Chapter 6
“Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.”
“Pass me the cerulean blue,” I ordered Mrs. Sweete. “I must look like I’m still painting.”
She obliged, then returned to her needlework, squinting under the setting sun.
We had stationed ourselves along the broad pavement of St. James’s Street.
From up here, we had a perfect view of the wooded park below.
Lazy swans floated along the sparkling canal, where willow trees stooped over and dragged their long fingers in the peaceful water.
The picturesque scene was the subject of my latest watercolor, which I painted on my portable easel.
And if we were also directly across the street from the gentlemen’s club all three of my candidates frequented? Well, that was simply a coincidence.
Lord Cranford likely wouldn’t make an appearance tonight. Mrs. Sweete informed me that while the baron was indeed a member of the club, he seldom attended. When he did, his visits were brief and unremarkable.
Mr. Marceaux, however, had passed by two hours ago.
When he stopped in front of my easel, he proclaimed that my painting was “magnifique” and “a masterpiece in blue!” I thanked him, but neglected to mention that I had only laid down the base wash of the sky and lake.
A compliment, after all, is still a compliment.
But I wasn’t trying to win favor with Lord Cranford or Mr. Marceaux.
Tonight, my sights were set on Mr. Hawke.
After my humiliating defeat in battledore last week, today would mark my first offensive strike.
He’d be forced to recognize my talent and, for once, look up at me with admiration instead of looking down at me with his usual arrogance.
“You’re sure Mr. Hawke will come?” I asked, noting the sun touching the horizon.
Mrs. Sweete nodded. “From what I’ve heard, he attends the club on Wednesday afternoons.”
I chewed on my lip. It was already Wednesday evening, which is when I usually attended Lady Haverton’s literary salon. There was still no sign of Mr. Hawke.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Mrs. Sweete said cautiously. “If you succeed in winning Mr. Hawke’s heart, do you really intend on marrying him?”
I dabbed the cerulean onto the finished canvas. “Of course not. That’s the entire point.”
“I don’t understand.”
“As Mr. Marceaux so aptly put it, men become fools in the presence of a beautiful woman. Thus, the plan is simple: make Mr. Hawke fall in love with me so he becomes a fool, and then I’ll break his heart and—finally—come out on top.”
“But, is this not a distraction from your main mission?”
I rolled my eyes. “Think of the grander scheme of things, Mrs. Sweete. No force on earth topples more empires than a man who wants what another has. Mr. Hawke will merely be a means to compel my two other candidates into submission. When Mr. Marceaux and Lord Cranford make offers of marriage, then I will thoroughly enjoy crushing Mr. Hawke’s heart, as well as his pride. ”
“And if you don’t get offers?”
“Don’t be silly. Of course they will offer.
Remember, the skillful fighter puts himself into a position which makes defeat impossible.
” I used the burnt sienna to finish the final paint stroke of a bird that had dropped from the sky and fallen into the pond.
It was pure coincidence that it resembled a hawk.
“Now, have you had the chance to ask around about our newest candidate?”
Mrs. Sweete sat back in her chair with a sigh. Clearly she wasn’t pleased with the outcome of her questioning, but she knew a losing battle when she saw one.
“I’ve heard many things about Mr. Hawke,” she said, “some fact, some rumor. He doesn’t stay in town, for one. He lives an hour’s ride north, in Hertfordshire, at an estate called Stonehill House. Apparently he keeps a distinguished stable of horses there.”
“He has no residence in London?”
“None that I know of. Oh, and he’s said to have graduated from the University of Edinburgh at only seventeen years old, top of his class.”
I gasped. “Seventeen? Surely that can’t be true.”
“There’s more. Last year, he inherited a small fortune from a Scottish gentleman named MacMillan. Apparently he has tripled the amount in that time.”
“Is Mr. MacMillan his relation? An uncle, perhaps?”
“Mr. MacMillan had no living relatives when he died.”
My lips puckered as a terrible thought crossed my mind.
“You don’t think he’s Mr. MacMillan’s… you know…
” I couldn’t bring myself to voice the rest. If he were the illegitimate son of some Scottish gentleman, Father would waste no time striking Mr. Hawke from my list of prospects.
Only last week, I would have welcomed such an excuse.
But now? Now, I had a game to win. And I couldn’t very well defeat Mr. Hawke if he wasn’t allowed to play.
“There’s no way to know without proof,” Mrs. Sweete said. “But I do know that upon Mr. MacMillan’s death, Mr. Hawke inherited a coal mine near Inverness. He built his empire up from there, buying up dozens of mines. He’s even pushing the Pratts out of business.”
That made me perk up. “The Pratts? How so?”
“Mr. Pratt owns several mines in southern England and was the sole supplier for the crown and the military for years. But the prince transferred the contract to Mr. Hawke last month. Supposedly, Mr. Hawke is working to expand his exports across the channel. The gossip columns predict that he’ll soon become the wealthiest man in England, and Mr. Pratt is not happy about it. ”
Well, that certainly explained the tension between the two men at the garden party.
“But what about Mr. Hawke’s family?” I asked, trying to piece it all together. “Where did he come from? He doesn’t have a Scottish accent. In fact, he sounds like a Londoner.”
Mrs. Sweete picked at her needlework. “I noticed that too. But no one seems to know his origins. I’ve only heard whispers that his father is dead.”
“And his mother?”
“That’s the strangest part. Supposedly, she’s alive… but she doesn’t live with him.”
I set down my brush with a frown. “Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“He has all of Stonehill House to himself?”
“He does.”
“Surely he can find room for the woman who gave him life.”
“One would think.”
I jabbed my brush in the yellow ochre. Mr. Hawke was proving to be a frustrating riddle.
Mrs. Sweete glanced behind me. “The bird of prey flies west.”
I straightened at our prearranged signal and searched the street.
Sure enough, Mr. Hawke was fast approaching.
His face was red, and his dampened hair clung to his forehead.
His attention darted through the passersby, as if he was looking for something or someone.
Perhaps he was meeting up with another gentleman before entering the club.
I quickly returned my focus to my easel. If all went according to plan, Mr. Hawke would fall right into my trap.
I heard the measured sound of his footsteps approaching. If my estimates were correct, he would pass by in three, two, one—
“Miss Weston?”
I smiled to myself before turning around. Mr. Hawke’s hair was askew, his cheeks red, and his cravat loosened. It was as if he’d just sprinted in a footrace.
“Oh, Mr. Hawke, is that you?” I said. “What a pleasant surprise.”
He stared, as if not expecting my amicable greeting. Then he quickly recovered and dabbed his brow. “Um, yes. Indeed.” He turned to Mrs. Sweete. “And good evening to you as well, Mrs…?”
“Sweete,” I said. “My chaperone.”
He nodded to her. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Sweete. Forgive my appearance. My carriage wheel broke a few blocks back.”
“Hmm.”
I tilted my head in question, but Mrs. Sweete sat on the bench and returned to her needlework.
I turned my attention back to my target. “A broken carriage? How inconvenient. Though you are an impressive runner, Mr. Hawke. Not many gentlemen are so athletic. You should be commended.”
He blinked at me. “I—I should?”
“Besides,” I stepped forward, lifting my fingers so they briefly hovered over his hair, “the windblown look suits you.”
He froze, then quickly smoothed his hair. “It does?”
“Oh, yes. You look rather heroic. Don’t you think, Mrs. Sweete?”
She muttered an apathetic agreement.
Mr. Hawke swallowed as he took in the sight of me. “The—the evening looks nice on you as well, Miss Weston.”
Of course it did. I had positioned myself so the golden light of the setting sun would illuminate my best side.
I wore a brand-new dress that the modiste finished just yesterday, and my maid had arranged my hair so that a few loose curls drew attention to the length of my neck.
I had employed every possible advantage to capture Mr. Hawke’s eye.
I delivered the coup de grace with a shining smile. “How very generous of you to—oops.” My paintbrush slipped from my fingers. I waited until Mr. Hawke reached for it, then did the same. Our fingers brushed, and I didn’t miss the way his breath hitched.
Oh, this is too easy.
I pulled back, allowing him to hand me the paintbrush. “This is yours, I believe,” he said.
“Why, Mr. Hawke,” I beamed, “how chivalrous.” I turned back to my canvas, initiating the next stage of my plan: direct Mr. Hawke’s attention to my artistic skill.
But when he stayed quiet, I glanced back at him only to see him studying me instead.
His brow pinched together, and his lips pressed flat.
“Have you recovered from our game last week?” he asked.
“Are you concerned about me, Mr. Hawke?” I leaned in closer. “You are such a thoughtful man.”
He tensed. “It’s just… you don’t seem quite yourself. Perhaps you were injured when you fell, or—” he swallowed, “—or perhaps hit your head?”
I withdrew my hand, displeased to have my latest humiliation thrown in my face. “I’m quite well, I assure you. In fact, I’m feeling so well that I’ve come to paint this lovely evening.”