And tomorrow, if luck were on his side, he would meet her.
Gaze upon her and brush a finger along a curl.
Tears would not mar her pale cheeks. And her shadowed eyes, although they would hold a hint of sorrow, would stare boldly back…
I will overcome this, her look would state.
Snuffing the candle, Casper snorted at his wild imagination.
Since Sir Henry’s death, this beauty had most probably died from the pox or beatings from a cockbawd – another soul lost to the sins of London.
The dark enclosed him, the beat of silence echoing in his ears, and he drew forth the green scarf from his waistcoat pocket, a wisp of silk he’d found caught in his evening jacket after it had languished upon Mrs Swift’s shoulders at the Plymtrees’.
He brought the frayed luxury to his nose: pure soap, a mustiness and hint of tallow, but they beguiled his senses, and rubbing it across the crop of bristles burgeoning upon his cheek, he knew sleep would not be forthcoming.
In its place, he would relish his anticipation for the woman whose eyes he would stare into on the morrow.
Chapter 11
A deception Swift of hand.
Whilst vermin free, the uninhabited Clipstone Street house remained a shrine to bad taste and salacious predilection, and arriving before eight, Evelyn had spent a good hour hiding inappropriate statues and dragging bawdy artworks into cupboards.
“I think that’s me!” Flora exclaimed, glancing at the painting Evelyn was attempting to remove. “I’d recognise my–”
“Could you do something with Mars?” requested Evelyn, pointing at a rather well-endowed statue that shamelessly ogled from the side table.
“Oh, my pleasure,” she gushed and yanked the poor sod – or should that be god – so that only his firmly sculptured buttocks were on show.
With the drawing room as prepared as it ever would be, they positioned the painting in the middle of the one plain wall.
A gallery it was not, but the rooms still held some warmth from the previous occupant and at least the emptiness gave a solemnity which she knew collectors adored – perusing art being a serious endeavour.
Dearest Matilda had told them to make use of anything at hand, as after all, the Clod-skull had likely bought the contents with her dowry. So having come across a half-filled decanter in the boudoir, Evelyn had watered it down to brimming and placed it upon a side table inlaid with ivory satyrs cavorting with…more ivory satyrs.
She sighed and shoved vagrant curls beneath a hundred pins, closed her eyes and hoped that this companion portrait would find favour with the duke. A pair always carried more worth – whether silver candlesticks or silk slippers.
If that failed, her only wish was that one of the other invitees – hustled up through Flora’s contacts within the art world and more inclined to the risqué than the artistry – would make a lower offer.
Even ten pounds would help…
But the duke would pay more. Indeed, hehadpaid more for the painting he owned.
Enough to pay Filgrave, depart foggy London and breathe fresh country air, rent a small village cottage and start a business.
A mixture of despair and hope weighed for a moment that such a life could be within her grasp.
Last night, she’d not slept a wink: the moneylender’s silent shadow stalked her, Artemisia’s cough had returned worse than before and shouts from the ale-house had echoed as yet another brawl ensued.
A tight hug caught her unawares.
“No more glummy mugs,” scolded Flora. “Smile, Evie. You must act like you don’t give a brass button if it sells or not.” Evelyn endeavoured to curve her lips and bare her teeth. “Hmm, maybe not,” her friend murmured. “Now, don’t you fret. I’ll play maid – quite a common client request lately – and grab their stuff at the door, dump it on the table, keep m’gob shut, push ’em in here, keep the rum booze watered up and then you can befuddle them with yer fancy art talk.”
If only it were that easy.
* * *
Casper sternly instructedhimself to act nonchalant, stay focused and keep his urges firmly in check as he climbed the steps to No 3.
