A perfect mistress…or wife, if he’d been in the market.
But no duke could get married willy-nilly to some unknown deceiving woman, and besides, he’d thought to wait a couple more years yet.
Wandering into Berkeley Square, he noted a poor fellow attempting to haul a framed canvas through a too-small door and the scene jolted a sudden realisation of the date.
A smile flitted his lips as though the sun had peeked out.
Astley’s circus was all very well but personally, he loathed clowns.
This little outing, however, would require an entire morning of his schedule to be made vacant, the utter deferment of all appointments and, he shuddered…delegation.
Chapter 23
Ignorance is Useful.
“I’m going to tell him immediately. Go straight down to breakfast, forego the bacon and reveal the truth.”
“I agree.”
“Don’t try and stop me. I’ve done the duke a terrible disservice. He’s not ruthless as the scandal sheets would have it, in any way, shape or form. I’ll go and do it now.”
“I agree.”
“He’s…” Evelyn tapped her foot. “Affable isn’t quite the right word, but admirable and honourable and…”
“I agree,” shrieked Artemisia, sitting up in bed and placing her tea to the side. “Although I’m not sure about honourable as Lord Ernest divulged in secrecy to Lady Owlswick, who in turn told me in utter confidence, that His Grace cheated at cards the other night.”
“Well, I’m sure he had an honourable reason.”
After all, he protected destitute tenants from ignorant landlords – a true Robin Hood. Albeit an aristocratic one who lived in Mayfair.
But with this comprehension came dread at revealing her deception. Fearful of his bitter disappointment in her.
For not only had the duke admired her father’s painting for its artwork, but he’d cherished the woman within it. Her honest power, he’d murmured.
With the truth she would shatter that which he so cherished.
The clock chimed its half, and Evelyn hauled in a long breath, patted her hair smooth, pulled her sleeves taut, and leaned forward to kiss her sister’s forehead.
A tight embrace caught her unawares, instilling valour. No words were spoken; no words were needed.
She straightened her favourite velvet green dress that Artemisia had managed to patch up one last time and turned to the door.
With saddened heart, she sauntered down the two flights of stairs until, on the last but one step, her fingers curled upon the carved rail, her worn half-boots loath to turn towards the breakfast room.
“Is that you?”
Evelyn blinked. That depended…
She crossed to the ajar door of the rear parlour and observed Lady Owlswick sat bolt upright at the corner table with a pot of tea, slice of almond cake and five open books.
Evelyn bobbed a curtsey as the lady squinted up…and muttered.
“I beg your pardon?” queried Evelyn, entering the room with tentative step.
Her sister had defended that Lady Owlswick was in fact a sweet old tartar with bad hearing. Evelyn considered her a shrewd old tartar with selective hearing.
Prodding a finger to an open page, the lady narrowedher eyes. “I knew it. Nell Gwyn had red hair. Shameless hussy.”
