“Furthermore, we do appreciate all your hard work, Casper. Never think we do not. You have pulled us from ruin, restored our fortunes and provided for the future.” He tilted his head and peered closely. “I remember that seventeen-year-old boy as though yesterday. Faced with such responsibility and yet you never faltered. Not once. Not when society shunned us, the tenants threw rocks at us or those debt-collectors came. You fought for us all, Casper.” His hand clasped tight. “And won.”
“I…” Those words meant more than his uncle could ever know.
“But the point is…” Uncle straightened his repugnant tailcoat. “…I understand why you act the way you do, as I have age and experience. But Ernest? He needs more from you. He requires that you trust him, with money and responsibility, share your plans and involve him.”
Casper rescued his crumpled neckcloth from the floor and clasped Uncle’s shoulder. “I’ll set off for Pall Mall.”
“Good lad. Now saying that, I’m off to the Winterbourne’s abode for dinner. I had this coquelicot tailcoat modelled on the host’s fabulous waistcoat. What do you think?”
He gazed at the hideous monstrosity that had most probably cost a small fortune. But he recalled Evelyn’s words about thoughtfulness, remembered all the days that Lord Virgil Brook had supported him with no more than the weight of his presence.
“It looks very well on you, Uncle Virgil.”
Chapter 19
We’re all in the dumps, for diamonds is trumps…
“Pitiful mewling blowsabella!” Evelyn paced the winding darkened path. “Wanton, bird-witted widgeon.” She paced some more, lofty evergreen shrubs and a spreading pear tree the lone witnesses to her vehemence.
A bitter gust sliced through her, restoring wits which had previously been scattered to those four winds. A kiss was all very well, but she’d very nearly been swived on a desk, for sodding hell’s sake.
If Lord Virgil had not interrupted…
Evelyn plonked herself on a stone seat beneath the pear’s unfurling leaves, heard a kerfuffle behind the magnificent elms that obscured the mews at the far end, and listened until the thud of hoof and clatter of carriage wheel faded to naught.
Then silence. Blessed deep silence.
No brawling cheers or squawking ladies of the night. No odour of rot or sweat or cabbage.
Instead, the splendour of the silhouetted gardens caught between the low lamplight of the mews and those of the terrace overwhelmed her with comfort.
If she became Rothwell’s mistress, she could taste this fine life once more, sweet silence and fragrant perfume, but her heart, she also realised, was a traitorous object. It would begin to beat for the duke – for his commanding caress and, when he allowed himself, seductive smile. She’d live forever awaiting his presence and pleasure; for a mistress was the owner of nothing – neither the house she occupied nor the food she ate…nor the man she bedded.
Evelyn shuddered. To be mistress material meant not to care for your protector. One needed to act blasé, to view it as employment and not look back when it finished.
Never could she act in such a way, her emotions cut to a different cloth.
There was also his reputation to think upon and that could not have been garnered for naught – his coldness to his brother she had observed, his ruthlessness with a neighbouring lord had been written about, and dukes could never know of the hardship for some in life.
What did they do all night but stalk ballrooms and buy art?
She must endeavour to forge her own path with Artemisia by her side. To hold this passionate attraction as a delightful memory for when the frost nipped at her chapped han–
Unhurried shadow crept across the lawn until it accosted her feet, climbed her dress and then eclipsed her face.
Evelyn glanced up.
Breath caught.
“Well, ain’t this a swell gaff, Miss Pearce?”
“Mr Filgrave.” She made no pretence.
Neglecting to doff his hat, he curved one corner of a lip, whilst two grim wraiths loitered at his shoulder, their skin waxen in the murk.
The moneylender unbuttoned his greatcoat and removed a slender leather-handled object. A soft click, and a murderous blade sprung forth, tapered and glinting. With a sniff, he proceeded to clean grime from beneath a fingernail.
An act of intimidation, and she wondered how often he’d performed this little charade with his props and minions, how many despairing women he’d compelled to tremble with fear.
