Page 99 of The Runaway Duchess

“What can you do well?” It wasn’t a challenge. Lucy was looking at her with curiosity. Convinced that Lavinia had an answer. That she had something to say for herself.

And she did. Didn’t she?

“I can write,” she said, surprising them both. She laughed. But it was true, and not so very ridiculous to claim when speaking to a woman artist.

“I can paint pictures with words,” she said, chin lifted, a touch of defiance to preempt any disparagement.

Lucy wasn’t in the least disparaging. She was delighted.

“You could become a columnist!” She leaned forward. “For The Queen. Make a name for yourself as an authority on fashion, on theatrical dress. You could interview Aunt Marian.”

Lavinia blinked at this remarkable idea. She did know plenty about fashion. And Lucy’s aunt had worked in the theater as a costume designer and dressmaker with some of her favorite actresses.

“I’d enjoy that, I think,” she said slowly. But Lucy wasn’t suggesting she write as a lark. “You mean, as a career.”

“Author.” Lucy raised her hands, as though framing the word. “You’d have an income, not much of one, in all honesty. But your lifestyle otherwise would be much improved. You’d do your writing in the Reading Room at the British Museum and meet the most interesting people. You’d go to fewer balls, but you’d join the Literary Ladies dining club.”

Lavinia felt her heart accelerate. Lucy’s bright, freckled face struck her suddenly as otherworldly in its beauty, a beacon of hope.

“I was thinking novels, more so than columns . . .”

“Even better! Do both. Columns and novels. Become a literary sensation. It’s just the thing.” Lucy scrambled to her feet. “All sorted, then.” Grinning, she spun on her heel. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to sort out this portrait.”

Lavinia watched as she began to fiddle over a marble-topped table, opening boxes and lining up jars. Blood was humming in her ears. The caustic scent and the relentless hot light contributed to her giddiness.

She licked her lips. “How do I start?”

“Write!” Lucy glanced over, punctuating the sentence with a flourish of a funny flat little knife. “Write every day. Write a novel.”

“Done.” Lavinia rose like a shot. Swayed for a moment as the world darkened. She balled her hands into fists. The world returned, brick, steel, glass. Beyond the glasshouse walls, green grass, pink and yellow tulips.

“I have a novel.” Or, part one, at any rate. On the last page, the pirate—his ship captured by agents of the tyrannical duke—lay in a dungeon foul, while the duchess schemed to save him from the gallows.

The tyrannical duke was patently recognizable.

As was the duchess.

“Excellent.” Lucy smeared white into the purple on her palette, returning her attention to her easel. “Next, you publish it.”

Lavinia swallowed. Scandal wouldn’t begin to compass the effect. She was already a scandal.

She would become a sensation. Notoriety sold books. What did she have to lose?

She needed to make a clean copy of her novel. She needed to present that copy to a publisher.

She could see the way forward, see it as though this sparkling air endowed her with extra powers of perception.

She herself hadn’t the faintest notion of the literary profession and its workings. She knew the name of a man who did, though.

And he happened to be an art critic.

“Lucy.” Given that the question she was about to ask felt fated, her voice emerged with surprising steadiness. “Have you heard of Alan De’Ath?”

Chapter Eighteen

Walking abroad wasn’t wise, not for a runaway wife. But opportunity didn’t wait on wisdom. It had been five days since Lavinia’s conversation with Lucy in the glasshouse, three since Alan De’Ath’s visit to Weston Hall, two since Anthony’s disastrous chat with Cranbrook.

In that time, a few things had become clear.