“We have not.” Dom smiled with a touch of chagrin as he shook the man’s hand. “Dominick Mercer, Lord Ellsworth.”
“A pleasure.” Winslow gestured for him to follow him down the hall. “I prefer to do all my business in the study.”
Dom nodded, understanding completely. “Because you want to keep your personal life separate from your business.”
With grin, Winslow slapped him on the back as the two strode into the oak-paneled room and corrected, “Because this is where I keep the best drink.”
Chuckling at that, Dom sat in the chair that Winslow indicated in front of the giant desk, from where the man ran the largest sole proprietorship in the empire. “You mix business with pleasure?”
“Business is pleasure.” At the little cabinet standing between large windows, Winslow poured two glasses from a crystal decanter filled with a caramel-colored liquor. He handed one to Dom before sinking into the leather chair behind the desk, then lifted the glass into the air. “The best bourbon in all of Europe, straight from the wilds of Kentucky. One of my ships delivered it to Portsmouth just last week.”
Dom frowned into the glass, not drinking.
Which offended Winslow. “Don’t tell me that you’re one of those English dandies who thinks he’s too good to drink American bourbon.”
“Not at all. It’s just…” When he saw Eve for the first time after the events of last evening, best that he was stone sober when he did. But perhaps it was better to let her father think he was simply being himself, a man known as the stodgiest peer in the Lords. “A bit early in the day to imbibe.”
Winslow laughed and took a long swallow. “It’s evening in China.”
Not wanting to offend him further, Dom raised the glass for a sip.
Winslow slumped down in his chair and rested his glass on his round belly as it jutted into the air. “What brings you here today?”
“I’ve come to call on Miss Winslow.”
The man’s eyes iced over, all friendliness vanishing. “Why?”
Nervousness spiked inside him. Good Lord. He felt like some young buck asking the man to court his daughter and afraid of finding himself on the wrong end of a dueling pistol.
He smiled to ease the sudden tension, but that did nothing to relax the hard expression on Winslow’s face. Neither did the swallow of bourbon and his mumbled comment about what fine quality it was. Not that he would know, never having tasted the stuff before in his life.
He threw an uneasy glance toward the door. Where the hell was the butler to tell him that he could see Eve?
This was why he avoided unmarried misses. They came attached to fathers.
“I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Winslow last night at the Hawthorne ball.” And discovering that she wasn’t the woman I thought she was. “We had a long conversation about art, because we’d both stopped to admire the same painting.” Because she’d been posing nearly nude for me for the past six weeks. “She was interested in the piece and in learning more about painting.” As well as learning more about why I hadn’t told her that Vincenzo was also Ellsworth. “I’m a patron of the Royal Academy and am always happy to support it however I can.” Including creating a nude painting of your daughter that I had fully intended to display there for all of England to see. “Miss Winslow seemed to be equally supportive.”
The irony of that last was biting.
“Art? You’re here to discuss art?” Disbelief dripped from Winslow’s voice. “With my daughter?”
Dom cleared his throat and took another swallow of bourbon. “I was hoping to discuss the Royal Academy’s upcoming summer exhibition with her.”
That was his excuse for being here, the one he’d thought of while rushing out the door of Mercer House, in preparation for a situation like this.
“With Evelyn?” Winslow drawled deliberately, his eyes narrowing, “A man of your position?”
Well, perhaps not exactly like this.
Dom shifted uneasily in his chair. “I know that she’s dedicated to charity work and helping those in need.” Thanks to Davies’s information and the web of servants’ gossip throughout Mayfair that could have given the Home Office a run for its money in terms of intelligence gathering. “The Academy is hosting an auction, with all proceeds going to provide supplies to artists who might otherwise not have the opportunity to further their art.”
He reached into his breast pocket for the invitation that he’d brought along, to use so that her father wouldn’t think he was lying about the exhibition. Even though he was. Through his teeth.
He placed it onto the desk. “I want to invite Miss Winslow and your family to attend the private preview as my guests.” Instinctively sensing Winslow’s soft underbelly, he added, “And perhaps to encourage you to make a few bids in the auction.”
Winslow visibly relaxed at that, going so far as to rumble out a chuckle that jostled the bourbon in the glass still poised on his round belly. Clearly, he now thought that he understood why the Marquess of Ellsworth was in his home. Not to gain access to his daughter but to his money.
For a man like Winslow, men who wanted his money were common place. Those who wanted his daughter, however, were the enemy.
And Dom would be the devil himself if the man ever learned why he was really here.
“None of those indecent artists, I hope.”
“Worse.” Dom grimaced and eased back in his chair. “English artists.”
Winslow chortled. “Well, then, perhaps we’ll attend. We’ve got space for a painting in the dining room. Perhaps one of a nice fruit bowl.”
Dom finished off his bourbon in one swallow.
“When you mentioned Evelyn,” Winslow mused, “I thought you’d gotten some idea about courting her.”
“No.” Just painting her naked for all the world to see.
“That you were here to get your aristocratic hands on my money.”
That rankled, to be thought of as nothing more than a fortune hunter. Dom smiled tightly. “I possess my own fortune and have no need to marry an heiress.”
Winslow smiled in faint apology. “Well, you cannot blame a father for being cautious. Especially with a young lady like Evelyn.”
“Of course,” he repeated in a mutter. What the devil was wrong with Eve? Nothing as far as Dom could tell.
“She’s always been a handful, that one. Oh, her older sister Mariah is stubborn to a fault, determined to prove herself at every turn, and caring far more about business than the niceties of society. But Evelyn…” He heaved a deep sigh of concern. “That one always leaps without looking.” When Dom frowned, Winslow sat up and placed his glass on the leather-padded desktop. “It’s not that she’s a troublemaker or set on scandal—nothing like that. Evelyn simply throws herself into life with every bit of herself first, then only later stops to think of the damage she might be doing.”
That was certainly Dom’s experience with her.
“Always skirting the limits of propriety with her antics, always wanting to experience everything first-hand. As if her life depended upon it.”
An electric jolt pierced Dom as Eve’s words from last night came back to him. He stared at Winslow as the man pushed himself out of his chair and crossed to the cabinet, this time fetching the decanter back to the desk.
“Always behaving as if she has to cram three lifetimes into one.” Winslow shook his head. “I think it’s because of her mother.”
Dom waved off the man’s attempt to refill his glass and sat forward in his chair. “How so?”
“My Beatrice passed away from fever when the girls were little. She wasn’t feeling well after a walk through the park, so she lay down to take an afternoon nap.” Grief flashed over Winslow’s face before he busied himself with topping off his own glass. “She never woke up.”
Avoiding Dom’s eyes, he lifted the glass and took a long swallow.
“Evelyn was only eight. Far too young to understand why her mother had died. For the longest time afterwa
rd, she was terrified of sleeping alone—terrified of falling asleep at all, in fact.” He stared into his glass. “She would force herself to stay awake for days on end until she finally grew so tired that she would simply fall over, unconscious, wherever she was. When she did sleep, she suffered such nightmares that she’d wet the bed or wake up screaming loudly enough to be heard several streets away. She stopped eating, lost so much weight…For the longest time I worried that we’d lose her, as well.”
Dom knew about her mother’s death, but he didn’t know about this additional hell. To go through that on top of losing her mother…Good God.
“The doctors tried to help her. They prescribed all kinds of powders and potions, but mostly the medication just made everything worse.” He rubbed his forehead. “Then she started in with all those wild antics, refusing to behave, doing all kinds of things that a young lady simply shouldn’t do. Adventures, she called them, but they were really just her way of distracting herself from her mother’s death.”
Dom’s gut twisted into a sickening knot. Alive, that was the reason she gave for hiding her true identity. She’d needed to feel alive. No wonder she’d kept coming to the studio long after she should have revealed the truth.
And being a damnable idiot, he’d promised to make her immortal.
Winslow slumped down into his chair. “But she’s doing better now.”
Dom wasn’t certain at all of that. As far as he could tell, her mother’s death still haunted her.
“This season’s been wonderful for her. She’s making her way into society where she belongs and finally behaving like a proper young lady.”
Not really. How well did Winslow know his daughter?
“Well on her way to finding a good husband, now that Burton Williams is no longer pursuing her.”
Dom carefully kept his face inscrutable. So Winslow didn’t know what happened last night. Eve hadn’t told him. According to what Dom had overheard at the ball after Eve fled, most people considered what Williams had done to be distasteful. Talk of it would surely die down over the next couple of days, with only vindictive, jealous misses continuing to give it power. But in the meantime, Eve would suffer.
Fatherly pride laced Winslow’s beaming smile. “She has it in her to be a grand lady.”
“Very much so.” Dom meant every word.
“I hope that ladies like the dowager Duchess of Trent and gentlemen like yourself will guide her in the proper direction.”
That stung with irony.
“If Mariah could find a good husband, then surely Evelyn can do the same. Someone staid and dependable to keep her in line and out of trouble.”
Dom stared at the man. Did her father know her at all?
“A nice accountant perhaps. A clerk in His Majesty’s government. Or a bank manager.”
Obviously not. Thinking of a much better pairing for Eve, he muttered, “Or a highwayman.”
“Pardon?”
“I said…or any nice man.”
“Hmm. Quite.” He thoughtfully took a sip of bourbon. “Do you know Christopher Carlisle, brother to the Earl of Spalding? He seems quite taken with her.”
At the mention of Eve with Kit, Dom bit the inside of his cheek.
“A good man like him might be just what she needs.” Winslow smiled and slapped his hand on the desktop. “He wants to be a vicar, you know.”
Dom tasted blood.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Thank God for the interruption. Both men looked up as the butler stepped inside the room.
“Yes, Bentley?” Winslow called out.
“Sir.” He cleared his throat and looked at Dom. “Your Lordship, Miss Winslow sends her regrets for being indisposed and unable to accept callers this afternoon.”
He grimaced. Of course she did.
“Well.” Winslow stood, prompting Dom to his feet, their conversation over. “Perhaps we’ll see you at the exhibition.”
“Yes. I hope so.” He nodded and accepted his hat and gloves from the butler who held them at the ready. Which was fine with Dom. If he couldn’t see Eve, then there was no point in lingering. And certainly none in continuing this very uncomfortable conversation with her father.
With a parting nod to Winslow, Dom was shown to the door. But he now had even more questions than when he arrived, and as long as she refused to see him, no way to get answers.
Chapter 13
One Long Week Later
Eve tucked her bare feet beneath her on the chaise in the studio and drew a deep but shuddering breath that did nothing to ease the sickening lump in the pit of her stomach. Her reputation had unraveled.
The church bell struck midnight as if in agreement, each strike echoing inside her hollow chest…Gone, gone, gone…All hope of being able to recover any shred of dignity among society…Gone, gone, gone…
She wrapped her arms around herself but found little comfort. Oh God, how horrible a week it had been!
Rumors had sped through society about her letters, which everyone considered far too familiar for an unmarried miss, even to the man who was courting her. And apparently, also greatly amusing, based on the way everyone had laughed at her.
Thank God no one had yet to discover that she and Burton had run off together, but enough other damage was being done to make that inconsequential to her destruction. Damage that truly pained her…like the note from Penelope Daniels that she’d received just this afternoon, in which Penelope wrote that her mother refused to let them be friends any longer. It was only a matter of time until her other friends did the same.
So she’d sneaked out of the house to the studio, to the one place that had become a haven for her. Here, she was safe, cocooned by the smells of linseed oil, varnish, and turpentine that she’d come to love, in the dim light of the single candle glowing on the worktable. Alone. Because Dom wouldn’t come here tonight, certainly not when he had other women at his disposal to entertain him. Like that beautiful woman who had been on his arm at the Hawthorne ball. A woman who most likely had no hesitations about removing her clothes to be painted. Or for other things.
She’d let herself inside with the key Dom had given her after Jacopo left for Italy, in case he was ever out when she arrived for their sessions. Proof that Dom had thought her special after all, if he was willing to trust her to come and go to the studio as she pleased. If he was willing put up with all the trouble she’d given him, all the late arrivals, all her modesty about revealing herself…
Oh, how much it hurt!
Certainly, Burton had proven himself to be a grand arse with his little stunt. He’d wanted to wound her as much as possible without giving away their elopement, and he’d succeeded. Petty vengeance for not being the heiress he’d thought her to be.
She simply ached from it, but not for herself. What pained her was that she’d let down Mariah and Robert, who had done so much to protect her. In the end, she wasn’t ruined the way they’d feared, but the damage was the same. She would never be accepted by society now. She’d forever be known as the pathetic woman who wrote such cloying love letters to Burton Williams as to be laughable. Everything her sister and father had wanted for her was now destroyed. Because she’d dared to share her heart.
But worst of all, she’d lost Dom.
No—how could she lose someone she never had? He’d seen her as nothing but a means to an end, while she…
She’d been a fool to care about him.
The sound of metal scraping in the lock jolted through her. Her eyes flew open just in time to see Dom pause in the wicket doorway, surprised to discover her there.
He stared at her for a moment through the dimly lit shadows, then slowly stepped inside the studio and shut the door behind him with a rattling clank.
“What are you doing here?” he asked quietly.
No trace of anger heated his voice, and she was glad of it. She’d come here seeking comfort, not another battle.
Waiting for her answer, he slipped out of his overcoat and
tossed it onto a nearby chair, along with his beaver hat and gloves. He still wore his evening finery, right down to a white satin brocade waistcoat and trousers beneath a dark green cashmere jacket.
An uneasy juxtaposition gripped her at seeing him—the Marquess of Ellsworth in all his exquisitely tailored best, standing where a paint-stained Vincenzo should have been. For a moment, she felt as if she were staring at a stranger.
“What are you doing here?” she returned on a soft breath.
His mouth twisted as he reached up to unknot his cravat. “Mrs. Peterson’s musicale ended, and I wasn’t ready to go home.” He dropped the neckcloth onto the worktable and crossed to the little stove in the corner. “You should be in Mayfair with your family.”
Balancing on the balls of his feet, his cashmere jacket stretched tight across his back, he opened the little stove door and shoved in several chunks of coal. He didn’t glance at her as he started the fire, didn’t say a word. The silence grew oppressive.
“If you want me to leave,” she whispered, unable to bear the tension any longer, “I understand.”
“I don’t want you to leave.” He shut the stove door, then sat back on the floor with a heavy sigh, his forearm resting over his bent knee. “I never did.”
Finally, he turned his head to look at her. His face was unreadable in the shadows and dim light cast by the stove. But he wasn’t smiling, that much she could see. His dark hair shined like brimstone in the light, and the planes of his face hardened in the shadows until they resembled marble.
“I was hoping to run into you tonight,” he said quietly. “I thought you might have attended the musicale with the Duchess of Trent.”
“No.” There was no invitation to the musicale, and most likely no more would be forthcoming for the rest of the season. Yet even in her desolation, hope panged foolishly inside her. “You went there because of me?”
“I certainly didn’t attend for the music.” He reached inside his jacket. “I wanted to return your letters.”
He held them up, now tied in a bundle with a ribbon.
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