Page 70 of Seductive Reprise
Now it was Ruth’s turn to scoff. “What is there to think about? He’s obviously handsome—you’ve got that starry-eyed look, sure enough. And wealthy.”
“I didn’t say that,” Rose grumbled. “Besides, what about my painting, my art?”
“Hmm.” Ruth thought for a moment before sympathizing. “Doesn’t matter if he’s a real brick, no husband wants his wife faffing about with those arty folk.”
“Among other things.” Rose blew out a sigh. She felt a slight guilt for agreeing, as she knew Yusef would never do something as horrid as forbid her from her passion. Heavens, he had an entire wall of her work, he admired it so. But it wasn’t the matterof painting, of being an artist. It was whether or not she felt she deserved to succeed with the help of her potential new social class and connections to wealth and power. By something other than her own hard work and talent.
She did not wish to explain that to Ruth, so she sat quietly, mulling it over.
When Ruth offered her a mug of tea, she accepted it gratefully.
“By the by, you’ve another one of these,” Ruth said, picking up a letter from the mantel. She handed it off to Rose before sitting across from her, smirking over her own mug.
Rose stared at the earl’s handwriting, bewildered.
“Two letters in a matter of days. My.” Ruth took a delicate sip of tea. “This proposal wouldn’t have come from him, would it?”
“Ugh,” Rose winced in disgust, her confusion forgotten. “Absolutely not.” But if she wasn’t going to detail every nuance of her and Yusef’s complicated relationship, she certainly wasn’t going to try to explain that she was actually the daughter of an earl. She set her mug on the floor near her feet, ignoring Ruth’s tut of disapproval. For she was worried now. Tearing open the envelope, she quickly scanned the single sheet of paper within. Ipsley’s missive was brief and to the point. She read it again, then dropped it into her lap.
“Ruth? I think I might go home for a time.” Rose looked out the window, but it only reflected the two of them in the dark.
“Home? You mean, leave London?”
“Yes.” Rose stood, the earl’s letter still in her hand. “I need to see my father.”
Fathers, she silently corrected herself.
She wondered if she might be able to make it to the Hartleys’ house just now. It would feel better to have the painting delivered before she took off for home and they left London for the countryside as well. The hour was late—nearly supper time—but if she just popped by and left the painting with the butler,perhaps she needn’t be too intrusive. Yes, that would be the thing to do, she decided, settling the matter in her mind.
And as for her answer to Yusef? How long could she outrun his question, his pleas for clemency? How long could she avoid his eyes, his adoration? Her fingers fidgeted at the edge of the earl’s fine letter paper.
Could she find the wisdom to make the right decision? And for that matter, could he?
Rose realized she’d been holding her breath, and she exhaled long and slow, closing her eyes. She had no idea.
He’d spent the better part of the morning working, something he’d neglected for far too long. Reading reports, writing letters, and making sure his business in Smyrna was good and settled. For now that he’d shown his hand to Rose, there was naught left to do but wait.
He hated it.
A knock at the door to his study announced the arrival of Bartle and Collins. He called out his assent, and they entered.
“Well?” he asked without looking up from the article he was reading, a droll account of the modernization of commercial art firms. “Any news?”
It’d been bad form, he knew, but he couldn’t bear it any longer. He’d posted the pair of bruisers, his two most capable foot soldiers, outside Rose’s dodgy tenement in Lambeth the moment she’d left his home yesterday. Still untethered to him.
Yusef turned a page, and after a moment he realized neither Bartle nor Collins had moved to speak.
He looked up, slowly setting the article down atop his desk. Suddenly the mood in the room became tense as Collins worried his hat in his hands.
“What is it?” Yusef asked sharply.
“Begging your pardon, sir. I know you instructed us to follow her, but we had to move along. There’s a bloke at the cabstand there, he was acting peery. I decided to decamp, not Bartle.”
Yusef waited.
“When we caught sight of her, she was handing off a letter to a boy,” Collins continued in his soft brogue.
Bartle reached into his jacket pocket, extracting what Yusef presumed to be the letter in question. He held out his hand, and Bartle passed it to him.
