Nettie’s Secret

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Dilly Court 2019

Jacket Photographs: © Gordon Crabb/Alison Eldred (Girl); Claire Ward (building); Shutterstock.com (all other images)

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Dilly Court asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008287719

Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008287726

Version: 2019-10-17

Dedication

For my great-granddaughter,

Marcy Charlotte-Ann Avant.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Dilly Court

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Covent Garden, 1875

Robert Carroll appeared in the doorway of his attic studio, wiping his hands on his already paint-stained smock. A streak of Rose Madder appeared like a livid gash on his forehead. ‘Nettie, I want you to go to Winsor and Newton in Rathbone Place and get me some more Cobalt Blue, Indian Yellow and Zinc White. I can’t finish this painting without them.’

Nettie looked up from the garment she had been mending. ‘Do you need them urgently, Pa? I promised to finish this for Madame Fabron. It’s the opening night of her play at the Adelphi, and she must have her gown.’

‘And I have to finish this commission, or I won’t get paid and we’ll find ourselves homeless. We’re already behind with the rent, and Ma Burton isn’t the most reasonable of souls.’

‘All right, Pa. I’ll go, but I thought we didn’t have any money, which was why we had nothing but onions for supper last night.’ Reluctantly, Nettie laid her sewing aside.

‘Food is not important when art is concerned, Nettie,’ Robert said severely. ‘I can’t finish my work without paint, and if I don’t get this canvas to Dexter by tomorrow there’ll be trouble.’ He took some coins from his pocket and pressed them into her hand. ‘Go now, and hurry.’

‘I know you think the world of Duke Dexter, but how do you know that the copies you make of old masters’ works aren’t passed off as the real thing?’ Nettie pocketed the money. ‘You only have Duke’s word for the fact that he sells your canvases as reproductions.’

‘Nonsense, Nettie. Duke is a respectable art dealer with a gallery in Paris as well as in London.’ Robert ran his hand through his hair, leaving it more untidy than ever. ‘And even if he weren’t an honest dealer, what would you have me do? Commissions don’t come my way often enough to support us, even in this rat-infested attic.’

‘I still think you ought to check up on him, Pa.’

‘Stop preaching at me, Nettie. Be a good girl and get the paint or we’ll both starve to death.’

‘You have such talent, Pa,’ Nettie said sadly. ‘It’s a pity to squander it by making copies of other people’s work.’ She snatched up her bonnet and shawl and left her father to get on as best he could until she returned with the urgently needed paints. Everything was always done in a panic, and their way of living had been one of extremes ever since she could remember. When Robert Carroll sold one of his canvases they lived well and, despite Nettie’s attempts to save something for the lean times to come, her father had a habit of spending freely without any thought to the future.

Nettie made her way down the narrow, twisting staircase to the second floor, where the two rooms were shared by the friends who had kept her spirits up during the worst of hard times. Byron Horton, whom she thought of as a much-loved big brother, was employed as a clerk by a firm in Lincoln’s Inn. Nettie had been tempted to tell him that she suspected Marmaduke Dexter of being a fraud, but that might incriminate her father and so she had kept her worries to herself. The other two young men were Philip Ransome, known fondly as Pip, who worked in the same law office as Byron, and Ted Jones, whose tender heart had been broken so many times by his choice of lady friend that it had become a standing joke. Ted worked for the Midland Railway Company, and was currently suffering from yet another potentially disastrous romantic entanglement.

Nettie hurried down the stairs, past the rooms where the family of actors resided when they were in town, as was now the case. Madame Fabron had a small part in the play Notre-Dame, or The Gypsy Girl of Paris, at the Adelphi Theatre, with Monsieur Fabron in a walk-on role, and their daughter, Amelie, was understudy to the leading lady, Teresa Furtado, who was playing Esmeralda. The Fabrons were of French origin, but they had been born and bred in Poplar. They adopted strong French accents whenever they left the building in the same way that others put on their overcoats, but this affectation obviously went well in the theatrical world as they were rarely out of work. Fortunately for Nettie, neither Madame nor her daughter could sew, and Nettie was kept busy mending the garments they wore on and off stage.

She continued down the stairs to the ground floor, where sickly Josephine Lorimer lived with her husband, a journalist, who was more often away from home than he was resident, and a young maidservant, Biddy, a child plucked from an orphanage. Nettie quickened her pace, not wanting to get caught by Biddy, who invariably asked for help with one thing or another, and was obviously at her wits’ end when trying to cope with her ailing mistress. Not that she had many wits in the first place, according to Robert Carroll, who said she was a simpleton. Nettie knew this to be untrue, but today she was in a hurry and she was desperate to avoid their landlady, Ma Burton, who inhabited the basement like a huge spider clad in black bombazine, waiting for her prey to wander into her web. Ma Burton was a skinflint, who knew how to squeeze the last penny out of any situation, and her cronies were shadowy figures who came and went in the hours of darkness. Added to that, Ma Burton’s sons were rumoured to be vicious bare-knuckle fighters, who brought terror to the streets of Seven Dials and beyond. It was well known that they were up for hire by any gang willing to pay for their services. It was best not to upset Ma and incur the wrath of her infamous offspring and their equally brutal friends.

Nettie escaped from the house overlooking the piazza of Covent Garden and St Paul’s, the actors’ church, and was momentarily dazzled by the sunshine reflecting off the wet cobblestones. She had missed a heavy April shower, and she had to sidestep a large puddle as she made her way down Southampton Street. It would have been quicker to cut through Seven Dials, but that was a rough area, even in daytime; after dark no one in their right mind would venture into the narrow alleys and courts that radiated off the seventeenth-century sundial, not even the police. Nettie stopped to count the coins her father had given her and decided there was enough for her bus fare to the Tottenham Court Road end of Oxford Street, and from there it was a short walk to the art shop in Rathbone Place. She must make haste – Violet Fabron would expect her gown to be finished well before curtain-up.

Nettie spotted a horse-drawn omnibus drawing to a halt in the Strand and she picked up her skirts and ran. The street was crowded with vehicles of all shapes and sizes, and with pedestrians milling about in a reckless manner, but this enabled Nettie to jump on board. As luck would have it, she found a vacant seat. One day, when she was rich, she would have her own carriage and she would sit back against velvet squabs, watching the rest of the population going about their business, but for now it was the rackety omnibus that bumped over the cobblestones and swayed from side to side like a ship on a stormy ocean, stopping to let passengers alight and taking on fresh human cargo. Steam rose from damp clothing, and the smell of wet wool and muddy boots combined with the sweat of humans and horseflesh. Nettie closed her mind to the rank odours and sat back, enjoying the freedom of being away from her cramped living quarters, if only for an hour or so.

Two hours later, Nettie returned home with the paints and two baked potatoes that she had purchased from a street vendor in Covent Garden.

Robert studied the small amount of change she had just given him. ‘The price of paint hasn’t gone up, has it?’

Nettie took off her bonnet and laid it on a chair in the living room. ‘No, Pa. I bought the potatoes because we need to eat. I’m so hungry that my stomach hurts.’

‘There should be more change than this.’

‘I had a cup of coffee, Pa. Surely you don’t begrudge me that?’

Robert shook his head. ‘No, of course not. I’m hungry, too. Thank you, dear.’ He took the potato and disappeared into his room.

Nettie sighed with relief as the door closed behind her father. She reached under her shawl and produced the new notebook that she had purchased in Oxford Street. It had cost every penny that she had earned from mending a tear in Monsieur Fabron’s best shirt, and she had supplemented it with a threepenny bit from the coins that her father had given her for his art supplies. Perhaps she should have spent the threepence on food, but she considered it money well spent, and paper, pen and ink were her only extravagance. Writing a romantic novel was more than a guilty pleasure; Nettie had been working on her story for over a year, and she hoped one day to see it published. But she dare not reveal the truth to Pa – he would tell her that she was wasting valuable time. No one in their right mind would want to pay good money for a work written by a twenty-year-old girl with very little experience of life and love. She knew exactly what Pa thought about ‘penny dreadfuls’ and he would be mortified if he thought that his daughter aspired to write popular fiction. It was her secret and she had told nobody, not even Byron or Pip, and Ted could not keep a secret to save his life. Poor Ted was still nursing a broken heart after being jilted by the young woman who worked in the nearby bakery; he wore black and had grown his hair long in the hope that he looked like a poet with a tragic past. Nettie had met the love of his life, Pearl Biggs, just the once, and that was enough to convince her that Ted was better off remaining a bachelor than tied to a woman who was no better than she should be.

Nettie hid the new notebook, along with two others already filled, beneath the cushions on the sofa, where she slept each night. She was in the middle of her story, and the characters played out their lives in her imagination while she went about her daily chores. Sometimes they intruded in her thoughts when she was least expecting it, but occasionally they refused to co-operate and she found herself with her pen poised and nothing to say.

She put the potato on a clean plate and went to sit on a chair in the window to enjoy the hot buttery flesh and the crisp outer skin, licking her fingers after each tasty bite. When she had eaten the last tiny morsel, she wiped her hands on a napkin and picked up her sewing. She concentrated on Madame Fabron’s gown, using tiny stitches to ensure that the darn was barely visible. Having finished, she put on her outdoor things and wrapped the gown in a length of butter muslin. She opened the door to her father’s studio.

‘I’m off to the theatre, Pa.’

‘The theatre?’

‘Yes, Pa. You remember, Madame Fabron needs her gown for the performance this evening.’

‘Oh, that. Yes, I do. Wretched woman thinks she can act. I’ve seen more talented performing horses. Don’t be long, Nettie. I want you to take a message to Duke. You’ll need to make full use of your feminine wiles because this painting won’t be finished today. He can come and view it, if he so wishes.’

‘Yes, Pa. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

Once again, Nettie left their rooms and made her way downstairs. She was tiptoeing past the Lorimers’ door when it opened and Biddy leaped out at her.

‘I heard you coming. I need help, Nettie. Mrs Lorimer’s having one of her funny turns.’

‘I’m sorry, Biddy. But I’m in a hurry.’

Biddy clutched Nettie’s arm. ‘Oh, please. I dunno what to do. She’s weeping and throwing things. I’m scared to death.’

‘All right, but I can only spare a couple of minutes.’ Nettie stepped inside the dark hallway and Biddy rushed past her to open the sitting-room door. The curtains were drawn and a fire burned in the grate, creating a fug. The smell of sickness lingered in the air. It took Nettie a moment to accustom her eyes to the gloom, but she could see Josephine Lorimer’s prostate figure on a chaise longue in front of the fire. She had one arm flung over her face and the other hanging limp over the side of the couch. Unearthly keening issued from her pale lips.

‘What’s the matter, Mrs Lorimer?’

Josephine moved her arm away from her face. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me, Nettie Carroll from upstairs. Biddy says you are unwell.’

‘I’m very ill. I think I’m dying and nobody cares.’

Nettie laid her hand on Josephine’s forehead, which was clammy but cool. ‘You don’t appear to have a fever. Perhaps if you sit up and try to keep calm you might feel better.’

‘How can I be calm when I am all alone in this dark room?’

Biddy shrank back into the shadows. ‘Is she dying?’

Nettie walked over to the window and drew the curtains, allowing a shaft of pale sunlight to filter in through the grimy windowpanes. ‘Mrs Lorimer would be better for a cup of tea and something to eat, Biddy. Have you anything prepared for her luncheon?’

‘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.