So standing, she wrapped her frayed shawl tight and pulled her shoulders back, for tomorrow she would face this haughty nobleman with fortitude and determination.
This night, Covent Garden had strangely ceased its clamour, as though to collude with Evelyn’s endeavour, and so accompanied solely by the distant yowl of cats, she crossed to the cot, lifted the threadbare blankets, huddled close to Artemisia and lulled her sister back to sleep.
Chapter 3
“In the coldest flint, there is fire.”
(1579 English proverb)
Oh dear.
The steps to No. 6 Grosvenor Square had been imposing enough, the Doric columns which flanked the portal truly alarming, but the brass lion door knocker complete with snarling teeth well-nigh sent Evelyn scuttling back to the pavement.
“Ain’t this a flash pad. D’yer think he needs a mistr–”
The stately door swung open to reveal an efficient footman, all tidily dressed in blue livery with gold braid.
Conveniently, Evelyn had fashioned herself a widow, but a maid in tow would bolster her respectability and Flora had been at a loose end. Whether her friend could pass muster as maid depended much on her ability to keep her lips buttoned.
Evelyn endeavoured not to gawk at the elaborate chandelier and decorative cornices as she passed her pelisse to the footman and then followed the impressively straight shoulders of the butler past a morning room filled with marble and carved panelling.
The home she’d grown up in had been pleasant, as befitting a lowly baronet artist, but nothing on this scale of opulence. Alabaster nymphs smirked as she drifted in silence past a grand carved staircase whilst festooned mirrors reflected her guilt at what she was about to do.
Ahead lay a large oak door.
With a brief knock, the butler pushed it inwards. “The eleven o’clock, Your Grace.”
Sodding hell, as Flora would say. Because the duke who stood obelisk straight behind an immense desk encapsulated all the gossip sheets had suggested…and more.
No hounds lounged at his feet and his visage conferred no benevolence. Although undoubtedly, he owned too many acres.
Dark-sapphire eyes held no expression, firm features with not a hint of dissipation neither smiled nor scowled, broad shoulders and slender physique encased in indigo blue rose tall, and short hair the colour of spun sunshine gleamed.
The Duke of Rothwell appeared a gentleman in his prime. Lean, impeccably dressed and handsome as Apollo.
As the caricature had portrayed, a lion of a man. But not one that lounged in the heat of the day with his pride. No, this lion remained alert, mane shorn, his imperious air and magnificent stature commanding attention and respect.
And into his lair, Evelyn stepped.
“I do not have much time…” He glanced to the papers on his desk. “…Mrs Swift. So please, live up to your name.”
His voice, despite its chill tone, was every maiden’s innocent dream…and every woman’s wicked desire. And it scraped along Evelyn’s skin as though his eminently clean fingernail had raked her throat.
Sodding,soddinghell.
At Matilda’s, they’d debated how Evelyn should act. Her friend had voted for a business-like, competent attitude but this powerful duke must have efficiency up to his perfect white cravat. Artemisia had elected for demure, but hesitating now, Evelyn knew a demure lady could do nothing but cower beneath those arctic eyes.
No, this duke would need–
“Get yer paws off me!”
Evelyn swivelled as Flora flounced through the door, the rather handsome butler firmly gripping her upper arm, a frown creasing his brow as he peered at her crooked maid’s hat.
Flora winked.
“Copperhouse,” the duke demanded, “what’s all the fuss?”
The butler peered down an aquiline nose that denoted a fine lineage begun on the wrong side of some noble bedsheet. “Nothing to concern oneself, Your Grace. Solely a wandering maid.” And he cast her a distrustful glance.
