Page 3
Orris would not have believed anyone who shared such a story had she not seen for herself.
“Gladys Estee Gray, what in the devil’s name are you doing in my wardrobe? And dressed like that?” The screech sounded more like incrimination than concern. “Uncle Tolliver is going to be beside himself.” Orris clutched her chest, attempting to control her erratic pulse.
“Shhhh. Everyone will hear you. I didn’t know where else to go.” Gladys’s round face betrayed her age of one and twenty. She was older than Orris by two years. However, her behavior—escaping the ship bound for America by means only God knew, hiding out in an armoire like a stowaway, and worse, remaining in London without Mama’s knowledge—was most immature. “No one notices you when you are dressed as a servant. And I do mean, no one. I made it all the way to your room without so much as a second glance. Your family has enough servants to get lost in.”
“Of course you should be with us while you’re in town, but why, pray tell, would you run off from your father? There is no way he would give you his consent to remain. Not when your proposal was imminent.” Orris stood, then offered a hand to Gladys.
“Oh, Orris,” she said, jumping on her cousin with such force, they almost tumbled again. “I could not return home. I do not want to be wed to that awful Drake Laramey. He is dreadfully dull and smells like molded cheese. Even worse, he is ten years older. What else should I have done?” she cried in a hushed voice, her body shuddering with emotion.
“I thought Uncle was considering your sisters’ potential matches here in London next season?” Orris helped Gladys to the foot of the bed, placed an arm around her shoulder, and rocked. “Could you not have asked him to consider including you next season?”
Orris tugged the corner of the lace extended from her sleeve, then pulled the handkerchief free to offer her cousin.
Gladys sniffed before accepting what was proffered, then pressed the soft cotton to her nose. “Not me. He promised me to Mr. Laramey because his father owns a shipping fleet. He is obsessed with becoming the richest man in Chicago. I am afraid Father is preoccupied with wealth, far more than affairs of the heart.”
Orris empathized with her cousin. The pain etched in her features reminded her of her own despair. Like her, Gladys fell victim to her parents’ whims. Taking her hand in hers, “We shall find a way to help you, dear cousin.”
What vexed Orris was figuring out how they were going to do that…
Chapter Two
“My lord, please. Your father has requested your presence.”
Abram, second son of the McQueen clan, and outright failure, given his preoccupation with painting, released a long whistle. “We shall return to the castle the moment I am done here and put it to right, man. Rowan, this is my dream. I’ve finally had a chance to paint something other than the lochs. Can ye understand?”
Rowan was a good servant, a consummate friend, yet his sense of fealty to Abram’s father was at odds with his decision to roam other countries seeking subjects to paint. He had thought refinement would have occurred through his education at Trinity. Thankfully, it had not, despite losing a piece of himself he should never recover.
“I will write back. It seems we’ve been, yet again, delayed by the threat of pirates along the Ivory Coast.” Rowan slumped in his chair, causing a squeak against the fine leather.
“Good man. Good man. Another round of ale,” he yelled across the establishment, seeking the attention of a barmaid. “A bit for shyte compared to Irish brew. Oh, how we must suffer for my art.” Abram leaned over and clapped the shoulder of his brooding mate. In another time, they would have been friends, not bound to one another through domestic servitude.
“I just pray he believes me. There are others dependent upon me. I have neigh touched our own shores in months.” Rowan accepted the mug from the maid, took a deep sip, then placed it on the table.
“One last job. Then we’ll leave the shiny bastards for our own greener pastures.” Abram lifted his glass and held it out for the toast.
Reluctantly, Rowan clicked his mug against the lip of the glass and they both drank.
“What’s the latest? I hope no more bare-assed art houses.” Rowan sniffed before setting his mug down.
Abram had to chuckle at the description of one of the most esteemed dens for artists in all of London. House du Lac was widely considered the premier art installation outside of France. And here, Rowan cast it off as no more than a brothel. “As confused as I am by your dismay at such a fine establishment, I am pleased to report we are moving to an apartment, as I have been selected to paint a family. They are Americans and recently joined the beau monde, by way of marriage. The Grays.”
Rowan let out a cough. “Respectable members of the beau monde would deign to secure an outside painter? Seems highly unlikely.”
“What can I say? They are Americans. It would seem times are changing and eligibility can be purchased,” Abram said, leaning forward. “From what I understand, great beauty resides beyond those walls.”
“Not for a sod like you, with all due respect.”
“I do not need require an eligible miss, and I am most assuredly not seeking an engagement. I am painting a family. I shall focus on lighting, finding a perfect likeness for the subjects and n’more.”
“Since when have you had to look fer something to fall into it?”
Abram choked on his drink, spurting over some semblance of an excuse, which never managed to come to fruition from his lips.
“As I thought…” Rowan leaned back in his chair, pushing a sandy-brown braid over his shoulder.
A few of the gentlemen in the club turned to stare in their direction. The Irish were known for making a scene in buttoned-up England. “I beg your finest pardon,” Abram offered before returning his attention to Rowan. “I am not to blame for those moments of indiscretion. We are but men, after all. The flesh is weak…”
“And I am merely your humble servant, but might I remind you that the mind must be stronger?” He offered a nod to Abram.
