Page 47

In her letter, she’d described him as “an authentic American cowboy,” the only man she’d ever met who “spoke horse” better than Anthony did. He didn’t trust himself to rehearse more of what he knew.

He lowered his voice. “Miss Coover, in terms of our arrangement, all I ask is that you make inquiries. The producers, managers—I don’t know—of the theater might be named Frank and Madge.”

“Frank and Madge.” She tapped her lips in thought, then shrugged. “Not much to go on. But . . . her whereabouts are a mystery. Yours are not.”

She’d folded her arms again. Her narrowed eyes missed nothing.

“She’d come to you, would she not? If she wanted to be found?”

She reasoned well. Too well by his lights. Her doubt spoke to his fear. Why hadn’t Effie sent any word? He could think of reasons. Infirmity. Shame. A child. He hardened his jaw. None of that mattered.

“Nixon is her married name,” he said. “When you make inquiries, inquire after Euphemia Nixon. Tell me what you discover.”

She looked prepared to pursue her point, then seemed to think better of it.

“And if I discover nothing?” she asked.

“Then you discover nothing. I don’t expect a miracle.”

After a pause, she nodded. “And you. You’ll come to Charlotte Road. You’ll assess the buildings and talk to Mabeldon.”

Pain began to concentrate behind his right eye. His own nod was minimal. She frowned.

“When?”

The clock chimed, the sound reverberating inside his skull.

“This week,” he said. “Monday.” The sooner the better, while Yardley was in Putney and less likely to hover over him.

She agreed promptly. “Monday afternoon. I’ll be home by three.”

“Three, then.”

The glasshouse beckoned. But after Miss Coover’s little escapade, he should wait, until after dinner, until tomorrow perhaps, before he slipped out. In the meantime, he’d keep choking down cups of tea.

Tea. It didn’t slake his thirst.

Miss Coover was hoisting her bag onto her shoulder. Suddenly, everything irritated. Her attempted blackmail. Their no-doubt fruitless arrangement. The whole bloody situation. Codicils. Eviction notices.

“What do you carry in that thing?” he asked, raising his hand abruptly, the gesture halfway between pointing at the bag and snatching it.

She stepped back hastily, giving a pull of her mouth.

“Sketching pad, paint box, charcoals, pencils . . .” She began to list the contents, holding it close.

The pain was drilling into his brain. He needed distraction.

He didn’t want her to depart just yet.

“What of my lesson?” He motioned with the fingers of his outstretched hand. “Give me your sketching pad. I never told you what I plan to paint. I shall make a preliminary sketch.”

“Don’t be an ass,” she said, clutching the bag tighter.

“What a snob you are.” He grinned, the badinage lifting his spirits. “I can draw. Anyone can draw. Little children do it.”

“If you want to make random marks, like a little child, it’s not worth the paper. It’s getting late.” She glanced at the windows, filled with dimming gray light. “I must be off. The omnibuses aren’t always regular.”

“I’ll send you home in my coach. That will make up the time.”