A murmur and he peered closer, tapping a button on his fine waistcoat. “It is artistically perfect with all of Sir Henry Pearce’s talent and colour combined in one painting.”
Evelyn sighed in relief. Thank the heav–
“But it is notThe Fall of Innocence Unveiled, is it, Mrs Swift?”
And he tilted his head to gaze at her.
Sod, sod, sod…andsod.
Because Rothwell’s countenance held such turbulent anger.
It rippled beneath his skin as though fighting to unleash itself.
She straightened her shoulders, pictured Filgrave’s dirty fingernails and his threat to whore out her sister. She would not be cowed.
“I do not understand, Your Grace. You acknowledge it as Sir Henry Pearce’s work and yet not? Are you saying he did not have a hand in it?” An odd desperation tinged the air.
“I did not say that. I say this is not the young woman of my painting. Therefore, this work is not its twin.”
“But, s-she wears the red dress and the background, how can you–”
“The girl in my painting retains an air of innocence despite her downfall. She is bold yet shy, innocent yet aware. Can you say those eyes portray such?”
Evelyn did not wish to look because she knew the answer. Maisie was beautiful but shyness and innocence had long been eroded, first behind the tangible walls of Newgate clink and then the invisible walls of the Rookery, and all before she’d aged double figures.
“Perhaps Sir Henry wished to portray her at a different stage of life.”
“Oh, you can do better than that, Mrs Swift.” A bare finger tipped her chin and dread raced in her heart. “Look at me,” he demanded, “and tell me this is the face of the girl in my painting.”
The tone brooked no argument, and although she did not believe for one moment that Rothwell would ever raise his hand to a lady, she was, nevertheless, alone with one exceedingly irate duke.
So she stared into his cravat, noted another huge diamond the size of a quail’s egg, inched her gaze to his clenched clean-shaven jaw, to lips pressed firm, and finally to his eyes, hard as glittering sapphires…
He could have her arrested, thrown into Newgate. And the whole plan now seemed so very, very foolish.
But then, what choice had there been?
Momentarily, she closed her eyes, then opened them to his. The sapphire had deepened, his pupils dilating.
“I witnessed Sir Henry Pearce commence this work,” she whispered before biting her lip. Not an utter lie.
He leaned close, head dipping. Clove and rich linen. “I thought it was your husband that knew the artist; what was his name? Ah yes, Reuben. I thought Reuben was his friend?”
Oh, how she despised that fictitious Reuben and the heap of lies that had tripped her like a tree root and twisted her words. “I…”
His hand cupped her chin, then slid to her cheek.
“Or were you acquainted with Sir Henry in an entirely different capacity? You’re young but artists are open to temptation.” The words purred from his mouth, that sinful voice of gravel raking her senses. “Did you fall from grace? Was this for services rendered?” His lips brushed her ear. “Does the real painting exist?” He nipped her lobe. “And who are you, Mrs Swift?”
Roiling in hurt at his accusation, a voracious urge to tell all swathed her, to fall upon his mercy. But all she’d read about him from the broadsheet columns did not convey a merciful gentleman. He’d beggared a neighbouring lord, remained ruthless in business dealings.
Yes, he’d seemed to enjoy their flirtatious encounters thus far but all that was clearly at an end.
The only recourse was to disappear, to let Mrs Swift vanish into the cold spring air and bury Reuben forever.
Mayhap, they could flee the city earlier than planned, though all her savings had been spent on this little charade.
They could move lodgings again, but Filgrave had more eyes on the streets than London had signposts. She could beg the moneylender for more time, but his reputation was worse than the duke’s, and she’d be damned if he would ever get his clutches on Artemisia.
