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‘There’s soup downstairs on the old witch’s range, but I’m scared to go down there. She’ll put me in a pot and boil me for her dinner.’
Josephine groaned and turned her head away. ‘Have you ever heard such nonsense? I’m supposed to be looked after by that stupid girl.’
‘I’m not stupid, missis,’ Biddy muttered.
‘Come with me,’ Nettie said firmly. ‘We’ll go down together. Ma Burton may be an old witch, but she doesn’t eat people.’
Biddy backed away, but a fierce look from Josephine sent her scurrying for the door. ‘All right, I’ll go, but you must come with me, miss.’
‘We’ll be back in two ticks.’ Nettie lowered her voice. ‘She’s just a child and she’s scared.’
Josephine’s lips trembled. ‘I need someone like you – someone capable and caring, not a silly little girl.’
Nettie gave up her attempt to reason with the irritable patient and followed Biddy from the room.
Ma Burton was tucking into a bowl of soup with evident enjoyment. Nettie suspected that Ma had helped herself from the Lorimers’ saucepan, but it would cause trouble if anything was said. Biddy kept so close to Nettie that she might have been mistaken for her shadow, but Ma Burton was too busy eating to make a fuss. To Nettie’s astonishment, she allowed them to take the pan and leave without adding anything extra to the usual charge of one penny for use of the range.
‘There, you see, she’s not so bad after all,’ Nettie said as they climbed the stairs to the ground floor.
With the hot pan wrapped in her apron, Biddy was careful not to spill a drop. ‘The missis will probably throw the soup at me – that’s what she did last time. I had bits of carrot stuck in me hair for days afterwards.’
‘I’ll make sure she behaves better today.’ Nettie struggled to keep a straight face. She could understand the frustration on both sides: Biddy was a child, taken from the orphanage because she was cheap labour; Josephine was the unhappy wife of a neglectful husband, with no recourse other than to play on her delicate constitution in order to gain attention. Nettie resigned herself to taking charge of the situation until Josephine was fed and comfortable, and, Nettie hoped, in a better mood. Biddy would no doubt improve out of all recognition if someone took her in hand, but that was unlikely to happen in the Lorimer household.
If Josephine was grateful for the food and Nettie’s undivided attention, she hid it well. She complained that the soup was too hot, and that it was too salty. She nibbled a slice of bread and butter Nettie prepared for her and then threw herself back on the cushions, complaining of a headache.
‘Fetch my medicine, girl,’ Josephine said feebly. ‘I need laudanum. Hurry up, you silly child.’
Biddy stood on tiptoe to reach the brown glass bottle set up high on the mantelshelf. ‘I’m doing it as fast as I can.’
‘There, you see what I have to put up with, Nettie.’ Josephine held her hand out. ‘Give me the bottle, girl, and pour me some water. Not too much.’
Nettie took the laudanum from Biddy. ‘Has the doctor prescribed this, Mrs Lorimer?’
‘Mind your own business and give it to me.’
‘I have a better idea,’ Nettie said, glancing out of the window. ‘The sun is shining so why don’t you come for a walk with me? I’m delivering this gown to Madame Fabron at the theatre. Wouldn’t you like to see them in rehearsal?’
Josephine clutched her hands to her bosom. ‘I haven’t been outside these rooms for over a year.’
‘But you can walk,’ Nettie said firmly. ‘You aren’t in pain.’
‘I have pain everywhere, and I am so tired, but I can’t sleep at night.’
‘She is always saying that,’ Biddy added, nodding vigorously. ‘She is always complaining.’
‘Be quiet,’ Josephine snapped. ‘Who asked you, girl?’
‘It isn’t far to walk to the stage door of the Adelphi. Why not make an effort, Mrs Lorimer? The fresh air will do you good, and maybe you’ll feel a little better. You might even see Miss Furtado rehearsing, if you’re lucky.’
Josephine raised herself to a sitting position. ‘I saw Teresa Furtado perform at Drury Lane. We used to go to the theatre often before I became ill.’
‘If Biddy will fetch your outdoor things, we’ll see if you can manage to get that far. You won’t know unless you try. We’ll help you.’
It took twice as long to get to the stage door than it would have done had Nettie been on her own, but between them, she and Biddy managed to cajole, bully and half-carry a reluctant Josephine Lorimer to the theatre. Once inside there seemed to be a minor miracle and Josephine was suddenly alert and smiling. She walked unaided to the dressing room that Madame Fabron shared with all the minor female characters, and when Amelie Fabron appeared and offered to take them into the auditorium to watch the dress rehearsal, Josephine accepted eagerly. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes alight with excitement. It was a complete transformation, and she sat in the front row of the stalls, gazing in delight at the stage.
‘I have to do an errand for my father,’ Nettie said in a low voice.
‘Shhh!’ Josephine held her finger to her lips.
Nettie sighed and turned to Biddy, who seemed equally thrilled with the rehearsal. ‘Will you be all right if I leave you here?’
‘Isn’t Miss Furtado beautiful?’ Biddy breathed, dreamy-eyed.
Nettie could see that she was getting nowhere and she left them enraptured and in a world of their own. She would happily have remained with them, but she needed to find Duke Dexter as a matter of urgency. It was fortunate that Ma Burton had, for once, been more interested in her food than in demanding the rent arrears, but that situation would not last, and Ma’s boys used methods of persuasion that were brutal and very effective. As Pa said, ‘What use is an artist with a broken hand or missing fingers?’ They were not in that position as yet, but that could change.
Dexter’s gallery was in fashionable Dover Street, patronised by the rich and famous. Nettie hesitated before entering, smoothing her creased gown and straightening her bonnet. The fashionably dressed ladies and gentlemen looked at her askance as they strolled past, and she felt dowdy and out of place. Then, out of the corner of her eyes, she saw a man lurking in a doorway further up the street. His battered top hat and oversized black jacket both had the green tinge of age, and his lank hair hung loose around his shoulders. Nettie observed all these details in the brief moment before he ducked out of sight, but his appearance had disturbed her and her active imagination had him marked as someone up to no good. She took a deep breath and let herself into the gallery.
The elegant interior was furnished with antique chairs and Persian carpets, and the walls were adorned with gilt-framed paintings. Bowls of spring flowers scented the air and clients were greeted by Pendleton, a thin, balding man dressed in a black frock coat, neatly pressed pinstripe trousers and a dazzlingly white shirt. The lack of hair on his pate was compensated for by a wildly curling ginger moustache, the waxed tips of which quivered every time he spoke. Nettie found herself mesmerised by his facial hair, which seemed to have a life of its own.
‘How may I be of service, Miss Carroll?’ Pendleton raised his hand to twirl his moustache with delicate twists of his long fingers.
It was a routine they enacted each time Nettie entered the gallery. ‘I’d like to see Mr Dexter on a matter of business.’
Pendleton’s tea-coloured eyes met hers with a condescending smile. ‘Are you a purchaser or a vendor today, Miss Carroll?’
She was tempted to tell him to mind his own business, but that would only make matters worse. Pendleton was in his own little kingdom and, if he so wished, he could prevent her from seeing Dexter even if his employer was on the premises.
‘I have something that Mr Dexter wants, Mr Pendleton.’
‘I’ll see if he’s in his office. Excuse me, miss.’ Pendleton bowed and walked away at a leisurely pace.
Nettie glanced round anxiously. She was even more conscious of her shabby clothes and down-at-heel boots, and she was aware of the curious glances of the well-dressed clientele who were wandering about, studying the works of art that were presented on easels or hanging from the walls.
Pendleton reappeared after what felt like an eternity. ‘Mr Dexter can spare you a moment or two, Miss Carroll.’
‘Thank you, I know the way.’ Nettie hesitated. ‘It may be nothing, Mr Pendleton, but I saw someone acting suspiciously just a few doors down from here. He seemed to be watching the gallery.’
Pendleton was suddenly alert. ‘Describe him, if you please.’ He listened intently. ‘Wegg, he said tersely. ‘Samson Wegg – he’s a private detective – a police informer with a long-held and very bitter grudge against Mr Dexter. Don’t have anything to do with him, miss. Wegg is a nasty piece of work.’
‘I’m not likely to speak to someone like that, Mr Pendleton.’
‘Quite right. Wegg is trouble, so I suggest you leave now, miss.’
‘But I must see Mr Dexter. I won’t take up much of his time.’ Nettie pushed past Pendleton and headed for a door that led downstairs to the basement. It was here that Duke Dexter stored the most valuable works in his collection, and the copies that he sold to art lovers who could not afford to purchase the originals. Nettie negotiated the narrow stairs, ending in a room below street level where some daylight filtered in from a barred window set high in the wall, but the main light source in the room came from a gasolier in the centre of the ceiling. Duke was using a magnifying glass to examine an oil painting in minute detail.
‘Come in, Nettie, my dear.’ He turned to her with the smile that she had seen him use on his wealthy patrons when he wished to charm them out of large sums of money. His dark eyes set beneath winged eyebrows gave him a saturnine look, which vanished when a slow smile curved his lips. He was a handsome man, who knew how to use his looks and fine figure to best advantage when it came to charming prospective customers, but Nettie could not rid herself of the nagging suspicion that he was secretly laughing at her and her father. ‘It’s always a pleasure to see you, my dear, but you seem to have arrived empty handed.’
‘You know very well that I couldn’t carry a wet oil painting through the streets, let alone climb on board an omnibus with it in my hands.’
He placed the magnifying glass on a table nearby and turned to her with eyebrows raised. ‘The canvas ought to have been delivered to me three weeks ago. I suppose that’s why Robert sent you to brave the lion in his den. More excuses, I suppose?’
Nettie put her head on one side. ‘I don’t think of you as a lion, Duke. You’re more of a panther, sleek and dangerous and best avoided. I wish my father had never met you.’
‘I’m only dangerous to those who attempt to deceive me or do me harm.’ He pulled up a chair. ‘Won’t you take a seat?’
‘Thank you, but I’d rather stand.’ Nettie faced him with a defiant stare. ‘Pa is still working on the painting. He sent me to tell you that it won’t be finished for another day or two.’
‘Your father has let me down several times and it won’t do.’
‘He’s an artist, and he’s a brilliant one. He’s too good for this sort of thing, and you could help him more if you set your mind to it.’
Duke’s eyes narrowed and his winged brows drew together over the bridge of his nose. ‘I didn’t ask for your opinion, and I don’t take kindly to criticism when, in fact, I’ve saved your father from bankruptcy several times over.’
‘Then why don’t you hang his original works in your gallery? Why are you encouraging him to make copies?’
‘The truth, if you want to hear it, is that your father is a second-rate painter, but a first-rate copyist. My wealthy clients are prepared to pay handsomely for works that they believe are original. It makes them happy and we all benefit.’
‘I thought as much. You take their money under false pretences,’ Nettie countered angrily. ‘You give Pa a small fraction of what you take and, he doesn’t realise it, but he’s risking imprisonment and ruin if he’s found out.’
‘I have the contacts and I am a businessman first and foremost.’
‘You are a criminal and a trickster.’
‘I dare say you’re right, but Robert is in this too deep to stop now. Or perhaps you’d rather see your father lose everything, including his reputation?’
‘No, of course not,’ Nettie said angrily. ‘I’m going to tell him what you’re up to.’
Duke moved closer so that she could feel the heat of his body, and the scent of spice, citrus and maleness filled her head with dizzying effect. He leaned towards her so that their faces were inches apart. ‘You can’t prove it and I will deny everything. Robert will believe me because he needs me. Either you accept the situation and do your best to keep him out of trouble, or you face the consequences brought about by your father’s frailty. It’s your choice, Nettie. What’s it to be?’
She looked into his dark eyes and knew that he had won this time, but she was not beaten. ‘What do you want me to do?’
He backed away, smiling. ‘That’s better. That wasn’t too difficult, was it?’ He picked up the magnifying glass and turned away to study the painting. ‘Tell Robert to bring it to me when he’s satisfied that it will pass the closest scrutiny, but I want it soon or there’s no deal, and I’ll find someone who will work faster.’
‘Why don’t you tell him yourself?’ Nettie faced him angrily. ‘You could come to our rooms and see the painting as it is now. You know very well that it will take weeks, if not months to dry.’
‘Which is why I want to have it and keep it safe.’ Duke leaned towards her, narrowing his eyes. ‘Your father is paid to do as I say. He’d do well to remember that, and so would you.’
‘One day you’ll meet your match, Duke.’ Nettie walked away without waiting for a response.
Chapter Two (#u927bd60e-443d-5d9c-b74f-fa197a2d0d32)
‘Don’t take it to heart, Nettie,’ Robert said calmly when she finished recounting her experience in the art gallery. ‘Duke is like that with everyone. I wouldn’t normally associate with someone like him, but he pays well.’
‘He’s a criminal, Pa. He’s exploiting your talent for his own ends. He gives you a pittance for your work and makes a fortune for himself. I don’t agree with what you’re doing.’
Robert put his palette down and sighed. ‘You’re wrong, my dear. Duke has kept us out of the workhouse and he pays well. One day I will get one of my original paintings accepted by the Royal Academy and I’ll never have to make another copy.’
Nettie sighed and shook her head. ‘Do you know a man called Samson Wegg? He was hanging around outside the gallery. Pendleton said he’s a police informer.’
‘I don’t know the fellow personally, Nettie. Duke has upset a great many people in the past, and I suspect that Wegg is one of them. It’s nothing to do with us.’
She knew that it was useless to argue. ‘I’ll leave you to get on, Pa. Just remember that Dexter wants the painting urgently.’
‘It’s nearly finished, and I’m going to the Lamb and Flag for some refreshment.’
‘Must you, Pa? We owe Ma Burton three weeks’ rent.’
‘I’ve been working hard, Nettie. A pint of ale won’t bankrupt us.’
Nettie bit back a sharp retort. There was no reasoning with Pa when he was in this mood. ‘What shall I do about supper?’
Robert stripped off his smock and reached for his jacket and hat. ‘Don’t worry about me, dear. I’ll get something at the pub. You should have enough change from the paint to buy yourself a pie.’ He kissed her on the cheek and sauntered from the room.
Nettie stared after him, shaking her head. Duke Dexter was undoubtedly a ruthless criminal who had led her father into a life of crime, and Pa was both feckless and easily duped, but she herself must take some of the blame for the fact that she had no money for food. She should not have spent so much on the notebook, and she could have walked from Piccadilly in order to save the bus fare. Yet again she would go to bed hungry – unless there was good news from the publishing house. It was some weeks since she had submitted the manuscript of her first novella, Arabella’s Dilemma, a gothic tale of passion and revenge, which was as good, she hoped, as anything that Ann Radcliffe had penned in The Mysteries of Udolpho, or Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Nettie had changed her style since writing about Arabella’s adventures, but if the story was accepted it would give her a measure of independence, and relieve the pressure on her father to become ever more involved with Duke. There was nothing for it but to put on her bonnet and shawl and venture out again, although this time it was on an errand of her own. She set off for Soho and the small publishing house that had been her last resort. All the major publishers had rejected her manuscript, but Dorning and Lacey were yet to reply.
Nettie left the office in Frith Street with the manuscript tucked under her shawl. The clerk behind the desk had been sympathetic, but was obviously practised in dealing with disappointed authors. The rejection letter was similar to the others she had received for previous attempts at writing fiction, giving her little hope of furthering her ambition to see her work in print. It had begun to rain, and although it was probably just an April shower, it was heavy enough to soak her to the skin in a few minutes, adding to her frustration, and she was hungry. Perhaps this was her punishment for squandering money instead of putting it towards the rent arrears.
She arrived home at the same time as Byron. He took one look at her and his smile of welcome faded. ‘Good Lord, Nettie. Where’ve you been? You look like a drowned rat – I mean,’ he added quickly, ‘you don’t actually look like a rat – it’s just an expression, but you are very bedraggled.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ Nettie said ruefully. ‘I got caught in a shower.’
He opened the door and held it for her. ‘You’d better get out of those wet things before you catch cold.’
She put her finger to her lips. ‘Tiptoe or Biddy will leap out and ask for help. I’ve been caught once like that today.’
Byron followed her, treading as softly as was possible for a tall young man who looked as though he would be more at home on the cricket pitch or playing a game of tennis than working in the city. However, despite his boyish appearance, he was the person Nettie trusted the most.
They managed to get past the Lorimers’ door without being waylaid, and Nettie could only hope that the outing to the theatre might have done sickly Josephine some good. They continued up the next flight in silence, but when they reached the second floor and Nettie was about to say goodbye to Byron, he caught her by the hand.
‘Before you go upstairs, I wanted to ask you to join us for dinner tonight, Nettie. It’s my birthday and I’m treating the chaps to dinner at the Gaiety Restaurant – I’d be honoured if you’d come, too.’
The mere thought of a decent meal made Nettie’s mouth water, but the Gaiety was expensive and she knew that Byron earned little enough without making extravagant gestures. ‘That sounds wonderful, but can you afford it? I mean, dining there isn’t cheap.’
He winked and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Ask no questions and you’ll be told no lies,’ he said, laughing. ‘Don’t look so worried, Nettie. I had the winning ticket in a sweepstake at work. I can’t think of a better way to spend the money than to treat my best friends.’
Nettie put on her best gown of pale blue silk with a modest décolleté. Four years ago her father had had a run of good fortune. He had promised to take her to Paris to see the works of art in the Louvre and had even gone to the trouble of obtaining passports. Added to that, in a sudden fit of generosity, he had taken her to a fashionable salon and had chosen the outfit himself, but styles had changed subtly since then. Nettie had had to use all her sewing skills to bring the garment up to date, but when they entered the smart Gaiety Restaurant she felt like a sparrow amongst brightly coloured birds of paradise. She was dowdy in comparison to the elegant ladies present, but if Byron, Pip and Ted were not as smartly dressed as the other gentlemen they did not seem to know or to care. Their appearances passed largely unnoticed, whereas Nettie could feel the patronising and sometimes pitying glances from other women. They would know almost to the day when her gown had been bought, and probably the very salon from which it had been purchased.
Despite her discomfort, Nettie held her head high as Byron led the way past a table where several young men in evening suits were enjoying themselves noisily.
‘Students. More money than sense.’ Ted moved on swiftly, but one of the party had apparently overhead his remark and the young man staggered to his feet.
‘What did you say, sir?’
‘Sit down, Rufus.’ One of his friends caught him by the arm. ‘We’ll get thrown out if you don’t behave.’
‘The fellow just insulted us, Percy.’ Rufus steadied himself, and his belligerent expression was wiped away by a slightly lopsided smile as he spotted Nettie. ‘A thousand pardons, most beautiful lady.’
‘Shut up, Norwood. You’re drunk.’ Percy tried to stand but fell back on his chair.
