The only sign of surprise on Mr Upperton’s face was the slow way he blinked. “What information would you like?”
“Merely her direction at present. I may in time wish to extract her from her current precarious position, but for now I only need to know her name and where she is currently residing.” She flicked a speck of dust from her gloves. “Hire as many men as you require to do the job.”
“Of course, my lady. When do you need this information by?”
Louisa smiled, though there was no humour in it. “Yesterday.”
He inclined his head. “I see.”
“See to it, if you please.”
“Yes, ma’am. Is there anything else you require?”
“Yes, as it happens.” She handed him a slip of paper with Knight’s address written on it. “Keep a watch on this house, and when its gentleman lodger returns, be so good as to inform me.”
Mr Upperton accepted the paper and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. He was a man of resources and a great deal of reserve, which was why she had chosen him. Her past made it likely that some of her dealings would be less than savoury, and so she had hired a man who would not bat an eye at her more outlandish requests. “I shall see to it,” he said in a colourless voice. “Does my lady have any other requests?”
There was a knock at the door. “Your carriage, my lady,” Avery said. If he’d felt any surprise at her sudden arrival home, he had not shown it, merely asking if there was anything he could do for her.
She would never cease to be grateful for the loyalty of her retainers.
“Thank you, Avery,” she said, rising. “That’s everything, Mr Upperton. Avery will see you out.”
Avery held the door open. “This way, sir.”
Mr Upperton bowed and walked out of the room, and Louisa glanced at the window. Once again, she was struck by the thought that if she was particularly lucky, she might see Henry striding along the pavement underneath.
Of course, she did not. He was bound for the country, and she had refused him.
In her weaker moments, such as the one where he had left the carriage, she had almost cracked. If he had not been the son of an earl, she would have given all her freedom up for a life with him.
Absurd how she could have thrown away all her vows so quickly. For a man who had broken her heart once already. But although the bitterness she harboured had not gone fully, the worst of it had been and gone without her noticing.
Avery entered the room again. “Your carriage, my lady?”
“Ah yes, of course.” She gave a grim smile and did her best to put thoughts of Henry from her mind. “Thomas Hyatt.”
Thomas Hyatt lived in the unfashionable neighbourhood of Bayswater—not nearly as exclusive as her own address in Arlington Street—but the house was large enough despite that. Evidently Thomas Hyatt had been doing well for himself.
Any other time, she would be glad.
“Good evening,” Louisa said, stepping inside the house when the maid opened the door. “Please tell Mr Hyatt that Lady Louisa Bolton, formerly Miss Louisa Picard, is here to see him. He will receive me.”
The maid bobbed an awkward curtsy, and after escorting her to a cool, stale parlour, disappeared. Louisa tilted her head up, examining the paintings on the wall. There were many of them, giving her reason to suspect this was the room where he courted new business.
There was no denying he truly was a master.
Not too much time passed before there was a movement by the door, and Thomas Hyatt appeared before her, older than she had last seen him, age a map across his face. Shadows pooled in the hollows under his cheeks. As a painter, he was flawless; as a man, she was old enough now to know he had flaws aplenty.
“Lady Bolton,” he said, and by the roughness of his voice, she knew he understood what she was doing here.
“Out of respect for the things you have given me, I will be civil.” Her voice was cool, but there was a lake of hurt that lay behind it. Betrayal that she hadn’t allowed herself to feel until now, but faced with him, the feeling swelled. He had guided her as a child, taught her how to hold a brush and commit the things she saw to a canvas. He taught her how to convey her world into a medium that others could see and interact with, and he had never once made her feel as though she was lesser for choosing oils despite being a lady.
Even when she had been accepted into the Summer Exhibition withDomestic Bliss, he had not critiqued her choice of subject, merely the faults with her perspective and colour choice.
But now, when faced with an obstacle, he had rather toss her to the metaphorical wolves than stand up in her defence.
She understood that her father had paid him; she understood that he had not helped her as a matter of real interest but of financial gain. He was her tutor and she was his student, and she knew he had many students.
