“Keep watching them and report back.”
“Like fleas on a hound, that’s me. And after that, can I be tiger again, Yer Grace? Don’t wanna go back to kitchen boy. ’Tis filthy work and I don’t like being underground.”
Casper stared. His basement kitchens were revolutionary in their constant water, improved lighting and the latest James Walker self-acting range and steaming apparatus.
The lad was uncouth, foul-mouthed and had stained the hitherto blue-and-gold tiger livery he’d been given with…grime. “Consider yourself on probation for three months.”
“Eh?”
“Yes.”
The urchin spat on his hand and held it out.
Casper stared again.
“Oh, right yer are.” He instead smeared it down the extortionately expensive livery breeches. “Good to do business with Yer Grace.” And he sallied forth from the Rothwell study, revealing a suspicious blemish on the rug.
Grimacing, Casper clasped his hands around the back of his nape and studied the plaster cornices.
Evelyn – he savoured the now confirmed name – was an artist. And a fair one if a theatre had employed her.
Had she faked the painting knowing he’d purchased the first one? Did she know the whereabouts of the genuineFall of Innocence Unveiled? Or did it not exist at all?
A confusing muddle, to which was added her situation. If he needed to apply intimidation to unravel the truth, ’twas preferable to think of her as Astwood’s hustling mistress rather than a lady who’d fallen on hard times. One with an ill sister and who lived near a brawling ale-house. One who did not eat sufficiently.
Scrutinising a spider on the stucco ceiling, he also contemplated his own actions during the showing.
Had he really endeavoured to seduce the answers from her lips?
That strategy was most out of character. As a rule, he’d resort to ducal coercion or monetary inducement, but his buried lust had inconveniently surfaced, and although he could blame it on frustration and anguish at the sham painting, he wasn’t insensible to the fact that Evelyn Swift tempted him in too many ways.
Ignoring the fraudulent aspect, he did admire her bravery…or was she perhaps in such desperate straits that the threat of prison held no fear?
If he were a different man, she would be locked up by now, although proving the painting as a fake would not be without issue. Lloyd and Harper had taken one look and accepted it as a Henry Pearce work. No question.
But he’d known something was amiss.
Shoving the chair back, he then raised his boots to the desk – after all, it was already begrimed from his tiger’s mitts – and perused his painting on the opposite wall.
An elusive image flickered, wavered and then slipped away in her brown hair.
“Casper! Your feet…your desk. Are you well?”
His boots slid with a bump. “Yes indeed, just thinking on…ducal matters. What can I do for you, Ernest?”
His brother wandered about, peering to the portrait and screwing his nose up, before abruptly swivelling. “I…the property at Burford, I wondered if I may…take over the handling of its stables.”
Casper frowned. The current manager was competent and sent regular accounts. Why change that?
“The stables have no need of additional direction. All functions as it should.”
“I was talking to Lord Sancroft about combining our studs.” His brother removed a small notebook from his inner coat pocket and opened at a page. “He can provide the business expertise whilst I can–”
“We will not lose money on ridiculous new ventures.”
“But–”
“That stable yields a twenty per cent profit on a low-spend ratio. No.”
