Ernest smirked. “Ah, butshedoesn’t answer back, Uncle, or…” He sat up, palm to brow. “…perhaps Casp has a problem with the old Lance of Love. Did you know the apothecary now sells Dr Senate’s Lozenges of Steel for–”
“Enough! I have no problems of any sort with my Lance–” He caught himself. “I repeat, I am simply too busy.”
“Doing what?” Ernest threw his arms about like a Shakespearean actor, and Casper snapped.
“Supporting a feckless brother, a drunken old roué of an uncle, some one thousand tenants, four estates, a bloody great castle, three townhouses, four hundred servants – upper and lower, two shipping interests, three factories, my diamond concerns, and having to procure two sofas with ten matching chairs at a cost of three hundred and eighty-two pounds including covers to replace the ones Ernest and his set destroyed last month.”
Silence blanketed the room for approximately–
“I’m not old,” murmured Uncle Virgil.
Casper thrust fingers through his hair and glowered, causing Ernest to rise and Uncle to drain his claret.
“Don’t take it to heart, Uncle,” reassured Ernest, patting him on the back. “Come to the library. I’ve just acquiredThe Monk, a tale of a celibate who goes mad with lust, leading to depravity and heinous crimes.”
They departed in camaraderie and Casper sat. Alone.
Reports lay in a neat pile, prepared for his scrutiny, and nothing should now interrupt the rest of his scheduled day.
Peace ought to have descended.
But in its place arose Mrs Swift…
A brazen, Titian-haired temptress with a gaze of clover and a figure to rival Venus, and for once his eyes declined to stray to the painting, instead closing to imagine the sweet revenge he would take for those transgressions against his desk.
A heinous crime indeed.
Chapter 5
The Queen of Hearts, she made some art…
“Bless me buttocks, that butler were so handsome,” gushed Flora as she fanned herself with a crumpled theatre bill. “I could feel myself going all hot, and I haven’t gone all hot since Mr F sketched my–”
“More tea?” enquired Evelyn as her young sister’s eyes gleamed with interest.
Maintaining Artemisia’s unworldliness had been arduous enough in Covent Garden without Flora’sconfessions of a muse.
“Nah, I’d best be off, and those tea leaves of yours have seen more bashing than Lucy’s mattress.” Flora’s cheeks dimpled in mischief, her humour as ever alleviating the strain of hardship, and Evelyn hugged her friend tightly.
That first night they’d found themselves lodged in Hop Gardens, Evelyn and her sister had huddled wide-eyed on the damp chaff-filled mattress, noises of the dark preventing their sleep: bawds selling their wares, villains screeching and rowdy brawls from the ale-house on the corner.
A robust knock on the door had taken two years of life away but Evelyn had crept to the frail wood panel and asked who stood there.
“Miss Flora Kemp,” had been the reply. “Neighbour, meddlesome busybody and possessor of three currant buns.”
Evelyn had rummaged for the few pieces of crockery too chipped to be sold, and they’d all sat and dined on the delicate Wedgewood, sipping watered-down porter ale from cracked crystal.
A friendship of women: formed beyond the dictates of class, built on circumstance, protection, shelter and currant buns.
“Matilda has sent a note saying we can visit. You can come, if you like?”
“Nah. Those swell’s houses gimme the collywobbles. Too big. You’d get lost hunting for the privy and starve to death.” And with a wink she disappeared, promising more buns for supper.
“I don’t know how Flora manages to buy so many currant buns,” Artemisia mused, petting their coal-black cat who’d first wandered in through the window six months ago, despite them living in an attic.
Evelyn plonked herself on the lone chair. It wobbled. “She lets the baker’s son kiss her. One bun a kiss.”
“Gosh, Evie. I wonder what he’d want for a lemon tart?”
