With fingers aching, Evelyn sleepily sprawled forward as she dumped the newly decorated hat on the table and rested her forehead to the surface. Although decidedly pas à la mode, the hat would have to do, and Matilda’s ribbons had at least lent an air of freshness.
Distant church bells clanged eleven, and she yawned, knowing she must sleep if the morrow was to bring success. The theatre manager had sullenly consented to her morning off but no doubt it would come with consequences.
Sliding her chin forward, she gazed up at the portrait which lay propped in the corner, shadow and light flickering upon it as the sole dim candle danced to the tune of the draughty window.
Situated alongside Father’s charcoal sketch, her painting shone with life, the rich crimson skirts and porcelain skin. But as she squinted, endeavouring to view what others would see, a tinge of wrongness shivered her limbs.
Exact brushwork akin to her father’s. Correct shades of paint that had cost her three days’ wages. Perfect technical artistry.
And yet…
Maisie Pilkington’s expression had lent an air of strained wantonness and harsh experience to the portrait that did not exist in Father’s sketch.
He’d rendered Evelyn’s posture with delicacy, fingers shyly brushing the ribbon at her throat – not wanton at all. In contrast, her shoulders had been drawn straight and fearless – ready for the future which fate had bestowed, not harshened to life but determined to best it.
Maybe she should have–
A raked fit of coughs from the cot jammed to the wall compelled her doubts to dissolve. It was too late now.
No one but Artemisia mattered, and she’d be dammed if Filgrave would ever lay mere breath on her sister.
So standing, she wrapped her frayed shawl tight and pulled her shoulders back, for tomorrow she would face this haughty nobleman with fortitude and determination.
This night, Covent Garden had strangely ceased its clamour, as though to collude with Evelyn’s endeavour, and so accompanied solely by the distant yowl of cats, she crossed to the cot, lifted the threadbare blankets, huddled close to Artemisia and lulled her sister back to sleep.
Chapter 3
“In the coldest flint, there is fire.”
(1579 English proverb)
Oh dear.
The steps to No. 6 Grosvenor Square had been imposing enough, the Doric columns which flanked the portal truly alarming, but the brass lion door knocker complete with snarling teeth well-nigh sent Evelyn scuttling back to the pavement.
“Ain’t this a flash pad. D’yer think he needs a mistr–”
The stately door swung open to reveal an efficient footman, all tidily dressed in blue livery with gold braid.
Conveniently, Evelyn had fashioned herself a widow, but a maid in tow would bolster her respectability and Flora had been at a loose end. Whether her friend could pass muster as maid depended much on her ability to keep her lips buttoned.
Evelyn endeavoured not to gawk at the elaborate chandelier and decorative cornices as she passed her pelisse to the footman and then followed the impressively straight shoulders of the butler past a morning room filled with marble and carved panelling.
The home she’d grown up in had been pleasant, as befitting a lowly baronet artist, but nothing on this scale of opulence. Alabaster nymphs smirked as she drifted in silence past a grand carved staircase whilst festooned mirrors reflected her guilt at what she was about to do.
Ahead lay a large oak door.
With a brief knock, the butler pushed it inwards. “The eleven o’clock, Your Grace.”
Sodding hell, as Flora would say. Because the duke who stood obelisk straight behind an immense desk encapsulated all the gossip sheets had suggested…and more.
No hounds lounged at his feet and his visage conferred no benevolence. Although undoubtedly, he owned too many acres.
Dark-sapphire eyes held no expression, firm features with not a hint of dissipation neither smiled nor scowled, broad shoulders and slender physique encased in indigo blue rose tall, and short hair the colour of spun sunshine gleamed.
The Duke of Rothwell appeared a gentleman in his prime. Lean, impeccably dressed and handsome as Apollo.
As the caricature had portrayed, a lion of a man. But not one that lounged in the heat of the day with his pride. No, this lion remained alert, mane shorn, his imperious air and magnificent stature commanding attention and respect.
And into his lair, Evelyn stepped.
“I do not have much time…” He glanced to the papers on his desk. “…Mrs Swift. So please, live up to your name.”
His voice, despite its chill tone, was every maiden’s innocent dream…and every woman’s wicked desire. And it scraped along Evelyn’s skin as though his eminently clean fingernail had raked her throat.
Sodding, sodding hell.
At Matilda’s, they’d debated how Evelyn should act. Her friend had voted for a business-like, competent attitude but this powerful duke must have efficiency up to his perfect white cravat. Artemisia had elected for demure, but hesitating now, Evelyn knew a demure lady could do nothing but cower beneath those arctic eyes.
No, this duke would need–
“Get yer paws off me!”
Evelyn swivelled as Flora flounced through the door, the rather handsome butler firmly gripping her upper arm, a frown creasing his brow as he peered at her crooked maid’s hat.
Flora winked.
“Copperhouse,” the duke demanded, “what’s all the fuss?”
The butler peered down an aquiline nose that denoted a fine lineage begun on the wrong side of some noble bedsheet. “Nothing to concern oneself, Your Grace. Solely a wandering maid.” And he cast her a distrustful glance.
“Oy! You can shov–”
“Flora!” chastened Evelyn. “Perhaps you could take tea in the kitchens whilst His Grace and I conduct business?”
She sensed, rather than saw, all those male eyebrows levitate.
The butler took no heed, however, and peered to the duke for guidance.
Turning, she noticed Rothwell’s stare upon her…backside?
But his eyelashes instantly flickered up and she told herself it had merely been in the way. Although leaner than it once was after a diet of potatoes and…potatoes, her frame was not of a sylph – it had forever been robust and durable, her hips naturally rounded, a bosom that required a decent corset.
“Best leave the door ajar, Copperhouse, and take the maid away.”
Bemoaning – or was it admiring – the butler’s fearsome grasp, Flora was removed.
“Do sit, Mrs Swift, and state your business. My man of affairs left a note citing it was art related.” The Duke of Rothwell took to his own leather chair in a fluid motion and stilled, not a crease to his forehead or quirk to his lip.
Blank – a canvas waiting to be painted.
Any proper lady would act deferentially to such a stern and composed figure of a man, but too many years living amongst the hoi polloi had blunted such considerations, and all Evelyn craved to do was…muss his hair, create havoc upon his impassive features and tug that cravat loose.
Most men in the area she lived had toned bodies – they may have no teeth, but hard labour gave them muscle and broad thighs. The duke appeared similar but he also incorporated a lithe grace, and his fingers as they clasped on the desk were slender and outstretched, an impressive signet ring adorning the smallest.
Despite his aloof expression and utterly motionless demeanour, he radiated sultriness and strength.
A solitary animal. The most dangerous kind.
And here they were.
Alone.
The scent of books, beeswax polish and smouldering coal stirred an intimate ambiance, despite the grandeur of the room. Paintings held pride of place on the wall behind the duke – a Reynolds, Rubens, and an elegant Gainsborough, if she wasn’t much mistaken.
Surrounded by such art, her tension eased.
Evelyn focused on his striking
yet cold face and a desire she’d not experienced for years came to the fore. A desire she’d not had time for.
As a young girl, she’d flirted with handsome artists who’d littered her father’s home and enjoyed the pleasure of witty repartee and teasing gazes.
That young girl had declared her attitude.
Reckless. Playful. Unabashed.
Evelyn considered her looks passable at best, neither plain nor a great beauty, but she’d observed the coquettish glances from the models her father had painted, noticed how the women of Covent Garden enticed.
Surely she could rattle that impassive expression of the duke’s.
Unstiffen him a little.
And she wondered. She wondered if a light flirtation might be her best approach.
So, Evelyn refused to sit.
Instead, she trailed a single gloved finger along his rather magnificent desk.
The impertinent jade.
How dare this woman take such a liberty.
Casper ought to request Copperhouse escort both that uncouth maid and her unsettling mistress from his abode this instant.
But…
An aspect about her stilled his tongue.
Mayhap ’twas the art connoisseur within him, for hair the colour of a Titian Madonna framed a face created for portraiture, full of defiant character and impudent sauce as she returned his fierce stare, lips twitching.
Scarce dusky freckles dotted skin that only a redhead wore – translucent porcelain, but a few shadows marred her eyes, speaking of some hardship.
Certain men were drawn to delicate angels and winsome fair nymphs but as in art, Casper had forever been enchanted by rich colour, bold curves and feminine ripeness.
She traced the moulded edge of his desk, green eyes flicking up, lighter than her dress, which he noted had also been patched at shoulder and hem, and not that he kept abreast of current female fashions but this mode also appeared…outmoded.
A jaunty hat nestled upon her curls and one long flaming ringlet trailed her throat to rest upon an impressive bosom. Lustrous fire on green velvet. A perfect palette, and he wondered if she were an artist’s model. It would account for the mended material she wore, as they frequently leg-shackled themselves to some equally starving artist.
And then of course she had a backside to rival that of the Venus hanging at Rokeby Park, a painting of some five hundred pounds.
But why had she not sat? He’d be damned if he’d repeat himself. Persons should obey a duke’s first word.
She picked up the miniature of his mother, a woman he’d seen less of than the cook, but which he kept for the artistry. Yet even his brother knew not to touch items on his desk.
A duke’s desk was sacrosanct, separating worlds, the richness of its ebonised flame mahogany imbuing awe and deference.
“An Engleheart, if I’m not mistaken,” she commented, plonking it back down as though to an ale counter.
“Correct.”
And what the devil was the etiquette if a lady refused to sit?
Should he stand again? After all, a nobleman could murder his own servants and remain untouched by the law but sit whilst a lady remained standing and he’d be carted away to the Tower. But if he now stood, he’d look ridiculous – like an automaton. No, he’d remain seated and embellish his haughty reputation.
“I know my art, Your Grace.” Mossy eyes coyly glanced up as she now proceeded to lean against his desk. An absolute outrage but he refused to acknowledge it. “And,” she continued, sliding her hand along the leather inlay, an act that made him feel quite peculiar, “I have a painting which I believe you…desire.” She licked rosy lips but he ignored the gesture and briefly sifted his memory for any outstanding art, but currently that which he didn’t own, he did not…desire.
“I must correct you, Mrs Swift. For I have all I need.”
“Is that so? I hear you purchased a Sir Henry Pearce work last year.” She batted those red-tipped lashes. “And paid quite a sum of ginge– price for it.”
Casper’s eyes slid to the left, to the painting which had been hidden behind the door before Copperhouse had narrowed it to ajar. Mrs Swift’s knowledge could hardly be refuted as he had indeed paid the previous owner approaching one hundred pounds. He refocused and noticed her gazing at his cravat and the diamond that resided therein.
What emotion shone in those eyes? Greed? Probably so. “I pay what they are worth, Mrs Swift.”
The green of irritation now shone forth, and she folded her arms, lips thinning to a single brushstroke; shame, he’d been appreciating their lushness.
“Sir Henry Pearce himself received a mere twelve pounds for that painting.”
Ah. So, she had known the artist.
Mrs Swift was clearly not of the upper classes despite her faultless Ton elocution – not arduous to mimic –– as her clothes were too worn, manner too bold and her maid too insolent. Had she been a model? A mistress? Or both. She appeared too young but artists were randy buggers.
“He did not approach me with it.” Casper wished otherwise, but he’d not been a renowned patron in those days. The thought of collecting art had merely been a pleasant notion as he’d struggled to replenish the Rothwell coffers emptied during his father’s ruinous reign as duke.
She swayed improperly close and the scent of soap wafted. Not rose or lavender or one of the more nonsensical aromas which pervaded the ballrooms lately. Just soap. Clean and for some reason quite arousing.
With a dismissive tut, Mrs Swift shifted to tilt her head in profile and an impression of knowing overcame him, a sensation that frustrated. So as she stared boldly once more, Casper studied her features.
No, he’d never encountered those cat’s eyes or thin cheeks previously, but…
“Am I acquainted with your husband, Mrs Swift?”
“I’m a widow.”
He glanced to her vibrant green outfit that shamelessly clung like a lover’s departing hand.
“Out of mourning,” she contested, “by four years. He was killed in the war.”
“My condolences. And his name?”
“Mr Swift.”
He smothered a snort. “His given name, if you will.”
“Oh. Well, er.” Her gaze flitted past his shoulder. “Reuben.”
A quirk of lip. “Who would have thought. And his living?”
She wafted a tan-gloved hand. “That is inconsequential to our discussion, Your Grace. Mr Swift also collected art and was a friend to Sir Henry in his later years.”
Casper nodded. Never had he heard such false drivel in all his three decades.
“And,” she continued, “he acquired a painting from him which I’m sure you will desire for your collection.”
He doubted it, even if this cock and bull story had some truth to it. Sir Henry appeared to have dabbled in all and sundry, his finest compositions already on Casper’s townhouse walls.
The artist’s later works had been arresting but had lacked…accuracy. As for his others: seascapes – yawn; countryside – leave that to Constable; cats – need he say more.
“I do not believe, Mrs Swift, that–”
“I have The Fall of Innocence Unveiled,” she whispered. “Your painting’s twin.”
Forcing his features to remain passive had never been so trying. He willed his jaw not to twitch, shoulders to remain tight and breath not to gasp.
But with controlled and cautious motion, Casper did allow himself to at last stand.
That she should calmly whisper his secret longing, his one impossible desire, stole his wits and warped his body to stone.
Yet that painting did not exist.
Even before he’d first set eyes upon his own, he’d heard the rumours of a twin, spoken to other connoisseurs who’d heard similar, but not one of them had ever viewed it.
Galleries had been scoured and messengers dispatched to view private collections. He’d met with cloaked figures in ale-house backrooms, finding nothing but scattered hints and
falsehoods from thrice-hand whispers, and as such had come to reason the rumours to be false.
His defiant one had no equal.
Mrs Swift was everything he despised – rapacious, devious, each word from that mouth a pretence, and all intended to fleece a duke. Pert and tempting and smelling of wholesome goodness – a dichotomy that would drive a man to Bedlam.
Casper leaned forward and thrust his lips close to her ear.
“Liar,” he hissed.
Evelyn refused to flinch, no matter how badly her morning appeared to be proceeding.
And why the devil had she not previously thought of a name for her husband? Who’d have thought Rothwell would care?
But Reuben?
Of all the… She might as well have arrived with “charlatan” stamped upon her brow.
And why did the duke’s warm breath in her ear cause a frisson within?
Well, perchance that was because Rothwell epitomised six foot of fine-looking, dominant male, and although she concurred with the scandal sheets that he could be brusque, his quick words and stirred eyes could never be considered dispassionate.
All Evelyn could do was brazen it out, and so she twisted her head.
Then wished she had not.
Their cheeks grazed. He stood improperly near. So improperly near she could count his eyelashes and even they were tipped in gold. A scent of clove assailed her senses, warmed by a man’s skin – rich and exotic.
Oh, mercy, she was in so much trouble.
She swallowed. “I do not lie.”
Much.
“I hope not, Mrs Swift,” he drawled, heated air wafting her cheek. “For lies are caught quicker than a lame dog, and to deceive in this instance would incur punishment such as you have never imagined. Honesty…” He paused and touched a lone finger to a curl. “…is precious to me.”
Gulping, Evelyn wondered if a tactical retreat might be in order, to disappear and never return. But equally a little voice piped up that her choice had been made, that at least he no longer wore an expression of blandness, for his eyes had fixated on her lips with a predatory gleam, awaiting her next words.
This exchange had roused him. And of course, she herself could not deny a certain anticipation.
The Duke of Diamonds Page 3