“My sister suggested it to our mother. ’Tis after Artemisia Gentileschi.”
“The baroque artist?”
“Hmm, it’s ridiculous. I dislike it so. People tease me.”
“I was only seven,” Evelyn defended, “and be thankful I didn’t suggest Sofonisba Anguissola. That was my first choice but I couldn’t pronounce it.”
The duke’s husky laugh filled the carriage. If employed in the correct circumstances, that laugh would have debutantes swooning on his shiny top-boots.
Both Flora and Artemisia now gazed at him with daft smiles and dreamy eyes as though Byron himself had just composed an ode especially for them.
Yes, the duke had saved their bacon from out of the frying pan but they were now confronted with his fire.
“How did you come to know of our plight, Your Grace?” asked Evelyn, suddenly realising the lad who’d been holding his horse was the same who’d lurked around their neighbourhood for two days.
“Would you believe me if I said I was merely passing?”
Flora and Artemisia nodded. They’d believe him if he declared the sky was yellow and the moon made of cheese.
“No,” replied Evelyn. “You had a boy following us.”
The duke inspected his hand, frowning at the scuffed knuckle, such a direct aim and perfect fist as he’d struck the brutish landlord.
Most women would quiver at such gallantry.
And loath as she was to admit it, Evelynwasmost women but at least she could quiver in silence, unlike Flora and her sister who both quivered with audible sighs on top.
Lips firmly buttoned, Evelyn further reminisced on the last time they’d met: that ardent kiss, his broad palm dragging down her side, his firm body rocking, fingers in her hair and–
“I was worried for you, Mrs Swift.”
Her companions sighed anew, and Evelyn considered thrusting her forehead against the cold window to dowse the scorch of his reply, but attack was the secret of defence.
“You did not trust I lived at Clipstone Street, more like, and thought I’d disappear with the painting.” Which she had done, but that was beside the point.
After gazing to the outside world, the duke glanced back with an amused quirk to his lips.
“Like the bird you are named for, Mrs Swift, you oft disappear once sighted. Sleeping, feeding and…mating on the wing. The Devil’s Screamer, I believe they call that species in the country.” His eyes glittered, focusing on her fallen hair. “I intend to keep a close eye on my flitting swift from now on.”
Casper did indeed keepthem all within view as Copperhouse, with his usual aplomb, accepted torn gloves, shabby pelisses and a reticule that appeared to be leaking fruit.
The fake maid fluttered eyelashes at the butler, only to receive a stern and quelling frown.
“Name?” Copperhouse demanded, having already been apprised of her role.
She saluted – in it had to be said, a rather condescending manner – shoving her substantial chest out. “Miss Flora Kemp. Model. Actress. Muse.”
“And now maid,” Coppers decreed, nose in the air.
“Well, if yer like, darlin’ and asks me nicely,” she cooed with a wink.
Placing a firm hand to her upper arm, the flushed-cheek butler marched the ogling maid to the servants’ quarters.
“Casper, what’s all the fuss?” And he spun to encounter Uncle Virgil hopping at his side, wearing…a tricorn hat, heart-shaped face patch and wig. “I’ve heard nonsensical tales of you leaving your desk before twelve.”
“A mere anomaly, Uncle. But we are to have Mrs Swift and her sister staying with us for a few days.”
Uncle Virgil peered to the women, eyebrows levitating like bumble bees. “But…but…think of the scandal. Unaccompanied women in the Duke of Rothwell’s home. Alone. Whatever will people say? It’ll be the gossip of the century.”
