CHAPTER 17 #2
The door did open an inch. Then another, until it was ajar. She gripped the book so hard it hurt her hand.
A head poked in and looked around. “Eva?”
Her heart sank. Not Gareth. Rebecca had come.
Rebecca saw her sitting in the chair and came in. “I almost got lost, but remembered the way after all. I wanted to see you alone, without Sarah about.”
Eva patted the bed beside her chair. Rebecca sat, and pushed her long hair back over her shoulders. She wore a nightdress but no robe or wrap. She appeared lithe and innocent.
“I hope you are not going to complain about Mr. Mansfield, Rebecca. Sarah insists she did not arrange for him to be in London at the same time as us.”
Rebecca cocked her head. Her brow puckered. “I never thought Sarah had arranged it, or that he came to London following me. To do that would mean he was at least somewhat romantic, and I do not think he has a romantic ounce in him.”
Eva almost defended Mr. Mansfield, but let it be. It astonished her that Rebecca really thought the afternoon a total coincidence. Her sister could be very stupid for someone with such a smart brain.
“What do you have there?” Eva asked. Rebecca had carried in a little pouch much like the one hanging from a nail at home, under the floorboard.
Rebecca opened the pouch and poured out a pile of shillings.
“There are sixty. He owes you more. Mr. Stevenson, that is. I visited his shop the day before we left, and your paintings were not there. He said some were sold, but the others were in patrons’ homes, being considered for purchase.
I think he lied, and that he hoped giving me this for you would allow him to wait a long time before giving you the rest.”
Eva reached over and stacked the coins. “Did you tell Sarah about the paintings?”
Rebecca shook her head. “We were visiting a shop on that street, and I said I needed some air. I took the opportunity to run into Mr. Stevenson’s.”
“To whom did he sell the ones he admits were sold?” Three, if he intended to pay her the same as before. She had brought him nine.
“They were taken by that picture seller from London. That is why I think Mr. Stevenson lied. He said that man would take all you could make. Mr. Stevenson must have written him at once to say he had more available.”
They admired the shillings. Eva felt almost rich.
“Such good fortune, Rebecca.”
“It is a pity it cannot continue. Perhaps you should tell Mr. Fitzallen that you borrowed those pictures and copied them. You are friends now, and he might not mind too much and permit you to borrow more.”
“I did not borrow them. That requires the owner’s permission. I stole them. That I returned them halves the sin, perhaps, but it was still theft. And do I confess to the chairs too? That was outright theft, for all the excuses I found to call it something else.”
“You should probably leave out the chairs.”
“It is all of one sum, with respect to my character. If I say I took some pictures, why should he believe I returned all of them when so much else disappeared from that house? I could not blame him for wondering. A person who helps herself to that which is not hers, even temporarily, cannot be trusted not to forget to return what she takes.”
Rebecca poked at the shillings. “I suppose if we are frugal, what you have now will last many months. Eventually it will all be spent, however. Then what?”
Eva hoped that by then Rebecca would have married well and have a husband’s support.
Presumably that husband would not allow his wife’s sister to live in poverty, although Eva did not relish the idea of becoming the dependent sister.
Nor did she intend to, since Mr. Stevenson had now found her a way to support herself so well.
“You are not to worry. I may have found an alternative,” she said. “Miss Neville has said I can copy some of their paintings. Several look quite good. I think Mr. Stevenson’s London buyer would like them.”
Rebecca’s expression cleared. “That is wonderful. I am so glad that you are becoming the sisters’ friend too.
I knew you would like them once you knew them better.
” She stood and went to the door. “I am going to spy into every picture shop we pass while we are here. I think Mr. Stevenson is getting much more than he pretends for those paintings. You would, too, if you could offer them to that man directly.”
Eva guessed she would as well, which was why Mr. Stevenson would never allow her to know that picture seller’s name.
As for Rebecca finding him during their visit—London was very big, with many streets and lanes and many picture sellers.
They would probably return to Langdon’s End as ignorant of that buyer’s name as when they left.
* * *
Gareth took his guests to the British Museum the next day. The excursion proved both educational and tiring for all. Only Rebecca remained enthralled to the end, and he suspected she would have petitioned to remain longer if Sarah had not complained about her sore feet.
Eva gave most of her attention to the art, especially the Greek marbles.
Sarah joked none too subtly about how very educational those nude male sculpted figures must be for innocents like her cousins.
Eva smiled serenely at being the source of Sarah’s amusement, and studied the reliefs and statues all the closer, only once sliding Gareth a glance that communicated their private reason for finding Sarah’s innuendos very funny.
The butler eased Gareth aside as soon as he and his guests returned to the house.
“It would be best if I take your guests to the drawing room or morning room, sir,” he said. “The duke and Lord Ywain arrived while you were out and are now in the library. The Earl of Whitmere is with them.”
“The drawing room, then. Please take them up and see about refreshment. I will join them after I see my brothers.”
He found Lance and Ives lounging on divans in the library, still wearing riding coats. Lord Whitmere, one of Lance’s old friends, also appeared to have been riding.
“Imagine my surprise to find these two on the road,” Whitmere said, after their greetings. “An odd bit of fate.”
Blond, robust, and athletic, Whitmere initially appeared to be the light foil to Lance’s dark presence. Unfortunately, he was not. He and Lance normally found each other during spells of recklessness. If fate had brought them together, it was not a good omen.
“I told you he would probably ride down, Gareth.” Ives flourished a gesture toward Lance. “Here he is, in all his ducal magnificence.”
“Indeed I am,” Lance drawled lazily. “Explain to Ives how I must participate in the Season, Gareth, so it is not said I hide at Merrywood due to guilt.”
“He has a good point, Ives.”
“We are in mourning. Deep mourning. Am I the only one who remembers that?”
“I’ll wear an armband, and not dance much,” Lance said.
Ives shook his head. “I would feel better about this if the last time he went out on the town we did not come within an inch of dueling to protect his good name, Gareth.”
Lance shrugged. “Should that happen again, point the man toward me. I’ll not have either of you fighting for me, when I will happily do it myself.”
“Too happily,” Ives said to Gareth, pointedly.
Gareth did not need to be alerted. The truth was Lance looked like hell.
If they rode here, they had not brought their valets, and unless his valet shaved Lance, he could not be bothered shaving at all.
A rough growth shadowed his lower face, making the scar appear a thin river snaking through a forest. His heavy lids might be due to drinking, or worse.
Ives’s concern said he voted for the “or worse.” Lance sometimes suffered from spells of brooding.
Melancholies, their father had called them, although the word was inaccurate in many ways.
Lance did not turn sad or anxious during his spells.
Rather he became blissfully indifferent to almost everything and everyone around him.
He also exuded a fearless indifference to life itself.
He would happily duel when in such a state.
Whitmere watched Lance, forming his own conclusions. No doubt he anticipated a wonderful few weeks dwelling in hell with his old friend.
“Ives said he told you about the guests I have imposed on the household,” Gareth said.
Lance barely nodded. “A Birmingham tradesman and his wife, along with the wife’s two cousins, he said.”
“Do not worry that they will be a nuisance. You will hardly ever see them or know they are here. They are staying on the third storey, away from the public rooms and your apartments.”
“I do not care if I see them. In fact, if they are here, I should greet them. It is my home.” He sat up. “Where are they?”
“It can wait until you are presentable,” Ives said. “You look like a highwayman.”
“I choose to do it now.” He stood and peered at Gareth expectantly.
“They are in the drawing room,” Gareth said.
Up they went, with Whitmere in tow. Lance came alive with each step. That was unfortunate. Gareth had been prepared to explain later that he was ill.
One could not unexpectedly present a duke, an earl, and a lord to anyone except other peers without it garnering strong reactions.
Gareth’s introductions to the disheveled, unshaved Aylesbury fell on the ears of three people who faced Lance gape-mouthed.
Wesley mumbled something incoherent. Sarah and Rebecca fumbled vague curtsies. Only Eva acquitted herself well.
To make it worse, Lance decided to play the host, for reasons only he could know.
He invited the ladies to sit, then he did as well.
Wesley perched his ass too. Gareth remained standing, as did Ives.
Ives kept sending Gareth sharp glances that said no one found this situation stranger than Lance’s own full blood brother.