Nell nodded. She no longer felt plagued from her episode—the creature inside of her had bedded down once again—but she felt scattered and ill at ease. As if she’d fallen behind on living. “Jacobs, could you please bring up my writing desk and correspondence? And any new mail that may have arrived as well.”
Jane poured the tea without asking, which was considered presumptuous according to all the manuals of ladies’ etiquette, but Nell was grateful for the breach. Her hands still trembled, yet now it could be explained by a lack of food. Once Jacobs left, Jane’s cheer faded and she examined Nell.
For her part, she knew she was being observed, but didn’t know why.
“It is Lord Beckett, isn’t it.” Jane didn’t state it as a question. Her voice was flat, and Nell wondered if her friend was annoyed or exasperated. Or some other emotion that Nell couldn’t think of at the moment.
But Nell didn’t truly understand. “Whatis Lord Beckett?” She picked up the teacup, warm in her hands, the strong, malty fragrance of the blend giving her strength.
“The reason you’ve taken to bed. What has he done? Has he—” Jane broke off and lowered her voice. “Has he beenuntoward?”
Nell blinked as she tried to parse her friend’s lowered voice, her thin mouth, her flat affect. And then it dawned upon her, and she blushed. “No, nothing of the sort. Lord Beckett has not made any…” Nell struggled to find the euphemisms that polite company was supposed to use for sexual misconduct. “Gestures.”
Jane sat back, nodding once, as if relieved. “Good. I didn’t think he had it in him, given your like for the man, but you can’t put anything past a nobleman.”
Nell looked up in alarm.
“I know, I know, you aren’t supposed to say anything about it, and there are many girls who believe it’s worth it for the chance to be showered in gifts. But I’ve heard just as many end up penniless with a child and the pox to boot.” Jane sipped at her tea, as if this weren’t the most seditious thing Nell had ever heard her friend say.
“Don’t look so shocked,” Jane said with a smile the likes of which Nell had never seen before. “Every working woman knows to watch herself around a well-dressed gentleman. They have expectations and think a woman who must work is prey. Well, it isn’t always so, as long as we remain vigilant and protect each other.”
Nell felt herself smiling and tearing up at the same time. Her friend that seemed so frivolous and shallow at times was anything but. Even after so many years, she could still surprise.
“And I extend that willingness to protect to you as well. You know that, don’t you? Is this another thing I must explicitly state for you? Because I will. If you wish for me to rescind the dinner invitation to Lord Beckett, I will do so. If you wish me to call upon him with my dear Rafe and some particularly burly friends of his, I shall.”
The teacup threatened to spill once again, but it was because of the overwhelming gratitude in Nell’s heart. She’d never felt so claimed by a friend before—so welcomed and loved.
“Oh, darling, don’t cry. I didn’t say it to make you weep.”
Nell shook her head and blinked away the tears. The hot lump remained in her throat, but she spoke. “It is about Lord Beckett. But not for those reasons. I don’t know what to do.” Nell’s eyes roamed the room, as if she could find the courage to speak lurking behind the curtains or under the armoire. “You see, he’s stolen my paintings.”
It was Jane’s turn to put down her teacup so suddenly that it clattered. “Beg your pardon?”
“He stole two of my paintings. I have a crate where I keep the ones I do not hang. And he stole two of them. The self-portrait and a landscape.”
Jane frowned, and two lines appeared deep between her brows. “So you wish to demand payment for them?”
“They are not for sale. I want them returned. They are mine. They are personal.”
“The self-portrait. It isn’t that dreadful one with the black demon looking thing—”
“That’s the one.”
Jane made a face. “Why would he have taken them?”
That was what had perplexed Nell. “I have no idea. What could he want with them?”
“You’re sure it was him?”
Nell nodded. “He’s the only one it could be. And why those two? And not the others?”
“Perhaps he wants to get you into an exhibition?” Jane suggested, the pitch of her voice raising, which was typically a sign that she thought what she was saying was far-fetched but good.
The idea of her work in a public show horrified her. She had no desire for anyone to know her name or look at her art. The fingerprints of Monsieur Cobb were all over her style. It was his copies she’d learned from. It was to his ratios that she mixed her paint. She might as well go into the middle of London and shout that she was the pupil of a murdered man. She shuddered. “I certainly hope that is not the case.”
“What are you going to do? What have you done already?”
Nell gave a bitter laugh. “Well, I’ve gone to bed for two days and it hasn’t seemed to resolve the matter.”
