The sisters glanced at one another.
“Somewhat damp.”
“Hmm.” The doctor stood and began to gather all his ghoulish tools. “This winter has been harsh on so many.”
“Not the rich,” Evelyn found herself commenting.
An amused curve pulled one side of his lips. “Perhaps so, but I also work in the Rookery, Mrs Swift, and have seen much suffering.”
Ever more unusual.
“The cough is severe,” he continued, “but I do not believe it is the lung disease as yet. With the herbal draught and poultices that I’ll leave, complete bed rest for a week, warmth and good food with plenty of meat, it should recover in time.” He raised a brow. “And without need of blood-letting.”
Evelyn had the grace to blush. “I do apologise, it’s just…”
“I quite understand.” He glanced to a loose curl and smiled. “My wife is auburn-haired and with a similar manner. I would not expect anything less.”
The good doctor gave an elegant bow, strode to the door and then ducked low, obviously having learned the disparity betwixt his height and doorframes the hard way.
“Do you think the duke will let us stay for the whole week, Evelyn?” her sister asked as Doctor Mainwaring’s footsteps receded.
“I…I will ask later tonight. After all, what have we to lose?”
Yet what would the duke demand of her in recompense?
Caught between the devil moneylender’s threats and the deep-blue sea of Rothwell’s eyes, Evelyn was snared.
And no doubt he would also seek answers as to the painting’s origin…
She kissed her sister’s forehead. “Shall I call Flora to sit with you?” she queried brightly. “I wish to write to Matilda.” In fact, she wished to search the back page ofTheTimesfor far-flung employment and cut out anything worthwhile, but she would not burden Artemisia’s healing with their predicament.
“No, ’tis fine. Lady Owlswick is to bring a book to read this morning.”
Evelyn looked askew. “One Hundred Scarlet Harlotsof England, perhaps?”
Sniggering ensued. “I think she grumbles for the attention but underneath that sourness, she’s rather sweet. No, she’s bringing the Gothic novel that we started last night, although…” She wrinkled her nose. “I have noticed the heroines seem to cry and swoon unduly which does oblige the dashing hero to save them.”
“No one swoons unless they’ve laced their corset too tight.”
Artemisia giggled. “Still…” And with all her tender years, she sighed. “…it might be nice to have a hero kiss away your tears and cares once in a while…wouldn’t it?”
Pulling the coverlet tight to her young sister’s neck, Evelyn brushed the bright red hair from her face. “Indeed, it would, dearest.”
But Evelyn had ceased believing in fairy-tales long ago.
* * *
“Fancy a tup, darlin’?”
Casper choked, halting his stride three steps from the safe haven of his study. He’d just received word that the moat was leaking into the castle dungeons again and his patience had been scythed to a stub.
“I beg your pardon?”
The pretend maid stood with a pink stocking slung over one arm, leaning against the dado rail with hand on hip and an expression that wouldn’t have gone amiss in the alleys off Haymarket.
“A tup? Yer know, a swive?” she twittered. “Only a shilling.”
“A shilling?” He stared, incapable of anything else, whilst she twirled a lock of blond hair, her words so misaligned with her angelic appearance ’twas akin to a cherub spouting bawdy verse.
