“Thank you, Flora. I-I…failed. I underestimated the duke.”
This impassioned collector had not seen merely a harlot in a red dress but comprehended deeper, studied the young girl and gleaned character from just her stance and a glimpse of cheek. In those days, Evelynhadbeen bold, determined yet innocent, never imagining how quickly life might alter.
The Duke of Rothwell had seen it all.
His appreciation of art was not a pretence, nor a collection for status, but a deep understanding of technique and mastery, his gaze avid, penetrating and shrewd as he’d examined the painting. An established patron who’d abhor an attempt to fool him.
Her friend hugged her shoulder as they all gazed at the portrait of Maisie, and Evelyn cursed herself for not painting that which the duke wished to see.
Honesty.
But no more. She’d had quite enough of dukes.
* * *
Casper eyed the lad. “Well?”
The runt rubbed his nose and wiped the contents on the red leather Chesterfield armchair.
Alas, the Rothwell study, influenced as it was by Neoclassical harmony and restraint, would have to be swept for fleas and fumigated for any further vermin concealed within that stained jacket, and Casper reconsidered the lad’s position as tiger…or in fact the kitchens. The usual lad was always tip-top in presence and habit, whereas this urchin appeared from the River Fleet.
“She lives in them Hop Gardens, not that smart pad we left.”
“Does she indeed?” No point in returning to Clipstone Street then, and he foraged his mind for where Hop Gardens lay. Certainly not this district but possibly Bloomsbury or Holborn? It sounded most pleasant. “Where is that exactly?” He resented admitting a lack of knowledge but it would be quicker to ask in this instance…and he could silence the boy with sixpence.
“Back of Covent Garden.”
“Covent…”
“Ain’t the worst street. Full of slatterns and gin-tipped coves mainly. Me step-pa used to drink in the bowsing ken on the corner before he caught a knife in the gizzards there one night.”
“Knife?” A headache loomed. Hell, what was she doing living there?
“Aye. Spent three days bleeding out before he died. Ma said it were a mercy.”
The headache materialised. “And is it just you and your mother now?”
“Yep. And me three sisters and the babe.” The lad peered over the desk and set his unwashed paw upon it, palm up. “There’s more, if yer wanna know.”
Casper should be affronted but the gleam in the brat’s eye reminded him of Ernest as a boy – all mischievous cheek. And the lad did have four siblings. Opening a drawer, he delved deep and came out with half a crown.
“Cor! I’ll run over there now, if you like, and sleep outside redhead’s door.”
“Patience, lad. Dogged determination kept this little island free, not charging around without a plan.” Casper dropped the coin into a filthy palm. “And what was the further information you mentioned?”
“Lives with her young sister. I caught a glimpse and she’s a sweet piece – but weak looking and she coughed a lot. Probably die soon. Takes in sewing jobs.”
Casper winced at the lad’s matter-of-factness. “Names?”
“Folks were right tight-lipped, but some calls ’em Evie and Ar… Arti… Artichoke sommit.”
How unusual.
“And the Evie one paints stuff for some theatre on Tottenham Street. I had to bribe a whiddler with me neckerchief for that tittle-tattle.” A second equally soiled palm was held out, the little bugger.
“See Copperhouse for a new handkerchief and food to take home.”
A nose scrunched. “S’pose that’ll do.”
