“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 haveThe 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?
