But he took it anyway.
Lips as soft as silk, persuasive and deliberate, skimmed her cheek and she gasped. Broad palms cupped her chin and then he kissed her with brutal precision and elegant strength.
All was ardour and intensity and hunger, as he teased her mouth open, a hand sliding down her spine to tug her close. It clenched on her derriere, grinding her against hips which flexed in desire.
Her fingers fluttered for a brief and unsure moment but then grabbed his coat lapel, hauling him close. He responded with a groan, other hand now twisting in her hair, tilting and crushing her mouth.
Intoxication swept her.
She’d expected threats of imprisonment and demands of recompense; she received promises of hedonism and a potent masculinity.
“Tell me your name,” he whispered against her mouth and sudden cold drenched the rising burn.
A ruse. ’Twas all a ruse, to beguile the secrets from her, and she wrenched away, stumbling into the side table and sending Mars tumbling to the rug.
Through a fog of lust, Casper goggled as a marble statue with the largest Lance of Love he’d ever had the misfortune to gaze upon sneered up at him. It was lucky the objet d’art had fallen arse down or it would have snapped in two.
His own body felt likewise poised to shatter – needy, taut and afire, and all for a lying, red-haired temptress who boiled his blood like no other.
At the deception, he’d been enraged but tamped it beneath iron control, refusing to unleash such base emotion.
Answers were required.
Yet one taste of her lips, wholesome and ripe, and rage had melted away to uncover a similarly primitive sensation. And all he’d yearned for was a name to groan against her luscious soap-scented skin.
At least he could be sure he wasn’t alone in this covetous, all-consuming need as she’d gripped him close, moaned as he’d hauled her near, lips opening for his ravishment. And now, Mrs Swift stood with fingers to rasping mouth, verdant-green eyes dazed.
Casper stalked towards her but she spun for the door. He reached out to seize her by the arm, then the waist, bringing her flush to his body, her back pressed to his chest, lush derriere to his groin.
Her nape was slender and delectable, so he kissed it, lips tasting the softness, and a lament of pleasure met his ears.
“Tell me your name?” he demanded again, needing to hear some honesty this day.
“Mrs Swift,” she whispered.
“Your given name and please don’t lie.”
Her body grew pliant, soft curves moulding. Her neck tilted to allow more of his touch, a moan arising as he yanked her tighter, put teeth to nape, scraping across the delicate skin.
She gasped. “Evelyn.”
Temptation herself.
Well, he would possess Evelyn whatever her name was. But not in quarter of an hour as she had once accused; no, night after night of timeless pleasure – urgent and leisured, savage and tender…
And once they’d slaked this wild lust, he would send her on her way.
Rather rudely, a thorn of unease pricked his conscience: that he was acting the blaggard; that the painting did appear, after all, to have some connection with Sir Henry Pearce. Had she too been duped?
But no. Guilt had been writ large across her features, eyes downcast with deceit, freckles alight with a blushing culpable hue, and lips biting with the effrontery.
Ah yes, those lips. Another dichotomy of Mrs Swift because she’d tasted of innocence.
Had she been a widow far longer than a wife? Or had she ever indeed been espoused?
Then there was the soap. Shouldn’t lying harlots smell of exoticism to smother their treachery? But lye soap?
The summons to depart chimed from the mantelpiece, his scheduled hour at an end.
Confusion whirled. He needed to gather his thoughts and plan his next move. But which was more pressing? To investigate the portrait’s legitimacy or bed this vixen? ’Twas a problem to relish.
Idly, he brushed the curls from Evelyn’s nape. Such a bewitching name, and he permitted his lips to linger, asking the question which bedevilled his mind. “How long were you married?”
Her body tensed. “Reuben died long ago,” she shot back, and he laughed; damn her lies.
“Evelyn Swift,” he drawled, spinning her to rest his hands on her shoulders. “We shall meet again here, when I will demand many answers. Expect my card. In the meantime, do not for one instant consider fleeing or selling this painting elsewhere, as I will have no qualms in enlightening Bow Street as to your activities.” Casper brought lips to her ear. “And may the devil help you if you abscond.” He touched a finger to her radiant hair.
Stepping back, he performed a mock bow and then strode decisively for the door, wrenching it open…
“That’s the cupboard,” a low voice uttered.
A cornucopia of paintings faced him.
Women with not many clothes on. Men with no clothes on. A statue of a couple…in a position that would put even the most hardened courtesan to blush.
Casper twisted and raised a brow.
“Er, the previous occupant left some ornaments behind,” she explained rather wanly. “Good day, Your Grace.”
With a nod and last glance at the enchanting vision of Evelyn Swift with ruddy lips, cheeks aflush and heaving bosom, he strode for the other door and thankfully arrived in the hall. With no maid to be found, he was forced to collect his own strewn hat, gloves and cane, open the door himself, close it himself, and stalk down the steps – which he could manage unaided.
Casper peered back over one shoulder, tapping cane to thigh and with a strong suspicion that the painting and Mrs Swift would soon disappear into the metropolis.
No.3 Clipstone Street gave the impression of a theatre set: the paintings missing from the walls, the unlived echo, the indecent statue stuffed in a cupboard, doubtful maids.
But Evelyn could never hide. She’d shine like a bright new penny amongst the squalid coin of London.
Dawdling on the kerbstone was his tiger, kicking his feet and yawning beside the Rothwell phaeton, reins dangling from his grip.
“Do you wish to earn more money, lad?”
“Do fish piss in the sea?”
Casper frowned. This interim tiger habitually worked in the kitchens. Now he understood why.
“I suspect a Titian-haired lady will depart this abode forthwith. Monitor her activities and report back to me. Do you understand?”
The lad scratched his head and clods of soot fell out. “Yer want me to keep me squinters on some bit o’crumpet and blab back. I’m yer man.”
The half-pint lad spat on his palm, then held it out.
Casper stared, quite nauseated.
“Well, how do I know yer gonna pay up unless we shake?”
“I’m a duke.”
“Nobs are the worst. Hold me horse, they say, and then throws yer a button and laugh. Filching coves.”
Sighing, Casper rooted around for change and handed over a silver sixpence, doubting he’d ever see the lad again.
The little brat bit at the edge. The temerity – as though Casper had the time or inclination to mint his own tin coins.
“I’m all yours, Guv. I’ll follow the crumpet’s arse like a dog trailing a bitch in season.”
Quite.
Chapter 13
Haven’t we all had enough of dukes?
“Maybe we watered down the grog too much,” bemoaned Flora as she cut a currant bun into thirds. “My pa once bought a cart with no wheels after he’d downed the strong stuff.”
Evelyn merely nodded, stroking Artemisia’s brow as she lay in her lap with rasping breath, Cleopatra atop acting as blanket. Except for less money, no coal, an angry duke and Filgrave’s lengthening shadow, their lives had not altered since two weeks previous.
And how could she have yielded to the duke’s kiss? Causing her to pant like a mewling child denied cake.
Although what a cake… Iced and sp
iced. Rich and tempting as sin.
His reputation within the scandal sheets of being a dull and brusque nobleman was obviously utter claptrap as anyone who’d kissed him would vouch for, but mayhap he only allowed his composed demeanour to shatter with a widow of low rank, and hence no threat to his bachelor status.
With hindsight, perhaps she should not have dared to provoke him with such flirtatious banter and hence witness those slate eyes blaze with anger, fire and amusement.
But no more. She’d had quite enough of dukes.
Rothwell must now be consigned to her past, a pleasant reminiscence to trot out whilst stood in the dreary bread queue, a remembrance of how a gentleman should touch a lady.
And she would remember only too well.
As a girl, she’d been kissed by some of the fledgling artists, but they’d been teasing pecks or slobbery busses, which she’d disentangled herself from rather quickly.
The duke’s kiss had been firm, dry, measured, forceful, heady… Impossible to disentangle from.
But no more. She’d had quite enough of dukes.
As soon as he’d departed the Clipstone residence, Evelyn had dashed around, replacing pictures, rotating statues and hailing a hackney to take herself, Flora and the portrait home.
But home held no refuge. Only reminders of debt and decline.
Should she have confessed all to the duke? Appealed to his benevolent side? Did he have one?
Rumours abounded that he’d cut the funds from his own brother, and Lord Humby’s fate was still gossiped upon in the rags, so what could a forging woman who lived a street away from Covent Garden expect from such a merciless gentleman except possibly a carte blanche? As, after all, what else could his ravishing kiss and fierce arousal signify?
If he offered, perhaps she should accept. But where would such a choice lead if he took her to mistress? When he grew bored, as all men were wont to do, she would have to find a new protector, and then again and again, until she was at length discarded for being too old or too diseased.
How would Artemisia grow up within such a world? Of payment for lust.
Surely, the only difference between succumbing to the duke or Filgrave was the duck-feather bed and a handsome face.
A handsome face that hid deep emotion, she now realised. A mask of respectability and decorum, when beneath, like most noblemen of this land, he seethed with repressed passion and strength.
But no more. She’d had quite enough of dukes.
“We will have to move,” Evelyn stated quietly. “Maybe to the outskirts of London.”
“A midnight flit? Filprick will be furious,” warned Flora. “So a dandy idea, but you’ll have to go further than the outskirts. He’s got peepers everywhere.”
Indeed, Evelyn had noticed a grubby boy hiding behind a wagon as they’d heaved the portrait through the door. Had Filgrave sent him? She’d cautioned Flora and bribed the neighbours with potato soup to keep quiet if any questions were asked.
“I’ll scrub out the signature and offer it across the river.” She glanced to Flora. “The duke threatened Bow Street if I sold it but…what choice do I have?”
Flora sighed, shoving her own third of bun onto Artemisia’s plate for supper. “I know a cove who might give you sommit. Won’t be much but…”
“Thank you, Flora. I-I…failed. I underestimated the duke.”
This impassioned collector had not seen merely a harlot in a red dress but comprehended deeper, studied the young girl and gleaned character from just her stance and a glimpse of cheek. In those days, Evelyn had been bold, determined yet innocent, never imagining how quickly life might alter.
The Duke of Rothwell had seen it all.
His appreciation of art was not a pretence, nor a collection for status, but a deep understanding of technique and mastery, his gaze avid, penetrating and shrewd as he’d examined the painting. An established patron who’d abhor an attempt to fool him.
Her friend hugged her shoulder as they all gazed at the portrait of Maisie, and Evelyn cursed herself for not painting that which the duke wished to see.
Honesty.
But no more. She’d had quite enough of dukes.
* * *
Casper eyed the lad. “Well?”
The runt rubbed his nose and wiped the contents on the red leather Chesterfield armchair.
Alas, the Rothwell study, influenced as it was by Neoclassical harmony and restraint, would have to be swept for fleas and fumigated for any further vermin concealed within that stained jacket, and Casper reconsidered the lad’s position as tiger…or in fact the kitchens. The usual lad was always tip-top in presence and habit, whereas this urchin appeared from the River Fleet.
“She lives in them Hop Gardens, not that smart pad we left.”
“Does she indeed?” No point in returning to Clipstone Street then, and he foraged his mind for where Hop Gardens lay. Certainly not this district but possibly Bloomsbury or Holborn? It sounded most pleasant. “Where is that exactly?” He resented admitting a lack of knowledge but it would be quicker to ask in this instance…and he could silence the boy with sixpence.
“Back of Covent Garden.”
“Covent…”
“Ain’t the worst street. Full of slatterns and gin-tipped coves mainly. Me step-pa used to drink in the bowsing ken on the corner before he caught a knife in the gizzards there one night.”
“Knife?” A headache loomed. Hell, what was she doing living there?
“Aye. Spent three days bleeding out before he died. Ma said it were a mercy.”
The headache materialised. “And is it just you and your mother now?”
“Yep. And me three sisters and the babe.” The lad peered over the desk and set his unwashed paw upon it, palm up. “There’s more, if yer wanna know.”
Casper should be affronted but the gleam in the brat’s eye reminded him of Ernest as a boy – all mischievous cheek. And the lad did have four siblings. Opening a drawer, he delved deep and came out with half a crown.
“Cor! I’ll run over there now, if you like, and sleep outside redhead’s door.”
“Patience, lad. Dogged determination kept this little island free, not charging around without a plan.” Casper dropped the coin into a filthy palm. “And what was the further information you mentioned?”
“Lives with her young sister. I caught a glimpse and she’s a sweet piece – but weak looking and she coughed a lot. Probably die soon. Takes in sewing jobs.”
Casper winced at the lad’s matter-of-factness. “Names?”
“Folks were right tight-lipped, but some calls ’em Evie and Ar… Arti… Artichoke sommit.”
How unusual.
“And the Evie one paints stuff for some theatre on Tottenham Street. I had to bribe a whiddler with me neckerchief for that tittle-tattle.” A second equally soiled palm was held out, the little bugger.
“See Copperhouse for a new handkerchief and food to take home.”
A nose scrunched. “S’pose that’ll do.”
“Keep watching them and report back.”
“Like fleas on a hound, that’s me. And after that, can I be tiger again, Yer Grace? Don’t wanna go back to kitchen boy. ’Tis filthy work and I don’t like being underground.”
Casper stared. His basement kitchens were revolutionary in their constant water, improved lighting and the latest James Walker self-acting range and steaming apparatus.
The lad was uncouth, foul-mouthed and had stained the hitherto blue-and-gold tiger livery he’d been given with…grime. “Consider yourself on probation for three months.”
“Eh?”
“Yes.”
The urchin spat on his hand and held it out.
Casper stared again.
“Oh, right yer are.” He instead smeared it down the extortionately expensive livery breeches. “Good to do business with Yer Grace.” And he sallied forth from the Rothwell study, revealing a suspicious blemish on the rug.
Grimacing, Casper clasped h
is hands around the back of his nape and studied the plaster cornices.
Evelyn – he savoured the now confirmed name – was an artist. And a fair one if a theatre had employed her.
Had she faked the painting knowing he’d purchased the first one? Did she know the whereabouts of the genuine Fall of Innocence Unveiled? Or did it not exist at all?
A confusing muddle, to which was added her situation. If he needed to apply intimidation to unravel the truth, ’twas preferable to think of her as Astwood’s hustling mistress rather than a lady who’d fallen on hard times. One with an ill sister and who lived near a brawling ale-house. One who did not eat sufficiently.
Scrutinising a spider on the stucco ceiling, he also contemplated his own actions during the showing.
Had he really endeavoured to seduce the answers from her lips?
That strategy was most out of character. As a rule, he’d resort to ducal coercion or monetary inducement, but his buried lust had inconveniently surfaced, and although he could blame it on frustration and anguish at the sham painting, he wasn’t insensible to the fact that Evelyn Swift tempted him in too many ways.
Ignoring the fraudulent aspect, he did admire her bravery…or was she perhaps in such desperate straits that the threat of prison held no fear?
If he were a different man, she would be locked up by now, although proving the painting as a fake would not be without issue. Lloyd and Harper had taken one look and accepted it as a Henry Pearce work. No question.
But he’d known something was amiss.
Shoving the chair back, he then raised his boots to the desk – after all, it was already begrimed from his tiger’s mitts – and perused his painting on the opposite wall.
An elusive image flickered, wavered and then slipped away in her brown hair.
“Casper! Your feet…your desk. Are you well?”
His boots slid with a bump. “Yes indeed, just thinking on…ducal matters. What can I do for you, Ernest?”
His brother wandered about, peering to the portrait and screwing his nose up, before abruptly swivelling. “I…the property at Burford, I wondered if I may…take over the handling of its stables.”
The Duke of Diamonds Page 9