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“I read it, the five inches they printed in the Times,” he said. “He was arguing for a royal commission on housing because the prior remedies have increased the evil.”

“Sound and fury, signifying nothing,” responded Aunt Marian tartly. “These politicians all mean to trounce their opponents or line their own pockets, probably both. You won’t see them righting wrongs in Shoreditch.”

“The two of you are not debating on the floor of Parliament,” broke in Mrs. Cantrell, her voice shaking. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re in a house that’s about to be demolished. I don’t think we’ve time for debates.”

“Niamh,” said Mr. Cantrell and opened his arms. She walked into his embrace and he held her. The tenderness of his posture contrasted with his grim expression.

Aunt Marian had laid both her hands atop her sewing machine. Lucy knew she was calculating their resources, totting up what it was all worth: their furniture, their stock, their sewing kits, their linens, their shoes.

Lucy rose slowly on rubbery legs. She felt strange, at once hot and cold. She had to do something.

The Duke of Weston. He’d wanted to establish a royal commission on housing. He’d wanted to address the evils caused by eviction, jobbery, and corruption.

She could race to the George and Dragon and fly in the face of James Purcell.

Or she could race to Mayfair and apply to the Duke of Weston. Both options felt absurd, pointless. She couldn’t overcome James Purcell by force. Nor could she influence a duke’s political agenda.

She had to try one or the other.

Before she’d thought to formulate her plan, she was running up the back stairs for her cloak.

Chapter Six

The walk from the omnibus was cold and wet. When she reached Park Lane and the Duke of Weston’s town house came into view, she stopped for a moment to stare. It was grand, of course, but rather ugly, the front plain, clad in Bath stone, an austere portico the only relief from flatness. A chilly-looking place.

Good. Serves him right.

A sudden cloudburst forced her to run across the forecourt. She dashed up the steps and took shelter between pediments, glaring at the enormous door. Had a more bedraggled person ever banged the knocker? She doubted it.

The butler confirmed her suspicions. His face was expressionless, its denial absolute. He cut an extraordinary figure, whippet thin, tall and straight, holding the door open at a doubtful angle. His baldness seemed to indict hair itself for mess and immoderation. Certainly, Lucy had never so felt quite so painfully self-aware of hers. She looked a fright.

She tried to sniff to recover her dignity and sneezed.

“Please advise His Grace that Miss Coover is here,” she said. “The painter.”

The butler’s disapproval deepened. The sharp lines in his face might have been carved with a knife. She peered past him into the entrance hall, high ceilinged and brightly lit. At the end of it, a marble staircase curved toward the upper story, the handrail and newel-posts twinkling like gems. They were made of crystal.

She was so close. But that glowing interior seemed another world. Infinitely out of reach.

She should have tried the servants’ entrance. Why in God’s name had she marched up the front steps? She could blame the rain, but her pride was the culprit.

Probably she’d have fared no better with a footman. She might have pretended she was after a job in service, begged to see the housekeeper, then dodged down a hall and crept to Weston’s study via the back stairs. But this was not a house likely to tolerate irregularities of dress or temperament in prospective maids. Front door, back door. There was no entrance that suited.

“Do you have a card, Miss Coover?” The butler’s posture did not change, but the door creaked slightly, giving him away. He was already angling back inside, preparing to shut her out. Desperation forced her hand.

She couldn’t turn back now.

“A card?” She hesitated. “Of course. My card.”

She lowered her head, hunching over, as though preparing to rifle through her bag for the requested item. From that position, she lunged forward and ducked beneath his arm. Her wet shoes squelched on the marble floor as she darted down the hall.

• • •

Lavinia Yardley was ignoring the commotion in the hallway, pressing determinedly on with her side of the conversation. Her side was the only side.

Anthony had spent the past quarter hour twisted uncomfortably in an overstuffed chair, trying to catch her father’s eye. He’d called a meeting with Yardley to query him about the rent increases on the Hampshire estate. Somehow that request had translated into a tea party. Yardley seemed to imagine Lavinia’s presence would lift Anthony’s spirits. Certainly, Yardley was in good humor. He nodded frequently as his daughter spoke. Sometimes he laughed.

He was a gingery man, with the sort of broad face that positively wreathed with smiles. Throughout Anthony’s boyhood, his ready warmth had provided a welcome contrast to his father’s unremitting coldness. In fact, it was hard to reconcile the differences in their personalities with their decades-long friendship. But friends they’d been, grown close through the first family tragedy, and inseparable after the second. Yardley had become his father’s confidant and adviser. And his go-between.