Page 39

S tomping really was an excellent way to force one’s head to stop thinking. Evelyn wondered briefly how she had never discovered it before, realized that meant thinking, and attempted to cease doing so immediately.

She was not going to think.

Thinking only led to pain. Why she had permitted herself to think that she and Richard—

No .

Evelyn swallowed hard as she waited at a crossroads for the trio of large carriages to pass by as Laurent spoke to her about some servant gossip or another.

Evelyn had been sent out here on an errand for her father, and that was what she was going to do.

No thinking. No wondering about the past and wishing for the future.

There was no future. At least, not in the way she had hoped. The future she had expected, had longed for once Richard had entered her life, was over.

Now all she could do was focus on her art. Which was what she wanted. Obviously.

Straightening her shoulders, Evelyn stepped out purposefully and—

“Do you have a death wish, child?” snapped a voice at her ear as something violent grabbed hold of her elbow.

Evelyn was quite ready to glare superiorly at whoever it was who had her arm in such a violent grip, perhaps even say something a tad condescending.

Unfortunately, she was prevented from doing so by a rushing carriage that passed by so close, her hair flew up in the draft and a tingle rushed down her spine.

That had been close.

It was only when she turned to look at the person who was still tightly clenching their hand around her arm that Evelyn saw attempting a superior tone would be utterly out of the question.

It was Lady Romeril.

“You,” said the older woman sternly, “should be more careful when crossing the road. Did your governess not teach you the basics, girl?”

Evelyn blanched. “Y-Yes.”

Lady Romeril . One of the most respected, and most feared, women in Society. A good word from Lady Romeril could make or break a woman’s reputation. A match made—or unmade—by Lady Romeril was considered finalized.

She was a domineering woman. A respected one. Even if she was imperious and self-righteous.

“You’re one of those Chance girls, aren’t you?” asked Lady Romeril slowly, peering down her nose at Evelyn.

“One of those Chance girls.” Well, there are quite a few cousins . “Yes, Lady Romeril. I’m Evelyn, the Earl of Lindow’s—”

“Ah, yes, Lindow,” Lady Romeril said swiftly, preventing Evelyn from saying any more. “I suppose you’re the artistic one.”

“I suppose I am,” said Evelyn helplessly, hoping to goodness that none of the passersby were listening in on their conversation.

Laurent fidgeted behind her, standing beside a man and woman Evelyn assumed to be Lady Romeril’s servants.

It was hardly the done thing to be accosted by Lady Romeril on the street and interrogated about one’s family.

Or perhaps it was. She wouldn’t put anything past Lady Romeril.

“Hmmmm.”

Evelyn braced, ready for the onslaught. It was unseemly for a woman of her standing to wish to be an artist. Perhaps the news had gotten out that Richard—that the Viscount Sempill had been sitting for her.

Doing far more than sitting for her.

Heat blanched her cheeks, but before Evelyn could say a word, Lady Romeril nodded curtly. “Good.”

Evelyn blinked. “‘Good’?”

Nothing felt good at the moment. Even ignoring the accosting—well, perhaps that was harsh, Lady Romeril had saved her from a dreadful carriage death—there was still the matter of her broken heart.

Though perhaps she would now make the best art of her life. Evelyn was no expert, and there was still a great amount of reading to be done on the subject, but had she not read once somewhere that artists had to be tortured to create their best work?

Twisting her arm, Evelyn discovered it was impossible to escape Lady Romeril’s grip.

This was most definitely torture.

“Good,” repeated Lady Romeril firmly, before—finally—releasing Evelyn’s arm. “The world needs more art. More joy. More things to think about. Wonder about.”

Evelyn’s jaw dropped, despite her inner self shouting that she needed to hold herself in better control in front of a woman like Lady Romeril.

“More art”? “More joy”?

“I-I quite agree,” she found herself saying, her voice not quite up to the task of speaking to a woman like Lady Romeril with complete equanimity. “I… I have always thought—”

“I can’t chatter. I have a most important appointment with my modiste and if I am not careful, the Duchess of Axwick will steal her from me,” said Lady Romeril vaguely with a wave of her hand.

“Off you go then, young woman—and be careful when crossing the road! You, servant girl, watch your mistress better.”

Evelyn winced, just ever so slightly, as Lady Romeril boomed her parting words for all to hear. Honestly! She hardly appreciated being spoken to like a child. Even if the warning was, admittedly, warranted.

“I am sorry, my lady,” said Laurent.

Evelyn waved her off.

What had she been doing?

Oh, yes. Her father had asked her to go to the Dulwich Picture Gallery in Southwark and request some information about an upcoming exhibition. Why her father had asked her to do such a thing, Evelyn was not quite sure.

She pondered this as she—carefully—stepped across the road and turned left. The Earl of Lindow was not known for his interest in art. It had been all she could do to get him to consider her painting as hardly an affront to his name. So why did he want her to get this information?

It is probably naught but a ruse , Evelyn thought dully as she turned another corner and spotted the art gallery at the end of the street. Something to get her out of doors. Something to occupy her mind.

It had been kindly done, yes. But it was entirely impossible. She could not stop thinking of Richard.

“I love you!”

Evelyn halted, one foot on the step up into the art gallery, one still on the street.

The memory of Richard’s words had hit her almost as hard as the carriage nearly did. Her body quivered, the impact felt despite its intangible form.

How was she ever supposed to go through life without thinking of him?

In half a mind just to return home, partly wondering if she should duck inside and have a good cry, Evelyn managed to force her feet to stumble onward.

She would get the dratted information for her father, and return straight home.

“Ah, Lady Evelyn,” said a man who suddenly appeared to her left, bowing low. “We have been expecting you.”

Evelyn blinked. “You have?” Why on earth would anyone be expecting me?

She glanced at Laurent, who simply shrugged.

“But of course,” said the man, still bowing low. Was he not the owner of the art gallery? “And what an honor it is.”

Perhaps this was all a dream. Perhaps she had not truly woken up that morning, but had instead continued to dream. That was surely the explanation for such a strange series of events.

Her father, taking an interest in art?

Lady Romeril, saving her from a terrible fate and then encouraging her art?

And now this—treating her like some sort of… of dignitary!

It was all too much.

Evelyn took an unsteady step back. “I don’t quite understand.”

“Everything is prepared,” the owner said, finally straightening and looking at her with unabashed curiosity. “And may I be so bold as to say that it has been an honor.”

“An… An ‘honor’?” Evelyn repeated slowly.

Whatever the owner thought she had done, it apparently had been most impressive. He beamed, clearly delighted, and gestured toward the double doors that would take her into the art gallery.

Evelyn walked hesitantly toward it, Laurent on her heels. “But I needed to ask something,” said Evelyn.

“All your questions will be answered inside, I think,” the man said with a grin.

If it had been in any way suspect, Evelyn would have strode past him out of the door onto the street, her father’s request be damned.

But it was a kind smile. One that suggested a secret was on the other side of these double doors… and Evelyn had never been the sort of person to ignore a secret.

Wondering what had gotten into everyone today, Evelyn stepped forward.

Her knees almost gave way.

Now she knew she was in a dream. No, this could not have been possible—she must have been dreaming, or hallucinating, or in some other way misunderstanding what her eyes were attempting to tell her.

There, hanging on the wall before her, was… was…

Was her Venice scene.

“It’s not possible,” Evelyn whispered, reaching out and touching the frame.

It was real. At least, her fingertips were agreeing with her eyes, and she had never had any cause to disbelieve either of them before. It was her painting, on the walls of the Dulwich Picture Gallery.

But… But…

“Beautiful,” said Laurent, her mouth puckered as she stared at a painting on the wall.

“Oh, my word.” Evelyn let out with a gasp as she turned and saw one of her studies of an apple tree hanging on the wall a few feet away in front of her lady’s maid. On the other side of that, a study of a violet, pushing its way through the earth.

And on and on, it continued. There was no one else other than Laurent in the art gallery, something Evelyn could not think about now, not with her gaze falling on artwork after artwork that had come from her pencils, her paints, her fingers—her soul.

“My lady, do you know the artist?” Laurent asked.

But Evelyn didn’t answer her. Pulse racing, eyes prickling with tears of astonishment or confusion or something else, she did not know, Evelyn felt her feet pace forward, her speed increasing until—

Until she came to a halt.

There it was. Or rather, there he was.

The Richard in the painting was not quite as handsome as the one Evelyn had studied… very closely. She still couldn’t get his ears right, and there was something in the proportions that honestly, now that she could see the painting in a frame on a wall, was not quite right.

It still took her breath away.