They both peered across the elegant drawing room to where Lord Ernest and Lord Virgil were being trounced at whist by the formidable duo of Lady Owlswick and the Duke of Rakecombe.
As though hearing his name mentioned, the sinister one twisted his head, gaze settling upon his beautiful Irish storm of a wife. The cold jade of his eyes lightened to a late spring, lips slanting to a sensuous curve.
Leaning close, the duchess whispered, “But remember, it’s not their fault – all that arrogance and haughtiness. To lead and command, one needs to portray a certain confidence.” She toyed with a bodice ribbon. “But beneath all that ducal paraphernalia, they are just men. Men to be loved…and occasionally ordered about.” She winked and twisted to return her husband’s sinful smile.
This duchess was not what Evelyn had expected at all, and both the Rakecombes had gathered the Rothwell household to their bosom. With no kitchens or hot water at No. 6, most of the servants would reside here for the night, having returned shivering and blackened by wet soot.
The burned-out basement resembled a sewer, as although the Phoenix firemen had saved the day, without means of exit, the water had turned to a thick black slurry which had then taken the rest of the daylit hours to bucket out.
Evelyn’s gaze flitted the room. Lit with some fifty candles, a splendid crystal chandelier cast faceted luminosity upon them whilst the cerulean-blue walls added to the elegant ambiance. A shaggy Irish wolfhound snoozed by the fire, paws twitching.
“Thank you both for all your aid, Your Grace, and for this beautiful dress.” Evelyn swished her green silk skirts.
“Pah, ’tis no trouble,” she declared as the whist came to a raucous end. “With my mother-in-law still on honeymoon in Egypt searching for the lost emerald mines of antiquity, I’ve quite missed the company. Besides…” A sly glance was pitched Evelyn’s way. “…we may be neighbours soon enough.”
Evelyn gazed to her silk slippers and then upwards to the ornate plasterwork, a little unsure, aware her mood was…odd, emotions a simmering cauldron that refused to quell. Her heart felt so full and yet…not.
Weariness perhaps?
After the hullabaloo of the fire, the gentlemen had arrived at the Rakecombes’ with soot-covered faces and clammy bodies, only to be mobbed by their valets with tuts of dismay. Yet after a wash and brush up, they’d disappeared for the rest of the day, Rothwell yet to return.
Her unease deepened and she placed a palm to her chest. “I-I might check on my sister, Your Grace, and retire if I may.”
“But of course,” the duchess agreed, twirling a midnight-black curl betwixt her fingers. “You must be exhausted.” And both rising, they exchanged a tight hug.
The whist began anew, but Evelyn departed the laughter with a faint smile and wave of hand. She meandered through the hall, lingered to appreciate a Canaletto, and then climbed the grand staircase, limbs sluggish.
Pausing outside her sister’s bedchamber door, a hum of voices seeped from within, raising her spirits, and she gave thanks once more that all were safe tonight.
She turned the doorknob to discover Artemisia sat up in bed with playing cards held close, healthy blushes in her cheeks and robust laughter in her eyes. Flora, who squinted at her dealt hand, sat cross-legged, apron abandoned and cherry-red garters peeking out from beneath her white petticoats.
“Who’s winning?” queried Evelyn, crossing the room to flump on the end of the plush bed where Cleopatra, no worse for wear from either the smoke or subsequent bath, also rested, licking her paws.
Flora scrunched her nose. “Yer sister. I think she’s cheating. Been reading too many books. Yer’ll go blind, yer know.”
“Vingt-et-un,” Artemisia said huskily, lips wobbling in mirth as she plonked down her winning hand.
“That’s the fifth time,” Flora grumbled, winking at Evelyn. “I’m off. Can’t afford to lose any more buttons or I won’t be able to fasten me uniform up, although…” She fiddled with her cuff. “I might not be needing it soon as… I hope you don’t mind, Evie…but I can’t get used to this maid lark. I likes to be a bit of a slugabed in the mornings and, well, it just don’t suit me creative talents.”
“Of course I don’t mind, Flora. I know you never wanted to be stuck here as a Rothwell maid,” she said ruefully. “What will you do?”
“Well, Mr F has offered me the position of…” She thrust her chest out and twirled a hand aloft. “…Model Director.”
Artemisia was first to recover. “What does one of those do?”
“He’s got a commission to paint some swell’s ceiling with a load of frolicking gods, and he wants me to sort out the models. Half of them can’t pose properly…or they tipple on the job…and the men can be a bit coy about disrobing.” She gave a militant stare. “There’ll be no hiding anything from me.”
“Gosh,” breathed Artemisia.
“There’s more…”
The two sisters leaned forward all agog. “Hmm?”
“You’ll never guess…”
“What?”
“Not in a hundred years.”
