A whisper of a smile reached the corner of his valet’s lips and with a nod, he left to inspect the wardrobe.
Casper winced. His mood had remained foul all day and although he could blame it on one of his ships going missing in the Adriatic, it was more likely to be that porcelain face which refused to flee his mind.
Mrs Swift.
No woman had initiated such turmoil within since his sixteenth year, when a barmaid had crooked her finger at him from the inn stables. And why had he not heard a word from Mrs Swift? Three days and no card or note.
Plain stockings and black breeches appeared before him and he tugged them on, frowning.
A glimmer of hope had sparked after their meeting: that the twin artwork existed, that the rumours had been true and that he would know this young woman at last.
But that hope had now dwindled to dulled ire.
A waistcoat hovered and he thrust his arms forth.
Perhaps Mrs Swift’s employers, as he was now convinced it was an elaborate hoax, had grasped the futility of their plan, and the impudent creature had vanished to whence she came. He’d most likely find her treading the boards one day in some poxy theatre – a waste, he thought soberly, as her…talents should be more cherished.
Raising his chin, he took a deep breath in preparation for the cravat tying as one never knew when air could next be drawn.
Perhaps a mistress was what he sought, but in the past, the idea that he was paying for company had always left a sour taste. In any case, business filled his daylit hours, art the night, and only when the estate had funds in reserve to survive ten years should misfortune strike would he think to indulge himself.
Butshehad arrived.
Mrs Swift had been…enticing. She’d understood art. Her Titian hair and feisty manner had intrigued him, and dare he say it, he’d enjoyed her coquettishness. The vixen hadn’t cowered beneath his brusque manner but relished mocking it.
How unusual.
She’d stirred a want in him.
So for her to then bloody disappear made him grumpy as hell.
Rifling through the silver filigree box below the mirror, he retrieved the Golconda diamond. Years ago, it had been part of a Rothwell duchess’s necklace, but the gem had been the first piece he’d sold in order to shore up the estate. Ten years later, he’d repurchased it and had Messrs Armstrong and Wyatt set the rare stone within a silver stick pin – a reminder of what could be lost if seeking pleasure replaced work.
“I believe, Your Grace, that Lord Ernest has entered the house.”
“Tell him he has precisely no time at all to bathe, dress and present himself in the hall.”
A nod, and his valet yanked the brush through Casper’s hair, causing the ends to stick up. Casper awaited the smoothing, but the brush was carefully placed back within the dressing table and the drawer pressed shut.
“Parsons, isn’t that somewhat…windswept? I appear as though dragged through a rose bush.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. That is precisely the fashion.”
* * *
Evelyn pausedto listen to the bells of St Martin’s Church, their strident clang indicating it was almost time to leave.
Nerves coursed. Of trepidation, fright, but also, she had to admit, a certain thrill.
For tonight, she would once more be a lady, clad in silk – albeit a tad stained – and with an elaborate hairstyle which had taken her and Artemisia one hour to form. How did a lady’s maid make it look so easy?
She’d sacrificed a precious day off to attend to her toilette. A ridiculous amount of time, some might say, but to have a bath had meant lugging the small copper tub up the stairs from the landlord’s ground-floor cupboard, ignoring his suggestion that she use his parlour to bathe.
Not sodding likely.
Heaving water pails from the handpump at the end of the street had taken another hour and even longer to heat it in the range downstairs. Lugging all those sloshing buckets up the stairs had then taken all afternoon.
In point of fact, to bathe had been the quickest part so that Artemisia could also wash in its vague warmth.
