Page 58 of The Duke Undone

“I worshipped him. When I was a child, I thought he was a god. It was a time during which my mother was . . . much discussed. I fought some boy—or several—every day, and George protected me. Eventually, he wearied of the role. He wearied of everything, really. No one can save anyone, so why have a care? That was his creed, in a nutshell.”

He folded the rest of the bread into his mouth. It made no sense, how beautiful he could look chewing.

“But not yours.” She took the plate and cut him a second slice of bread. He accepted the plate, balanced it on his knee.

“I seem to care,” he said. “For all the good it does. Or the harm.”

He ate the second slice of bread wolfishly and rose, setting the plate on the table and brushing crumbs from his jacket.

“I was hungry,” he said. “Thank you. I am restored.”

Doubtful. But they couldn’t wait until dark. She sighed.

“Whether you are or not, we should get started. Inspectors cite all sorts of violations to revoke a lease. None of them pertain here. Let’s see. Weak rafters and walls, open privies, bad house drains, vermin, overcrowding . . .”

He cleared his throat.

“I’m impressed this house stands up as well as it does. I’ve been in country homes where the plaster pulls away from the lath and you’re in danger of getting crushed in your bed.”

She edged around him, her skirts brushing his thigh as she passed. The room was cramped but nowhere near collapse. She touched the wall between the cabinets, looking up at the corner of the ceiling speculatively.

“A few years ago, the damp got into that corner and made it bubble, but I replaced that section. It’s been fine since.”

“You . . . plastered the wall?”

She scowled. Perhaps he was restored—to his former idiocy.

“A friend—a sculptor—gave me some plaster. It’s not very hard to remove a section of wall and replace it, if it’s a small section. It’s far easier than sculpting a bust.”

“Is it?” he murmured. She heard his footfall and turned, nearly bumping him. He glanced up at the smooth plaster. “I hope he didn’t feel it a waste of his talents.”

“A waste of whose talents?”

“The talents of the obliging sculptor,” he grated. “Your friend.”

“Oh.” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Here was a development. Was he jealous? Of Nelly Knotwood?

“I only asked for the plaster. I didn’t require her assistance.”

He rubbed his thumb roughly against his brow.

“Her,” he said. She pressed her lips together. No need to sour the somewhat delicate mood with a lecture on women in the arts. He could work through his surprise on his own.

“Are these yours?” he asked suddenly, pointing lower down on the wall where two framed drawings hung on nails between pinned-up illustrations cut from the papers.

“That one is,” she said, indicating the portrait. “I did it years ago. I drew Aunt Marian so much she said I had to go to the Royal Academy just for a change of heads.”

“She’s almost smiling,” he said.

Lucy rolled her eyes. “She smiles. Try arriving on time and remaining conscious.”

He ignored this and nodded at the lower picture.

“So, the other one, who did that?”

“My mother.” The drawing was of a curly-headed child skipping forward to stomp in a puddle. The storefront was in the background. A sweet illustration, worthy of a calendar or a book of children’s verse.

That day, when the sun had come out and shone so bright after the clouds blew over, and she’d played in the street with her mother and her father and Aunt Marian looking on—she remembered it as the last day they’d all been together. It couldn’t have been. Her mother had lived for several more years. But her father was increasingly absent, if not out at a bar, withdrawn into a corner, present in the flesh but otherwise absent, doing little more than lifting a glass, while her mother’s fingers flew. Drawing, carving, cooking, mending.