Hence he cleared his throat, which seemed to spur them into action as Evelyn rushed to her sibling and held her tight, whilst the sibling put a palm to Evelyn’s raw cheek. The fake maid hugged them all, tears gushing like the Thames at full flood.
Devil take it, they didn’t have time for such base emotion as heaven knows who might take up the villain’s cause, and so he cleared his throat anew…at increased volume, and with an “ahem” attached.
They all turned. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
He nodded, now also feeling somewhat foolish for his unscheduled charge across London like a knight errant. And had he just abandoned the land steward in his study? And left the door open? Unlocked? His desk…unattended.
“How much do you owe?” he queried, having comprehended the situation. Perhaps he could pretend he’d simply been passing and heard a hullabaloo. Monetary inducement would silence Horatio.
“Five shillings and sixpence.”
He rifled in his coat pocket, flinging a crown and shilling to the groaning heap on the floor.
“Follow me,” he ordered as the young sister grabbed a basket tied with string and Evelyn hauled two carpet bags. He seized one of them – it weighed more than Prinny.
“Books,” she babbled.
Delectable liar. The scent of turpentine and oils wafted, and he raised a brow.
“And Flora must come too,” Mrs Swift stated. “She can’t stay here now.”
“Don’t you worry, Evie. I’ll be fine as a cow turd stuck with primroses,” assured the woman who pretended to be a maid in her spare time.
“Pack your bags also,” Casper ordered, not having time for shilly-shally. “Mrs Swift and her sister will need…a maid.”
“Where are we going?” enquired Mrs Swift breathlessly. “We could perhaps afford the floor of an inn if–”
“Oh, no, Mrs Swift. You will not be straying from my sight.” In the corner sat the portrait and he crossed to peer at it. “You and your…cohorts are to reside at my townhouse until I have some answers. Preferable to prison, I daresay.”
Evelyn gulpedas she followed the duke step by step down the rickety stairs.
When he’d first arrived on the scene like a latter-day Sir Lancelot, her pulse had raced with gratitude and she’d thought to divulge their real names, but his threat of prison had frozen her blabbing mouth and slowed her gushing heart.
Best to admit neither muff nor mum, as Flora would say, and they might still get to Lower Rushington without a noose around their necks.
As they exited onto the street, the first thing that caught her eye was a great snorting white horse, all lather and rolling eyes, a sooty ragamuffin patting its flank.
A commotion further up the alley then took her attention as the most luxuriant carriage she had ever seen rattled down the muddied cobbles. A sprawled inebriate just managed to flatten himself against the wall in the nick of time before the glossy horses trotted by in perfect harmony.
The coachwork of the vehicle gleamed, so highly polished that the slattern on the corner tousled her hair in its reflection, and aloft, an immaculate coachman flicked his whip, all tidily dressed in blue with gold braid.
“Good.” The duke nodded his approval. “Copperhouse thought to send the occasional-use carriage for these tight alleys.”
This wondrous fairy-tale vision came to a halt outside their dwelling and they all gawked as liveried, brick-built footmen scuttled about, pulling down steps and opening doors. With no ado, carpet bags were seized and strapped to the rear, except for the basket which Artemisia kept close.
They were all ushered inside to sit upon plush velvet seats, footmen covering the women’s knees with woollen blankets, the carriage so spacious they sat three abreast. Flora’s mouth gaped like a coal scuttle.
The duke ascended the steps to sit opposite, placing the portrait at his side, his boots brushing Evelyn’s skirt hem.
It was Artemisia who spoke first. “Thank you, Your Grace, for your assistance.”
An inclination of noble head. “Mrs Swift’s sister, I assume?”
Accompanied by a restrained shout, the carriage advanced, its movement hardly perceptible. Evelyn knew she ought to make the introductions as was proper, but at this moment in time, albeit grateful, she felt somewhat kidnapped.
“Yes, I am Miss Artemisia…” Evelyn covertly elbowed her sister. “…Smith.”
A flash of white teeth gleamed. “Such a beautiful given name, if I may say so.”
