A Lady of Talent Read Free Page B

he actually earned his own fortune.”
    “Earned it? How novel. How did he do that?”
    “Lord, I don’t know. Whatever one does to earn money.” The heavy sarcasm in his sister’s tone was utterly lost on Neville. “Speculation in something, I suppose—the consols, annuities—I have no idea and even less interest. The man is the very devil with cards and there is no doubt that he is a very clever fellow. Bit of a rum touch, though.”
    “Rum touch? Why? What do you mean?”
    “How should I know?” Neville’s handsome features twisted into an exasperated grimace. “You are the one who is forever prosing on about studying character and all. All I mean is that a man who has as much blunt as Charrington does ought to be enjoying himself—ought to be at Newmarket or race meetings or following the fancy, or something amusing—not wasting his time in the City with as dull a set of fellows as ever drew breath. A bit high in the instep, he is—not particular cronies with anyone. They say his father lost his fortune and killed himself; perhaps it put a permanent damper on his spirits.” Neville opened the door. “At any rate, he is bound to pay you handsomely for whatever he asks of you. I wish you joy of him, and now I am going to Tatt’s.”
    And with that parting shot, he slammed the door behind him leaving his sister prey to a host of uneasy feelings—not the least of which was wondering how much her brother was likely to squander at the most famous equestrian haunt in all of England, if not the world. For it went without saying that Neville could never go anywhere, especially to Tattersall’s, without parting with a good deal of the ready, as he so casually referred to it.
    Sighing heavily, Cecilia returned to her painting. At least her reputation seemed to be growing, if the Earl of Charrington’s note was anything to go by. Commissions were trickling in at an increasingly steady rate, largely thanks to the exhibit at the Royal Academy, where she had been fortunate enough to display her portrait of Lady Cowper, among others. And perhaps the Earl of Charrington, rum touch though he might be, would be sufficiently impressed by her portrayal of his fiancée that he would recommend her to his wealthy friends, even if they were a dull set of fellows. She just prayed that the future Countess of Charrington was sufficiently pretty that her portrait would be worthy of favorable comment.
    In fact, Cecilia was still working steadily on Sir Jasper’s portrait several hours later when Tredlow came to inform her that the Earl of Charrington and his fiancée had arrived.
    “Oh Lord!” She cast a horrified glance in the looking glass that hung over the mantel. If anything, her smock was even more paint-spattered than it had been earlier when her brother had been surveying it with critical eyes, and the tendrils of golden hair that had escaped from the knot at the back of her head were now curling wildly about her face. There was nothing she could do about her hair in such a short space of time, but she hastily untied her smock, dumping it unceremoniously over a nearby stool, and did her best to smooth out the falling lace collar that was the only ornamentation on her simple round robe of primrose muslin. Ruefully, she cast one more look into the glass as the door opened. She could not help thinking how horrified Neville—who never spent less than an hour with his valet before going out—would be at her cavalier preparation. But somehow the thought of his inevitable dismay only served to amuse her and, despite her best efforts to appear as properly impressive as a member of the Royal Academy should appear, she could not stifle a wicked grin as she turned to greet her visitors.
     

Chapter Three
     
    “The Earl of Charrington and Miss Wyatt to see you, my lady,” Tredlow announced with as much dignified formality as if he were bringing guests into the impressively draughty drawing room at Shelburne Hall instead of