Page 40 of The Duke Undone

“I don’t think—” Yardley started forward. But he was too slow.

“Done!” With precise movements, Miss Coover had bent, lifted the hem of Lavinia’s skirt, and coaxed a single drop from the phial, which she rapidly tilted up and capped.

“Now.” She nodded curtly. “See for yourselves.”

Anthony and Yardley exchanged glances. As one, they knelt by the sofa.

“The arsenic in the dye is arsenite of copper,” said Miss Coover. “And ammonia turns blue in the presence of copper.”

“The mark is blue.” Anthony whistled through his teeth, sitting back on his heels. “Arsenic.”

Lavinia grabbed fistfuls of her skirt, as though to lift it away from her legs, then dropped the skirt and rubbed her hands on the cushion of the sofa.

“I feel faint,” she said, drooping. “I’m dying after all.”

“I’ll call the doctor.” Yardley’s face was full of concern as he stood. “You may have to postpone your trip to Paris.”

“Oh.” Lavinia straightened. “I don’t feel so very faint.”

“Even so,” said Yardley. “Let’s get you home at once.”

“She’ll survive, I think,” said Miss Coover, returning her phial to her bag. “But if I were you, Miss Yardley, I would bury that Worth gown in a hole. Stand up.”

Anthony backed away from the sofa, stifling a laugh at Lavinia’s bewildered expression. Even Effie hadn’t bossed her with such aplomb. Uncertainly, Lavinia stood.

“I could sew you a gown with the same silhouette, if you like this look, with the bodice and the skirt cut in one piece,” said Miss Coover, as her gaze swept Lavinia up and down. “But I’d choose blue silk. Less deadly, and more becoming with your eyes.”

She glanced at Anthony.

His eyes were green, like his mother’s and Effie’s, darker than the green silk but not by much. The color of poison. Was that what she was thinking?

“But . . . are you a dressmaker?” Lavinia asked.

“I’m a painter,” said Miss Coover briskly. “But I also work in my aunt’s dress shop. She’s the finest dressmaker in London, and you’ll be hard-pressed to find her equal in Paris. She designed all of Celestia Jordan’s gowns.”

“The Celestia Jordan? The actress?” Lavinia frowned. “Her gowns were divine, but, darling, Dodie Thistleship designed them.”

A storm cloud formed on Miss Coover’s brow.

“Dodie Thistleship,” she bit out. “The woman is a hack. And a thief.”

“Never!” gasped Lavinia.

“A ham sandwich has more talent.” The wet cat was back. Miss Coover had raised her shoulders, spitting mad.

Impatient, Yardley started for the door, and Anthony followed him.

“I don’t think she’s dying.” Anthony cast a look over his shoulder at Lavinia. Lavinia and Miss Coover were nose to nose. Some people would call what they were doing shouting.

“No.” Yardley turned to beckon. “Lavinia!” He sounded more weary than worried.

“I imagine she and Moira”—he named his wife—“will be off to the ferry tomorrow morning as planned. I’ll be off too, not nearly so far as Paris, just to Putney, but I’ll stay a few days. To oversee one of my ongoing projects.”

He looked at Anthony, then sighed and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “When I return, we’ll meet to discuss the estates, if that’s what you’d like. I’ll show you the annual reports. If you’re not satisfied, I’ll accompany you to Hampshire.”

Anthony managed a faint nod, but that worm of distrust still twisted inside him. He used to believe in Robert Yardley’s good intentions. Now he wasn’t so sure.

But, Christ, this life his father had devised for him bred distrust.