Page 18 of The Duke Undone

Miss Newcombe continued her arm’s arc, lifting her hand to brush the shining curves of her hair, as though this had always been her intention.

“Mr. Barrett?” Miss Pickering sensed an opening. “He won’t be a moment.”

“Not Mr. Barrett.” He kept his tone neutral. “Mr. Coover.”

Miss Newcombe and Miss Pickering exchanged a look, united in puzzlement. Miss Newcombe shook her head.

“There’s no Mr. Coover. Alas.” She sounded a regretful note.

“There’s Miss Coover,” Miss Pickering chimed in. “Could you mean Miss Coover?”

“Miss Coover is not a Visitor,” said Miss Newcombe tartly, “so she does not signify.”

Anthony focused on Miss Pickering, who blushed deeply and let her eyes drop.

“And who is Miss Coover?” he asked.

“She’s a classmate of ours,” said Miss Pickering. Now that she held his attention, she faltered, cutting her eyes to Miss Newcombe, soliciting her help. Miss Newcombe was looking daggers. “She doesn’t signify,” Miss Pickering added hopefully.

“Her father, Mr. Coover.” Anthony felt frustratingly slow. He could see pieces now, but not the grand design. “He is also an artist?”

“She has no parents,” said Miss Pickering. “Poor Lucy.” She glanced back at Miss Newcombe with apology.

The pieces were rearranging themselves.

No Mr. Coover at all. Lucy Coover. L. Coover. Miss Lucy.

A figure appeared between the two women. A thin, long-nosed man, all in black. He’d come swiftly and silently down the hall. He looked like the Day of Judgment.

“What is the meaning of this?” His spectacles magnified his disapproval. He blinked rapidly.

“Mr. Barrett!” Miss Newcombe spun around, flushing crimson. “Thank goodness you’re here. Now we can get back to our easels. Which of course we were about to do regardless. Well.”

Her smile was painfully bright. “Mr. Barrett, the Duke of Weston. Your Grace, Mr. Barrett.”

She fluttered her lashes at Anthony. “We told you he’d be but a moment. So very nice to see you. I do hope we meet again soon.”

With palpable reluctance, she turned toward the door. Miss Pickering hesitated.

“Perhaps you would like to see our portraits?”

“He might like to very much,” said Mr. Barrett, folding his arms. “However, he will not. I, on the other hand, will be around to inspect them presently.”

At this both girls took to their heels.

Now it was Anthony who bore the brunt of Mr. Barrett’s scrutiny. He glanced over the man’s narrow shoulder down the long hallway.

Miss Lucy—Miss Lucy Coover—must have turned right at the canteen. She’d taken the stairs, then, to the library or the statue gallery. Unless there was another exit, one he hadn’t seen when he’d wandered the rooms of the second floor, she was still up there.

He would find her.

“You wanted to speak with me?”

With a start, Anthony met the Visitor’s gaze. It was altogether too keen for his liking.

“I had a question,” he said. Damned if he didn’t feel like a schoolboy, caught out in some mischief. His throat tightened. He searched for something probable.

“What do you consider the best way to begin a painting?” As he spoke, his forehead prickled. He’d sweated often as a schoolboy, waiting for the switch.