Page 55

In addition to his sketches of Juliana, he’d drawn some of her mother—that’s if Burwood hadn’t changed his mind about commissioning Victor to paint portraits of the rest of the family.

It had dawned on him how much the two women looked alike, giving Victor an idea what Juliana would look like in her forties.

But more than Juliana’s pretty face, Victor knew his future bride would be a kind and thoughtful wife and mother, one her children would run to for comfort.

One who would encourage them to pursue their dreams.

And if the ton never accepted her, so be it. He never wanted a career in politics anyway. He closed his eyes and envisioned the life ahead of them.

Idyllic lazy days spent painting while Juliana worked with her horses. Their children gathered about them in the evenings. Their eyes would meet and the connection between them would sizzle with electricity.

Naturally, she would read the glint of seduction in his eyes, and after calling the nanny to mind the children, he would lead her to their bedchamber where they would?—

“Sir, beg pardon. This was just delivered, and it’s marked urgent.”

Victor’s eyes darted open, frustrated to have such a pleasant daydream interrupted at such a moment. He plucked the missive from the tray and glanced at the vaguely familiar handwriting. Flurries of tension built in his chest as he broke the unadorned seal and read.

Mr. Pratt ,

If you wish to discover the identity of the person behind The Muckraker , come to the back entrance of The Knave of Hearts at ten this evening. Be certain to come alone.

X

Victor’s gaze shot to Tierney. “Who delivered this?”

“A street urchin, sir. I sent him to Cook to be fed.”

Grabbing his pencil and a sketchpad, Victor bolted from his seat and headed for the door. “Good. Hopefully, he’s still there.”

In the small kitchen, the boy Tierney mentioned sat stuffing his dirty face with some bread, meat, and cheese. The lad gazed up, his cheeks puffed up like a squirrel’s pouch, and his eyes widened.

Not wishing to scare him off, Victor smiled and lifted the letter. “Thank you for delivering this. Can you tell me who gave it to you?”

With an audible gulp, the boy swallowed, and Victor hoped he wouldn’t choke himself. “A man. Said to keep it secret. Give me two shillings, ’e did.”

“Can you describe him?”

The boy shrugged his thin shoulders. His coat was worn and threadbare. Bony knees poked through the holes in his too-short breeches.

Compassion flooded Victor’s heart, and he took a seat next to the boy. “Did the man threaten you?”

The boy shoved another piece of cheese into his mouth as if someone would snatch it away, then shook his head and mumbled, “Nah.”

“Was he old or young?”

“Old.”

Now they were getting somewhere.

“Like you.” The boy grinned.

Unable to resist the chuckle, Victor said. “So, about my age, then? Not old and wrinkled with gray hair?”

The lad swallowed again. “Wha’ do ya want me to answer first?”

Right . “He was about as old as me?”

With a nod, the boy shoved the remaining piece of meat into his mouth.

“Was he dressed like me?” Victor waved a hand in front of his superfine coat, silk waistcoat, and—thanks to Tierney—his expertly tied neckcloth.

“Fancy-like, you mean? Nah.”

Not a gentleman, then. Pencil poised above his sketchpad, Victor asked, “What was the shape of his face? Round, square, oblong?”

“Wha’s oblong?”

Victor drew the shape on his paper. “Like this?”

Mouth full of bread, the boy pointed a dirty finger at the paper. “Yeah, tha’s it.”

“What about his eyes?”

“Kind of rheumy and squinty.”

“Good. Good.”

Victor continued to sketch, and with more prompting, had what the boy said was a good likeness of the man.

“Did the man who gave you the letter write it?”

“How’s I to know? He just give it to me and told me where to bring it.”

The excitement bubbling in Victor’s veins fizzled out like flat champagne. Of course, the perpetrator wouldn’t be careless enough to reveal himself to the messenger. No doubt he’d paid someone to give it to the boy. At least the sketch was a starting point.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Lucas. But people call me Luke.”

“Do you have parents?”

Luke snorted. “O’course, I got parents. Don’t be daft. How’d you think I got here? Stork?” The boy snorted again.

What cheek! “I mean, are they alive?”

“Mum is. Who knows where my da is. Mum says he’s a no-good son-of-a?—”

Victor held up his hand. “Stop. There’s a lady present.”

It was Cook’s turn to snort a laugh.

Victor pulled some coins from his pocket and held out two crowns. Luke’s eyes widened, and he reached a grimy hand toward the fortune.

Victor pulled it back. “You mother doesn’t drink, does she?”

Eyes still glued to the coins, Luke shook his head.

“Tell her this is for food and some new clothes for you.” Victor released the coins to Luke’s greedy grasp, then turned toward his cook. “Prepare a bundle of some more food for Luke before you send him on his way.”

“Thank you, sir.” Luke’s blue eyes clouded with tears, and he hastily brushed them away.

“If you find out any more information about who gave you the letter, come see me.”

Luke gave a vigorous nod before turning his attention toward Cook.

Not to be discouraged, perhaps Victor would discover the identity of the culprit before the night was out.