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Back at home, he would have never spoken so candidly. Nor would he have shared a table with someone so far above his station. After exemplary cajoling on Abram’s part, Rowan had finally acquiesced. Abram knew it was more likely to prevent him from dodging his master’s son and running off at every port. Abram had wanted to travel alone. His father—the great Duke of New Castle, James McQueen—would not allow it. It had not mattered that Abram was largely ignored for the majority of his life. Nor was it his concern that Abram was not heir apparent to the same level of land and wealth as his eldest brother. What mattered was control. The McQueens would always, always remain under his da’s thumb.

“When are we off?” Rowan asked.

Abram dragged his attention from the brown liquid in his mug and pondered the best way to reply. “I thought you might like to spend your days on your own. I would return to our shared accommodations each evening. Is that not satisfactory?”

A low moan escaped Rowan, paired with the flexed muscle of his jaw. “Do you think it wise? I overheard you last evening while you were filled with the drink. Your dreams were—”

Abram waved a hand to stop him. He had no intention of rehashing the haunting images. “Of course. I am committed to my art, sir. I cannot faff about with this. It will take days to paint the three ladies of House Gray. And if any good, the Viscount Fredericks and his family. This is significant. To me, it is everything.” Abram certainly hoped his plea was convincing. For, whether Rowan knew it or not, he was not to accompany Abram. The duke’s son had not shared his background with anyone. He worked under the name Aldrige Fain. While there were laws to prevent individuals from pretending to be nobles, those assuming the reverse were not likely to face repercussions. Else how would they get their escapes outside the walls of Mayfair?

Most importantly, Da would not soon recognize the name should he hear otherwise. Rowan had not noticed thus far, and Abram aimed to keep it that way. Marteen du Lac had recommended “Fain” for the job and in gratitude, Abram would not soon let his friend down.

“I shall not venture far, but I am afraid the duke gave express orders to keep you out of the gutters.”

“Very well. I hope you are prepared to be bored out of your gourd,” Abram acquiesced.

“As if I were not at this very moment,” Rowan countered.

“Rowan, what an odd way to tell me you love me.” While it was the smallest of victories, Abram turned in his chair, a loud screech of wood on wood as the seat reacted to his movement. “Another, but this time bring your best whiskey,” he called out to the maid.

The bonny lass offered a nod, dropping the towel with which she mopped the bar to prepare their drinks.

“One last late night before you begin your dedication to painting?” Rowan offered a smirk.

“One more night of debauchery, shall we?” Despite the teasing, Abram was pleased. A celebration was in order since it would be his first commissioned work. He was well on his way toward his goal—to leave the Scottish Highlands forever and make his way to America. Part of him would have liked for Rowan to come along with him. Alas, no. The trip would be one he needed to embark upon alone.

Chapter Three

“Thank you, Eliza,” Orris said to one of the maids as the servant left her a tray with food to which she’d now become accustomed. When they had first arrived in London the year prior, she’d longed for coffee and her beloved grits, as she’d grown up with in Galveston. Still, she did enjoy the tea and sausage in the English style.

“Yes, Miss Orris. It is a pleasure. Should you like me to send Mrs. Fields to help you dress for the day?”

Orris had feigned illness earlier, but she feared her charade would not hold out much longer. Mama was growing ever more suspicious. “I believe so. I am feeling better already.”

“Very well, miss.” With a slight bow, Eliza nodded, the violet mobcap winking at Orris as she did. “Mrs. Fields and your mother will be quite pleased. Your sitting is this afternoon. So exciting to have your portrait done.”

“I should rather have a photograph. I have but two before and my cousins from Chicago are ahead of me there. They happen in an instance, rather than sitting for hours. I should rather be riding my horse.”

“All the same, every great house has portraits, miss. I know they will turn out beautifully.”

“I hope so, Eliza.”

With that, she offered another slight bow before exiting the room. No sooner had the door settled into its jamb than Orris let out a sigh. “You can come out now.”

The door of the armoire burst open and Gladys bound free from her confines. It has to be stuffy in there, Orris thought.

“I am starved. Thank goodness she left when she did. My stomach may have let her in on our secret,” she said, waltzing over to the covered tray and lifting the lid to peruse. She plucked a sausage from the plate’s contents, then bit into it with a moan of satisfaction.

“Food should be the very last thing on your mind. Mama and Uncle are going to be hotter than a henhouse in July once what you’ve done is discovered. When will you be ready to announce yourself to my mother? You cannot remain here without telling her.” There were a hundred ways the predicament could end, and none of them well.

“Tonight. After your sitting for the portrait. I just need to work up the nerve,” Gladys said around another bite of meat.

Orris immediately began shaking her head, the notion erring on the side of ridiculous. “There are maids and household staff in and out of the rooms all day. You’re bound to be discovered. Then where would we be? I fear remaining on the ship with your guardian would have been the best course of action, Cousin.”

“You would have me marry an old robber baron?” Gladys pressed a hand to her chest, the affront from Orris’s statement etched in a scowl.

“No… I-I mean, yes,” Orris stammered before letting out a sigh. To be forced into a marriage would be dreadful, she knew. She also understood that most times, women who went against their father’s wishes rarely won the battle. “I am merely suggesting that speaking to your father, and your mother, would have been safer.”

Her shoulders slumped as she made her way over to the bed, her borrowed yellow dress still unbuttoned down the back in her haste to hide from the maid. “Come. Let me braid your hair,” she offered.