“A female artist’s work,” the duke revealed as he perched on the edge of his desk, hand tracing the leather inlay. “Does that offend you?”
She shook her head, more offended he’d need to ask, but it was true that such subjects, especially rendered in oil, were considered too violent for a woman’s delicate sensibilities. An unnatural subject for a hysterical mind.
And yet no one on earth, be they man, woman or beast, remained untouched by pain and sadness.
“The lady I passed in the hall?”
“Indeed.”
Such remarkable talent. And how strange that a genteel lady painted pain and death whilst the Prince, a rugged villain, captured happiness and life.
Or maybe it wasn’t so strange at all…
“I think it exquisite. Compelling and poignant.” She studied their rugged captain again – portrayed with such depth and emotion. “The artist has feelings for him,” she said softly. “But his eyes appear…”
“Empty. Yet battle will do that to a man, I’m sure. Their captain is Miles Firth, the new Earl of Stonewold. He’s resigned his commission and is returning home.”
“How did she paint this? Was she there?” Evelyn could scarcely imagine such a fragile lady stomping through battlefields with charcoal in hand.
“I believe she questions foot soldiers in the hospitals. Asks them to reminisce, if they will, and sketches their experiences. Later she conveys it to oil. She signs herself merely as ‘The Witness’.”
“’Tis a moving tribute to the men that survived…and those who did not.”
Silence fell. And not a comfortable one.
The clock ticked and her gown rustled.
Her gaze swung from wall sconce to battlescape, from desk to opulent rug.
Swallowing heavily, she wheeled away, only to be confronted by the two Fallen paintings, now side by side on the study wall.
Oh, how very foolish she’d been. Maisie appeared as an erotic blunder to her father’s delicate rendering. Both beautiful but worlds apart.
Spinning again, she found herself facing the duke.
Hemmed in on all sides by her own deceit.
“The doctor…” Evelyn inhaled, only to fill her senses with clove cologne, its scent spicy and rousing. She exhaled and steeled her spine. “The doctor recommends Artemisia have bed rest for a sennight. I… I do not know how long you were planning on keeping us here, but I would ask…”
She faltered. Could one ask one’s kidnapper to accommodate oneself for another week?
“Lord Helmdon did inform me of your sister’s condition.”
“Who?”
“Ah, he would have introduced himself as Dr Mainwaring but he’s also an earl.”
So unusual.
“I thought work an anathema to the aristocracy?” She arched a brow.
He arched one back. “And I thought prejudice was merely confined to that same aristocracy. But Helmdon is not of the norm. Some years ago, Ernest fell from his stallion and injured a leg. When it became infected, our doctor wished to remove it but I hunted an alternative opinion.”
“Your brother has no limp.”
“Lord Helmdon is the best.”
It should have cheered her, to have such a fine doctor care for Artemisia, but the noose of debt instead tightened further. She had nothing but the patched clothes on her back and they weighed so very heavy.
“I have no money to repay. And the doctor wishes her to–”
“Do you imagine I will toss you both onto the streets, Evelyn?”
Not the streets, no, but…
“Your reputation is not of a kindly man.” She paced, tired and fraught, throat tightening in despair, her only means of escape, of a future, being either to peddle that forged painting hanging on the wall or to sell her soul to the devil, stealing and whoring. Moreover, each day she ate and drank on the duke’s largesse, no longer scrabbling for air above the tide of debt but sinking further into its expanse. “And I have found nobles to have little knowledge of the real world. Of the hunger and toil and–”
He abruptly straightened and Evelyn took a step back.
That convivial demeanour had given way to gritted jaw and incensed eyes, fists curled as he stalked over.
“You may be correct on some counts, Evelyn,” he growled. “Because no, I have not starved on the streets or endured the slums but do not lecture me on toil.” He stood rigid and tall, one small step from her. “I have toiled without sleep to put roofs over my tenants’ heads. I’ve fought the House of Lords for reform and have dug interminable ditches on my own estate because no man would work for me, not trusting a Rothwell’s word of payment.”
Oh. And she stepped back once more, legs meeting the chaise. “I…”
The duke followed. “I have toiled without end to make my land provide for those that reside there.” He shook his head, gripped his nape. “Change is in the air, manufacturing the way forward, yet my acres are agricultural, and I despair as I lose men to the towns for less backbreaking work. This damn weather is rendering my sheep lame and throttling my wheat.” His hand dropped. “When I inherited, my tenants were hungry and destitute and I have worked my ballocks off to at least see them well fed, housed, and I hope, content.”
Evelyn frowned and bit her lip. That did not tie with his ruthless reputation? Of forcing young lords to pauper their boots? Of coercion and stealing lands? And how on earth did a duke know of lame sheep on his estate? He must oversee every detail.
“But I read of your neighbour Lord Humby…”
“Ah, Humby.” Casper hooked a thumb to his fob pocket and she couldn’t prevent her shiver. “He’d unentailed lands bordering mine, and his tenants petitioned me for help. He hadn’t paid any bills for an age and had gambled away the harvest profits rather than re-invest them in seed. The children were ragged, they lacked a decent well, cholera lurked, and he’d threatened to throw the villagers out because their shacks disrupted his pheasant hunt.”
“I…”
“I bought up all his vowels, yes, but then gave him a choice: he could deal with the problems with my help or I would take his land and help those people myself.” He leaned close. “I grew what the Rothwell dukedom now has with my own toil, so do not presume to know me from the gossip rags, Mrs Swift.”
Evelyn felt smaller than the humblest bug, mortified, and horribly pained.
She’d thought him a duke who threw a few coins at the masses and expected it to appease, spending his thousands on art. And many of London’s poor had abandoned the countryside due to absentee landlords expecting them to work the land for a pittance, the family famished, the houses crumbling.
But with his determined words and steadfast eyes, she could see the truth.
Others perceived Rothwell as emotionless and dull, but what they failed to comprehend was that he’d sacrificed his own pleasures for a staunch responsibility to his dukedom.
Restraint and duty ruled him.
And she’d wounded his pride, his years of toil to resurrect his estate, which she suspected no one in high society recognised or admired him for.
And she could never ever steal from this magnificent man, not the most tarnished pewter teaspoon, nor the most lustrous diamond in all England. Neither would she steal his intellect with a forged painting. Or his dignity with her foolish words.
Gazing at his stern features and now knowing the truth of him, she realised it was he who could so easily steal from her…
The one item she still possessed. An organ that thumped faster when he entered a room, that slowed when he departed, that stopped when he kissed her.
But wrongs had to be righted.
“I… I stand corrected,” she said huskily, stepping forward.
“You do?” He startled back.
“Yes. You perform your duty, above and beyond, and that is all anyone can ask.”
“It is?”
“Of course. If you beggared yourself, you would just be another pauper in the gutter,
unable to provide. ’Tis a shame the gossip sheets do not report your good works. We need titled men like you to petition for the many. You seek to better lives, and I…admire such noble resolve.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Do you not believe me?”
He lifted a hand to her cheek. “Most would rather believe the gossip rags so I am flabbergasted that you take me at my word.”
“Why wouldn’t I? You have always been…honest with me.” She bit her lip. Honesty was a sensitive subject given the circumstances.
“Well, let me be further honest, Evelyn.” He bent to brush her lips with his own, all anger and hurt seemingly obliterated. Instead an awareness arced between them – an understanding, heady and intimate. “I want you. I have wanted you since first you came to my study and refused to sit.”
His eyes fairly sizzled and she knew if she nodded, she’d be back on that desk, mussing his hair and crying his name to the decorative cornices.
Temptation beckoned – to forget all in his embrace.
But unlike the Eve of original sin, she knew how snakes such as Filgrave could return to bite, and a future needed to be planned for herself and Artemisia. She could not afford to lose her wits for a moment’s passion with a man so far above her in society, decency and…
Honesty.
A trait he’d once said was so precious to him. A trait Casper so cherished.
And yet she was mired in deception.
“I cannot,” Evelyn professed.
He pretended no confusion. “Why?”
Chains lashed firm her heart and tongue as she pictured the duke’s expression when he comprehended her trickery – the anger, disappointment and hurt.
I’m no innocent but a forger with an evil debt collector on my tail.
I’m no widow but a virgin spinster without the experience to satisfy a duke.
And one day you’ll discard me to marry a seventeen-year-old debutante with a thousand acres and unblemished hands.
And I am so afraid I would fall in love with you.
“I do not wish to bear a babe out of wedlock.” Weak but true.
An odd gleam entered his eye. “There are ways to prevent that.”
Were there? Why had Flora never mentioned that? “Nevertheless, I cannot take the risk.”
He tilted his head and then reached out to graze his thumb along the seam of her lips. “I concur with your rationale.”
“You do?”
“Yes. You must protect yourself and your sister, which you do, and that is all anyone can ask.”
“It is?” Concentration on his words blurred as that thumb continued its caress.
“I admire such noble resolve.”
“You do?” And hadn’t they had this conversation.
“Hmm. And yes, you will stay for another week.”
“We will?”
“Of course, I see no reason why not. Cousin Lydia is content hunting the library for evidence that Mary Magdalena was a redhead; Ernest enjoys quoting A Sicilian Romance at me; and Uncle deems your taste in his apparel immaculate. It also means I have time.”
“Time?” That damn thumb still brushed. Back and forth.
“Time to bare your secrets.”
“Secrets can hurt,” she whispered.
“Secrets can release you,” he countered.
Eyes closed. Her lips parted beneath that pressing thumb. “I’m–”
“Save yer breath to cool yer porridge, Coppers!” a honied tone bellowed outside the door followed by a rapacious knock. “Evie? Are you in there? We needs yer upstair–” Harsh whispering ensued. “Wot was that, Coppers? I can’t hear yer.” A muffled murmur. “Ohhhh. Right yer are.” A delicate ahem. “Mrs Swift? Is one present, perchance?” An intermittent scratch to the door… “We needs yer arse upstairs as I can’t find that soddin’ potion the quack left, and yer sister’s hacking her gizzards up.”
Evelyn raised her lids to Casper’s amused grin. “’Tis no secret,” he drawled, at last removing his thumb, “that she is no maid. What did she offer me earlier? Oh yes, ‘a swive for a shilling’.”
Her eyes widened. What had Flora done?
“She is rather new to it all, I will agree.” Evelyn gave a rueful sigh. “I must attend to my sister.”
The duke’s head swiftly dipped, lips lightly brushing hers before he drew back, strode to the door and flung it open.
Flora fell into the room, steadied herself, bobbed a curtsey and winked at him.
The duke hoisted a brow and turned to Evelyn. “Mrs Swift, I believe your presence is required upstairs.”
“Did I interrupt sommit, Mrs Swift?”
“Not at all,” Evelyn contested as she hid her blushes and scurried up the stairs quite at sixes and sevens. “I don’t know what you mean. And you’ve no need to call me Mrs Sw–”
“I haves to,” Flora revealed breathlessly, skirts hiked to knee, “otherwise Coppers gives me a strict talking-to and punishes me with those firm hands of his.”
“Oh, Flora.” She hugged her arm as they darted down the corridor. “I’m so sorry.”
“Water off a duck’s arse and besides…it gets me all lusty.”
Flummoxed, Evelyn halted, opened her mouth, closed it, and then continued hurrying on. “I placed the potion in my wardrobe,” she explained, yanking the bedchamber door wide and crossing to the cavernous item of furniture.
“Course yer did.”
“Well, there’s so much space. This wardrobe would serve an entire family at Hop Gardens.”
The interior revealed three dresses, five empty shelves and a green bottle.
Flora dashed to the side table and poured a glass of wine for Artemisia’s syrup to be added…then quaffed it in one and poured another. “Just testin’ it fer yer sister,” she said with a grin.
Smirking, Evelyn added the potion before the second glass could likewise disappear.
A raked wheeze came from the adjoining bedchamber and Evelyn bustled through the between sitting room, swirling the malodourous concoction.
She sat on the bed…and sank a good ten inches into its softness. “Drink, Artemisia,” she coaxed, tenderly cradling her sister’s head as the mixture was gulped.
“T-thank you,” Artemisia rasped, falling back against the pillows, face flush. “I was reading a Gothic novel and have discovered I mustn’t laugh too much as…” She drew a long breath. “It makes me cough.”
“Perhaps a more educative book is called for,” chastised Evelyn with her sternest gaze. “In the duke’s library, I noticed a dense volume entirely dedicated to the cultivation of potatoes.”
Artemisia pinched her lips shut but her eyes scrunched in laughter as a sniggering Flora also flumped on the end of the bed.
Evelyn kicked off her shoes and tucked her toes beneath the coverlet. “But seriously, Flora, ’tis all my fault that you had to leave Hop Gardens and end up here as pretend maid. I’m so sorry. And I have no idea what our futures hold now.”
“Don’t you worry yer belfry. We’ll cross them breeches when we comes to ‘em.” She pulled at the wrinkles on her stockings. “Coppers took me back there this morning, wouldn’t let me go on me own, the nitterwit. Lucy’s taken me room and she rescued some of m’stuff that I didn’t have time to pack.”
“Have you missed it?” Guilt weighed that she’d taken Flora from her home, possessions and friends.
Flora gawked. “Course I haven’t bleedin’ missed it, you goosecap. I much prefer the butler’s…” Her eyes swivelled to an inquisitive-looking Artemisia. “…the warm bed here. And we’re allowed baths twice a week, the uniform’s free and the grub’s toothsome…if a bit foreign.” She creased her nose. “It’s just the early mornings I can’t get used to. And the ironing. And the snooty housekeeper. And all the fetching and carrying. ’Tis much easier to lie still and let artists paint…er, me best bits.”
“And did you really ask the duke for…” Evelyn halted as her sister leaned forward to rest her chin on a
clenched fist.
“For a what?” Artemisia queried, eyes wide and breath husky but without its previous wheeze.
Flora twiddled a curl and attempted the virtuous smile of an angel – a fallen one. “Well, yes. I asked him for…a rise. Just to see what kind of a master he was. Only a shilling, mind.”
“And?” Evelyn winched a brow.
“He said he never gives maids a rise.”
Artemisia snickered and pulled the coverlet tight. “No wonder, Flora,” she said with a distinct twinkle to her eye. “That’s the butler’s responsibility, is it not?”
Chapter 22
The sweet science of advice.
A cuff to his right eye left him reeling.
“Come along, Your Grace, concentrate.”
Casper managed to block the next pounding blow but redness swirled in his vision – Evelyn’s flamed hair unfettered and tumbling free.
Another clout to his cheek shattered the image and his head smacked back.
“Let’s call it quits for today, Your Grace.”
“No.” He focused on his sparring partner, all three of them. “All is well. Continue.”
“You’re bleeding like an undercooked beefsteak…Your Grace.”
Ah, so that red wasn’t his fervid imagination then, and he put forearm to cheekbone, felt a distinct swelling.
“Are you permitted to hit me so hard, Hawkins, considering the amount I pay?” He let Horatio tug off his boxing gloves before grabbing a towel and swiping away sweat…and blood.
The proprietor of this club grinned, his bared chest hardly heaving despite the past hour’s exertion. “If you will excuse the informality, Your Grace, but you came at me like a caged tiger released but then your concentration lapsed to that of a carp – which is why you got walloped.”
Casper grunted. “I have matters on my mind.”
“A woman?”
“I’m a duke. All manner of matters could be on my mind.”
Hawkins’ tanned brow pulled taut as he yanked off his gloves and unwrapped the cotton strips from his fists. “You’re the Duke of Rothwell. Able to concentrate and focus like no other. The world could be upending and you would still have the technical acuity – that I have taught you, of course – to defeat the Great Mendoza.”
The Duke of Diamonds (The Games of Gentlemen Book 1) Page 16