Casper frowned. The current manager was competent and sent regular accounts. Why change that?
“The stables have no need of additional direction. All functions as it should.”
“I was talking to Lord Sancroft about combining our studs.” His brother removed a small notebook from his inner coat pocket and opened at a page. “He can provide the business expertise whilst I can–”
“We will not lose money on ridiculous new ventures.”
“But–”
“That stable yields a twenty per cent profit on a low-spend ratio. No.”
Usually his brother would rant for a few moments but on this occasion a stillness descended as they glared at one another, until with careful precision Ernest snapped his book shut and carefully placed it within his jacket pocket.
“I’ve read many a Gothic novel,” he bit out, spectacles encircling a glacial gaze, “but none contained a villain quite as unfeeling as you. I bid you a fruitful afternoon counting your coin.”
With a swish of brown coat-tails and stomp of hessian, his brother stalked out, leaving the door wide.
Casper dipped his head.
Some days, he’d had quite enough of being a duke.
Chapter 14
England expects…
Evelyn wore black.
For today, she would bury Reuben Swift, bid farewell to Matilda and strike a deal for her painting on the south side of the river.
Currently, her friend sat on the butter-yellow chaise, tucking food she’d pilfered from the Astwood kitchen into Evelyn’s green reticule – three biscuits, six hothouse strawberries, two pears and an ounce of tea leaves.
“Thank you for the use of Clipstone Street, Matilda.”
“I’m so sorry it didn’t work out and wish I could help further but what with…” Matilda’s words faded. The Earl of Sidlow had put creaking knee to lemon rug yesterday and thanked a dumbfounded Matilda for “accepting his hand in marriage,” so they were both steeped in hot broth.
“You mentioned a plan whilst your cousin was away?”
A fervid nod and Matilda peered left then right. “In the past few weeks,” she whispered, “I have responded to six governess advertisements from The Times. I need only lay low and avoid this marriage until my birthday in August. Then, I’m released from my cousin’s guardianship.”
“Won’t someone from society recognise you?” Evelyn whispered back.
Her friend pursed her lips. “The first five positions were all in foreign locations – Wales and suchlike. The last is in London but… Well, let us just say that one need never worry about discovery there.” She shrugged. “I believe my only deficiencies for the employment are scarcity of references and a complete lack of any experience with children.”
Evelyn clasped her friend’s waist. “Matilda, should you ever need me…”
They smiled wanly at one another, aware they were flotsam on a tide of male rule, tossed hither and thither at whim. Would they wash up on a beautiful sunny beach or the muddy Thames riverbank?
“Never fear,” stated Matilda bravely, also stuffing two misshapen sugar lumps into the reticule. “The circumstances of that last position were somewhat…unusual, so the advertiser might be desperate.”
“Does it involve a duke?”
“No.”
“Then you should be fine.”
With a reticule that resembled an overstuffed toad, Evelyn made her way home, although that home was soon to change.
In the past two days, she and her sister had once again packed their belongings into carpet bags, sold all else that couldn’t be carried – so not Cleopatra – and now she merely awaited funds from her transaction across the river so they could purchase stagecoach tickets and begin a new life.
Yesterday, they’d stared at maps in a shop window, where Artemisia had closed her eyes and randomly stuck her fingers out. Peering through the small panes to see the name of their chosen destination, they’d found it to be a map of Oxfordshire. Then peering even closer, her sister had squealed.
“A castle! There’s a castle on the map. You know I–”
“Love castles. Yes, half The Strand now knows,” Evelyn had said with a smile.
“It could be a pile of stones or…” Her sister’s pallid face had been wreathed with excitement. “…fate!”
Evelyn had more hoped that fate would simply provide enough for a few weeks’ rent in… She’d squinted at the village beside the castle – Lower Rushington. That she could find work at teaching and Artemisia at sewing, and that one day, she could repay her original debt to Filgrave in the manner agreed.
Indeed, she mourned for London this day as well, home for three and twenty years. The bustle and noise, the grandeur and the squalor, her job at the theatre, which she’d lost in any case, Filgrave no doubt turning the thumbscrews on the manager…
Applying her key to the splintered front door of their lodging’s entrance, a bellow sounded from far above. Not unusual but she tensed, sensing trouble.
Evelyn put shoulder to door – it always stuck – and leaving it wide, dashed up the three floors, her skirts tangling and reticule clattering the bannister. The bellowing grew louder and a female sobbing halted her heart.
The door to their room was closed but a cry came from within, and Evelyn walloped the wood, crashing it wide.
Their landlord loomed, red faced and sweaty, a meaty hand on Artemisia’s shoulder, her face ashen, tears tracking her cheeks in glistening streams.
“Get your vile hands off my sister,” Evelyn shrieked, rushing forward to grab the lout’s arm.
“Don’t touch me, you little witch. You ain’t paid yer extra rent, and then I comes up here and find all yer bags packed. Mr Filgrave warned me sommit like this would happen.” His grip tightened on Artemisia till she winced. “Planning on dodging out, were yer?”
Evelyn clobbered him on the shoulder. “Let go. We’ll pay the rent but are awaiting money.”
“I want sommit for me trouble, so as you don’t disappear on me.” Rotten teeth grinned and ale breath wafted. “Yer tasty wench of a sister can come live with me till I sees me dough.”
Evelyn had thought lascivious villains solely the preserve of Minerva Press novels, but this beast hauled an arm around Artemisia’s waist, bent and licked her cheek.
Eugh.
A temper so fervid and wild overcame her – disgust and rage at mankind, and with all her might, she swung her stuffed reticule.
* * *
“That boy wishes an audience with Your Grace…Your Grace.”
Casper scowled. Copperhouse had made his announcement at a most inconvenient moment.
Reviewing tenant leases for the estate with his land steward should have taken less than half-hour but various persons had not paid the rent and Rootles knew that Casper would want a say on the situation.
“Tell him to wait in the kitchens. I’ll be another hour.”
But a grubby face peered around Coppers’ legs, panting and pink-cheeked – as far as one could tell. “No time, Guv. There’s gonna be a rumpus at the redhead’s gaff.” The boy wriggled as Copperhouse seized him by the collar. “Oy, gerrofff.”
With a nod to Coppers, the boy was released, and Casper frowned. “Sisterly argument?”
“Nah. I were at the boozer around the corner…er…having a pie, when I heard their landlord prattling. He were crowing that he were gonna sort out them fox-haired sisters. That he quite fancied giving the older one a–”
Casper bounded from his chair, papers scattering, ink pot and brass quill stand crashing, as he hurtled into the hall. “Coppers! Horse readied in the mews. Now.” And he snatched coat, cane and hat. “Boy… What’s your name?”
“Horatio.”
Casper stared askew.
“Wots the matter with that? Mother said me pa were a sailor and she liked to think… Well, yer know…”
“Of course. You be pillion. I’ll need direction.”
“Cor, are we riding ye
r rum prancer? Smart. Can I holds them reins?”
“No. And Coppers,” he bellowed after the disappearing butler, “send the carriage to follow on with footmen aboard.”
A tide of fury engulfed him as he struggled into his coat. That some oaf would dare raise a hand to Mrs Swift and her kin.
With no time, he rushed back down the hall, through the conservatory and out into the garden. A path led to the mews but even so, the maids shrieked as he took a more direct route via the laundry room.
Tuffers was still bridling Pegasus as he stalked into the stables, so he prowled to the gun cabinet, grabbed a pistol just in case, and then paced whilst the girth was tightened.
“He’s not been ridden yet, Your Grace, so might be a tad frisky.”
“Good,” he growled, heaving himself to the saddle. “Shove the lad up back.”
The stable master blinked. “I might need gloves,” he muttered but nevertheless grabbed the whelp and propelled him onto the rear of Pegasus.
“Oy, mind me new togs, Mr Tuffers, and what do I hold ont–”
The lad must have found somewhere as Casper raced his horse out and Horatio stayed aloft.
There existed a genteel route to Covent Garden but today Casper took the quicker backways – Brooks Mews and the various alleys, but curricles crowded his path crossing New Bond Street and their destination was still a fair distance. How long would it take a jug-bitten blaggard to stagger to their doorway and force his way in?
A rare panic surged within him. He’d not hunted out Evelyn for two days, thinking to just watch and learn. To find out more about her circumstances or whether she was part of a larger hoax. Whether she was still married and who visited the sisters.
But the lad had reported nothing amiss. No male callers, nor burly villains knocking on her door at night or mysterious outings by day. She and her sister worked finger to the bone till the candles gutted, ate scant meals and had foregone coal, even though the May sky refused to warm.
As they approached Leicester Square, a bloody great vegetable cart lumbered from the main thoroughfare, and then halted as it realised the alley was unnavigable. Two clay-headed lob-cocks scratched their heads and muttered whilst the carthorse stood bemused, facing a brick wall.
“Remove yourselves,” Casper bellowed. “I’m a duke.”
“Course you are. And I’m the Queen of England,” the chap bawled in reply, nudging his cohort and chuckling.
Casper narrowed his eyes. Seeing as the Queen was in fact his step half second cousin thrice removed, that seemed unlikely. He really did not have time for this, so he swung his horse about-turn and cantered halfway down the alley, swung again, and galloped at full tilt.
The vegetable sellers dived to the ground as Pegasus leaped the cart, potatoes tumbling as hooves clipped, and they sailed over, clattering to the cobbles on the far side.
“Bleedin’ hell,” yelled Horatio, who now clung to Casper’s coat with an eagle-like grip. “It’s like King Arfur and his knights.”
Casper had foregone the sword. But he did have a 38-bore Manton flintlock pistol with scratch-rifled rebrowned twist, octagonal sighted barrels, figured walnut half-stocks, trigger-plates complete with pineapple finial and silver escutcheons.
“Yer turn right ’ere. The one with the half-broken window.”
Yanking the reins whilst Horatio jumped from the horse’s back, Casper surveyed his surroundings. He knew these alleyways existed, knew people lived in such squalor, but even so, the stench of rot and the sight of scrawny women heaved his stomach and shamed his heart.
The lad darted through an open door and ran up wooden stairs, the bannister loose. Casper followed, vaulting the steps two at a time, hearing angry shouts and a wailing cry.
A small door at the top lay open and Horatio motioned with waving hand.
Shoving his way through, he encountered a thin young girl with bright red hair, crying out as a hefty lout hauled her about the waist, bellowing of money and wrenching at her ripped gown. The fake maid from Clipstone Street was tearing at his hands, and Evelyn was beating upon his back, hair loose and wild. Her fight and courage inflamed him, but then he noticed the red palm print emblazoning her cheek and cold ire replaced all else.
The fiend raised his hand once more.
Casper darted forward, wrenched him around by the stained neckcloth and smashed a preliminary fist into the whoreson’s jaw.
Chapter 15
“The very purpose of a knight is to fight on behalf of a lady.”
(Thomas Malory, Le Morte d’Arthur)
“Cor, that were better than King Arfur.”
Casper straightened his cuff, flexed his hand and regulated his breathing.
In the event, the landlord had crashed to the floor in a heap at the first blow, but then Casper practised this craft once a week at the exclusive Hawkins Boxing Club, so he expected some expertise in return for his money.
Blood seeped from the oaf’s cheek where the Rothwell signet ring had caught, and surrounded by shocked eyes and gaping mouths, Casper now felt rather unsure. Which was absurd. So, he took command.
“Mrs Swift, and I presume this is your sister. Gather your belongings and come with me.”
No one moved.
Hence he cleared his throat, which seemed to spur them into action as Evelyn rushed to her sibling and held her tight, whilst the sibling put a palm to Evelyn’s raw cheek. The fake maid hugged them all, tears gushing like the Thames at full flood.
Devil take it, they didn’t have time for such base emotion as heaven knows who might take up the villain’s cause, and so he cleared his throat anew…at increased volume, and with an “ahem” attached.
They all turned. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
He nodded, now also feeling somewhat foolish for his unscheduled charge across London like a knight errant. And had he just abandoned the land steward in his study? And left the door open? Unlocked? His desk…unattended.
“How much do you owe?” he queried, having comprehended the situation. Perhaps he could pretend he’d simply been passing and heard a hullabaloo. Monetary inducement would silence Horatio.
“Five shillings and sixpence.”
He rifled in his coat pocket, flinging a crown and shilling to the groaning heap on the floor.
“Follow me,” he ordered as the young sister grabbed a basket tied with string and Evelyn hauled two carpet bags. He seized one of them – it weighed more than Prinny.
“Books,” she babbled.
Delectable liar. The scent of turpentine and oils wafted, and he raised a brow.
“And Flora must come too,” Mrs Swift stated. “She can’t stay here now.”
“Don’t you worry, Evie. I’ll be fine as a cow turd stuck with primroses,” assured the woman who pretended to be a maid in her spare time.
“Pack your bags also,” Casper ordered, not having time for shilly-shally. “Mrs Swift and her sister will need…a maid.”
“Where are we going?” enquired Mrs Swift breathlessly. “We could perhaps afford the floor of an inn if–”
“Oh, no, Mrs Swift. You will not be straying from my sight.” In the corner sat the portrait and he crossed to peer at it. “You and your…cohorts are to reside at my townhouse until I have some answers. Preferable to prison, I daresay.”
Evelyn gulped as she followed the duke step by step down the rickety stairs.
When he’d first arrived on the scene like a latter-day Sir Lancelot, her pulse had raced with gratitude and she’d thought to divulge their real names, but his threat of prison had frozen her blabbing mouth and slowed her gushing heart.
Best to admit neither muff nor mum, as Flora would say, and they might still get to Lower Rushington without a noose around their necks.
As they exited onto the street, the first thing that caught her eye was a great snorting white horse, all lather and rolling eyes, a sooty ragamuffin patting its flank.
A commotion further up the alley then took her attent
ion as the most luxuriant carriage she had ever seen rattled down the muddied cobbles. A sprawled inebriate just managed to flatten himself against the wall in the nick of time before the glossy horses trotted by in perfect harmony.
The coachwork of the vehicle gleamed, so highly polished that the slattern on the corner tousled her hair in its reflection, and aloft, an immaculate coachman flicked his whip, all tidily dressed in blue with gold braid.
“Good.” The duke nodded his approval. “Copperhouse thought to send the occasional-use carriage for these tight alleys.”
This wondrous fairy-tale vision came to a halt outside their dwelling and they all gawked as liveried, brick-built footmen scuttled about, pulling down steps and opening doors. With no ado, carpet bags were seized and strapped to the rear, except for the basket which Artemisia kept close.
They were all ushered inside to sit upon plush velvet seats, footmen covering the women’s knees with woollen blankets, the carriage so spacious they sat three abreast. Flora’s mouth gaped like a coal scuttle.
The duke ascended the steps to sit opposite, placing the portrait at his side, his boots brushing Evelyn’s skirt hem.
It was Artemisia who spoke first. “Thank you, Your Grace, for your assistance.”
An inclination of noble head. “Mrs Swift’s sister, I assume?”
Accompanied by a restrained shout, the carriage advanced, its movement hardly perceptible. Evelyn knew she ought to make the introductions as was proper, but at this moment in time, albeit grateful, she felt somewhat kidnapped.
“Yes, I am Miss Artemisia…” Evelyn covertly elbowed her sister. “…Smith.”
A flash of white teeth gleamed. “Such a beautiful given name, if I may say so.”
“My sister suggested it to our mother. ’Tis after Artemisia Gentileschi.”
“The baroque artist?”
“Hmm, it’s ridiculous. I dislike it so. People tease me.”
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