This villain who held her to ransom had been born in the gutter, supped with rats as a child and spilled the blood of others as a man. He cared not that Evelyn’s sister had been so ill or that the doctor had refused to attend without first hearing the chink of coin. Mr Filgrave cared only for gain, notoriety and puce silk handkerchiefs.
Lolling upon a satin and giltwood chair that the Prince Regent would be envious of, he flicked a hand aloft and the grim minion slid from the corner shadows to fill his goblet. Evelyn salivated at the rich ruby, despite the early hour of the day. Once, she had drunk such wine from glittering crystal too, been a gentlewoman in silk slippers and elegant frocks.
Smoothing her best patched wool skirt, Evelyn’s noggin commenced on some mathematics.
Her neighbour Lucy Margate, whoworkedin much the same way, received half a crown per tup, less if sailors were in dock, but her gluttonous hog-grubber of an employer also retained seventy per cent for the display of wares and some bungling protection. Therefore, with a paltry thirty per cent of the proceeds, Evelyn’s debt of twelve pounds, six shillings and tuppence excluding today’s interest would be approximately paid off by…
Shuddering, she deliberated option number two.
The last resort.
An option she’d pondered upon, begun, nearly finished, and then, blinded by guilt, buried beneath the bed.
A remaining hope that, although made use of her artistic talents, would involve a certain degree of deception and, for want of a better word…forgery.
Evelyn gazed to the moneylender once more, who returned a leer, tugged at the buttons on his breeches and licked his teeth.
There was no alternative.
She would endeavour to sell a forged painting to the reputed most callous duke of all England.
A desperate action of bold duplicity.
For Evelyn’s father, Sir Henry Pearce, had been an artist of considerable note and talent but of diminutive sense, leaving nothing when he died four years previous but debt, a few oils and a perfect pencil sketch of a never completed work.
A never completed work that had a wholly completed twin.
A twin this particular duke had paid handsomely for not one year past.
If her deception were to be uncovered, she would be jailed, led to the gallows or transported to the Colonies. But money from that painting would mean she and her younger sister could leave London forever, find a quiet cottage in the wholesome countryside and grow vegetables.
And perhaps the duke’s icy reputation was grossly overdone in the gossip papers?
For in true society, weren’t all dukes gouty, braying and buffle-headed, with greedy hounds, jovial smiles and far too many acres?
He’d never realise another hand – especially a mere female hand – had painted such a companion work. Could never comprehend in his noble noddle that the canvas set before him had not been dignified by the brush of Sir Henry Pearce himself.
The Duke of Rothwell owned half of England it was whispered. He’d purchase the portrait, abandon it on a wall at some rarely visited country estate and never be the wiser.
Evelyn thought of her pale and weakening sister, the coal-laden damp air, their grey lodgings and empty stomachs.
“I’ll have your money within a month, Mr Filgrave,” she replied. “Never you fear.”
“I never do, Miss Pearce.” A sly, designing smile flitted across the moneylender’s face. “But skirt like you ought ter. My boys ain’t as friendly as me and by the time you get ’ere, you might not be to my taste.” He took a sip of wine and smacked his lips. “And then I’d ’ave to look to yer fetchin’ sister fer m’gingerbread.”
Briefly, Evelyn wondered if all this talk of food was a subtle type of persecution, but then her temper swiftly surged at his threat, desiring her to stab that toothpick into those stained breeches till he squealed. However, these past four years of hardship had taught her patience, fortitude and twenty-three ways to cook potatoes.
Bestowing a low curtsey, she narrowed her eyes, a crocodile smile hiding gritted teeth. “My sister and I are not on the menu, Mr Filgrave, and even if it were so, I fear we’d taste far too bitter.”
“How’dit go with Mr Filprick?”
Evelyn stomped across Broad Street with hunched shoulders and folded arms but managed a smirk at her friend’sbon mot. “He’s promised me three weeks to find the entire cod of blunt,” she replied, over the rumble from her stomach.
Miss Flora Kemp – neighbour, model, actress and, in her own words, “muse” – shook her head, ringlets bouncing. Gifted with hair the colour of moonlight and the delicate features of a cherub, she gave an air of fragility and refinement which sensitive artistic types adored…
“Sodding hell, the scaly cove!”
But with a mouth that Billingsgate fishwives would envy.
