The most luxurious prison known to woman.
Upon arriving at their chambers to serve morning chocolate, Flora had been all atwitter at how the servants’ quarters had an indoor boghouse, how the butler was devilishly ’andsomeand that the footmen had been ordered to keep their peepers on the three of them.
Rothwell had left the house at dawn and she’d pondered on how a duke would occupy his day. He’d mentioned business meetings previously but surely dukes were more likely to spend the hours boating on the Serpentine or counting their acres – and so the only person they’d conversed with had been Lord Virgil Brook, who’d insisted they call him Uncle and asked what they’d thought of his tasselled Arabian robes.
Very Byronic, if one wished to know their diplomatic reply.
Whilst Artemisia had rested in the afternoon, Evelyn had explored the townhouse and…got lost, its three floors and basement a confusing muddle of oak doors, lavish paisley rugs and tapestries of triumphant Rothwells in armour.
Luckily the trailing footman had directed her back to her bedchamber via the Occasional Breakfasting Room – truly, she’d not the words.
Now here they all sat, summoned for dinner at a half after five.
The duke ruled from the head of the table, appearing hideously handsome in an indigo-blue tailcoat that matched his eyes. Evelyn fidgeted to his left with Artemisia beside her, whilst opposite sat Uncle, still resplendent in his robes, and a debonair Lord Ernest Brook, who had smiled with rakish charm at the introductions. Last of all, there sat a certain Lady Owlswick, tucking into the soup with gusto.
Curiously, the seat placements were not according to rank and a firm ducal hand had guided her to this particular chair, speaking volumes:you are to stay close…
Whilst dressing for dinner, Evelyn and her sister had discussed their predicament and arrived at the uneasy conclusion that they must merely watch and wait, to see if the threat of the gallows loomed in their future. But for now, they had food in their belly, soft sheets to lie upon and the duke had insisted another doctor attend her sister on the morrow as the cough had not diminished.
Nevertheless, two concerns remained.
Filgrave being one.
How were they to pay their debt?
The other was Rothwell’s kiss. Did he mean to offer her acarte blanche? Or was he purely amusing himself whilst he sought the answer to the painting’s riddle?
Evelyn huffed and concentrated on the rabbit collops. They required… “Could you pass the mustard, please, Your Grace?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The duke’s tone was as though she’d asked him to comb Cleopatra for fleas.
“The mustard? It’s beside your left cuff.”
Keeping his eyes uniquely focused on her, he sipped claret, all hauteur and refinement.
Artemisia sighed at the delicious sight – traitor.
“Copperhouse?” he intoned. “Could you attend Mrs Swift.”
The butler conveyed instructions to the first footman who hastily arrived at the table to raise the container with white gloves from beneath the duke’s gaze, take two steps, and present it to her as though ’twere a crown.
She graciously nodded. Then plopped three spoonfuls onto her rabbit.
Silence fell, and a silver salt and pepper set was also placed before her, the intricate pair worth more than her debt to Filgrave, notwithstanding the exotic spice within…
“Rothwell!” a shriek summoned from halfway down the table, and they all glanced to Lady Owlswick, whose allegedly short-sighted eyes pinned Evelyn like a Red Admiral butterfly in a case. “Who’s the girl? Speak up.”
“I told you earlier, Cousin Lydia,” shouted the duke. “She’s a distant relative.”
“Are you quite sure? Redheads in the ancestral tree?” One silvered eyebrow raised as pursed lips downturned. “How vulgar.” And her attention was once more consigned to the soup.
The duke’s head dipped close – or as close as it could. “I am maintaining that you are a distant cousin whose normal residence has rats, so there is no tittle-tattle amongst the servants or neighbours.”
Evelyn nodded.
Hush descended once more, and all in all, Evelyn almost wished they were back at Hop Gardens, cheek by jowl with Flora and spiced buns.
