“Be careful, Artemisia.”
Eyes that were entirely too old for sixteen years gazed back. “I know, sister, I know.” Artemisia placed the perfectly stitched scarf upon the table, a new one to replace the green wisp of silk that Evelyn had lost at the ball, and she bent to gather up a disgruntled Cleopatra who lounged by the barren fireplace. “At least we have the Scotch egg which you smuggled in your… Where did you hide it?”
In the end, Evelyn hadn’t stayed at the Plymtrees’ for supper, her mission accomplished and nerves frayed to the quick. Matilda had been equally troubled by the attentions of Lord Sidlow, and so they’d hauled “Great Aunt” Flossie away from the whist with the promise of a brandy at home.
Before their departure, however, Evelyn had filched an egg, half a partridge and a slice of gingerbread from the laid supper room.
“Best you don’t know,” she jested, accepting Cleopatra who then kneaded her gown with sharp claws and purring delight.
Artemisia chuckled but it hacked into a cough and she gulped great lungfuls of night air – still so bitter for late spring.
Opening arms, Evelyn tugged her sister close, returned a hand to Cleopatra, Artemisia’s head coming to rest upon her shoulder. She was too thin, her breathing raw and erratic, fingers calloused from endless days with the needle.
Terror assailed Evelyn. That if they did not flee this place, the cough would worsen. That one day, she would return late from the theatre to a room quiet and barren, to a precious sister motionless and waxen.
Life snuffed out by this shroud of poverty.
Her chest seized in pain. And then thudded once more.
She blinked back tears. She would not cry. She would not snap as this chill wind of life raged against her.
And she gazed to the painting.
“Evie?” Her sister burrowed shivering fingers into her skirts. “The duke will buy it, won’t he?” For once, Artemisia sounded like the child she was. Yearning and begging for reassurance that all would be well.
Evelyn bit her lip. “Yes, yes he will, dearest.” And she closed her eyes to pray.
For the morrow.
For Artemisia.
For Flora.
And for all those sleeping in fear tonight, seeking escape from the insidious web of poverty.
Chapter 10
He who holds the cards…
Casper scowled at the wager before him.
May, 1816 – Lord Ernest Brook hereby bets Lord Harry Pinkle thirty guineas
that Lord Harry Pinkle will not fall in love and marry before Lord Ernest Brook.
Should either die in the interim, all bets to be dissolved.
Pinkle had last week leg-shackled himself to some heiress although whether love was involved would be anyone’s guess.
He glanced at the swart brute whose betting book the wager had been knifed from. “He cannot pay this absurdity. I cut his allowance.”
“I’d say he’s cadged from someone then, as not only has he paid but he also emptied his pockets at my Hazard table two days ago.”
“You could have stopped play.”
A heavy shrug. “I’ve a club to run and you asked me to keep an eye out, not play nursemaid.”
Casper hid a smile as an image arose. “Fair enough. My thanks…Your Highness.”
