“And you can rest assured,” added Evelyn, rescuing a red curl of hair from the clutches of her babe, “that my husband will not tell him anything.”
Verity let the tension ease from her shoulders. Her friends were correct; all would be well.
“However…” Evelyn caught her lower lip between her teeth. “There is one small problem that has arisen.”
Verity tilted her head. “Yes?”
“Well…” Her voice dropped. “I also happened to overhear at the study door that he has…has an invitation to our art exhibition.”
“What!” Verity sat bolt upright. “How?”
“As guest of a guest.”
“Then I cannot attend.”
“Oh, but you must. You promised us.” Evelyn touched her shoulder. “And with your wonderful portrait of Cleopatra on show, doubtless more commissions will follow.”
Verity wrung her hands, noticed a faint smear of grey paint on her palm. Shehadpromised to attend, ’twas true: to see her painting hung amongst its peers, to support Evelyn and the duke, and to take pleasure in the last of the October sunshine within the exquisite Chesterfield Gardens – to admire the wash of russet and gold trees, the paths dappled with the low slanting light of autumn.
But that was before she’d known Miles would be there.
Sephi’s elbow gently nudged. “And although I would never persuade you into something that you did not wish…”
“I cannot avoid him forever, you are saying.” Verity breathed deep. “Or let him prevent me from attending events.”
“And remember, you will be amongst friends,” Evelyn added softly.
“Thank you. Both of you.” Verity nodded. “I do wish to attend the exhibition – for you, Evelyn, and for His Grace. And the Gardens will be at their most glorious now.”
“And if anything,” said Sephi, “it will quite throw Stonewold off the scent of you being The Witness. After all, who paints war and cats? Only someone really odd.”
Verity frowned.
The duchess frowned also, her hand to the babe’s derriere. “I think…I think I have to go and change…both of us.” Her nose twitched. “Do finish the biscuits and no need to wait for me.” And with haste to her slippers, she darted from the drawing room, leaving a faint but unmistakeable whiff of urgency.
Verity reached for a biscuit before an elbow nudged her side once more – this time with a little more force.
“But I think you should tell him, you know. About you being The Witness.”
With a sideways glare worthy of the duke, Verity ignored her cousin and commenced rummaging in her satchel.
“Well?”
“Oh, I didn’t realise it was a question.”
Sephi rolled her eyes. “You’ve been a grumpy miss ever since those swingboats. What did happen?”
“Nothing.” Verity drew out her sketchpad, flipped a page and let her pencil glide of its own accord. “He just… Miles questioned me about Locksley again. I think he suspects that I…I lied all that time ago.”
“Hmm. Is that…all?”
“All what?”
“What happened after that?”
“Nothing.” And she smudged the paper with her thumb.
Sephi narrowed her eyes.
