Page 103

Frances came shuffling in, looking a little nervous. She smiled faintly at Emily, eyeing Octavia nervously.

“I’m sorry for coming over without prior notice,” she murmured. “But it’s… Well, it’s rather urgent.”

Emily rose to her feet, glancing over at her mother.

Octavia hadfinallyput down her embroidery, and was now eyeing Frances curiously.

“Well, sit down, my dear. I shall order tea,” she responded, smiling encouragingly.

Frances drew in a breath. “I… There is no time. Emily, please, you must go home. Cassian is acting strangely, and I… I think you ought to speak to him. He’s quite desperate.”

Emily frowned, folding her arms. “Well, perhaps I don’t wish to.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Emily,” Octavia sighed. “Surely you do not mean to be morestubborn than Daphne?”

Emily flushed. “Of course not! I was only saying… Oh, I will go home, then.”

Octavia smiled, pleased. “Excellent. Well, while you prepare yourself to go out, Miss Rawdon and I will sit down and have some tea. How does that sound, Miss Rawdon?”

Frances smiled shyly. “I should like that very much, My Lady.”

“Oh, you must call meOctavia.”

Feeling slightly piqued, anxiety squeezing her chest, Emily hurried out of the room, leaving the two of them talking as companionably as if they really were mother and daughter.

* * *

Where is everybody?

Emily peered up and down the empty corridors, frowning. Aside from the footman who’d let her in, there seemed to be no servants around.

A cough from behind her made her jump, and she turned to see Reeves standing before her.

“I believe His Grace is in the Art Room,” he said gently.

Emily swallowed hard. “I see. Thank you.”

He bowed, melting away, leaving her alone once more.

She stood still, frowning, picking at her cuffs and trying to work out exactly what she wanted.

Why have I come here? Why should I care about him? He hurtme.

Sighing, she closed her eyes.

Unfortunately for me, I am in love with the wretch. Oh, well done, Emily. And everybody thought that youwere the clever one.

Opening her eyes, she set off a brisk pace towards the Art Room.

As she approached, she noticed that the door was ajar, and sounds of movement came from inside. Slowing down, she frowned, pushing open the door a little and peering through.

Inside, stripped down to his trousers and shirtsleeves, Cassian toiled at a huge canvas, nearly as tall as he was. It sat lopsided on the easel, streaked with smears of color and roughly sketched shapes. A rough, paint-daubed blanket was laid out beneath him in an effort to catch any paint drips.

As she watched, he swore under his breath, wiping away sweat from his brow. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and his forearms were splattered with paint. He picked up a brush, swirling it in an already murky pot of water to clean it, and began to painstakingly draw a long brown line on the canvas.

“What are you doing?”

He flinched, his hand skidding across the canvas, leaving a sharp line of color behind it. Spinning around, he stared at her.