Page 43

“Award the lease . . . to whomever bribed Purcell and Jephson, this medical officer.”

Yes, there was nothing wrong with his comprehension. She sensed in him a powerful alertness, and some suppressed emotion. His eyes had hooded, but he was watching her closely. She realized her hands were fists, the knuckles white.

“Surely the chairman wouldn’t let this corruption stand if he heard of it. Your father—he must have wanted to appoint a royal commission precisely to prevent these abuses of power.”

She’d lost him. She knew it instantly. He stiffened, pulled back, that odd smile again twisting his lips.

“A shame my father is no longer with us.”

“You must do it.” She reached out and gripped the nearest chair. Otherwise she might have grabbed his coat and shaken him. “You talk to Lord Mabeldon.”

“And tell him what?” He pushed a lock of hair from his brow, a careless gesture. The fire popped noisily, and he spared a glance for the leaping flames. It was much warmer in the study than the sitting room. She felt clammy sweat gathering in the hollows beneath her arms.

“Tell him to dismiss medical authorities and parish administrators on a young woman’s word?” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Mabeldon is a sporting fellow. He likes a good laugh.”

“Come to my aunt’s shop.” She didn’t care that desperation edged her words. “Miss Stirling, Dressmaker. You’ll see the sign just off Charlotte Road, near Mills Court. Satisfy yourself that the building was wrongly condemned and give him your word.”

He was shaking his head. “You overestimate my influence. I’m flattered, of course.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Your good impression of me owes something, perhaps, to your study of my finer features.”

Mockery. It amused him, her predicament. Everyone was right about him. He was right about himself. His finer features were all external.

He was rotten at the core.

“About those features.” Surprising, that she spoke so steadily. “You received my sketches?”

His look acknowledged it. But he was warier now. Here was a vulnerability. Her painting had disturbed him enough that he’d destroyed it, had doubtless destroyed her sketches as well. He cared—a great deal—about repressing the episode.

She manufactured a smile, releasing her grip on the chair, running her fingers lightly over the upholstery.

“I forgot to include a small drawing. No mythological trappings. Just you, detailed in all your . . . fineness. I was going to bring it.”

His gaze slid to her bag. His face had closed, become unreadable. She pressed on, heart pounding in her ears.

“Instead, I gave it to a lithographer who is copying it onto the surface of a stone. Do you know the technique? With that stone, there’s no limit to the number of cards he can print. Mr. Teed, the lithographer, prints trade cards, mostly advertisements for smokes and soaps. This card will make a sensation. Your form, in full color, a bit of text. Bespoke birthday suits by the tailors Gin & Dice of Shoreditch Row. How does that strike you?”

• • •

By God, she was unpredictable. Bizarrely, Anthony’s thoughts went first to Afghanistan, the day of that final battle, the Ghazis rushing up from the ravines, his squadron’s failed charge, the chaos. How different it all was from the plan they’d tried to follow. Miss Coover reminded him of that difference, the gap between strategy and the overwhelm and heat of engagement. When pressed, she fought with everything she had at her disposal.

Now, as then, he found himself taken completely by surprise.

He tried to speak steadily.

“Before you advertise my birthday suit on every corner of London, consider well.”

Her shoulders were rigid. She didn’t know what to expect. Well, neither did he. The map didn’t exist that could guide them.

“I’d prefer if my naked image wasn’t pasted into every scrapbook in London.” He smiled at the understatement. If she did print that drawing, the cards would be more than novelty keepsakes. They’d launch a thousand gossip columns.

“And so would you.” He softened his voice, slowing as he searched for the way. “Or do you want to abandon fine art to deal in dirty pictures?”

Her lips thinned. She was capable of mad, brave maneuvers. Less capable of disguising her emotions. Her eyes fixed on his. Waiting.

“That would be the extent of your career after I attached your name to your handiwork.” He shrugged, making his languidness a counterpoint to her tension. “Not a painter. A hack. A sensationalist.”

He paused. “A pornographer.”

She flinched. He, too, wanted to recoil, from the hopelessness he glimpsed in her face.