“But it is my name.”
“But you don’t like it.”
“Impossible man.” Sweet, though. Undeniably sweet as honey.
He shifted from one foot to the other then back again. “He’s wrong, you know.” His voice never made it above a harsh whisper.
“Lockham?”
He nodded.
“About what?”
He swallowed and looked out over the assembled crowd. “Art.” He looked to his left, then to his right, then inched closer to Maggie. He dropped his head low so only she could hear. “Art is not for the wealthy alone. And it’s not simply entertainment.You’reright. It can be improving for everyone. It isnecessaryfor everyone. It can teach us how to live and how to be better than we are now. It can show us what to love and what to hate about humanity. I think even the most purposeful item—a chair, a shoe, a pitchfork, even—should be designed with utmost care. Its purpose is beautiful, so its outer form should mirror that beauty. And just as a pitchfork has purpose and beauty, so too should those who wield it. Why must art be the purview of the ruling classes alone? What about Mr. Burns?”
Maggie couldn’t look away from Tobias’s profile. His curls dipped over his forehead and candlelight glittered around him. The urge to kiss his cheek compelled her forward yet froze her to the spot. The larger the desire grew, the more she resisted it.
Tobias dipped lower, his lips closer to her ear. “You do know Robert Burns, yes?”
She nodded, licking her lips. She knew Mr. Burns words by memory. “‘O my Luve’s like a red, red rose / That’s newly sprung in June. O, my Luve’s like the melodie / That’s sweetly play’d in tune.’”
Tobias growled out a husky response. “‘As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, / So deep in luve am I; / and I will luve thee still, my Dear, / Till a’ the seas gang dry.’”
The words, sung in his scratchy voice woke up every inch of her skin. It prickled under his intense gaze. She felt alone with him, despite the presence of a multitude of potential onlookers.
Oh dear. Potential onlookers. Maggie glanced furtively around the room. No one seemed to notice them. They had all returned to their own private conversations after her mother had removed Lockham from sight. Well, except Miss Scarlett. She waggled her fingers and winked when Maggie caught her eye. Maggie cleared her throat and popped a step away from Tobias. “I see you know Robert Burns quite well.”
He quirked a grin. “You like Rabbie Burns,” he said with a bad Scottish accent.
She nodded. “A farmer and a farmer’s son, born in a two-room cottage.”
“A self-taught man, and the most celebrated poet in his country.” Tobias raised an eyebrow, as if daring any eavesdroppers around them to challenge him. “And an influence to some of England’s greatest poets.”
“Exactly,” Maggie breathed. “One does not have to be a marquess or a marquess’s daughter to be an artist and to appreciate beauty.” She felt the truth of it in her bones. And, strange miracle, so too it seemed did Mr. Blake. She studied his countenance, looking for some sort of clue he lied. His usual sparkle remained evident, but gaiety did not mean untruth.
Tobias placed the tip of his index finger on the tip of her chin. “No, one does not.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “So, what do you plan to do about it?”
Maggie shook her head to escape the fog of feeling Tobias had wrapped her in without knowing. “About what?”
“Your beliefs about art. Will you make every child from here to London a beautiful blanket? Will you commission paintings for every farmer’s home or hire poets to recite their lines on factory floors?”
“I … I had not thought about it.” She’d been too busy trying to fix her own problems to do much about the problems of others. Perhaps once she’d blackmailed the Mathematical Baron and fixed her family’s finances, she could turn her problem-solving ingenuity to other endeavors. Oh yes, the blackmail. She’d almost forgotten. And what sweet bliss it had been while it lasted. “Thank you for being so clumsy, Mr. Blake, but I’m afraid I must retire to bed.” She yawned as true exhaustion hit her like an ocean wave.
“I won’t keep you any longer.” He grinned. “I’m happy to be clumsy whenever necessary.”
She yawned again and hid it behind the back of her hand. “When priggish artists are about?”
“Precisely.” He turned her and pushed her toward the door. “Sleep, woman.”
She nodded and let her feet carry her to her bedroom. But she would not slip into sweet oblivion anytime soon.
She had a letter to write.
Chapter 8
Maggie stripped to a clean shift and her maid settled her dressing robe around her shoulders before leaving her alone with only the crackling fire for conversation. She slipped her arms into her robe, pulled it tight, and crawled into the middle of her bed, uncovering her notebook from under her pillow. She laid it on the counterpane in front of her and frowned at it. “You can do this.” She opened the book to a blank page and set her pencil to its surface.
Sir, I am in possession of information about your activities that may concern you. More importantly, it may concern others. What I know could ruin you in the minds of the best families of our society. If you do not wish to lose what standing you have, you’ll
