Page 16 of The Duke Undone

“Weston,” said her corpse. She yanked her fingers up as though burned. Maude’s excited voice purred again in her ear.

The. Duke. Of. Weston.

Not only a gentleman; a duke, and a wicked one at that. A notorious jackanapes. So rich that nothing was precious, not even human life.

The vilest specimen of a vile species.

She tried to step back, but he anticipated her movement, letting his hand drop over hers, pinning it.

“Your Grace,” she said. “The door is right this way.”

Maude was hunting for the man this very moment. She had to eject him from the premises.

As she turned them down the hall, he swung her lightly around in a half circle, steering the opposite course.

“I believe I passed the canteen earlier,” he said. “That’s where you’re soliciting donations for Mrs. Coover’s relief? Permit me to join you.”

He must have felt her flinch. The hallway, lined with casts of antique sculptures, stretched before them. She could see the canteen at the end of the hall. Never before had the sight filled her with dread. Her mind raced, trying to work out some solution. Some explanation she could provide to avert the impending disaster.

Nothing. She couldn’t think her way clear.

Think, she thought wildly, think. Only her wits would preserve her. No idea presented itself. Instead, the canteen doors banged opened and laughing students poured out.

Long break was over.

She almost sagged against him. But, no, she had to gather herself. This was the moment. She took advantage of his split-second distraction to slip her hand from his. Then she darted forward, plowing into the crowd of students who flowed on down the hall, obscuring her as she made her escape.

Chapter Three

Anthony watched the flash of purple silk as it was swallowed in a sea of white pinafores. A horde of lady artists was descending upon him. Men trailed behind them, some in fancy dress and others in shabby coats and floppy ties. Murmuring voices and the sounds of boots striking the dark flagstones rose to the vaulted ceiling. The students split off into classrooms, several sparing him curious glances.

Miss Lucy was nowhere to be seen.

He took a few steps forward, then stopped. No point in pursuing her. She either was a dramatic personality who delighted in fabrication or suffered some ailment of the brain. Even an addlepate could model, inertia being the sole requirement.

More students passed by. The hallway was emptying and he’d yet to see a man who looked old enough to shave. Clearly, the Visitors were not as punctual as their students.

He glanced into the nearest classroom. It was like a battlefield in plaster. Torsos without arms. Legs without torsos. Dozens of heads. The students were settling into their places. A few were shrugging out of their coats. He moved away from the door before his presence could be remarked.

He knew cursed little about art. Still, he could understand the appeal of painting Miss Lucy, and also why the canvases represented her so poorly. She didn’t look like any woman he’d ever seen in a painting, for one thing. Firstly, she was freckled. Her eyes weren’t round and limpid. They were narrow with watchfulness, the irises like sherry held to the light. Her hair didn’t flow across her shoulders or fold back in a neat wave. She piled it on her head, where the wild curls could have served as a nest for blackbirds. Everything about her face and figure was mobile, expressive. She had no perfect beauty to capture. But there was something about her that fascinated. Perhaps because it was so difficult to pin down.

He rocked on his heels, displeased with where his thoughts were heading. As he did so, he locked eyes with a maiden sitting demurely on her marble perch, one hand resting on her draped lap. She was bland and smooth and ideally proportioned. A young Greek girl. She was one of dozens of statues and plaster casts that lined the long hallway. His mother had loved such things. Marble and bronze figures depicting mythic heroes. Pottery vases. Antiquities of all kinds, selected from her father’s warehouses. Anything, really, as long as it was beautiful. Not only priceless objects, but fragile, fleeting things. She’d filled rooms with flowers that she cultivated.

The sound of a slamming door brought his head up. Stragglers. A few wild-haired young men in baggy trousers were just leaving the canteen. He recognized one of them, by family resemblance. All the Ponsonbys had that vivid, nearly crimson, red hair. The middle child, Cecil, had been a friend since boyhood. This would be the youngest. Thomas. His collar was none too clean. But his companions, they wore no collars. All of the youngsters—for they were scarcely out of their teens—looked as though they slept under open sky. Only their pale skin and expensive boots belied the raffish impression. Young men of property in the garb of paupers.

He let them pass without pressing them for information. Best not to approach queerly dressed denizens of these underground workshops. Besides, the sight of Thomas Ponsonby, last glimpsed in an Eton suit, now grown broad through the shoulders, and grown unfamiliar with starch and a good hard bar of soap, hit him like a blow. He’d missed that transformation, missed Cecil’s reaction to it, which he could well imagine: good-humored, overacted consternation. With two older sisters and two younger brothers, Cecil had always tried to provide the glue that held his siblings together, except he wouldn’t say glue. He’d say magnetic field, or horseshoe-shaped solenoid. Whenever Anthony and Cecil used to ride or row, dine or drink, they’d talked horses and sport, to be sure, but the rest had crept in. They’d divulged secret ambitions, childhood hurts.

That was why he’d been avoiding Cecil ever since he’d returned to London. They knew each other too well, and too much had happened during their years apart. There was too much he wanted to say but couldn’t. It would crack him.

Suddenly, he felt the urge to overtake Thomas. Tell your brother, tell Cecil, that . . .

What?

Nothing. It was easy enough to push Cecil out of his mind. He’d been doing it for months.

Stay put. Focus. Await Mr. Coover.

The trouble was . . . he was bad at waiting. Very bad indeed. He paced the short length of hall between classroom doors.