When subjected to Irene’s delicate inquiries on the subject, the duchess showed no signs of diminishing affection for her Italian or any inclination of changing her mind, and Henry gave her no indication he was coming to accept that fact.
She racked her brains for a solution. She talked it all over with Clara numerous times. To no avail.
She began to feel quite desperate. With only a handful of days left before her deadline was up, Irene lay in bed, wide awake, and not because of any delicious memories of kissing the Duke of Torquil. But even after going over the whole business again and again, she had no solution. If only she could seek out someone’s advice.
Advice. Was that a possibility?
Irene shoved back the counterpane, got out of bed, and lit a lamp. Padding over to the writing desk beneath her window, she sat down, pulled out notepaper, and took a moment to compose her thoughts. Satisfied, she inked her pen and began to write.
Dear Lady Truelove . . .
She began at the beginning, putting the whole business down in a letter to her famous literary creation. As she wrote, she couldn’t help feeling this was a pointless exercise, but she continued on. Her brain began to chide her that it was silly to think that writing herself a letter was going to resolve anything, yet she continued.
“You see, Lady Truelove,” she murmured out loud as she wrote, “Torquil is convinced that Foscarelli is out only for the money, but I am not. The duchess’s judgment is sound, I am sure, but what if she and I are both wrong and Torquil is right? And even if he is the one who is wrong, what would convince him that money is not this man’s only motive? I had advised no dowry, only an allowance, but—”
She stopped talking and her pen stilled, and suddenly in her mind, her next move lay before her, bright and shining like a new penny. “Foscarelli has to agree to forgo the dowry,” she murmured. “It’s the only way Henry will let me off the hook.”
Relieved that at last she had a plan, Irene put her pen down, blew out the lamp, and returned to bed. She didn’t know if she would succeed, but her worry had vanished, for when her head hit the pillow, she fell instantly asleep.
The following day, she put her plan into action. Josie obtained Foscarelli’s address for her, and though her face was alight with curiosity, she asked no questions. That evening, when everyone else went out to a concert and supper, she pleaded a headache, dressed herself all in black, and took a taxi up to Camden Town.
Antonio Foscarelli lived in a modest, but respectable service flat. As the taxi pulled up in front and came to a halt, Irene pulled the black veil attached to her hat down over her face. With her identity disguised from any journalists who might be watching Foscarelli’s residence for signs of the duchess, or any other female who might call upon the artist, Irene stepped down from the vehicle. She paid the driver, then handed him an additional shilling. “Wait here. I will return in half an hour.”
The driver tipped his cap in agreement, and she entered the building. She took the stairs to the second floor and paused in front of No. 2, the suite of rooms to the right of the staircase. Upon her knock, the door was opened by a well-dressed, very superior-looking manservant, who took in the appearance of a veiled woman in dark clothes on his master’s doorstep with perfect equanimity. She hoped that was due to his excellence as a servant and not as a testament to his master’s character.
“May I help you, madam?”
Safe from prying eyes now, Irene pulled back her veil. “I wish to see Mr. Foscarelli, please.”
“Whom shall I say is calling?”
“I am a friend of the duchess.”
The manservant gave a slight bow and opened the door at once. “This way,” he said, leading her into a parlor that, to Irene’s middle-class eyes, seemed daringly bohemian. The walls were painted a vivid emerald-green and hung with gilt mirrors, evoking the mood of a Parisian salon. Tall peacock feathers stood in a vase, there were stacks of books and distinct traces of cigarette smoke, and a painting of a partially clad woman hung on the wall above the fireplace.
Irene smiled a little at the sight of it, recalling Henry’s words about the artist. His intent had been to lower her opinion of Foscarelli, of course, but if this was an example of the man’s work, she could see why women liked to be painted by him, for the image was excellently rendered and not at all salacious. It was, in fact, a tasteful rendering, and the subject, though beautiful, was not one of those pubescent girls that artists seem so fond of depicting in the nude. She was, perhaps, about Irene’s own age, or a bit older.
“My late wife.”
She turned at the sound of a man’s voice, and found herself face-to-face with the man considered to be one of London’s most notorious bachelors. With the fair coloring and pale skin of northern Italy, he was good-looking, but not extraordinarily so, and he was shorter than she might have expected. “A most excellent work,” she answered.
“Thank you.” He gestured to a settee of dark blue velvet, and Irene sat down, settling her dark skirts around her. He took the chair opposite. “My valet tells me you are a friend of the duchessa?”
She smiled a little. “And perhaps a friend of yours, as well.”
That, understandably, surprised him. He tilted his head, studying her with a puzzled frown. “Do I know you, Signora?”
“Yes, you do, in a way. I am Lady Truelove.”
Chapter 15
Henry stared out the window as the taxi in which he was riding pulled into Thornhill Square in Camden Town. He hadn’t planned to come here, and even now, after nearly forty minutes in the taxi, he wasn’t the least bit sure he was doing the right thing.
He was ignoring the rules of his upbringing, the good manners and restraint of a lifetime, and his own common sense. Self-doubt wasn’t an emotion he often allowed himself, but given that his whole world was a bit topsy-turvy at present, he supposed he was entitled to a little self-doubt.
Irene, of course, was the cause of much of that.
Don’t you think you should meet him for yourself before you judge his character?
