Page 82 of Seductive Reprise
He was so chuffed, speaking of her talent, that it felt cruel to dash his hopes. But she did not want him entertaining falsehoods, so she told him the truth, forcing the words out as quickly as she could, lest he ask questions. “Actually, I’m no longer employed in Mr. Jurgens’ studio.”
“Really? Striking it out on your own?” The flicker of optimism in his eyes baffled her. Of course, as an earl he’d known nothing but opportunity. It was only natural he assumed the same for her.
She offered a wan smile, realizing she didn’t quite know what would come next for her. She’d lost her portrait of Walter, but Mr. Hartley’s doctor friend had already expressed his interest in sitting for a small piece.
And just yesterday she’d received a letter from a Florence Clewer, begging her to decamp to her estate, Gayton, to begin a full-length portrait. Some acquaintance of the Hartleys, Rose assumed. She had been reasoning out how to go about it, as she certainly couldn’t lug an eight-foot portrait across England on her own. She’d have to do the smaller bits separately, then sew them back onto the larger canvas.
When she’d begun to paint professionally, she’d only been concerned with paying her rent and filling her belly. Sparing a coin for the coal hopper. And now? She swallowed. Now all of those things could be taken care of. If she so chose, she need not paint another portrait again. Especially not of a dog. She could paint…
Anything.
Suddenly her heart was in her throat, her mind filled with visions of Yusef.
Rose lifted her teacup to her lips, frowning at the gorgeously brewed liquid within. “Something like that,” she said, finally answering the earl’s question, and took another sip. She’d been holding her own, a respected guest in the big house that had cast an even larger shadow over her small life in The Bit and Bridle than she’d ever realized. Even so, she was his daughter, and if she were to shed her boots and flit about the mansion in stockinged feet, yodeling like a madwoman, he’d undoubtedly tolerate it, albeit with a strained smile.
She thought once more of the offer of a massive commission from this Mrs. Clewer. She had just given the earl permission to support her with an allowance, an idea with which she still struggled. Perhaps if she were to continue earning her own living on top of it, it would soften the blow to her conscience. And perhaps a week spent working with a well-off family would help her prepare for her future life amid their ranks.
She carefully set her teacup down, managing to do so without her usual jarring clinking noise. Then she looked up at the earl and offered a hopeful smile.
“Palgrave,” Florence said, striding into the sitting room as if she’d only entered to fetch some left-behind object, and not because her bastard half-brother had turned up on her doorstepto pay a social call. “Fancy seeing you today. Or ever, in fact.” She stopped at a small desk tucked below one of the windows, yanking a drawer open. Apparently whatever she sought was not within, and she slammed it shut.
Yusef stood, rooted to his spot before the mantelpiece, listening to the drawer’s contents rattle about. Better to just take it on the chin; allow her the snit and let her get it all out now. The sooner she did, the sooner he could work at persuading her to go along with his scheme.
She opened the second and third drawers in much the same manner, before reaching into the fourth and extracting a small oval box done in chased gold. She closed the drawer gently now, turning to pin him with a hard look.
Yusef waited.
Florence finally gave up, the defiance leaving her as she sighed. “Was it Davey’s thoughtless appeal toneighborlinessthat brought you here?” She opened the box, holding the lid and the base elegantly in one hand as she extracted a small lozenge with the other. Yusef’s attention sharpened, but the box was obviously not the tin of the lozenge manufacturer; rather, a fine piece decorated in elegant black gilt and seed pearls, betraying no information about its contents.
“Have a cough?”
“No.” Without offering further explanation, or even the common courtesy of looking his way, she popped the lozenge into her mouth, then returned the paraphernalia to the desk drawer.
He tapped one finger against the head of his walking stick, weighing whether or not to pursue the subject. There were myriad preparations of opium, he knew better than any other. But besides the syrups used in lieu of a nursemaid for poor infants, the most insidious were the morphine-laced “wholesome sweetcakes” shopkeepers handed out to children.The ones that looked suspiciously like what Florence had just put in her mouth.
He narrowed his eyes, deciding to inquire after his insipid brother-in-law instead. “And how is Sir David, then?”
That got Florence to look at him, a flicker of anger passing across her face for a brief moment. The indifferent hauteur that replaced it was well known to Yusef. All was not well, but Florence would sooner die than confide in him.
She waved off the question, pastille still in her mouth. Clearly she did not expect this conversation to last for long.
Yusef considered this, along with what he’d been able to glean from the home. That, paired with the blessedly little he already knew of her vulgar husband, brought forth a trickle of sympathy, and gave him pause. He and Florence had never gotten along, always jockeying for the upper hand, with Florence wielding her legitimacy as fiendishly as a concealed stiletto. He did not know what to make of her situation, but he knew that their mutual dislike would not dissipate with one cordial exchange.
Instead he decided to press his advantage while her silence was assured; to erode her standoffishness until he could extract an agreement. Rickard’s plan would not work without her assent.
He gestured to the couch alongside him. “Should we not sit?”
Florence looked away, then back again, as if she’d meant to roll her eyes but changed her mind. She sat as far from him as possible, perching on the absolute edge of the cushion.
“It’s not far, but one does get tired, riding.” He made a show of settling into his seat, unable to shakeallpettiness. Old habits. “I’ve a fancy to spend Easter at Flixton, as His Grace suggested,” he began brusquely. “We’ll have a merry time. I intend to accept the invitation when I see him next.”
At that Florence stared at him, suspicion in her eyes. Yusef noticed her jaw begin working the pastille with more vigor,making a dampened crunching noise. So she had something to say to that, did she?
“But that’s not it. Not all of it, at least. I’d like to mark the occasion. Something grand, I think. It’s been years since I celebrated a holiday with the family.” He performatively brought his hand to his chin. “A present. For our father. Only…” He raised a challenging eyebrow. “I wonder if you would go along?”
Florence swallowed. After a dainty cough, she spoke. “Go along with what? Speak plainly.”
“That is, if Sir David would allow it…”
