The Very Daring Duchess Part 37

He remembered how she flirted with her customers, how she wooed them and practically seduced them into buying her mostly worthless stock, how she so bedazzled the poor males into emptying their purses then and there. Is that what she wished to do here in London as well? Was that world so much more enticing than what he could offer her? And though there was no mention of those infernal brothel pictures, she'd made such a pretty penny showing them in Naples that he couldn't believe she wouldn't display them here, too.

He glanced back at the smiling mother in the painting, that wondrous testimony to Francesca's true, rare talent, and then back to the advertis.e.m.e.nt for her mountebank collection of forgeries. d.a.m.nation, she should be painting for herself, not pandering to the vanities of would-be connoisseurs!

"She seems to be calling herself Signora Robin," said William, "but I'd wager it's the same lady, don't you?"

"Aye, it is," said Edward, his expression stony. How long would it be before some wag realized the signora was also the new d.u.c.h.ess of Harborough? He'd end up challenging every blade in London, defending her honor.

"Shall I go ready your dress uniform, Captain Your Grace?" asked Peart with an undeniable gleam in his eye, the same as he'd shown when the Centaur would prepare for battle. "There's no lady alive that can refuse a uniform as grand as that one."

"Aye, aye, Peart, clear for action," said Edward, setting the painting on the floor with a determined thump. He was done with sentiment, with rattling around in this huge tomb of a house and pining after Francesca. He'd never hung back from a battle before, and by G.o.d, he wasn't going to do it now.

"We're off to the signora's gallery, are we?" said William with a gleam of antic.i.p.ation in his eye. "I do so enjoy a good showing."

"Not today, you won't," said Edward firmly. "I thank you for your help this far, but this must be between Francesca and myself. The lady's fired first, and it's time to take her challenge. And mind me, Will: I'm not hauling back until she surrenders."

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"Oooh, this vase is monstrously fine, signora," said Lady Hingham, lifting the vase to the light in the window. "And very ancient?"

"I believe it so, my lady," hedged Francesca, remembering her promise to her uncle to tell only the truth regarding the pieces for sale. "Though I cannot say with any precision exactly how old."

"Ha, you shopkeepers are so coy, striving to drive your prices higher!" said her ladyship archly. "My eye is most excellent in these matters, and it tells me this black-figured vase is from the days of the Caesars and not one minute older. What say you, Chetwynd? Would this do for Lord Hingham's birthday?"

More accurately the vase was from the days of last June and not one minute older, but Francesca knew better than to correct a customer. Instead she dutifully stood to one side in silence, ready to catch the vase if the lady's grip wavered.

Lady Hingham was a leader of style and fashion, her approval important to Francesca's success. She'd already spent the better part of the afternoon considering nearly every piece in the room, raising each one in turn to display her bosom and her profile to the Honorable Henry Chetwynd. Francesca was quite sure the two were lovers, although Lady Hingham was a good ten years older than she painted herself to be, and far older than Chetwynd. Chetwynd was handsome, but, in Francesca's opinion, he was also so woefully simpleminded that her ladyship practically needed a leash and dog collar to keep him from wandering off.

No matter: Francesca had seen worse arrangements in her time, and as long as Lord Hingham's purse was deep enough to indulge his wife's fancies, then Francesca resolved to be happy. Or she would be, anyway, if she didn't have to keep dodging Chetwynd's constant attempts to squeeze her bottom each time the older lady's back was turned.

"It's vastly fine, Sophronia, dearest," drawled Chetwynd. "by all means, buy it for his lordship. That is, if he can find any use for an empty vessel."

Her ladyship gasped, then giggled, and jagged at Chetwynd with her elbow. "Oh, you are too wicked! An empty vessel, indeed!"

"Much better to have 'em filled, eh?" he leered, leaning forward to kiss her neck. "Beautiful and stuffed to bursting, I say."

Deftly Francesca rescued the vase, and carried it to a table well away from danger. "Shall I have the vase sent to you in the morning, my lady?"

"Yes, yes, of course," said Lady Hingham breathlessly, disentangling herself from Chetwynd, "with the reckoning to Lord Hingham's attention. Ah, signora, you have so many lovely things!"

Francesca nodded, already watching to see what next would be in peril. She'd been busy like this since she'd opened for trade, and though she'd shown her paintings to a great many more people than she'd expected, she'd forgotten the effort of always being charming, always agreeable.

It had been over a year since she'd had so many customers in a single day, and nearly three months had pa.s.sed since she'd left Naples entirely. In that time she'd grown accustomed to the luxury of painting and drawing without having to sell as well, and forgotten how hard it was to be always entertaining and charming.

Even the effort of dressing the part-today she wore a high-waisted gown of Indian muslin, a rich emerald green with gold ta.s.seled fringe along the hem and edging the sleeves and neckline, red ribbons st.i.tched with golden discs like coins threaded through her dark hair, all faintly inspired by the ancient woman painted on the vases-seemed more taxing than she'd remembered. But as long as she must earn her living, what other choice did she have?

Only three other customers remained besides Lady Hingham and Chetwynd, and when they could be guided through the door and into their carriages, she would close. She caught the eye of Mrs. Monk, who was using the lighting of the evening candles as an excuse to gawk at the gentry in what used to be her master's parlor.

"Tell the footman not to admit anyone else tonight, per favore," she whispered to the housekeeper. "I fear my mouth will crack if I must smile at yet one more new face."

Mrs. Monk nodded and bustled away, just as Chetwynd lunged for another attempt to fondle her. Saints in heaven, this day could not end soon enough!

"Ah, my lady, isn't that a lovely small angel?" she said, sweeping to Lady Hingham's side even as she swatted Chetwynd's hands away. "Bellissima, yes?"

But Lady Hingham wasn't listening, at least not to her.

"Pray, signora, what was that racketing?" she asked coyly, always eager for a new scandal to share. "It sounds rather like some rogue is attempting to force his way into your gallery!"

Uneasily Francesca glanced over her shoulder toward the door that led to the hallway. There was in fact some sort of commotion taking place beyond the closed door, with Mrs. Monk's voice distinctly, and unhappily, raised above the others.

"Excuse me, if you please, my lady," she said, dropping a rushed curtsey before she turned toward the door to investigate. The last thing she needed was a scandal so soon after opening, especially with Lady Hingham such an eager witness.

But Francesca was already too late. The double doors to the room swung inward, and there was Edward.

"Good day, Francesca," he said, smiling as he came toward her with his hand out to take hers, as if they'd parted only this morning, as if they hadn't parted at all. "You cannot know how pleased I was to receive your invitation."

He was almost blindingly handsome in his dress uniform, the candlelight glancing and glinting on all the gold and gilt and polished bra.s.s, even his sleekly brushed blond hair. He'd been dressed like that when she'd seen him last on the deck of the packet, except that now there was none of the restless uncertainty she'd sensed then. Now, here, holding her hand, poised to crash into the careful new world she'd created for herself, he seemed so confident as to be almost ruthless. Yet it wasn't his new t.i.tle that made him this way-she knew him better than that-yet still it horrified her to realize how much she'd hurt him.

"Invitation?" she repeated faintly. Somehow she'd managed not to shriek, or faint, or fall into fits, or any other reaction that would, under the circ.u.mstances, seem entirely appropriate. Instead she simply stood there before him, not moving until he gently took her hand in his own, kissing her wrist in a way that made her shiver. At least that much of her was capable of moving, just enough to send the pearls on the hoops in her ears trembling against her cheeks. "Invitation, Captain My Lord?"

He smiled at her over her hand, reminding her of the first time he'd kissed her wrist on board the Centaur. "Aye, cara mia, the invitation. The painting. That was my invitation, wasn't it?"

He'd never called her that before, the Italian unsettlingly seductive coming from him. But then, everything about having him here was like that, both unsettling and seductive, and she felt as off-balance as if she were standing on one leg.

"But that painting was a gift, not an invitation," she protested, all too aware of Lady Hingham now quivering with excitement beside her. "Because you'd admired it so much, and offered once to buy it, Captain My Lord, I-"

"It's 'Captain Your Grace' now, la.s.s," he said softly, his smile widening to a grin that was anything but rea.s.suring. "Or haven't you heard? Thanks to the unfortunate deaths of my dear brothers, I've become the seventh Duke of Harborough."

"Your Grace!" gasped Lady Hingham, sinking to a sweeping curtsey at Edward's feet. "Oh, Your Grace, I had no idea it was you! I am Lady Hingham, Your Grace-your servant! To discover you here, in this company! Henry, Henry, come, this exceedingly handsome military gentleman is the Duke of Harborough! Oh, Your Grace, Your Grace, I am so honored I cannot express myself!"

"Then you are doing a remarkably fine approximation of it, my lady," said Edward, his gaze still fixed completely upon Francesca, "which makes me honored as well. Wouldn't you agree, Francesca?"

"Oh, miss, I tried to keep him out!" whispered Mrs. Monk frantically, her round face wreathed with anxiety at Francesca's side. "You'd given orders for no more today, miss, and I did try to turn him away, me and the footman both, but he insisted, saying he was an old acquaintance of yours and a duke as well, and I couldn't-"

"You did nothing wrong, Mrs. Monk," said Francesca, trying to relax enough to smile. If she concentrated, she'd get through this; if she forced herself to think of something other than how much she'd missed Edward, then she might manage to survive with a tatter of her dignity left. "Edward-that is, His Grace is in fact an old acquaintance of mine from Naples. He wasn't trying to mislead you. Veramente, a dear and old friend."

"Oh, yes, signora, I can see that," said Mrs. Hingham with greedy interest, her gaze darting from Francesca to Edward and back again. "The connection between you and Your Grace is so obvious I can practically feel it myself, like a veritable current flowing through the room!"

"Then you will understand, Lady Hingham, when I say that I should like to speak with the lady alone," said Edward easily. He glanced around at the other customers, his smile including them watching and listening with unabashed fascination. "You will all excuse us, won't you?"

"Edward, don't!" said Francesca, shocked by his effrontery. "You cannot simply dismiss them! These good ladies and gentlemen are my customers, my patrons, and if you send them away, they most likely will never return, and I shall be ruined before I've truly begun!"

"Oh, I shall return, signora," said Lady Hingham, smiling suggestively up at Edward even as she looped her fingers into the crook of Chetwynd's arm. "For not only are your wares most enticing, but I find the company you've attracted to your studio is, um, tres beauissimo."

"You are very kind, my lady." Francesca smiled and dipped a slight curtsey, the more flattering response than pointing out to Her Ladyship that there was no such garbled expression in either English, French, or Italian. Besides, it was meant as a compliment for Edward, not for her. Let him be the one to correct her if he wished. He was doing everything else exactly as he pleased, wasn't he?

Nor was he done yet. He smiled at Lady Hingham, with the exact degree of warmth and favor to reduce the woman to a simpering, blushing jelly-head. Che miracolo, thought Francesca unhappily, where and when had Edward learned such a trick? He should be the one selling counterfeit crockery, not her.

"I can tell you are a lady of rare sympathies, Lady Hingham," he said. "You understand my need for privacy, yes?"