Page 12

W hile the previous day had been filled with rain and heavy, gray clouds, this day was starkly different. The sun was out and Londoners of all walks of life left their homes to enjoy the weather.

Evelyn was seated beside Ollie in the hansom cab he’d hired to bring her home.

Also beside Evelyn was the clothing Lady Litchfield and Lady Vivian had kindly collected for her, which Ollie had promised to return after dropping Evelyn off at home along with the boxed-up wedding dress.

At a later date, Evelyn would send back the clothing she currently wore.

The hansom rolled to a stop to make a turn and Evelyn watched the pedestrians cross.

Her attention was captured by a man and woman holding on tightly to one another.

She had no idea who they were, merely strangers with whom she’d happened to cross paths.

Their clothing was plain, perhaps even a bit worn.

The woman said something, and the man laughed and leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek, causing his companion to wobble.

The couple had wheels on their shoes—roller skates—and the man did his best to keep the woman from falling over.

Both of them kept laughing at themselves.

Evelyn had never experienced having a beau of her own, a man who walked—or in this case, skated—by her side, one she was glad to have there.

Back when she’d lived in Paris, she had befriended several famous artists and caught the eye of a few.

But as much as she admired them for their craft, they were not men whose attention she desired.

They were all scoundrels, in the worst way.

Edgar Degas was the worst one, at least Evelyn thought.

The only compliment she could give him was he was a talented artist. Nothing about him otherwise was admirable or likable.

In the company of other artists, his tongue was sharp—cruel wit at the expense of others. He was the equivalent of a wet rag.

Evelyn’s sister, a patron of the arts, had briefly had her eyes on Degas for some reason.

Cordelia had called him “mysterious” and “an enigma.” Evelyn had kept her mouth shut, as she’d known well enough that artists as a whole were impossible humans and Degas had, on numerous occasions, voiced his baseless belief that women artists could never be as good as their male counterparts.

“It is simply biology,” he had explained over the rim of his absinthe.

“Go ahead and disagree with science. Men have bigger brains. We can’t help it. ”

Degas was also the only man who had ever laughed in Cordelia’s face when she’d advanced upon him.

“I do not mix my personal life with art,” he had said loud enough for the room to hear.

“You will never set foot in my life beyond the walking path outside my door, and you will never see anything beyond my paintings.” He’d then slammed his drink down to the table and stormed out of the room, leaving the party in a stunned silence.

“We should be at your house in about fifteen minutes.” Ollie’s voice grabbed Evelyn’s attention. “Not that I’m counting down the minutes or anything. I just feel like I should be saying something.”

Evelyn smiled despite herself. “Of course you’re not, Ollie. I realize I am not much in a talkative mood at the moment, as my mind keeps finding itself elsewhere.” Probably to escape , she thought.

Ollie held her gaze. “Where does your mind find itself?”

The hansom cab began moving again and Evelyn glanced over to see the couple she had been watching had disappeared from view. “Nowhere particular. Revisiting old memories, I suppose.”

“Anything you’d be willing to share?”

Was he truly interested? Or was this part of Ollie’s natural outgoing charm, and it only seemed as if he were interested in knowing? She swallowed and forced her focus on Ollie’s question. “I was thinking about Edgar Degas,” she replied.

“The artist?” Ollie asked, his voice pitched with surprise.

“Yes.”

Ollie watched her, waiting for her to continue. “Do you know him? Are you friends?”

Evelyn shrugged. “I suppose, if that’s what you want to call it.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You were friends with many artists in Paris, then?”

“Of course! I worked at the Louvre, and my sister is a patron of the arts. She often took me to parties in Montmartre. I knew all of them to some degree.” Evelyn began counting on her fingers.

“Degas, Cassatt, Monet, though he was not a sociable sort and kept to himself mostly. There were also Berthe Morisot—I did find Berthe to be a dear—Renoir, Gaugin. Oh! And Toulouse-Lautrec, of course! I did adore him most of all, and I wish our friendship hadn’t been so brief.

I moved back to London right after we became acquainted.

Unlike the others, he was my age. Actually, he exhibited at the Salon for the first time this year, I heard! ”

Ollie sunk into his seat. “I recognize most of those names.”

“It was a brief but fun time in my life,” Evelyn said wistfully.

“This Toulouse-Lautrec. You liked him much?”

“Oh, yes! I…” She giggled. “It seems silly now, but I became a blushing girl around him. He was very kind and very funny. I met him at cabaret, where he was showcasing his artwork.”

“I see,” Ollie said blandly.

“He told me I was too tall for his taste. And too thin.” She felt heat crawl up her neck. “He fell in love with Suzanne, anyway.”

Ollie ignored that last comment. “Too tall and too thin?”

Evelyn forced a casual shrug. “Everyone has different taste.”

“That isn’t a difference in taste. The man clearly was mad.”

What was Ollie saying? Did he think she was attractive? Her? But that was silly and Evelyn immediately scolded herself for thinking that even a moment. Ollie was only saying that to make her feel better.

“I’m six feet tall,” Evelyn explained while reaching up to feel her hair. “And Henri is only five feet tall. He broke his legs when he was a child and they stopped growing. He prefers women to be, well, shorter than me at least.”

Ollie seemed to relax at that tidbit and didn’t offer further comment.

“What are you going to do about work, Ollie?” Evelyn noted the homes around them were becoming grander. They were getting close.

Ollie let out a long sigh. “I don’t know. Honestly, I’m more worried about Dantes’s paintings at the moment.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” He paused. “I hope they get the same care you gave them. With how much I blundered yesterday, I’m afraid I’ll now ruin the whole paintings business and go make everything worse.”

Evelyn frowned. “Ollie, I assure you, they remain in good hands. Mr. Currow and Mr. Burlington have assisted with several of the paintings already restored. They are more than capable.” Annoyance crawled through her.

She was on her way home where she would be met with wrath of the highest order, and Ollie wanted to add this guilt and worry?

“Do you think I’m pleased to be leaving that behind?

That I won’t be able to work on them any longer?

All I wish is to return there and I can’t. ”

Thankfully, he dropped the subject. Because the next words out of his mouth were, “What in the blazes is happening up there?”

Evelyn’s attention sharpened and she began looking around. “Where?”

“Up ahead, on my side.”

Evelyn scrambled over Ollie to see his view, as the horse blocked hers. She ignored how hard his torso and chest felt under her. Sure enough, up ahead, several policemen were standing on the sidewalk.

Evelyn’s curiosity was piqued. “Why are there so many police officers crowded up there?”

“I don’t know,” Ollie replied in a strained voice.

Putting her attention back to Ollie, she realized his face was quite close.

Her eyes immediately looked down to his lips.

They were appealing, full and soft with a cupid’s bow, and would be beautiful in a painting.

A strange feeling swirled in her stomach as Ollie made another strained noise.

She was crushing him and immediately crawled back to her side of the hansom.

“I am so very sorry. I didn’t mean to crush you like that.

Curiosity got the best of me, and I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing. ”

He cleared his throat. “You were lying on top of me, Evelyn.”

Concern twisted within her. “Did I hurt you? I do apologize for that.”

“I… Oh, blast it,” Ollie replied, running his hands through his hair.

“I wonder…” Evelyn tapped at her chin in thought, already distracted. “Do you think that crowd of police officers has anything to do with the Signature Swindler?”

“I have no idea.”

She felt a slight, unpleasant pang of guilt. “You seem upset with me.”

“Upset? No. Exasperated? Perhaps.”

But before she could reply—exasperated by what?—the driver called back over his shoulder. “Your stop is just ahead!”

“Thank you, sir!” Evelyn called back right as the horror of realization struck her. She looked out at the street and the buildings—really studied her surroundings—and panicked as she recognized them. “Oh, no,” she said to herself. Then she clambered over Ollie again, causing him to groan.

“Ollie…” The panic in her voice was loud and clear. “Those police aren’t there for the Signature Swindler.”

“They’re not?” His voice pitched higher than normal.

Evelyn looked back over to him and found his face reddened and his hands clasped together atop his head, as if trying to keep them away from something.

“What are you doing?” Evelyn asked, looking up at them.

“You, a person who despises being touched, are on all fours, atop me. Again. And I am a man, a simple one at that, and remain a man at the most inopportune times.”