“My back was twisted to the viewer so no one could tell it was me, and my red hair was coloured to dark walnut so as not to clash with the dress.”
Evelyn sighed as they passed the bakers, the fragrance of rising dough taunting her nostrils. “The painting was a failure back then but Papa believed in it, so he sketched out a twin work to be entitledThe Fall of Innocence Unveiled. The same, except I would now face the viewer.” She frowned. “But a commission to paint a Siamese cat arrived and he never converted it to oils. It got put in a drawer where it remained till his death.”
“But a measly sketch ain’t gonna cover the debt, is it?” Flora said, winking at a passing gentleman as he tipped his hat.
“No. I…” How to phrase her deceit? “I…I interpreted it in oils…from his charcoaled draft.”
Those eyebrows of Flora’s, which could speak volumes, for once spoke only one word.
Prison.
Evelyn pursed her lips and pulled her bonnet low as a wind belonging to December whipped its ribbons. Easter had come and gone yet the sky appeared dingier than the coalman’s apron.
“So, did yer forge– I meaninterpretyer own mug?” enquired Flora.
“Lud, no. That’s the only difference.” They crossed the cobbled road, deviating to avoid the horse manure. “I had Maisie Pilkington pose for the face.”
“Hardly a picture of innocence. She was born in Newgate jail.”
“But pretty and seductive. Men view this type of painting not with their eyes but with an entirely different appendage.”
“So d’yer have a dup– I mean, art collector in mind?”
Evelyn nodded and huddled close. “Father’s friends knew of his intention and so rumours of its twin have always circled amongst collectors. The Duke of Rothwell already owns the first one, paid a mint for it, so he won’t be able to resist.”
“Bit like the coalman with Mona and her feather.”
“Hmm…” Evelyn bit her chapped lips. “The only apple of discord is some scandal sheets do tattle that the duke can be somewhat brusque… And cold… And a smidgeon ruthless on occasion.”
Silence greeted her revelation. And Flora’s silence was never golden.
“It will be fine,” Evelyn reassured, coming to a standstill at the end of Hop Gardens and the location of her attic lodgings, a waft of chamber pot and cabbage stew welcoming her home. “And besides, he might be a benevolent, quiet gentleman who has merely been misrepresented in the press.”
Flora picked two buns from her own basket and shoved them into Evelyn’s hand. “Be a duck’s waddle, then. Let’s bamboozle the flash nob with a phony tart.”
Evelyn grinned. A perfect summary of her plot.
Chapter 2
Solitaire.
No. 6 Grosvenor Square, Mayfair.
Quill dipped to ink, and Casper silently scratched his signature upon the deed.
Another was unfurled before him, but for this, he thrust a wax stick to the candle and then smothered the lower corner of the document with its crimson. He flicked a wrist, breathed mist upon the ducal signet ring and pressed.
A Rothwell heraldic eagle glared with spread wings, rampant claws and curled tongue, sealing its fate.
“That is all three hundred and sixty acres of Lord Humby’s lands accounted for, Your Grace. They are yours.” A concerned expression peered across the broad desk. “Your neighbour is…ruined.”
Casper’s lips curved. It was not a smile. “Good,” he murmured, replacing the quill to its brass stand. “And the other matter?”
His man of affairs paused from gathering the signed deeds and rummaged in his satchel before laying a further bundle of papers tied with scarlet ribbon upon the desk.
“My thanks, Bainbridge. You may go. Leave the door open.”
“Very well, Your Grace.” He buckled the antiquated satchel and stood. “Until tomorrow.”
