Evelyn ponderedon some further disquieting disclosures from the scandal sheets.
The Duke of Rothwell never drank to excess.
Never gambled.
Never drove fast curricles.
Never wenched – or if he did indulge, it was ever discreet.
All in all, a dispassionate, haughty nobleman who would no doubt take a dim view of forgery.
In fact, the dull Duke of Rothwell’s sole iniquity was collecting art. And living a stone’s throw from the feathered temptations of Covent Garden, that was hardly the most loathsome vice known to woman.
But then again, he had purchased her father’s painting of a whore.
All men, it seemed, had one inherent flaw.
Evelyn and her sister lounged upon their friend’s Axminster rug, gossip papers spread about them, relishing the wool softness and rubbing against it like cats. Not that she envied Matilda’s luxuriant drawing room, for their friend had more than enough troubles of her own.
With ebony hair and expressive brown eyes, Matilda Griffin would have found a suitor within her debut Season, but upon her parents’ death, she’d inherited a Clod-skull of a cousin as guardian. A viscount who’d taken over her home, decorated it yellow, replaced all the staff, spent her dowry and now regularly attempted to marry her off to old mutton mongers with pinching fingers and groaning corsets.
The Clod-skull of a cousin did, however, receive a large selection of daily newspapers – which would be a worthy pastime if he read anything except the horse racing.
Matilda peered up from scrutinising London’s latest slander. “Will you present yourself as yourself, do you think? Or give a false name?”
“I believe that given the circumstances of forging a painting, lying to a duke and then duping him into its purchase, a false name might be my better option.”
“You can have mine,” proclaimed her sister. “And keep it.”
They both rolled their eyes at Artemisia’s denouncement – a daily occurrence.
“Whilst presenting myself as the late Sir Henry Pearce’s daughter would add provenance to the painting, he would doubtless become suspicious as to why it had suddenly come to light after all these years, and he need only enquire of the Pearce family to find us, should the plan fail.”
“It won’t fail,” Artemisia stated with all the righteousness of her sixteen years.
“Nevertheless, Evelyn has a point,” agreed Matilda from the daffodil silk settee as she struggled to turn the broadsheet page.
“I’ll take our mother’s family name and call myself Mrs Swift. It’s the least they could do for us.”
“There’s also a report here that… Oh dear,” said Matilda with a sigh, nudging her glasses further up her nose. “Shall I read it aloud?”
Evelyn shook her head… “Yes.”
“‘It has come to this columnist’s attention that upon Wednesday last, after another run of card misfortune, a certain Lord H was forced to relinquish all’ – and that’s in capitals, Evie – ‘his unentailed lands to the cold, merciless and diamond-draped Duke of R. The ruined and wretched Lord H was last witnessed hawking his bo–’”
“Perhaps we should stop reading this tattle,” Evelyn interjected, dallying with a rug tassel.
“And there’s a caricature too, entitled,Lord H cut by the Duke of Diamonds.” Matilda lowered the newspaper. “Oh, that’s rather clever, don’t you think?”
“I’d prefer a Duke of Dimness.”
Smirking, Matilda turned the page for them to view.
A lion.
All sharp teeth and golden mane displayed above perfect cravat and impeccable jacket, diamonds dripping from his pockets, a smooth-cheeked Lord Humby held in his fearsome claws, playing cards tumbling from his victim’s sleeves.
Artemisia snorted and splayed on the rug. “Ruthless dukes and all that gab are only found in novels… It’s a heap of fiddle-faddle to sell more copies.”
