But second course arrived.
Duck in caper sauce, roastedpigeon au jus, braised leveret and a chine of salmon were set before them, and she noticed Artemisia’s lip quiver.
She would have squeezed her sister’s hand if she could have reached, but instead they gazed at each other with moist eyes.
Such luxury and bounty whilst others lived in abject hunger.
With heads bowed in gratitude for gifts bestowed, they heaped spoonfuls onto their Worcester chinaware and Evelyn’s troubled thoughts wandered to the paintings that adorned the walls: an austere lady in gloomy black silk and Tudor ruff eyed Evelyn in distaste, whilst above the mantel a golden-curled cavalier bedecked in silver lace raised a haughty Rothwell brow.
“Mrs Swift…” She peered to Lord Ernest, whose demeanour was one of sensual ease. “How is thepigeon au jus?”
“Oh.” She’d been shovelling it in like coal to a new-fangled steam engine. “Perfectly…pigeon-like.”
The dapper lord tasted a morsel, and as he peered over his spectacles, eyes alight with wicked enticement, she concluded he must cause many a female bosom to rise in agitation.
“Indeed, it is,” he agreed. “And I have to say that it is most pleasant to dine with female company for a change but do tell me of yourself. I believe you deal in art. Do you paint also?”
Her heart stuttered and she fired a glare at the duke. Had he requested his brother to probe?
“I cannot paint for a fig, my lord.” She crossed her toes beneath the table.
“I was under the impression,” the duke drawled, toying with his crystal goblet, eyes stalking her, “that you were a scene artist at a theatre.”
She uncrossed them. And bit her lip, mind as empty as her cleaned plate, but she was saved from producing a lie as daft as Reuben by her sister.
“Only at The Regency on Tottenham Street,” Artemisia gushed. “A terrible theatre. They’d take anyone.” An apologetic grimace was cast her way before Artemisia swooped upon the roasted leveret.
Lord Ernest’s blue eyes twinkled, slender fingers curling around the salt pot. “And I hear you are a widow. My sincere condolences. What was your husband’s profession?”
“Yes, pray tell,” added the duke. “I can hardly wait to hear this.”
He guzzled claret with unblinking eyes and Evelyn pondered whether the newly arrived leg of lamb was really worth this interrogation. She added a slice to her plate and sampled a forkful – delicate without any hint of gristle and with a piquant raspberry sauce.
So yes.
“He dug graves.” She ignored the duke’s splutter and turned to his brother. “And what do you like to do, Lord Ernest?” she asked before anyone could enquire of her parentage or upbringing.
“Gamble and wench,” the duke muttered.
Lord Ernest glared, all good nature and nimble flirtation quashed by brotherly authority, and Evelyn quickly realised the lay of the land in this family.
“Horses and reading,” he spat in the duke’s direction. “When I’m permitted.”
“And what are you reading currently? Poems or–”
“I’m quite enjoying Charlotte Dacre at the moment, Mrs Swift.The PassionsandThe Libertineare my favourites. They feel so…” He gazed into the air. “…pertinent.”
Uncle sniggered, Rothwell glowered, Lady Owlswick tutted about disruptive redheads, and Evelyn felt her stomach clench from all the rich food.
Silence fell once more.
The butler refilled glasses, the first footman hovered in case anyone had further need of mustard, another soft white roll came to be on Evelyn’s plate, and Artemisia dug into the salmon with fervour.
Rothwell shifted in his seat and everyone looked up expectantly. “When are you leaving for the castle, Ernest?”
Artemisia merely heard the word… “Castle! I love castles. Are you visiting one?”
The duke smiled, a genuine turn of the lips which made Evelyn’s stomach clench in an entirely different manner.
