barthams’ two-story townhouse to provide for her family, she’d just finished imbibing a warming second cup of tea. (No sugar, only lemon.) It was Friday, which was Musa’s usual day to run errands. That day, she’d visit her publisher near Fleet Street with fair copies of poems for her next book, which was several weeks overdue, and collect mail addressed to her nom de plume. All necessary tasks to keep the Barthams fed and housed . . . though she did take a disconcerting amount of pleasure in the mail. Especially one gentleman’s correspondence. A gentleman she’d never meet in person, alas.

Henry Whitney was his name. It was a good name. A solid name. The name of a man who wrote the best letters she’d ever read in her life. Her editor advised not to answer, but Musa hadn’t been able to resist. Henry’s last letter pressed to meet her, but she’d regretfully declined. It was impossible. Anyway, love was better in letters than in real life—of this Musa was certain.

However, that Friday morning would not be like others. As Musa approached the front door, satchel in one hand, umbrella in the other—she’d noticed a gray cloud suggesting rain rather than snow—the doorbell clattered.

“I’ll answer it!” Musa called to their overtaxed maid of all work, the only staff they could afford.

By the time Musa reached the door, the bell pull had been deployed four more times, evidence of their visitor’s impatience.

She thrust the door open. “Aunt Minerva?”

Musa let her mouth gape. Her elderly dowager of a great-aunt was not expected. Nor was she particularly welcomed. Not after all that happened.

Musa had only met Lady Minerva Hadley once. Seven years earlier, Minerva had confronted the Barthams at the funeral of an ancient cousin—an encounter that ended with the dowager shouting about how Neil ruined her niece Clio’s life “because he was ruled by his stiff John Thomas instead of his brain.” Whether Minerva had communicated since with Clio in the intervening years Musa did not know. But Musa had attempted such. After Neil’s disappearance, she’d written Aunt Minerva five times apprising her of Clio’s distress and their financial difficulties. Minerva never responded. This did not win Musa’s favor.

And now here she was, at the Barthams’ door.

Without a word of welcome Aunt Minerva pushed her way inside, her sharp eyes scanning the dank hallway, the water-stained wallpaper, which was barely hidden behind her father’s oil paintings and other works of art. She offered a silent shudder, her aquiline nose wrinkling as though she’d smelled something foul. Musa recalled they had fish the night before; she’d grown accustomed to the stench. On top of this, a sour chord drifted from the parlor amid raised voices. Her fifteen-year-old brother, Theo, arguing with his twin sister Lyra over the piano, which hadn’t been tuned in ages. The two youngest Barthams got along like oil and water.

“Your family’s situation is worse than I’ve been informed,” Aunt Minerva greeted. “And it’s all your father’s fault.”

“Good morning, Aunt.” Musa did her best to keep her voice free of shock. She recalled to bob a curtsey, hoping her aunt had reconsidered Musa’s requests for help.

“You’re the eldest girl then? Musa, if I recall. What a ridiculous name!”

Musa flinched. “I like my name. It means ‘inspiration’ in Italian—”

“I do speak Italian, you know. Perhaps you’ve forgotten I’ve a palazzo in Venice along with a townhouse in Mayfair. How tall are you, miss?”

“Tall enough, ma’am.”

Musa was statuesque like her father. Lady Minerva’s comment had intended to insult.

Moving past the slight, Musa said in her most ingratiating voice, “You look healthy, Aunt.”

“Spare the flattery, miss. I didn’t want to come here. You should know this and be grateful.”

Well, excuse me. Musa clutched her poems against her chest, that second cup of tea churning in her stomach. She should have taken it with milk instead of lemon.

“Is Mama expecting you?” she replied, more alarmed than she cared to show. Clio rarely wrote to anyone these days. For the most part, all she did was lie in bed when she wasn’t sleeping or rereading old love letters from Neil. Occasionally she’d venture downstairs or into the garden as though to remind herself the world still existed beyond her room.

“No, miss. Where is your sister Angela?”

“Why do you ask?” Angela was the beauty of the family, or so people said. She most resembled the ethereal Clio, who’d been a great beauty in her day. Angela danced with a grace equal to the great Taglioni of earlier in the century. Angela was kind. Sweet. Of all the Barthams, she’d taken their fall from society’s grace the hardest, though she rarely complained. Musa had confessed to Angela about her poetry to reassure their family’s financial woes were addressed.

“Aren’t you saucy? If you must know, she’s written me.” Her brow arched. “A desperate letter too!”

“She hadn’t told me.” Why hadn’t Angela confided in her? Why would Aunt Minerva respond to Angela but not Musa?

Aunt Minerva’s tone rose. “Again, where is Angela?”

“I don’t know,” Musa lied, knowing perfectly well her sister was still in the dining room. When Musa last spied Angela, she was dolloping cream on her porridge with a voluptuous sigh; cream was a luxury for their household.

Musa’s spine prickled with a dread she couldn’t quantify. Her dread combined with the urge to protect Angela. Surely Angela made a mistake writing Minerva.

Then it was too late.

The disturbance of Aunt Minerva’s arrival drew Angela into the hallway, looking as lovely as ever though she wasn’t dressed for visitors. Her silvery-blonde tresses dangled in graceful curls to her waist, much like Clio’s as a young woman. Angela’s petite beauty was only enhanced in that she was wearing one of Clio’s Japanese silk kimonos over her nightdress, which Neil had used as a painting prop in the early days of their marriage. Angela appeared a nymph of the woods, a fairy of old. Beauty itself as well as kindness.

Musa frowned as Angela thrust herself into Minerva’s arms with a too familiar air.

“Oh, Aunt, thank you so much for coming!” Angela fawned in an overly sweet tone. “You’ll help me find a husband then?”

“Husband?” Musa’s stomach turned even queasier. “What’s this?”

“Shush, Musa!” Angela whispered, eyes darting. “Don’t spoil things for me.”

Musa answered in a low firm voice, “You’ve no need for a husband, Angela. You know why.“

Because no one worthy of you will associate with our family.

Musa believed Angela to be as resolved to spinsterhood as she was. Yes, there’d been that flirtation when Angela was eighteen with a dancer visiting from Paris. But that had been a slip of the heart. Nothing at all like their parents.

Aunt Minerva extracted herself from Angela’s arms. She smoothed her purple day suit as though wiping off a child’s muddy handprints. “You’re Angela, I presume?”

Angela curtsied prettily, batting her thick eyelashes. “Yes, ma’am. I’m so delighted you’re here!”

Minerva peered at Angela through her gold-rimmed lunettes. “How old are you, miss?”

“Twenty-three come April, ma’am.”

“You’re a beauty though a bit long in the tooth. No inappropriate suitors to gossip?”

Angela flushed. “Just as I wrote, ma’am. None at all.”

“Angela, what’s going on?” Musa pressed, growing even more alarmed.

“Hush!” Aunt Minerva snapped. To Angela: “No other scandals I should be aware of, miss? Perhaps something someone else in your family has done?” A glare in Musa’s direction. “Or your sister?”

Angela met Musa’s eyes for the briefest moment.

Musa again sensed dread rising from her stomach. Or curdled tea.

She thought of Felicity Vita, the scandal should anyone discover the truth. She’d been so careful to cover her tracks. Writing her manuscript fair copies with her left hand so no one would recognize her handwriting—it helped that Musa was ambidextrous. Destroying all her drafts—it helped they’d scant servants. But Musa had never considered her sister a vulnerability.

“No, Aunt. Nothing,” Angela responded.

Musa pressed in what she hoped was a reasonable tone, “Angela, please tell me what you wrote Aunt Minerva.”

“Something wise regarding her future. Unlike your parents, or you for that matter,” Minerva said dryly. “Very well, Angela. I’ll introduce you to society—from there it’ll be up to you to win a husband. Though you’re pretty enough, I must warn you’ll have a difficult time thanks to your parents’ foolishness. But first, I should speak to your mother. Where is she?”

“In her bedroom. Upstairs!”

Angela grabbed her great-aunt’s hand and pulled her from the hallway. Musa followed, imagining what they would find in Clio’s room. Clio half-asleep in her rumpled negligee, clutching the last love letters Neil sent before his disappearance. A trail of crumpled handkerchiefs next to her pillows. Bottles of medication and various herbal teas and potions intended to calm nerves and heal any imagined illnesses.

Friday morning or no, Musa’s publisher—and Felicity Vita—would have to wait.

CHAPTER TWO

On the other side of London, Sebastian Atkinson was embracing a dark-haired temptress, one with whom he’d exchanged plenty of letters. Though they’d never met in person, that night she’d miraculously arrived at his door. Now she laid beside him in his bed, which was more than he’d ever dared to dream. The temptress was dressed in yards of pink silk and expensive lace; fabric fine enough that her glorious body shimmered beneath it, for she wore no chemise or stays. The translucent fabric allowed Seb to recognize the nubs of her nipples, the dark valley between her thighs.

Seb’s fingers trailed along the swell of her hips. The curve of her breasts.

He murmured against her neck, “You agreed to see me after all.”

She laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh of ridicule. No, it was a kind laugh. A laugh akin to a caress.

“I’ve been waiting for your invitation, Seb. Why did you take so long?”

Seb groaned. “Why indeed.”

She leaned over his reclining form, her graceful fingers tracing the muscles of his arms. Her nipples teased his chest as her mouth traced the seashell curve of his ear, whispering sweet verses.

Poetry.

Poetry that awakened his deepest yearnings.

Poetry that evoked his most tender emotions, as if the author herself could see inside his very soul.

Poetry written by the temptress now pressing her lips against his neck—a temptress who bore the all-too-enticing name of Felicity Vita.

Felicity Vita was the love poet all of London buzzed about, for everyone yearned to uncover her identity. Some said she was a noblewoman in disguise. Others ventured she was someone far less genteel. Felicity’s first book, Verses of Love Lost and Love Found, aroused quite the rumpus, though it was ever so tasteful in its descriptions of sensuality. From there, the poetess published a volume of poetry every six months like clockwork, her latest being The Poetics of Passion. However, though no one could figure out the secret behind her nom de plume, somehow he, Sebastian Atkinson, a twenty-eight-year-old gentleman artist with few guineas to his name, had somehow lured Felicity Vita into his bed.

Sebastian sighed with impatience as Felicity raised the hem of his nightshirt. He wished he’d gone to bed naked to expedite their intimacies, but the January chill was too sharp in his attic. Nor had he anticipated Felicity would show up at his door. Hadn’t her last letter informed him they must never meet?

But this no longer mattered. Not anymore. Felicity was there. In his bed. Beside him.

Seb was swiftly undressed by Felicity’s eager hands, his muscled torso a swirl of shadows beneath her lace-covered figure. He strained to make out her features in the darkened room.

“Please, show me your face,” he begged. “I’ll light a candle.”

She laughed again, a honey-warm sound. “I can see well enough. Come here . . .”

Soon he was flat on his back. She reclined above him, her kisses growing bolder. He wove his fingers into her long dark tresses.

“Let me see you, Felicity. I’m begging.”

Again, that low honeyed laugh. “Beg away.”

Alas, no matter how close she approached, Seb still couldn’t make out her features. It was as though she was there yet nowhere. Nothing yet everything. An amalgam of ideals, all too wonderful to exist. Like true love itself. Like a dream.

All of a sudden, everything began to shake and shudder like an earthquake about Seb.

“Are you alright?” Felicity asked in a strange, deep voice before she turned her attention to places south. She kissed and stroked him until he thought he could take no more.

Sebastian answered her with a long moan. Her caresses were so able and eager. Real. He felt on the edge of losing himself to the most exquisite pleasure . . .

More shaking in his bed. A splash of cold water.

* * *

“Seb! Wake up! Are you alright?”

Seb’s eyes blinked open. He was soaking wet, still in his bed. Any lingering arousal deflated.

Only a dream. But oh, what a dream!

It was morning, not night. He was still dressed from the day before. And he was alone in his room save for his best friend, Lucas Ward, who was shaking his shoulder with one hand, clutching a water jug in his other.

“You threw water at me,” Seb gritted out.

“You were having a nightmare,” Luke explained, setting the emptied water jug on a mantel. “You were moaning and shaking! You wouldn’t wake up. I was alarmed.”

“So am I.”

Seb drew a deep breath, barely noticing his soaked clothes in the wake of his pounding head. A harsh gray glare streamed rudely into his room, which laid up a precarious stairway in an attic aerie overlooking the whole of Spitalfields. It was an expansive room, large enough for Seb’s needs as an artist—one wall featured his oils, another his drawings and watercolors. There was a skylight, an array of windows. A sandbag hanging from one beam for exercise. Most importantly, the attic was cheap, which allowed him to save money so he could provide for his two sisters, who remained in their family home back in Kent. He’d been forced into daily labor upon the unexpected deaths of his parents a year and a half earlier.

Cheap room or not, right now the attic felt far too large and far too light-filled for his liking. Everything was spinning.

He groaned. A hangover, that’s what he had. A monster hangover. Worse, he still felt mildly drunk. How could this be after hours of sleep?

Seb pulled himself against his pillow, which was thankfully drier than his bed. He gestured for a towel, which Luke handed him—Luke who’d brought him home in his protective way, though Seb questioned how they’d arrived there. He seemed to recall running out of funds . . . and yet somehow they’d gotten back to Spitalfields all the way from Kensington.

Had Luke stiffed the hansom? He probably did.

As Seb mopped his hair, he tried to puzzle through everything that had occurred the previous evening. He and Luke went to the pub near the printing house where they both worked, Luke as a journalist, Seb as a pressman. Seb was upset. (Well, he wouldn’t think why he’d been upset—it was all too embarrassing in the context of his dream. Not until he’d gotten coffee into him, if his stomach allowed.) Luke was astute enough to notice Seb’s distress. After all, they’d known each since they were boys in Kent. Luke even lived with Seb’s family for a while, before making his way to London to seek his fortune as a writer. In an attempt to distract Seb from his emotions, Luke matched him glass for glass. Seb soon outpaced him, which led to them running out of money, which had probably encouraged Seb’s all-too-intense dream.

Dreams of Felicity Vita, the poet.

Felicity Vita, his pen pal for the past year and a half.

Felicity, who sent letters addressed to a postbox bearing the name of Henry Whitney, a name Seb chose to protect his identity for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.

Felicity, who’d written to him yesterday stating they could never meet in person, in response to a desperate letter Seb sent. “Just meet me one time,” he’d begged, “though I hope it will lead to more than that.” He’d issued the invitation knowing he’d have to confess the truth that he was naught but an impoverished artist—but now this would never be.

The poet answered tersely in response:

Darling Henry,

Let us enjoy the communion of our Souls through our Words, not our Bodies. True Love is an Ideal only spoiled by the intrusion of Life—this is a Truth I know from personal experience.

I look forward to your next letter!

Yours in literature and affection,

Felicity

Seb was devastated by her rejection, though he knew it was ridiculous. Who was he to presume so much of a famed poetess? To ask her to set her anonymity at risk? Anyway, they’d continue their correspondence. This would have to be enough.

It wasn’t.

You can’t love someone you never met, he lectured himself. You’ve been swept away by your emotions. Again.

“Sorry I threw water at you,” Luke continued. “You were really—”

“Inebriated. I know.”

Seb pulled on his boots in a quest to avoid the puddle of water beside his bed. He quickly changed into a dry shirt. It appeared fairly clean.

“You’re too good to watch over me, Luke. About last night . . .”

“You weren’t thinking straight,” Luke finished, offering him a small glass of brandy for his hangover. “Don’t worry about the hansom. He didn’t mind us not paying.”

Seb pulled a face at the brandy. “I don’t believe that.”

Luke offered a devil-may-care shrug, a gesture Seb recognized too well. “I told him you were deathly ill, and he’d be rewarded in heaven for his kindness.”

“You never change. Next you’ll tell me we did him a favor.”

“Perhaps we did. What’s better than the glow of a good deed?”

“The satisfaction of honesty.” It was one thing to pull pranks, as they did while boys in Kent, quite another to skirt the law in London.

“Honesty . . .” Luke’s blithe tone turned somber. “Very well then, I’ll be honest with you.”

Now it all came out, the conversation they’d avoided the previous evening. Not that Luke knew about Seb’s correspondence with Felicity, which he kept locked away in his desk. Seb had simply confessed there was a woman who’d rejected him. Someone he thought he loved—Luke would have laughed at his moon-faced obsession with the anonymous love poet.

“Whoever you’re enamored with,” Luke said, wagging a finger, “it needs to stop. She’s rejected you. Done. Move on.”

Seb gagged down a sip of brandy before replying. “I know, I know. But the heart isn’t so obedient.”

“To be honest, I think you’re still grieving your parents.”

“Can’t one grieve and also be infatuated?”

“I suppose you’ve a point. But here’s something else to consider. You’ve barely painted in weeks.” Luke pointed to Seb’s latest painting, which was sketched in only sepia oil washes. “This looks like a pot of mud thrown at a canvas. What’s it supposed to be?”

“Keats. La Dame sans Merci.”

“Ah. Could have fooled me.”

Seb gestured weakly. “I’m still in the early stages. Still figuring things out. Are you done criticizing me?”

“No,” Luke replied. “You’re distracted at work. Everyone’s noticed—you nearly incinerated a pile of newspapers, for god’s sake! If nothing else, think of me. You’re making me look bad since—”

“You recommended me for the job. And I do appreciate it, Luke, I really do.”

“You can’t continue like this, Seb. Whoever this woman may be, she must be trouble if you won’t even confide to me who she is.”

“I’m a gentleman,” Seb protested, his face heating anew. “A gentleman never tells.”

Luke scoffed. “Whenever you’ve taken a shine to someone in the past, I’ve always been the first person you told.”

Another sip of brandy. “I’ve learned to be tactful.”

“Tactful? You?” Luke laughed. “You’re a waterfall of emotions. A seeping revelation of whatever hits your heart and soul. That makes you a great artist—yes, I do believe this—but also a terrible liar.” He leaned in. “Tell the truth: are you involved with a married woman? Or a courtesan, though who knows how you’d pay for her? Is that why you’re so secretive?”

Seb grimaced. “No! Nothing like that.”

“Someone famous who refuses to be seen with you?”

This cut too close. “None of your business.”

“Ooh feisty!”

“Anyway, it’s over, Luke. Well, not exactly over—we’re still friends. Just it won’t progress further. She wrote as much to me. That’s why I was so upset.”

Though I desperately wish it wasn’t so.

And here was the bitter kernel of Seb’s obsession: writing to Felicity under the guise of Henry Whitney had allowed him to express truths he’d never dared admit even in the darkest hours of the night. Truths he didn’t dare share with Luke or his two sisters.

Felicity was the only one who understood. Felicity was the only one who knew his true soul . . . though not enough to meet with him.

It was three weeks after his parents’ unexpected deaths that Seb wrote Felicity Vita for the first time. It was a letter of appreciation, explaining how her poems offered comfort in the wake of his loss. He was shocked when she responded directly to his letter. “I lost my father nearly five years ago,” she’d answered in an elegant hand. “I understand your sorrow—the loss weighs on one’s Soul.” From there, their correspondence grew. In recent months, he found himself checking his postbox every day, rereading her letters over and over. All this had led him to issue his impetuous invitation to meet in person . . . and that dream.

Seb grew warm, recalling the dream’s explicit quality. For all he knew, Felicity Vita was a fifty-year-old widow in Scotland with dozens of pen pals. She could even be a man.

Luckily, Luke didn’t notice Seb’s ruddy face. “Whatever’s going on, let it go.”

“I know I should. But I can’t.”

Luke led him toward the sandbag hanging from a corner beam. “Go! Punch it. Do whatever you can to get her out of your system.”

“I’ve tried that many a time.” Seb’s muscles had become decidedly stronger in recent weeks.

“Try talking to her again. Convince her of your worth. You’re talented, you’ve a manor house in Kent, damn it!”

“You mean a ramshackle house falling apart.”

“It won’t be once you make your fortune as an artist.” Luke gestured at the canvas of La Dame sans Merci. “This could be good if you add other colors to it. You’re not half-bad looking either.”

“Am I?” At that moment, Seb didn’t feel half-bad looking with his queasy, pounding head. There’d been a time when he’d felt very handsome indeed, when the world glowed with sunlight and promise. This seemed a lifetime ago. Since his parents’ death, he’d been so focused on providing for his sisters that he couldn’t recall the last time he had a haircut or a decent meal. He’d grown distinctly lanky and overgrown, like an untended garden that no one bothered to visit . . . especially since his obsession with Felicity Vita had overtaken his life.

Luke responded, “You can be quite charming when you’re not mooning over someone who doesn’t reciprocate your affections.”

“Thank you, I think. Have you finished?”

“No. Whatever’s going on with you and this woman, fix it. I can’t bear to see you this way.”

Fix it. This sounded easy enough. But how to fix something when you couldn’t reach the object of your affection?

Seb’s gaze drifted toward Felicity’s books. They were stacked in a neat pile on his drawing board. Besides The Poetics of Passion, whose purple binding really drew the eye, there was Verses of Love Lost and Love Found, The Triumph of Eros, and several others with similarly themed titles. Felicity’s books were works of art. Books to appeal to artistic sensibilities. They were printed on heavy paper stock with black and white illustrations, though not as fine as what Seb could offer as an artist.

An idea began to formulate in Seb’s hungover brain. An idea that surprised him, one he’d never considered before. Even if Felicity refused to meet with him, there was something else he could do.

Seb grabbed his copy of The Poetics of Passion and his portfolio. He gathered his coat and bowler and turned toward the door.

Luke called, “You’re not going out? It looks like rain.”

“I am.”

“You’ll frighten people. Seriously. At least comb your hair if you won’t shave.”

“No time!”

“Tell me where you’re going, so I can find you when the police pick you up for disorderly assembly.”

Seb threw a smile from the threshold. “To find a way to speak to her. Lock the door behind you when you leave. Oh, and don’t steal anything!”

CHAPTER THREE

“And your mother agreed to Angela seeking a husband?” Mary Nicholson, Musa’s editor, asked, disbelief evident on her wide-open face. “I’m shocked. Shocked. Well, both at your mother and at Angela for wanting to wed.”

Nearly two hours after great-aunt Minerva’s unexpected arrival, Musa had arrived at the office of Persephone Press just before the rain began. Persephone Press was the publisher of Felicity Vita and other books written by women. (Well, the publisher had a few gentlemen authors, but they’d agreed to publish as Anonymous. Only fair considering how many women were forced to publish as such over the years.) Mary was the brains behind the publishing house, which had been started by her father two decades earlier at the behest of her literary-minded mother. Indeed, Mary herself was named after Mary Wollstonecraft, the famed author and philosopher. When her mother passed on to her great reward, Mary took over running the press with her father’s blessing; Mr. Nicholson was more interested in collecting fossils in Essex than publishing books in London.

Mary was a lanky woman of twenty-eight years of age with dun-brown hair and a manner some might consider blunt. Musa adored her for her honesty and intelligence along with her business acumen. She was also unmarried, though she was paired; Mary’s companion Seraphina was away painting in Rome until summer. Nor was anyone else in the office, now that it was lunchtime. Usually Musa showed up then to avoid anyone associating her with Felicity Vita.

As Musa listened to Mary opine about Angela’s matrimonial situation, she found herself unable to contain the emotions roiling inside her. She would have never expected the events of the morning to transpire between her favorite sister, her great-aunt, and her mother. Worst of all, she was having difficulties concentrating—especially after Mary passed Musa a new letter from her pen pal Henry. Henry’s letters were so delectable. It was a shame they’d never meet, but such was life as Felicity Vita.

“Angela is a fool,” Musa finally responded. “A wonderful, lovely fool in this case. She claims she wants someone to love. A family. A husband.”

“Marriage is a business arrangement,” Mary said nervously—how strangely she was behaving this morning! “Capitalism at its worst. Women as products to be procured, only as good as their perceived value on the marriage market and the matches they make.” Mary took a determined bite out of a biscuit before she continued. “Even in a best case where there’s affection between husband and wife, it’s complicated. It was fortunate for my mother that my father let her do as she wished. As for your family, look at your poor mother.”

“I know!” Musa moaned in agreement. “Angela should know better.”

“If it’s any comfort, your sister’s a beauty. This should grant her opportunities, but I worry she’ll be propositioned for something less than love.”

“That’s my concern too.”

Musa imagined a host of unsuitable suitors for Angela. Shallow heels only attracted by her appearance. Ancient widowers seeking to beget children. Scoundrels who understood Angela was compromised due to her family name. Worse, rakes who would offer illicit liaisons outside the bonds of matrimony. A townhouse on Grosvenor Square. Worth couture gowns. Glittering jewels made of paste. The gift of syphilis before they moved onto their next mistress.

What a mess it all was! Musa’s father was charming, talented, and loving. But he hadn’t been able to protect their family from society’s scorn, and now he was gone. Nor had Musa been able to protect them—well, she provided food and a roof, but little else. That was the problem with love. It made you do foolish things, like elope with someone’s wife and then take off to the Holy Land, abandoning your family.

Suddenly the weight of Musa’s family and her responsibilities felt heavier than ever. How alone she felt.

“I don’t know what to do!” Musa burst out. “Aunt Minerva can dress up Angela all she wants, but no one respectable is going to marry her. I’d thought I’d convinced her not to care about society. I’ve only delayed the inevitable. You can’t shut out the world. You can only pretend it doesn’t exist for a while.”

“Too true,” Mary agreed, reaching for the slice of cake hidden inside her desk. Her voice still possessed a strange tone. “You’ll just have to watch over her the best you can.”

A distant rumble of thunder.

Musa offered her friend a grateful glance. “You’re very kind to listen. I appreciate it.”

The rain began at last, a hiss of water against the windowpanes.

“I do consider myself more than your editor . . .” Mary said, studiously picking at her cake. “There’s something I have to speak to you about.”

“Is this about my new manuscript? I know I’m a little late—you’ve been so patient. Here.”

After closing the blinds, Musa pulled from her satchel a manuscript containing her latest poems. She set the pages on Mary’s desk as though offering something illicit.

To Musa’s shock, Mary handed the manuscript back. “I-I can’t accept this.”

“Why not?” How strangely Mary was behaving.

“Oh, it’s so hard to say, Musa.”

“Is it about my pen pal?”

Mary pushed her cake away. “I only wish.”

Musa prickled with nerves. “If you’re unable to eat, there must be something seriously wrong.”

All of a sudden Mary cried, “It’s awful! I can’t publish you any longer!”

“What?”

Mary grabbed a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it against her eyes. “It’s not you as much as I can’t publish Felicity Vita.”

This was a blow Musa did not expect. She pulled off her spectacles, surprised by a rush of panic. How to handle it? Logic, she told herself.

“Mary, I’m your bestselling author. You’d go out of business without my books.”

Mary looked up from her handkerchief. “If only it was that!”

“What is it then?” Though Musa used her most “let’s be reasonable” tone, she felt anything but.

“It’s worse. I can’t keep your books in print either.” At last Mary met Musa’s eyes. “I know I should have told you, but we’ve been hemorrhaging pounds for the past year. First, there was that plagiarized novel we published—still dealing with the lawsuit. Then the archeology book Papa published that cost more than expected, and those bankrupt bookstores owing us funds. Amid the worst of this, someone approached my father about investing funds into Persephone Press. To become a shadow partner, if you will. An American heiress. Papa assured she’d be amenable to all of my publishing plans, that she simply just wanted to play at being a publisher.” A sob. “It turns out that’s not what she had in mind at all.”

Musa listened, stunned, as Mary laid out the worst possible outcome.

“From here on, she plans to only publish what she calls morally responsible books for children and ladies. Worse, she wants all of our backlist destroyed. Says she needs a fresh start. And I have no choice—Papa sold her 75% of the press, leaving us just enough to provide us with an income.” Mary dabbed at her eyes anew. “She’s not in London yet. Any day now, though. What a gorgon!”

Musa’s heart sped like a metropolitan train pulling into Earl’s Court. Logic, she reminded herself. It didn’t help. “A fresh start? She’d have been better off starting her own press.”

Mary sobbed, “I know, I know! If she’d confessed her plans, my father would never have agreed. She was ever so cagey until after the paperwork was signed. He thought he’d found us a savior. Instead, we made a deal with the devil. She was especially adamant about Felicity Vita’s books. Says she doesn’t want to risk scandal, being American and all. Papa had no choice but to agree.”

Musa clutched Mary’s hand, emotion spilling over her like an icy wave. She hated how out of control she felt. How frightened. She rapidly calculated the amount of money remaining in their bank account. Two, maybe three months’ worth of income. Unfortunately, Felicity was more infamous than rich.

So many Barthams. So little income.

Musa choked out, “What am I to do? My family will starve!”

“I feel awful about this! But maybe not all is lost. I can loan you money, of course.”

“I’ve no way to repay it. And you know I don’t like debt.” Musa had only just finished paying off the bills remaining from the pre-Felicity days.

“Let me think . . .” Mary pulled out a pencil and a piece of paper. “If you wrote something else, I’d be happy to publish it, though I doubt it’ll sell like Felicity does. Here, let’s make a list. Perhaps a book of aphorisms.”

Mary wrote that down on the paper.

“But I write poetry—well, Felicity does,” Musa countered.

Mary tapped the pencil against her temple. “You could write a children’s book like Louisa May Alcott. Little Women is ever so popular though it’s quite moral.” The book had come out in two volumes just over a year earlier.

Children’s books, Mary added to the list.

Musa rolled her eyes. “What, because there are four of us Barthams and my father’s missing?” She prayed Papa remained alive. “Anyway, even if it sold as well as Felicity’s books, writing about my family will only make things worse for Angela. Tongues will wag.”

Mary looked up from her list. “A new nom de plume? Not for love poetry, of course.”

“I simply don’t have the heart for this. Not after all I’ve accomplished as Felicity.”

Tap, tap, tap went Mary’s pencil. “We’ll release you from our contracts so you can publish Felicity’s poems elsewhere. That’s the easiest path.”

Publish elsewhere went onto the list.

“But I’d have to trust another publisher not to reveal who I am.” It was fortunate Mr. Nicholson had little interest in Felicity Vita’s identity.

“Publish anonymously, like the Brontës?”

Musa shook her head, her eyes prickling like an illogical fool. “Still too much of a risk.”

“I really am sorry, Musa—”

A clatter at the door interrupted Mary’s apology. Musa pulled her spectacles on after giving her eyes an embarrassed wipe.

Despite the weather, a tall man paced back and forth before their door; hence, the clatter. He looked perhaps thirty years of age at most. His dark hair was particularly wild, with curls dashing in all directions beneath his bowler as the rain hardened. He wore a beard as rough around the edges as the man himself.

He appeared a better grade of beggar or someone worse: a gentleman fallen on hard times. Musa could tell his downward social trajectory by the quality of his clothes, which were rumpled but sewn of good broadcloth.

“You don’t know him, do you?” Musa asked.

“Of course not! He’s been out there for the past hour,” Mary replied in a low voice. “I’d hope he’d take off once the rain started. I think he’s waiting for someone—he seems desperate.”

Musa frowned. She’d passed him when she’d entered the office, but she’d been so upset by her sister’s news she’d barely taken note. “He looks inebriated.”

Mary rose from her seat. “I’ll order him to leave.”

“And I’ll back you up.”

The gentleman abruptly opened the door, his steps uneven. If he wasn’t drunk, he certainly appeared it. He was soaked to his skin. Musa glared at him. They might be the only two people in the office, but they weren’t weak.

To her surprise, their eyes met.

His were shockingly blue, defiant with emotion. Mary was right: he did seem desperate, but not for drink. For something else. Someone to care for him. Something Felicity Vita would know how to handle; Musa had a sudden vision of Felicity soothing him. “There, there,” she’d say before leading him toward a much-needed bath.

But Felicity was kinder than Musa. Musa was protective. Harder. Logical, though she didn’t feel such at the moment. She also felt threatened. Desperation made people do foolish things; Musa understood this all too well.

“We’re not open to the public,” Mary boomed, pulling herself up to her full height, which wasn’t much over five feet. “You’re dripping water all over my floor.”

“Your door was unlocked,” the man said, his voice full and brassy. “If it’s unlocked, you’re open, are you not?”

“A matter of semantics,” Musa intercepted. Any sympathy she held fled. The man was pushier than anticipated. He clutched a portfolio and a book.

Decidedly a beggar.

Musa’s stomach sank when she recognized the distinctive purple binding for Felicity’s The Poetics of Passion. A literate beggar then.

Mary said, “I suspect you’ve been drinking. You should go.”

“Not really! Please, I only need a moment . . .” He tucked his portfolio under his arm as he fumbled with the pages of The Poetics of Passion. “This is Persephone Press, yes? I’d like to speak to the publisher. Or editor. Whoever is responsible for Miss Vita’s books.”

“You needn’t answer him, Mary,” Musa began.

Mary held up a hand to silence Musa. “I’m her editor, so that would be me.”

The beggar’s bright blue eyes lit up. “Ah, you publish Felicity Vita, the love poet!”

Musa resisted the urge to laugh. Nerves, she told herself. She always felt this way whenever she encountered someone at Persephone Press seeking Felicity. It still amazed her how popular those poems were. Not that it mattered to the American heiress, she thought bitterly.

“If you’ve come to speak to Miss Vita,” Mary said, cool as ever, “she’s abroad at the moment. Paris. Venice too. Rome later this winter, I believe. She doesn’t meet with anyone. Ever. Why, I’ve never even met her.”

Musa piped up, “Miss Vita is quite the mystery. Rumor holds she’s a noblewoman. An invalid. I’ve heard she’s off to take the waters in Baden-Baden.”

Mary added with a faux sigh, “It’s all hearsay, alas. We consider ourselves fortunate Miss Vita entrusts us with her poems.”

The beggar gentleman set his portfolio on Mary’s desk with a determined slap. It coincided with a flash of lightning.

“I sense your distrust,” he said in a low but determined voice. “Let me assure I’m not here to harass Miss Vita, or uncover her identity or location. I simply admire her books and wanted to introduce myself. I have something to offer her.”

He fumbled with something under his portfolio. Something near the buttons of his trousers.

Mary rose, her fists tight. “Get out, you nasty man! Now!”

But, to Musa’s surprise, he simply untied his portfolio to open it. That’s what he was fumbling with. Not his trousers.

The beggar pointed to the open portfolio. “I simply want to offer my services as an illustrator to Miss Vita. Well, to your press really. Your books are works of art. I’m an artist. It’s quite simple.” He rifled through an indistinguishable array of drawings. “If you’d just take a moment to look. Please.”

“We’ve illustrators here on staff,” Mary said. This wasn’t true—individual artists were hired by the book—but Musa wasn’t going to correct her.

“I’m sure you do,” he answered. “But if you could introduce me to Miss Vita so I could show her my art, I’d truly appreciate it.”

Musa said firmly, “No one speaks to Miss Vita in person. Do you understand? Now go!”

He waved his arms in frustration. “Oh, I don’t know why I bothered!”

The beggar broke for the door, abandoning his portfolio in his rush. The door slammed behind him, but not before letting in a splash of rain.

Mary shrugged. “I’m not going to chase him.”

“Not in this storm,” Musa agreed, thumbing through his drawings. There were ink sketches, charcoals, pencils. A few of models posing in Arthurian costume, but more featuring a child. A girl of about seven years of age. Her rabbit, or one appearing to belong to her, for the creature was dressed up in a bow and a small bonnet. Several kittens in a basket.

The compositions were charming rather than cloying. He was surprisingly talented, Musa decided. Growing up as the daughter of Neil Bartham had taught her to appreciate art even if she had little interest in creating it herself.

“Can’t imagine these in a Felicity Vita book. You’d think he was a children’s book illustrator or something,” Mary muttered, tying the portfolio’s leaves shut. “Oh well. Suppose he’ll come back for this in time.”

Musa glanced at Mary’s list of publishing possibilities.

Children’s books.

The words jumped out at her. With this, Musa’s innate pragmatism returned. She knew what to do.

She grabbed his portfolio and reached for the door.

CHAPTER FOUR

Seb rushed out of Persephone Press toward Fleet Street, rain pounding against his shoulders. He’d been impetuous to leave in the manner in which he had, but he’d felt too insulted. Yet again, he let his emotions get the best of him. And what had he thought speaking of Felicity Vita like that? He’d surely revealed his obsession in a way that made him seem crazed—and to Felicity’s editor no less. No wonder they lied to him. He knew Felicity wasn’t in Venice or Rome or anywhere outside London. She’d written Seb as much.

His portfolio. He’d left it on the desk in the office.

“Shit,” he muttered. He flushed anew, recalling how the lady wearing spectacles grimaced when he’d forced his way into Persephone Press. She’d thought him drunk. It didn’t please her at all, not one bit—he could tell by the way her nostrils flared. She’d even glared at him with narrowed eyes.

Yet there’d been something alluring about her despite her prim judgement and navy serge walking suit. Like she knew of his losses and might be sympathetic, if she’d only allow herself that luxury.

More fool me. And now his portfolio was gone. Well, he’d only stuffed some drawings in there.

Drawings of Jessica from the last day they’d been together before his parents took ill.

The day before everything changed for his family, leaving Seb in charge of his two sisters’ fates.

And then Seb knew: he had no choice but to return for his portfolio.

He ran back toward the narrow alley where Persephone Press was located. The rain dashed against his face, but he welcomed it, for it reflected his sour mood. The weather seemed more akin to March than January, blustering with wind and water instead of snow. In his rush to leave home, he’d forgotten an umbrella—all he’d thought of was somehow finding Felicity, of uncovering her identity to put his obsession at rest.

Luke was right. I need to let her go.

Another rumble of thunder as the storm thickened.

Seb gritted his teeth and swiped at his eyes. Everything appeared a blur in the rain, like a French impressionist painting. The gentlemen on the street, their faces hidden beneath wide black umbrellas; the ladies with their oversized bonnets dripping with feathers and flowers; newsboys selling papers, eager hounds by their sides. The sounds, the colors. The overwhelming sense of loss, of disappointment that a rainy day always suggested to Seb.

Some feet ahead of him, a woman’s voice floated his way. “Sir! You forgot something!”

Amid the miasma of rain-soaked humanity, he made out a feminine figure running toward him. The friend of the publisher, the dark-haired woman with the prim manner, the spectacles. Of course, she had an umbrella. Beneath it, she held his portfolio—he recognized the black rectangle clutched protectively against her chest.

Seb waved and felt himself begin to smile. The dark-haired woman drew close enough he could make out her spectacles. Not all was lost. Surely this was a sign his fortunes had somehow turned . . .

A slash of lightning so close the air flashed white.

The portfolio fell from her arms. Opened. Scattered. All those ink drawings into a puddle. Every last single one.

“Damn it!” Seb felt as though he’d been slapped by misfortune as he reached toward the puddle. He watched the ink bleed into the paper, Jessica fading into blotches of gray.

The dark-haired woman cried, “Let me help you! I don’t suppose they can be saved?”

“They’re gone.” Like my parents, he thought, awash with sorrow and self-pity. And Felicity.

“I’m sorry, truly I am,” she said, her eyes wide with contrition.

Seb grit out, “I am too.”

He grabbed what remained from the puddle, nearly banging his head against her bonnet in his haste. And then he caught a whiff of her skin. Her chestnut-hued hair. She’d arranged the gleaming tresses in a series of severe plaits beneath her navy-hued bonnet. Her hair was scented with sandalwood. Civility. Suddenly he realized how much he reeked after his night out. Luke was right. He should have cleaned himself up before he’d rushed out.

No wonder the women treated me like a threat.

“They were lovely sketches too,” she said, her tone suspiciously sweet. “They’re of your daughter?”

“My youngest sister. It doesn’t matter. I can draw more.” This wasn’t exactly true, but Seb wanted her to leave before he lost his temper.

“Really, I am sorry. Please, let me make it up to you, sir.”

How polite she was. It disconcerted Seb.

Seb spat out the first request that came to mind. “The only way you can make it up to me is to introduce me to Felicity Vita. If that’s not possible, let me illustrate a book of hers—perhaps then she’d agree to meet me. But you made it very clear this can’t be. Plus you think me drunk. I’m not. I may have had a glass or two last night, but so would you if you had my day.”

To his surprise, the dark-haired woman didn’t criticize. “I can see you’re upset, sir.”

Seb laughed. “Upset? You only just realized this? For heaven’s sake, we’re standing here in a storm, and you’re nattering on. It’s ridiculous. Leave me be!”

The rain hardened. A boom of thunder. Seb ducked beneath an awning, expecting the dark-haired woman to depart in a huff. She didn’t.

“A book.” The two syllables fell from her lips. “That’s a distinct possibility.”

Her face turned coy beneath her umbrella. A prim calculation. Her pointed chin made her appear nearly fox-like. Cunning. Seb sensed there was more to her than she presented to the world. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this.

“Yes, a book,” he answered. “But only if I can meet Felicity.”

“I can’t guarantee this. But it’s something we could discuss.” She cocked her heard. “That is, if you haven’t another appointment in town.”

“No.”

Seb was too taken aback by the loss of his sketches to lie out of pride. Plus there’d been the way she’d said those two words. A book. Two syllables suggesting an opening. An offering.

He couldn’t turn away.

The dark-haired woman pointed down the block. “There’s a tea shop a few steps from here. Their Victoria sponge cake is especially delicious. You look like you could use something to fill your stomach after your . . . indulgence.”

Seb reluctantly followed her. “I’m not inebriated. Nor am I a beggar.”

A soft laugh over her shoulder. “Of course you aren’t.”

“I don’t care for your air of judgement.”

“Well, I don’t care for how you smell. Regardless, it’s raining and you’re without an umbrella and I’ve ruined your sketches. The least you can do is allow me to offer you tea so we can speak without being soaked by the heavens.”

Seb swallowed his suspicions. “About a book?”

“Yes, a book. Ah, here we are!” She reached for a door painted a florid magenta and decorated in gold lettering. The Pink Refuge, it said. “Come! The cake won’t wait.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“Who are you?” Seb asked. “I’d like to know who I’m taking tea with.”

The dark-haired woman threw him a taut smile from across the small table. “Let me assure you I’m not Felicity Vita.”

He let out a short laugh. “I can’t imagine you are! You’re too . . . too . . .”

She raised an eyebrow. “Unattractive? Sharp-mannered? Unpleasant of aspect?”

Seb flushed. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

Well, she was hardly unattractive, if one cared for prim judgmental females.

“But you thought it, didn’t you? Or some variation of it.”

Seb’s face grew warmer. He had the sense the dark-haired woman was provoking him for reasons he could only guess at. No doubt she felt his desperation, his yearning for Felicity. His inquiries had hardly been discreet.

It did not help his disquiet that he was the only male in the crowded tea shop; it seemed many had their same intention of taking shelter from the thunderstorm. He felt out of place, a wet hulk of a man amid a sea of femininity in beribboned bonnets and silks. Perhaps that was her plan for inviting him there. Even the wicker chair he balanced on felt too fragile for his form. He rubbed his palm against his rough chin, conscious of his unshaven state.

Still, the tea was hot and brought quickly, and the Victoria sponge cake did look delicious. He watched her reach for the pot, pour him a cup with a surprising grace. The tea cleared any remaining hangover from his brain.

“I simply meant Felicity Vita is probably older than you,” Seb explained. “More experienced, judging by her poems.”

She parried, “Well, I assume you’re not Felicity Vita. For all I know, Miss Vita might be anyone. A gentleman even.”

Clever. That’s what she was.

Seb tried his best to sound airy and unaffected. “I admire her ability with a phrase. That’s the only reason I want to meet her and offer my services as an illustrator.”

“Then you’ve succumbed to the illusions of poetry,” the dark-haired woman responded, avoiding his gaze as she wiped her spectacles. They’d fogged from the warmth of the tea shop.

“And you haven’t?”

“No. Poetry fills heads with dreams that can never be fulfilled. I’ve a practical bent. After all, life is too short to waste time being fanciful.” A tight smile. “Anyway, drink your tea—heaven knows you look like you need it!—and I’ll explain my proposition.”

As Seb sipped his tea, he allowed himself to take in the dark-haired woman at leisure. For some unfathomable reason, he felt he’d met her before. But it wasn’t a logical memory, more of an inexplainable recognition.

The dark-haired woman sitting across from him had a pointed chin, a piquant beauty mark just south of her full lips. Though she presented as shockingly confident, he sensed a peculiar vulnerability about her, like she was playing at being an adult, though it wasn’t that she looked like a child. She might have been anywhere from twenty to thirty years of age. He also sensed she was unmarried despite the gloves covering her fingers and her forwardness in inviting him to tea. A woman with a husband wouldn’t be prowling around in a publishing house.

No, it was something else he couldn’t quite name that gave him the sense he’d encountered her before. Yet to even mull this felt an odd disloyalty to Felicity Vita—or the Felicity Vita of his dreams.

She’s rejected you, Seb. Move on.

“How old are you?” he asked, unable to hold back his blunt question.

The dark-haired woman didn’t chastise him as expected. “I suppose you’ve earned the right to be forward since I destroyed your sketches.” A graceful shrug. “Though to be fair, you did leave your portfolio behind. If I hadn’t tried to return it, you’d still be without them.”

Clever, he thought again.

“You didn’t answer my question. And you still haven’t told me your name.”

She squeezed a second slice of lemon into her tea. “Nor do I know your name . . . unless you are lying about being Felicity Vita after all.”

“Atkinson,” he said, feeling as though he was trapped in a dream, one very different from the erotic affair that began his day. “Sebastian Atkinson. Previously of Bexley Heath, Kent. Now Spitalfields.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Atkinson of Spitalfields.” She offered her hand. Her handshake was firm. “Miss Bartham at your service.”

Bartham. Seb’s mind roiled. “Your father can’t possibly be—”

“Neil Bartham. The painter. Or the scoundrel, depending who you ask.”

At last, she seemed caught off guard. Her cheeks even colored a ruddy hue beneath her bonnet.

Oh. That explained so much. The calculation he sensed in her wasn’t calculation at all. It was desperation.

Everyone knew the history of the Bartham family. The love story of Neil and Clio, who’d gained the ruinous nickname of the “Muse of Scandal” decades earlier. The midwinter masquerade in Venice where the couple met, the middle of the night elopement. The numerous children born in quick succession—Seb heard numbers ranging from five to a dozen, all of whom lived estranged from society because they fit in nowhere. The daughters couldn’t even get positions as governesses let alone husbands. As for the sons, their futures were similarly unpromising.

The Barthams weren’t working class. Nor were they bourgeois or aristocracy. They weren’t part of the Royal Academy set, or even the bohemian Pre-Raphaelites, who seemed to flirt with scandal for the spice it lent to life. Way back when Clio Bartham had been married to the famed art critic Ethan Sutton, who still held considerable sway in the art world. And now with Neil Bartham disappearing somewhere in the Holy Land . . . well, who knew how the family fared? Judging by Miss Bartham’s unfashionable clothes, the family wasn’t swimming in funds. Seb had even heard rumors Clio Bartham had gone soft in the head over her lost husband. Some whispered Bartham had run off with another woman, which only added to the turmoil surrounding the family.

As for Neil Bartham’s art, Seb admired his early paintings, especially his Ophelia and his Marianna in the Grange. After Bartham’s marriage, his art became prized by collectors who didn’t mind a frisson of danger. Seb, however, noticed a sentimental quality began to colonize Bartham’s art. Instead of Tennyson or Shakespeare, Bartham had taken to painting sweet-faced cherubs in church pews and other emotionally manipulative scenes.

“You’re shocked,” Miss Bartham said. “I suppose you’ll want to leave before you’re spied with me . . . though I suspect you’ve no one who’d care, given you’re new to London.”

How sharp she was! However, Miss Bartham was right: he had no true friend in London save for Luke. Still, for a moment, he imagined people looking at them. Whispering. But he was too curious about Miss Bartham to leave. He tried to recall her Christian name, the one she was rumored to have. Something Italian. Something fantastical and distinctly un-English. Something befitting a scandalous Bartham.

“You’re the eldest daughter, I presume.”

Miss Bartham nodded, staring intently at her tea as she swirled sugar into it, now using her left hand. She’d used her right hand earlier to lift the teapot. Ambidextrous. Another way she was outside the norm, like the rest of her family.

“Eldest of four, Mr. Atkinson. But I’ve something else to discuss.”

“The book,” Seb said too eagerly. “By Felicity Vita.”

“Not by Miss Vita.” She looked up from her tea. “Another one, now that I know you draw children and animals beautifully.”

“The book requires illustrations?”

She took a thoughtful sip of her tea. “Yes. It’s a book I’m writing, Mr. Atkinson—well, I haven’t finished yet, but after seeing your art, I’m inspired.”

“I’m honored,” Seb said dryly.

“You should be. Persephone Press will publish it.” She shrugged in the direction of his copy of The Poetics of Passion as though it was too vulgar to acknowledge. “As you already know, the press produces beautiful books, so it would be something for you to take pride in. However, your illustrations will have to be completed very quickly. The book must be available as soon as possible. Say, April. Before the Season.”

Seb let out a long breath as he calculated, using his experience as a pressman. “That’s an extremely tight timeline to publish a book, Miss Bartham. Four weeks, six at most, to afford time for printing.” In addition, there was the matter of his new painting he aimed to finish that spring . . . a painting he’d hoped would make his reputation until he became so distracted by Felicity and her letters.

“I’ll get the manuscript to you by tomorrow morning.”

“How many illustrations?”

She rubbed her forefinger against the pout of her lower lip. “A dozen? Twenty?”

Seb let out a short laugh. “You haven’t thought this through, have you?”

“Of course I have. Remember, I’m a writer, not an artist.” She set down her teacup. “Let’s see . . . Full page drawings. A dozen. Twenty half-page decorations. Not a lot of work.”

“Work is work,” Seb countered. “And your publisher will pay me—”

“In guineas, naturally. That’s what my father would insist upon. I’d offer no less for you.”

“How many guineas? And on what schedule?”

She took out a pad of paper and a pencil from her coat pocket. She marked a few rows of sums, explaining her rationale in quick words he couldn’t follow. They quibbled over advances and money, all vulgar to Seb’s mind, but she didn’t seem to mind. Finally, she pushed the paper toward him as though it was a contract for labor, rather than a calculation.

She’s a Bartham, he reminded himself. She has no reputation to lose by being vulgar.

“I’ll send you a quarter payment up front, Mr. Atkinson, and half upon completion, remainder upon publication in April.”

That was more than he’d anticipated. Still, he hid his excitement.

“One more thing. I want a share in the profits, so if the book does well, so will I.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You drive a hard bargain.”

He folded his arms before his chest. “It will encourage me to make my best work despite your ridiculous deadline.”

Her mouth pursed; his eyes were drawn to that beauty mark below it.

After a long moment: “I assume a bank cheque is acceptable, Mr. Atkinson.”

He challenged, “If your bank is such, Miss Bartham.”

“Of course it is! But if you don’t complete the drawings in time—”

“Oh, I’ll complete them. If I don’t, I’ll return your payment—I’m an honorable man.” A pause. “But I’ve one more requirement before I agree to your offer.”

Her eyes widened, as though anticipating his demand. He waited.

Waited . . .

She let out a puff of breath. “You want to meet Felicity Vita.”

“Yes, Miss Bartham. Be in the same room as her.”

She blanched. “Breathe the same air, I presume?”

He nodded. “I promise not to reveal her identity to anyone, of course.” He unsuccessfully tried to keep the desperation out of his tone.

She shook her head, mouth tight. “A meeting is impossible, Mr. Atkinson. I told you, I don’t even know her! No one does.”

“Then your illustration deadline is impossible, Miss Bartham.”

She frowned. “For an indisposed man, you’re very stubborn.”

“This meeting is important to me for reasons I’m not at liberty to explain.” Seb’s voice rose despite his best efforts to remain calm. Again, he sensed ladies staring at them. Gossiping.

“You and many other readers,” she countered. “How about this? If I can figure a way, I’ll introduce you to Miss Vita. But you shan’t be able to talk to her.”

Seb pressed, “Would she speak to me?”

“No.”

This was getting to be ridiculous. “How will I know it’s her then?”

A sly smile. “Oh, you’ll know. I’ve been told Miss Vita has a most singular presence. But no promises, Mr. Atkinson—everyone knows Miss Vita is a skittish sort.” She offered her gloved hand. “If I can’t convince her to meet with you, I’ll double your advance against royalties. Deal?”

Unpleasant, that’s what she was. And brusque.

Still, Seb accepted her hand—he could see no other way. He’d have to trust that, if Felicity saw him, she’d soften her resolution. And if she didn’t . . . well, he’d put the matter of Felicity Vita to rest. Move on with his life. Finish his La Dame sans Merci painting to make his name known. Take care of his sisters and their ramshackle home in Kent.

“Deal,” he answered.

They shook. He was again taken aback by the firmness of her handshake, though this time he thought he sensed a subtle tremor in it.

She rose abruptly from the tea table. “I’ll send you the manuscript tomorrow. Your address, if you please.”

“My place of work is best. Chassen & Sons—here’s their card. I’m a pressman there.”

“A printer and an illustrator. How convenient.” A hint of a nod. “Good day, Mr. Atkinson.”

In her haste to depart, she nearly upset a teacup and glass with her skirts. Once she righted them, she turned for the door, umbrella in hand; the rain had slowed into docility.

Seb called out, “You still haven’t told me what your book is about.”

To his surprise, she flashed a bright smile; for once, her pleasure appeared unfeigned. “A children’s book. One that will be filled with morality and righteous fortitude.”

PURCHASE

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