Page 7 of Memories Made At Midnight

Firming his mouth, Cassius shook off his melancholy musings as he glided his hand up the smooth handrail. The past was the past. He couldn’t change a bloody, buggering thing about it, nor did he want to.

He’d learned a valuable lesson and was free to dedicate the remainder of his life to his art without the encumbrances and demands of a wife. As for children…Well, with seven siblings, surely, he would have several nieces and nephews to dote upon. Besides, it wasn’t as if Father relied upon him as an heir.

Luck was with him the day he’d stumbled upon these accommodations. In the up-and-coming Kempton neighborhood, his house had once been a millinery and dressmaking establishment catering to Brighton’s haut ton elite and owned by the three spinster Stitchwell sisters.

Cassius strongly suspected Stitchwell was not their actual surname.

When the eldest sister, suddenly and unexpectedly passed, the two remaining sisters sold their shop and decided to spend the remainder of their years doing whatever they blasted well pleased.

That was the way to live life.

Each day felt like a rare treasure that would not come again.

Once Cassius had donned a cream and charcoal striped waistcoat, he expertly tied a pale gray neckcloth into a mail coach knot, then slipped on a dove-colored jacket. He examined himself in the cheval mirror.

Tasteful and reserved, but not severe and unapproachable.

Appropriate for a noble-born portraitist, but his attire didn’t scream privilege.

His lineage wasn’t a secret in Brighton; however, Cassius preferred to gain clients on his worth, not Father’s influence and station.

Swiping his dark hair with a boar-bristle brush, he considered today’s patron.

Lord Highbury was a peculiar chap.

An acquaintance of Father’s, his lordship had sought Cassius and commissioned him to paint a miniature of his niece, offering to pay him double his usual portrait fee.

“I’ve heard good things about you, Westbrook, though why a noble with your estimable lineage would choose to work, I cannot fathom.”

Of course, the likes of Highbury couldn’t.

Work was beneath nobles and aristocrats who believed themselves superior to commoners.

Cassius had quirked an eyebrow, already disliking the pretentious bore. “Oh?”

“Indeed.” Highbury had nodded, not quite able to keep the disdain from his expression.

As if Cassius cared one whit what the pompous prig thought of him. Still, Highbury was a generous patron, and Cassius had a mortgage to pay, for he refused to accept any financial support from his father.

“No one would ever mistake my niece for a diamond of the first water or a fine English rose.” Highbury had shaken his head, his tight expression suggesting he’d either sucked a lemon or passed wind. “Regardless, Beatrice’s youth and inheritance ought to entice a desperate chap or two. Her figure is also passable, I suppose.”

So the rotter wasn’t even dowering her, and he’d spoken of her as if she were cattle.

Cassius had almost asked if the earl had inspected her teeth.

Highbury had clasped his lapels, while gazing condescendingly around Cassius’s studio, before curling his upper lip. “She’s part Italian, but you’d never know it with that garish red hair of hers. Still, I’m confident with your skill you can create a flattering likeness.”

Interesting.

Beatrice Fairfax had red hair.

Coppery red?

Strawberry-blonde?

Flaming orange, chestnut, or auburn?

“Might I ask why you wish me to paint a miniature?” With his forefinger, Cassius had nudged a painting of a seaside café upward on one side. “I normally only paint full-sized portraits.”

“I mean to marry the chit off as expeditiously as possible.” Highbury had smiled, a thin, cunning upward sweep of his mouth, reminding Cassius of a fox with a hen in its jaws. “Her mother saddled me with her, and Beatrice has been a burden for two decades. I’ll hie to London with the miniature and arrange a marriage for her, posthaste.”

He didn’t need a portrait to arrange a marriage.

Upon learning Highbury’s distasteful intentions, Cassius had almost refused the commission, but something—mayhap curiosity about the young woman Highbury was so desperate to be rid of—prompted him to accept.

“More fool me,” Cassius muttered as he climbed into the curricle several minutes later. Guilt for his part in the poor girl’s fate pricked him during the ten-minute drive to Highbury House.

You could always refuse to paint the miniature.

True, Cassius could, but Highbury would merely find another willing artist.

As he descended the curricle, Cassius came to a conclusion.

I’ll wait until I meet the girl to make a final decision.