Kate stood with her arms folded, tipping her head this way and that.
“It’s good,” she pronounced at last. “The graduation of color. All the accessories of detail. But . . .”
This but was what Lucy was waiting for. Kate didn’t settle for good. Lucy grinned and turned her eyes to her easel, trying to see what Kate saw. It was her first attempt working from the sketch she’d made of the Cantrell girls. She’d added Mr. Malkin in the bottom left and the handkerchief sailing away from the clothesline in the top right.
“The elements aren’t working together,” she ventured, and Kate scowled, weighing her next words.
They were standing shoulder to shoulder in Lucy’s favorite corner of the classroom. Lucy tried to still her breathing, so Kate could think without the slightest interruption. At last Kate opened her mouth, and gasped.
“Oh,” she said, nudging Lucy in the ribs. She no longer looked at Lucy’s easel but across the room. Gwen Burgess stood framed in the doorway. She appeared paler than usual, even peaked. Whatever had detained her from class, it hadn’t been a happy experience. Lucy shifted, suddenly ill at ease, as though, desirous of usurping Gwen’s rightful place, she’d somehow willed her misfortune.
Nonsense. She had no such powers. Besides, Gwen Burgess didn’t own this corner. Lucy belonged there as much as anyone. Kate glanced at Lucy and gave a short nod, gathering herself as Gwen came toward them.
“Gwen.” Kate called to her in a low voice. “I’ve been hoping to . . .”
But Gwen’s face had already assumed its characteristic blankness of expression, the remote quality that made her privacy so unassailable. Without waiting for Kate to finish speaking, without acknowledging that she’d begun, Gwen swept past, making a beeline for Mr. Barrett.
Kate watched her go.
“Dammit,” she swore and bent her arm, jamming her clenched fist beneath her chin. “Did you see that? She won’t exchange a word with me. Lucy, we need her to sign our petition. She’s a Burgess. Everyone on the council knows who she is. And if she signs, the other girls will sign in a heartbeat.”
Lucy, too, followed Gwen with her eyes. Would Mr. Barrett have a harsh word for his pet? No, his narrow face showed only concern as he beckoned her away from the other girls, who gawked from behind their easels.
Kate sighed. “And she’s disgustingly talented.”
“Humph,” muttered Lucy; then she bit her tongue. It was preposterous, her one-sided rivalry with Gwen Burgess. The circle would be a circle of hell if the Sisters succumbed to such pettiness.
She did rather wish, though, that Kate had not been interrupted on the verge of a dramatic critique of her painting. Too late now to resume. She could see the wheels turning in Kate’s head.
“What?” she asked.
“You get her to sign.” Kate leaned forward and gripped both of Lucy’s arms, staring fiercely into her eyes. “Promise me you’ll try.”
Lucy frowned, and Kate tightened her grip. She was devilishly strong.
“Fine!” Lucy groaned her concession, shaking Kate off. “I don’t know why she’d listen to me, but of course I’ll try.”
“She’ll listen because you are an indomitable force.” Kate winked at her, turning back to the easel. “Singleness of aim, that’s the secret.”
Lucy bit her lip to keep from laughing aloud.
“To winning over Gwen Burgess?” she asked. “Or to improving this painting?”
“Both,” said Kate. “The painting will take more work. Too much external composition, no definite end. Look there . . .”
As Kate pointed out the painting’s myriad flaws, Lucy felt her spirits surge. The criticism stung, but it meant she and Kate were together, more together than they’d been in months. When Gwen walked past again, accompanied by Mr. Barrett, Lucy tried to catch her eye, preparing a smile. The smile, once it reached her lips, felt genuine. But Gwen didn’t look her way.
She had another chance, though, the very next afternoon. As Lucy struck out from the Schools at the close of the day, she caught sight of Gwen walking in the same direction, a half block ahead on the opposite side of the street. Could it be? Yes, she was stopping at the cabstand in front of the Criterion Theatre. Why on earth would Gwen Burgess take a cab? A family coach dropped her off and picked her up each day in the courtyard of Burlington House.
She was going somewhere without her family’s knowledge.
Lucy dodged between carts, her bag banging her hip.
“Gwen!” she called. Clearly, the girl had no idea how to acquit herself. A dozen cabmen had gathered around her, vigorously offering their services. The most aggressive among them was leading her toward his carriage as Lucy ran up, panting.
“Gwen,” she repeated. Gwen didn’t turn. Lucy touched her shoulder and her head snapped around. They stared at each other. Gwen’s face was unreadable. Lucy became aware of her ragged breathing and sweaty forehead. She pushed back flyaway strands of hair.
“I saw you and . . .”
She broke off. Gwen’s paleness belied her composure. She had been startled, and badly. No one on a furtive expedition liked a witness.
Lucy said, impulsively, “I couldn’t let you choose this cab. The cabby’s a pest.”
She put her hands on her hips and glared up at the cabman, who had clambered up onto the box. He was a barrel-chested, red-nosed rascal who glared back at her. Every day she walked past the stand, she heard him deliver a bullying phrase to whatever woman on the sidewalk strayed into his range. He muttered around the tobacco packed into his mouth as Lucy tugged Gwen away.
“Go on. Walk sharp, then,” he called down. “None of us want you.”
But he didn’t speak for his brethren. The other cabmen whistled and clapped and crowded around. Gwen’s eyebrows drew together. She looked confusedly between Lucy and the throng of cabmen, many of whom were gesturing to their cabs with newspapers, pipes, whips, each extolling the virtues of his particular carriage and horse.
“Now,” said Lucy. “Any of these cabs will do. Do you know the fare?” Gwen’s eyes flitted back to her. Her lips parted and she shook her head slightly.
“They’ll charge you double and accuse you of bilking when you pay,” said Lucy. Cabmen scented timidity. Gwen, with her quiet grace, made for an easy mark.
“When he tells you the fare, say, ‘You’re a rogue, it’s not half so much,’ and pay two-thirds plus a penny. You’ll come out all right, and so will he.”
She smiled. It was a neat formula, one she’d worked out the hard way. Gwen had been watching her closely and now she smiled too. Fancy that. A smile from Gwen Burgess.
“I’d take that one there,” said Lucy, pointing. The horse was well fed at least. At her words, the cabman, white-haired, leapt with surprising agility to his high seat and caught up the reins.
Gwen glanced up at him and nodded.
“Did your brother paint a miniature of Lady Euphemia Philby?” Lucy felt the question burst from her. Not the question she’d intended to ask. Gwen angled her head, presenting the tiny shell of her right ear, its upper curve hidden by a loop of chestnut hair. She peered at Lucy out of the corners of her eyes.
“What?” she said.
Lucy repeated herself, blushing. Gwen’s oblique concentration disconcerted her.
“Lady Euphemia? They’re friends.” Gwen’s voice was low, words slightly blunted by an almost undetectable hesitancy. Was Lucy imagining things or did her mouth twist slightly to the right when she spoke? “I believe he did paint a miniature, over a year ago.”
“They are not in touch, though?” Lucy persisted. “Your brother and Lady Euphemia?”
“Effie’s in France,” Gwen murmured. She seemed perplexed, and Lucy smiled to show the subject was closed. She’d do better to pursue the lead Anthony had given her.
Aunt Marian didn’t know of any theater managers named Frank or Madge, and neither did the chorus girl who’d come by the shop for tailoring the day before. Nor the two acrobats with the snapped elastics.
An unpromising start, but she’d hardly exhausted the pool of theatrical personages to whom she might direct her queries.
Gwen glanced again toward the cab. Lucy could see her bunching her skirt in her hand, readying herself to clamber up.
“You can ask Augustus yourself,” she said, slowly. “If you were to come to one of his salons . . .”
The sentence trailed off, more a hypothetical than an invitation, but Lucy seized upon it.
“I’d love to!” she said warmly. Why, this was a most unexpected and glorious outcome! Almost as good as getting Gwen to sign the petition. The memory of the petition—and with the petition, Kate—brought her up short.
“Oh,” she said. “Could Kate come too?” She winced at her own impropriety. But she couldn’t go to the salon without Kate.
Again, Gwen presented her right ear, her oval face still as an icon’s. In the pause that lengthened, Lucy added, “Holroyd. Kate Holroyd.”
The only Kate at the Royal Academy. These long pauses . . . they were strange to say the least.
“Of course, you and Kate should both come,” said Gwen at last.
So, it was that simple, was it? Lucy grinned, dazzled by her success. Gwen smiled back and began to turn away.
“Wait! One more thing. You haven’t signed the petition, and I wonder . . .”
“Petition?” Gwen’s eyes roamed over Lucy’s face as though ferreting for clues. “What petition?”
Lucy gaped. Gwen avoided the canteen, yes, but the petition made for choice gossip in the halls and in the corners of the classrooms. Was she joking? There wasn’t a hint of irony in her expression.
“The petition to grant women a life class for the study of the undraped figure. Kate wrote it. We’ve thirty-seven signatures so far.”
Gwen’s face relaxed as she nodded. “If the life class is considered essential for the success of male students, then it’s equally essential for female students. We also rely on this profession for our future livelihood.”
Her lips did twist subtly rightward.
“Kate couldn’t have said it better herself.” Lucy pulled her eyes up, meeting Gwen’s. Gwen wasn’t disagreeable, not exactly. She shunned interaction, braced herself queerly when it was forced upon her, but she didn’t strike Lucy as shy either. She knew her own mind. At any rate, she supported the cause, which was all that mattered. Maybe this was the beginning of something like friendship. She and Kate might even entice Gwen to join the Sisterhood. She’d make a wonderful ally.
“You’ll sign?” Lucy asked.
“Mum, d’ye mean to ride or to chaff?” The white-haired cabman, who had been tugging his whiskers impatiently, now leaned down, pulling lightly on the reins so the horse pranced a step, the cab wheels knocking on the curb.
“Powers of darkness!” Lucy let out with a shout borrowed from Mrs. Cantrell. “She’ll ride in a moment. You’ll get your fare. Make sure it’s the legal fare,” she added as an afterthought.
Gwen jerked, turning to see whom Lucy addressed.
She hadn’t heard the cabman.
Something clicked into place in Lucy’s mind. She stepped back, eyes widening. As though she sensed Lucy’s new awareness, Gwen blanched. She sprang up into the carriage, skirts dragging on the wheel as she settled herself in the seat and pulled shut the folding door. The cab was off in an instant.
Lucy hardly had the time to reflect on the odd conclusion to her odd encounter. She’d not walked a block when she heard a male voice salute her.
“Miss Coover.”
A coach rolling slowly down the street had drawn up alongside her. Weston’s coach. Massive, gilded, the coronet emblazoned on the shining black door. Her heart began to pound. He’d talked to Lord Mabeldon!
But it wasn’t Weston’s voice.
“Mr. Yardley,” she said, hitching up her shoulders. Was it disappointment or dislike that made her stiffen? Mr. Yardley threw open the door and descended to the sidewalk, beaming.
“My daughter owes you her good health. Give me the pleasure of driving you home.”
“Is Miss Yardley enjoying Paris?” She didn’t move. By what right did the man ride about in Weston’s coach? It seemed an undue liberty.
“Immensely.” His smile broadened. “And I’ve been enjoying my little visit to the Royal Academy. I was just at the Keeper’s House. I told him about your trick with the ammonia. He said your chemistry professor would be delighted. Know your materials, that’s Mr. Church’s credo. And you certainly do.”
She searched Mr. Yardley’s face, craggy and genial. She couldn’t identify the threat in his expression, or in his speech, but it was there. She sensed it. Why was he discussing her with the Keeper?
“Mr. Church’s chemistry lectures have been very helpful to me.” She tried to keep her voice level.
“Get in, get in.” Mr. Yardley reached out his hand. “Let’s talk comfortably.”
Protests formed and fractured on her tongue. She hesitated.
“Thank you,” she said, “but it’s a good deal out of your way.”
“Off Charlotte Road, near Mills Court, in Shoreditch. I had the address from Mr. Pickersgill. Oddly enough, I know the building.” He shook his head. “I’m a member of the Board of Works, city representative, in the architect’s office. The lease was just reviewed at our last meeting.”
He observed her for a moment. “You’re shocked. So was I. Your address shocked me, I’ll admit it. Come, we’ve much to discuss.”
Lucy put her foot on the step and allowed him to help her up into the coach. She slid into her seat warily, setting her bag at her feet. After a curt word to the coachman, Mr. Yardley climbed up after her, sprawling onto the bench opposite. At once, the coach began to roll, the horses clopping over the cobblestones.
“Speaking with the Keeper made me reflect again on my days as a student.” Mr. Yardley crossed his legs, flinging an arm across the back of the bench. He was the picture of ease, utterly relaxed. Meanwhile, Lucy smoothed her skirts, trying to keep her knees from bouncing. Her nerves were jangling.
“We were still at Trafalgar Square. Boys in shirtsleeves, working with high spirits under the dome of the roof. It was cramped, but invigorating. We could hear the bells of St. Martin’s. You must find it dismal, descending into the earth.”
She smiled a tight smile. She’d heard and read plenty of commentaries, older men—artists and critics—harkening back to the glory of yesteryear. High-spirited boys under the dome, before the invasion of the pinafores.
“It’s all I’ve known,” she said. “I can’t complain.”
“You appreciate what you have.” Mr. Yardley nodded. “It’s to be commended. You are to be commended. You’ve worked hard. I recognize ambition and I respect it. I was ambitious, as a young architect. But, like you, I lacked certain advantages. My fellow students were designing interiors for the country homes of their family friends. My father couldn’t provide such connections. He was in the timber trade. He did business in Shoreditch, actually.”
He gave a one-armed shrug. “I didn’t want to design warehouses, but I had to establish myself somehow. Perhaps I ruined myself, from the artistic standpoint. After a while, the odor of commerce clings to everything you touch.”
He was still stung by her comments about Weston Hall. The coach began a wide turn. She allowed its motion to act upon her, sliding closer to the window. She edged aside the shade, praying for an inspiration, a rush of ameliorating words carried in with the breeze. She watched a hansom cab speed past, not Gwen’s. It was bright red, the driver young and dapper.
“You must be wondering why I’ve sought you out.”
She turned her head. He looked serious. Even so, the lines fanned out from his eyes, signs of good humor. His physiognomy suggested pleasantness. Why did he make her skin crawl?
“I am responsible for His Grace,” he said. “I made a promise to his father.”
Responsible?
“His Grace isn’t a child.” As soon as she spoke the words, she wanted to retract them. Mr. Yardley drew his long upper lip down over his teeth, an exaggerated frown.
“He is a danger, Miss Coover, to himself and to others. I am tasked with protecting him from his worst self. You know, I presume, that he was not the heir. Have you heard what became of his older brother?”
She cleared her throat. “He drowned, I believe.”
Mr. Yardley smiled a thin, sad smile.
“Drink was a devil for him, as it is for His Grace.”
She shifted on her seat. It was remarkably comfortable. Gwen would have discovered by now that the seats of hansom cabs might as well be stuffed with rocks.
She couldn’t relax into the soft leather. Her body was rigid.
“You will not feel insulted, I hope, if I say I do not trust that His Grace has employed you as his painting teacher for the right reasons.” Mr. Yardley uncrossed his legs. He was so tall their knees might have brushed if she didn’t angle her legs to the side.
“You should not trust it either. I say this for your sake, as a father. I understand you don’t have a father of your own. The outcome I predict from these lessons, should they continue, is . . . how to put it? Not a picture of a horse.”
Blood roared in Lucy’s ears. The lids of Mr. Yardley’s kindly blue eyes drooped slightly at the corners.
“I’ve upset you,” he murmured. “But it couldn’t be helped.” He rapped his knuckles against the bench. Once, twice.
“I have a proposal,” he said, leaning forward. “We can help each other. You were served with a thirteen-week notice of eviction. I can see to it that you are rehoused within the month.”
She pressed her back harder into the seat behind her. What about the Cantrells? The Stavelys? The Pritchards?
“Thank you, but there’s nothing wrong with the building. That’s the rub.” It came out saucier than she intended. Oh well. She leveled her gaze at him. “It’s not rehousing I want. I mean to stay where I am, all of us do. Once Lord Mabeldon is made aware of the irregularity—”
She broke off. His expression of concern made her stomach lurch. She realized she was twisting her hair and locked her hands together, forcing them down onto her lap.
“His Grace told you he would intercede with Mabeldon?” Mr. Yardley’s concern was for her. Mortification turned her to stone. The coach bumped over broken pavement, but she sat scarcely breathing, immovable.
Mr. Yardley sighed. “Perhaps he meant it. But he won’t follow through. And even if he did, he’s a pup. Lord Mabeldon won’t heed his yapping.”
His confidence devastated. Tears pricked her eyes. But she held them back.
“The buildings were condemned without inspection. Lord Mabeldon must listen. Someone is lying.”
“If that’s so, the board will discover it. But I will be the one to talk to Mabeldon. His Grace doesn’t understand the first thing about government. There’s a procedure with these kinds of charges. A special committee must be formed to investigate.”
He crossed his legs again. His suit was well cut. He was the bulky sort of man who ran to fat in later years. If he visited a less capable tailor, he might look portly.
“My offer to rehouse you stands,” he said. “Should the committee’s findings support the eviction.”
“They won’t!”
He blinked at her vehemence, then nodded.
“Of course not,” he said smoothly. “So, that’s all settled. Now, you ask, how can you help me? It’s simple—by helping His Grace.”
She was riveted despite herself.
“His Grace does not control his fortune. I control it.” Mr. Yardley brushed the lapel of his jacket absently as he spoke, as though minimizing his importance.
Don’t mind me. I simply control one of the largest fortunes in England.
“Before he died, his father came to the painful conclusion that full inheritance would lead to disaster, for Anthony, for the family, the dukedom. This may sound extreme, Miss Coover, but it is not. We had to sell a small island in Scotland to settle the debts of the first son.”
This we rang strangely in her ear. How intertwined had they been, Weston’s father and Yardley?
“George’s death outweighed all the debts, of course. Weston the elder couldn’t survive the loss of one son and his only daughter. It was too much for him.”
“But Lady Euphemia is alive.”
Mr. Yardley raised a pale brow. “His Grace told you that? She may be, but she may not be. She is—was—a girl bent on self-destruction. Perhaps you know that their mother died by her own hand? Such things are terrible legacies.”
She averted her face, looking out the window at the traffic, horse and pedestrian, the low brick houses. She could hop out and walk.
“I make the financial decisions. I run the household in London. I run the estates. Relieved of these responsibilities, His Grace might be attending to his moral character and learning the parliamentary process, as his father intended. Unfortunately, he is not. He could, if he followed the rules imposed upon him by the will, inherit at thirty.”
Lucy turned back. Mr. Yardley raked a hand through his thick hair, gingery white. She smiled crookedly.
“But he won’t inherit,” she said, watching Mr. Yardley’s face. “Or has he followed the rules?”
“An interesting question.” He rapped again on the bench with his knuckles. “The short answer is no. But the solicitors need more to go on if we’re to avoid a legal contest. And that is where you may be of help.”
“Oh?” She leaned back into her seat. Perhaps she would hop out. The coach was slowing in heavy traffic.
“No alcohol, not a drop. His Grace’s father was clear on that point. I have reason to believe His Grace has flouted that rule on any number of occasions. If not daily.”
Her heart began to hammer. “What reason is that?”
“I know His Grace. I’ve known him since he was a boy.”
She couldn’t help herself. “Then you know drink was never a devil for him, before all of this.” She waved her hand vaguely. What was this? Family tragedy, the burden of unexpected responsibility. “He was in the army,” she continued. “He fought in the war. He had that discipline.”
Heaven help her. Next thing she knew she’d be talking about his bloody heroism. Thank God Kate couldn’t hear it.
“Discipline? He’s lucky he wasn’t executed.” Mr. Yardley’s eyes bored through her. “He was jailed for drink in Afghanistan. Did he tell you that? He stole liquor from the brigadier general on the retreat from Maiwand and collapsed. They left him like a dog in the road, but he managed to crawl to Kandahar. If his father hadn’t humbled himself before Her Majesty, the court-martial would have returned a different verdict.”
Court-martial.
She was silent. She could feel her face flaming. Why had she tried to believe him when all the evidence was stacked against him? He was a drunkard, and he was a liar. The innocent, worshipful little brother. Her lips curled.
“That story is not whispered in London, because I did everything in my power to suppress it. His Grace doesn’t thank me for my help. In fact, he thwarts my efforts at every opportunity. His first order of business when he returned was to visit the very brothel best loved by his brother. He assaulted a man on the steps. Did you see that column? I assure you his father did. He had to pay the damages. Then there was the window at All Saints.”
Mr. Yardley’s smile twisted.
“The will forbids scandal. One article in the gossip column recording another such incident, public drunkenness, a brawl, and I can delay His Grace’s inheriting to prolong his life. He needs a heavy yoke.”
The coach was pulling to the right, stopping alongside the curb on Charlotte Road.
“When he bankrupts the estates, he’s not the only one who will suffer. There are tenants, Miss Coover. Farms. Schools.”
She put out her hand and watched her fingers close around the door handle. She took a deep breath.
“You want me to set him up.”
Mr. Yardley considered gravely, as though it were a question. “I don’t want more publicity. I don’t want the Weston name selling papers. But I want his behavior witnessed, by men who can testify to what they see. If he is capable of behaving with sober dependability, then, of course, he should govern himself and discharge his responsibilities. But if he isn’t . . .”
He wasn’t. She knew he wasn’t. Why did she feel as though she were betraying him? Her betrayal was immaterial.
Weston betrayed himself.
I seem to care. That’s what he’d said. He did care, she felt certain. It wasn’t an act, his kindness, his easy warmth. But she knew what it was like to put her faith in a kind, warm man who cared, then disappeared into a bottle.
“This special committee,” she said, trying to smooth the quaver in her voice. “The special committee to investigate the evictions, you will see that it’s appointed.”
“I will.” Mr. Yardley sat up straighter. He was looking at her expectantly. She nodded. Here was another agreement, less friendly, more likely to bear fruit. Odd that she felt something withering inside her. She spoke in a voice she didn’t recognize.
“Send your witnesses to look for him tomorrow night.”
She knew how to ensure that Weston met her in public where temptation abounded. All she had to do was pick the theater and name the time.
“Ten o’clock,” she said. “The Albion Theatre.”