Page 96 of The Runaway Duchess

“Fie on that! Not a moment to lose.” Muriel fell into step with Alan, flashing a great grin at Neal over her shoulder. “Good luck with the Borneo shipment. More pitcher plants? Wonderful!”

The look Alan tossed over his shoulder was decidedly more quizzical.

After they disappeared, Neal stood stock-still in the shadow of Umfreville House.

Caught between Pendrakes.

Maybe Bidmead would do better with the scenario than he had. He couldn’t do worse.

Christ, Neal had butchered things.

Finally, he shook himself and struck off, cutting across Hyde Park toward Varnham Nurseries, alone.

Chapter Seventeen

The air sparkled. When Lavinia shut her eyes, colorful starbursts patterned the darkness behind her lids. The glasshouse smelled of turpentine and varnish, not flowers and fruit. Instead of plants, paintings abounded, stacked against the walls and mounted on easels.

But the light—the light was the same.

She walked a slow circle.

“What do you think of the portrait?” Lucy’s voice made her start. She’d forgotten about Lucy. Also forgotten: the fuss she’d kicked up so Lucy would bring her out here in the first place.

She’d ambushed Lucy that morning in the breakfast room.

Your aunt raved to me about your latest picture. I won’t rest until I see it! I’ve been starving for art. Starving!

“Oh.” She tried to blink away the blue and red spots, focusing on a canvas at random. “Is that one it? Simply wonderful.”

“Why did you want to come here?” Lucy watched her with a disconcerting intensity, her eyes glinting gold in the torrent of sun. “I had a feeling it wasn’t to admire Mouser at Rest.”

She gestured to a small picture on the easel in the center of the room. Lavinia squinted, then wrinkled her nose. Even unfinished, the painting unmistakably depicted Lucy’s unappealing cat. She’d captured his all-too-human expression. He looked like an odd old man with fur.

Lucy caught her distaste and laughed. “It won’t please the public either. Aunt Marian is partial, to me and to Mr. Malkin.”

“The public is partial to Anthony in the buff,” muttered Lavinia, glancing about at the other canvases on display. City scenes. But what of the dozen turned to the wall?

“May I?” She walked over and reached for one.

It was of Anthony. Far from nude. He sat, in trousers and morning coat, on a green sofa in a black-and-gold room crowded with cabinets and curios. He sat with a black-haired young woman who drooped over the sofa’s arm.

Effie.

Suddenly, Lucy was beside her, lifting the picture away. Lavinia’s cheeks burned. She’d been too forward, exposing the picture without waiting for permission. But Lucy didn’t turn it back to the wall. She set it on an empty easel and stepped back, hands on her hips. She didn’t look angry. Or rather, she did. She wore a terrible frown. But Lavinia had come to realize that this was just her face, most of the time. It meant she was thinking.

Would she speak?

Lavinia waited, boiling with questions, about the picture, about the broken look in Effie’s eyes.

Effie had gone—abruptly, so far as Lavinia had surmised—to America. The subject had closed as soon as it opened.

Off-limits. Many subjects were off-limits at Weston Hall.

After that first night, Lavinia and Anthony had tiptoed around each other. They talked about Cranbrook—how best to approach him—but they didn’t talk about George. Or Lavinia’s father. A tacit agreement kept them quiet in those moments when conversation could only bring pain, exacerbate divided loyalties.

All week, quietness had predominated.

Finally, Lucy turned from the easel, a deep line between her brows.