Miles shifted in his chair. “Thank you, but surely–”
A black cat with white paws sprang upon the desk.
And with the lofty disdain of a despot, it prowled across the leather, flicked its tail and then sat atop what looked to be a bundle of important legal deeds. It then proceeded to lick its paws.
Miles could confess to a fondness for cats – they’d trailed the regiments like faithful camp followers, purging the tents of rats – but surely this imperious duke would not permit such an intrusion.
And indeed the duke reached out a hand to…tickle it under the chin?
Feeling his eyebrows rise of their own accord, Miles cleared his throat. “Yours?”
A smile glimmered. “My wife’s, but Cleopatra has made herself at home here.” The duke tilted his head. “I regret I cannot help you more with this matter, Stonewold, but if I can be of assistance with earldom duties or other matters, do not hesitate to send word. We could meet at Brooks or some such.”
Miles’ allotted time was clearly at an end.
He’d been poised to continue the conversation, to press for more about The Witness… But the Duke of Rothwell struck him as a man who would not be swayed. His word was his honour, and Miles would not ask him to break it.
“I would appreciate that. And perhaps we will see one another sooner as I’m attending the art exhibition at Chesterfield Gardens, which I believe you are hosting?”
Rothwell’s hand stilled upon Cleopatra’s black fur. A ducal brow rose. The cat narrowed her green eyes. “I didn’t notice you on the list, though you’re most welcome, of course.”
“A guest of guest invite, but I’ve longed to see the Gardens for some while.” He cleared his throat. “And the artworks, of course.”
With quirked lip, the duke stood and held out his hand. “My wife and I shall see you there then.”
Palm met palm. “Until the exhibition.”
“My, my,”said the Duchess of Rothwell, peeking from behind the curtain of the drawing room window. “He certainly is a handsome one.”
Verity scowled and edged towards the curtain also, just in time to see Miles dash down the Rothwell steps, peer left and right and then stride off towards a gleaming closed carriage that his coachman had trundled to a stop aside the Gardens in the centre of the square.
Sephi stretched on tiptoes to peer over the duchess’ head. “I said that as well. Look at those thighs.”
“Excuse me,” groused Verity. “I am here, you know. And more importantly, Evelyn, what did you discern by listening at the study door?”
Yestermorn, a message had arrived from the duchess suggesting she and Sephi pay a visit at precisely half after four as the Earl of Stonewold had requested a meeting with her husband on the subject of art, and they might…perhaps…listen in to discover if he knew of The Witness or whether some other purpose lay behind the visit.
Given that it would also allow Verity the opportunity to inform the duke, that with much regret, she could no longer produce her battlescapes, she and Sephi had donned their veils, concealed the phaeton in the mews, met with the duke and then waited in the drawing room for Stonewold’s arrival with bated breath. And biscuits and tea.
“Well…” The duchess bounced their babe of just three months upon her hip. “As we thought, he was asking about The Witness. Who the artist really was and howhemanaged such accuracy.”
Verity flopped onto the striped sofa with a groan. “If not for the earldom, he never would’ve seen the paintings, but the death of his brother has brought him to London and changed matters. I ought never to have painted them.”
“Of course you should. They are such wonderful works.”
Verity puffed her cheeks. “You are too kind, Evelyn.”
At first, the scenes with Miles had just been something she’d done for herself. Her way of keeping him close in the only manner left to her, to stand with him the only way she could. She’d sold a few at a small art gallery and had thought no more of them until the gallery owner had approached her concerning a duke, one who’d been so affected by the paintings that he’d wished to offer his patronage.
The Duke of Rothwell.
An honour indeed.
He’d not cared that she was a female who painted brutal war in oils, and he’d quite understood her request for anonymity. All he’d cared about in life was art. And now his duchess Evelyn and their babe, of course.
The duke had said the works would ensure that Miles and all the brave men with him would not be forgotten about here in London, and that both their glories and the horrors they faced could be brought home in some way.
Sephi sat aside her and linked arms. “Do not worry, Cousin. There are so many reasons he will never suspect you as The Witness. You’re a woman.” She ticked off her fingers. “A swoon-prone maiden with delicate sensibilities.” She ignored the duchess’ snort. “One who has never so much as glimpsed a battlefield. You paint cats, for goodness’ sake.”
