Had she been a widow far longer than a wife? Or had she ever indeed been espoused?
Then there was the soap. Shouldn’t lying harlots smell of exoticism to smother their treachery? But lye soap?
The summons to depart chimed from the mantelpiece, his scheduled hour at an end.
Confusion whirled. He needed to gather his thoughts and plan his next move. But which was more pressing? To investigate the portrait’s legitimacy or bed this vixen? ’Twas a problem to relish.
Idly, he brushed the curls from Evelyn’s nape. Such a bewitching name, and he permitted his lips to linger, asking the question which bedevilled his mind. “How long were you married?”
Her body tensed. “Reuben died long ago,” she shot back, and he laughed; damn her lies.
“Evelyn Swift,” he drawled, spinning her to rest his hands on her shoulders. “We shall meet again here, when I will demand many answers. Expect my card. In the meantime, do not for one instant consider fleeing or selling this painting elsewhere, as I will have no qualms in enlightening Bow Street as to your activities.” Casper brought lips to her ear. “And may the devil help you if you abscond.” He touched a finger to her radiant hair.
Stepping back, he performed a mock bow and then strode decisively for the door, wrenching it open…
“That’s the cupboard,” a low voice uttered.
A cornucopia of paintings faced him.
Women with not many clothes on. Men with no clothes on. A statue of a couple…in a position that would put even the most hardened courtesan to blush.
Casper twisted and raised a brow.
“Er, the previous occupant left some ornaments behind,” she explained rather wanly. “Good day, Your Grace.”
With a nod and last glance at the enchanting vision of Evelyn Swift with ruddy lips, cheeks aflush and heaving bosom, he strode for the other door and thankfully arrived in the hall. With no maid to be found, he was forced to collect his own strewn hat, gloves and cane, open the door himself, close ithimself, and stalk down the steps – which he could manage unaided.
Casper peered back over one shoulder, tapping cane to thigh and with a strong suspicion that the painting and Mrs Swift would soon disappear into the metropolis.
No.3 Clipstone Street gave the impression of a theatre set: the paintings missing from the walls, the unlived echo, the indecent statue stuffed in a cupboard, doubtful maids.
But Evelyn could never hide. She’d shine like a bright new penny amongst the squalid coin of London.
Dawdling on the kerbstone was his tiger, kicking his feet and yawning beside the Rothwell phaeton, reins dangling from his grip.
“Do you wish to earn more money, lad?”
“Do fish piss in the sea?”
Casper frowned. This interim tiger habitually worked in the kitchens. Now he understood why.
“I suspect a Titian-haired lady will depart this abode forthwith. Monitor her activities and report back to me. Do you understand?”
The lad scratched his head and clods of soot fell out. “Yer want me to keep me squinters on some bit o’crumpet and blab back. I’m yer man.”
The half-pint lad spat on his palm, then held it out.
Casper stared, quite nauseated.
“Well, how do I know yer gonna pay up unless we shake?”
“I’m a duke.”
“Nobs are the worst. Hold me horse, they say, and then throws yer a button and laugh. Filching coves.”
Sighing, Casper rooted around for change and handed over a silver sixpence, doubting he’d ever see the lad again.
The little brat bit at the edge. The temerity – as though Casper had the time or inclination to mint his own tin coins.
