A look of shock on the professor’s face. . . That settled it. She might look like a looby in such fancifulness, but if she could cause the oblivious dolt to pay attention—he might actually finish his book and send pages to his publisher. Is that what it took to make men listen? Impractical gowns?
By the time El had to cross the street to the gallery, they had wheedled her into the dinner and morning gowns. But for herself, she chose a lovely, practical gray that suited without adjustment, once she donned a corset that lifted her meager bosom and created a curve for her skinny waist and hips. She wanted to conceal herself in a shawl, but they insisted it was too warm. Instead, they provided a pink muslin scarf that was more adornment than useful.
“You have inhabited a man’s world too long, Miss Eleanor. It is time you learn the power of a woman.” Miss Marlowe added a perky bit of starched muslin with pink roses on it to El’s hair. “We’ll refurbish a bonnet that will match your walking dress, but this will do for now.”
Walking dress. One had to wear a different gown for walking? Were there teaching dresses? El suspected not. She’d have to ask the schoolteacher.
She didn’t dare ask how much all of this would cost. If Greybourne threw them out tomorrow, they’d be worse off than when they’d started. . . in debt.
“Peg, you are to carry Miss Eleanor’s shawls and reticules when she is not using them,” Kate instructed. “Stand discreetly to one side and notice when she needs them. We won’t send you out with boxes today, but be prepared next time.”
Peg hurried to catch up with El’s long—terrified—strides. “You look beautiful, miss. You should wear ribbons in your curls all the time!”
El imagined going to bed in ribbons and was laughing at herself by the time she arrived in the gallery. The boys were waiting with their tutor. The place seemed much busier than the last time she’d visited. Men tinkered in the back of the shop. Andrew appeared to be discussing boots with the shoemaker.
Arnaud painted in a corner near the front, but there was no sign of Thea. Besides Peg, El was the only female in here. Feeling extremely visible in a thin gown that nearly revealed everything, she held out her hand to the boys, who properly bowed over it, as did the young, handsome tutor.
“I understand you enjoy mathematics.” El gazed around at the various landscape paintings displayed. They’d be easier than portraits. “Have you ever recognized the geometry an artist uses to create the sensation that you are standing at a window, looking out on a real scene?”
She started with a painting of buildings where the element of geometry was more obvious. Young Mr. Jones eased up to listen. El concealed her wince. It hadn’t occurred to her that the artists would actually pay attention.
She wasn’t at all certain that she liked being noticed. Perhaps invisible was what she was meant to be.
As she explained perspective and the boys whipped out homemade measuring sticks, El became absorbed in the lesson and ignored the artists?—
Until the boys eagerly struck out on their own and Mr. Jones attempted to engage her in conversation. Over his shoulder, she noted Gustav slapping paint on canvas and arguing with the burly artist she thought might be called Mort. Reminded of her mission, she brushed off Mr. Jones to admire one of Arnaud’s works. It stood on an easel, closer to the argument. Jones walked off in a huff, allowing her to concentrate on muttered voices on the other side of the canvas.
“Grey must be stopped,” Gustav insisted. “If we don’t stop him, we’ll never be able to show our faces in Town again.”
El froze, concealed by the large canvas.
“You know he won’t do it unless we pay him,” the burly man protested.
“Then we must steal a purse.”
At a question from another, the men drifted out of El’s hearing.
She didn’t know what she was expected to do with this information, but she was horrified to realize Grey really was a target for infamy.
Thirty-one
Grey
“Sounds like people with purses should be the ones to watch out,” Grey said with indifference when his loyal assistant reported the overheard conversation and insisted on bringing in the bailiff to discuss it. “They can’t employ a murderer without a purse, evidently. But you did a brilliant job, thank you, Eleanor.”
“Not many purses but yours have coins these days,” Rafe warned. “And they might only be talking theft of your book, not murder. I thought we’d concluded Comfrey’s death is related to the house.”
As Eleanor paced the parlor in agitation, Grey was distracted by her swaying hips in a silvery gown he didn’t recall seeing before. He dragged his gaze away to listen to the bailiff.
“The manor folk aren’t about much, but I’ll warn them to keep their purses close.” Rafe didn’t look happy about the task.
“One assumes purse thieves won’t be foolish enough to attack men like Captain Huntley or Major Ferguson, but what about the women in the dress shop? They should be warned.” Eleanor swung around with fire in her eyes.
Grey admired the militant light, but he didn’t want anyone harmed in his name. “Let Rafe do what is necessary. We must stay out of it or move to Bath.”
Which really would be the sensible thing, except he was annoyed at being called a coward because he avoided trouble. And admittedly, the mystery intrigued him. If he left now, as he really should do, he suspected the invaluable twins would not follow. He ought to be glad of that, but for the first time, he would not be happy to see the back of acquaintances—because he was not bored.
“You’ve ordered the furniture,” his not-boring assistant scoffed.
