Page 12 of The Duke of Deceit

Not daring to answer that, Lucien lifted the glass to his lips and finished off his drink.

Chapter Four

“These look verygood,” Mr. Meade assured Jess as the printer looked through her most recent set of watercolor paintings of rare plants and flowers. “Exactly what Sir Percival had in mind, I’m certain.”

Pride warmed her chest, yet it was a bittersweet compliment. The pictures would never be noted as hers. Her name would never appear on them, and she wouldn’t receive any recognition in the book Sir Percival Demmings had commissioned to impress his fellows at the Royal Society. If any prints were made from her drawings, she wouldn’t receive any credit or pay for those, either. She wasn’t even allowed to sign them. The most she could do was secretly weave her initials into the greenery surrounding the flowers.Sheknew those initials proved her work, if no one else ever would.

“I’ll have the rest done soon,” she promised.

That is, she hoped she would. Creating the paintings and drawings wasn’t easy. It required hour-long carriage trips to the royal gardens at Kew, then hours of frantic drawing and painting while the light held, followed by an hour’s carriage ride home and even more touch-ups once she was back in the townhouse, which she, Amanda, and Aunt Matilda rented specifically because the tall, wide windows gave her a place to create her art. Her art was the only way she had of earning extramoney for herself. Auntie had an annual allowance from her late brother that kept them living comfortably, if a bit frugally, and she refused to let Jess use her money for any of the household expenses, which meant she had been able to save almost all the money she’d earned from her art. But Jess didn’t care about the money. She loved her art, and it brought her joy to capture the beauty of the flowers and the unique details of plants that most people would never have noticed.

Yet she yearned to be known as an artist in her own right, not someone who was little more than a secretary for gentlemen botanists.

Someday, she promised herself, she would be.

“Bring the rest by when they’re finished,” Mr. Meade commented a bit absently as he held up a pastel drawing of pink rhododendrons and studied it closely. He gave a faint grunt of approval. “Very good…very good indeed.”

She knew better than to ask, yet she couldn’t resist. “Good enough perhaps to someday have my own book of prints?”

Mr. Meade chuckled, as if he found the idea amusing. “The world isn’t ready for a lady artist.”

Jess bit her tongue even as the litany of names of accomplished women artists dashed through her head…Louise Elisabeth Vigée Le Brun, Rosalba Carriera, Mary Moser, Angelica Kauffmann, Artemisia Gentileschi, and most of all Maria Sibylla Merian, who was not only a painter and illustrator but also a biologist and explorer… But Jess had never been one for restraint and blurted out, “You’ll be sure to let me know when the world is ready, then, will you?”

Which only made him laugh harder.

She refused to let her shoulders slump and held her spine straight, despite the sting to her pride. Aunt Matilda was right, she supposed, that she should be grateful to have her illustrations in print at all. Still, the unfairness of the worldgrated, especially when she was just as good an artist—if not better—than most male illustrators.

But that fight would have to wait for another time. She had more pressing matters at hand.

“And the other?” she asked.

“Hmm? Oh! Yes.” Mr. Meade set down the drawing on his large printer’s desk and opened the center drawer to fish out a handful of banknotes. He counted out what she was owed, then closed and locked the drawer. He slid the notes across the desk to her. “You’ve certainly earned it. I’ve no doubt Sir Percival would agree.”

She picked up the banknotes and tucked them safely inside her reticule. She hadn’t meant the money, so she corrected as casually as possible, “Were any letters delivered for me?” She smiled almost apologetically as she fastened up her leather portfolio to leave. “You said I could have messages sent here while I’m working on the book.”

The two things weren’t related at all, but she didn’t dare let Mr. Meade know that. If she were to communicate with the former Bow Street Runner she’d hired to investigate Lucien Grenier, she could only do it via letters, and she couldn’t risk that someone might find out what she was doing if the letters came to her home. Servants talked, after all—especiallythose servants hired only for the season—and she couldn’t afford even a whiff of scandal to be connected to Amanda until she was good and married.

“Of course.” He stepped around the desk to a set of shelves fashioned out of broken printer’s trays and removed a letter lying in the bottom hole. He held it out to her. “Here you are.”

As she took it, a quick glance told her it was the message she’d been waiting for and one that would cost her half the notes she’d just tucked into her reticule.

“Good day, Miss St Claire.” With a nod, Mr. Meade opened the door to his office. He escorted her through the print shop to the front door and the hired hackney waiting for her.

“Back to Mayfair please,” she called out to the jarvey as she stepped into the carriage and closed the door after herself.

Alone in the compartment as the creaking carriage rolled forward through the busy streets, she set her leather portfolio on the bench beside her and took out the letter. She cracked the seal and unfolded it, then held her breath as her eyes skimmed over the information.

Her hopes plummeted.

Jonas Stevenson, her hired investigator, had found nothing new about the Duke of Crewe that Jess could use to force him to marry Amanda. The only information he had found involved prostitutes, widows, gambling losses, and illegal fights in the rookeries of London—all what she had known about already. But he would be happy to keep looking if she wanted to extend her retainer.

“Yes, I think I will,” she muttered to herself.

After all, her plan was going remarkably well so far. All kinds of rumors were spreading about Crewe and creating confusion among thetonabout exactly how dark his character truly was. According to the gossip sheets Aunt Matilda loved to read, everyone looked at him differently now. Mamas who would have previously hidden their daughters behind their skirts the moment he walked into the building, as if his very presence would corrupt them, now gave him welcoming smiles and sent him invitations to their soirees. He’d been invited to join several Westminster committees by respectable members of Parliament who previously wouldn’t have given him the time of day, and several gentleman’s clubs who once would have refused his membership application were courting him to join. AcrossLondon, thebeau mondenow considered him just another reformed rake.

Jess should have been pleased. Not only was she hitting him where it hurt him most, but with every bit of his reputation she rehabilitated into respectability, she also helped Amanda by improving the standing of her future husband.

But Jess also knew the road ahead would be difficult for her sister, even under the best of circumstances, and that knowledge ate at her more than she wanted to admit. Even turning the Duke of Crewe into a canonized saint wouldn’t eliminate that completely.