Papa,’ the girls chorused.
Exhaustion rose in him. ‘Very well. But I am holding you to your promise. A Vincent always keep his or her word.’
They hung their heads. ‘Yes, Papa.’
Nanny cocked her head on one side. ‘You did thank the lady, my lord? For bringing the girls home?’
Had he? All he recalled was trying to defend himself from her unwarranted attacks on his character. Damn, no doubt he’d been rude. He usually was these days. He didn’t have time for niceties and walking around on eggshells. ‘I will thank her next time I see her. And I will see you both at bedtime.’
He left before they convinced him to do something else that was against his better judgement. Frogs indeed. Apologies to rude young women. Yet another chance. Was he losing his grip on things?
He pitied the men who married his daughters. They wouldn’t stand a chance.
Not that he had any intention of letting any man within a hundred miles of them before they were at least twenty-five.
Perhaps he should try another governess. The girls had chased two off already. He needed one with a strong character.
* * *
Two days later, and after another foray into a bog closer to home, Marguerite could not get the sight of those dejected little girls out of her mind. Nor the way their father loomed over them. He’d been terrifying. Dark haired, broad shouldered, tall and ruggedly handsome. Handsome? Well and so he might be, but looks meant nothing. It was actions. He was clearly a brute.
She had wanted to say more on the matter of punishment, but she also knew that sometimes arguing with angry males only made them worse. She could only hope that he had calmed down before he decided on a punishment. He had seemed to listen to her words, even if he had seemed shocked by her temerity at speaking up.
She had quickly learned not to argue with Neville or he would find some way to hurt her: a pinch on her arm, a slap to the back of her head, places where no one would see the marks. But Neville was gone and she was dashed if she would remain silent while another man did things she did not like.
Marguerite stared at the dissected flower on the table. She needed to stop thinking about the broodingly handsome Lord Compton and his children and concentrate on drawing this plant. She only had this one to complete and she would have completed her contract and she could send them away. If all was approved, she should get her payment within two weeks.
Lord knew she needed it.
Instead of worrying about those two little girls she should be worrying about what was in the pantry for dinner. But that would have to come later, when she had finished this sketch. She picked up her ruler and measured each yellow petal.
* * *
When next she raised her gaze, she realised what had been troubling her for the past half-hour. She rubbed her eyes. It was almost too dark to see. With the light rapidly fading, she would have to finish the work tomorrow. She got up, stretched and lit two candles. Not enough to work by, but enough that she would not fall over the furniture.
She went down to the kitchen. Bread and cheese would have to do for this evening.
A scrap of paper sticking out from beneath her door caught her eye. Her stomach fell away. It could not be... He had given her a month to get the money together. She snatched up the paper and took it over to the table, where the light was better.
Five pounds. A week hence. To be deducted from the final payment.
She dropped her head in her hands. How on earth could she get five pounds in a week? She would have to meet him and explain.
Oh, what an idiot she had been to draw that picture. A thirteen-year-old idiot who had had the mad idea she would become famous and admired for her talent. Famous artist? What a joke. Yes, she was good at copying things exactly, but it had come as a rude awakening when she had discovered she did not have the skill required to bring her paintings to life. Technically good, the drawing master had said, but no flair. Peeved by the comments, she had launched herself into a furious caricature of her teacher. Her brothers and sister roared with laughter at her depiction. Encouraged, she had drawn their neighbours and friends, highlighting their foibles with what she thought was wit. Her siblings’ laughter and admiration had been heady, but, as they say, pride went before a fall. Drawing a very unflattering and lewd picture of the Prince of Wales with his mistress was the worst mistake she had ever made. What an idiot she had been to sign that dreadful sketch.
But hers wasn’t the only blame. Even she’d had the sense not to show anyone that particular sketch. She should have burned it. Of course, Neville, when he found it, had to show his horrid friends. Embarrassment rose in her in a hot, horrible tide. They had all seen it and laughed about it like nasty little boys. But once the novelty wore off, she’d been sure he’d destroyed it. He’d said so. She swallowed bile. Trusting anything he said had been the height of stupidity.
If it did get published with her name on it, her family would be so ashamed. And if they tried to support her, they would likely also be ostracised from society. She could not let that happen. She had to get it back and destroy it. And since she didn’t know the identity of the man who had approached her at Petra’s wedding and had no way to contact him, she would just have to find a way to get the money. She had begged him to wait until she could gather enough money to pay him what he was asking. Twenty-five pounds was a fortune, but with her next payment from the publisher, and using the money she had saved for next quarter’s rent, she could do it.
She bit her lip. Perhaps she should ask her brother Red, the Earl of Westram, for money, but knowing Red he would insist on knowing why she needed it and likely insist she live with him. Unfortunately, he was about to marry a woman who she really did not like. She had no trouble imagining how miserable she would be under that woman’s thumb. It would be nearly as bad as being married to Neville. Red’s future wife did not approve of independent women. Or artists. Or life in general. How on earth could Red—?
She cut the thought off. He had offered for Miss Featherstone and she had accepted and that was all there was to it. But one thing was certain: Marguerite was not going to move into their home.
If only Petra and Ethan were not away at the moment. She might have gone to them for a loan. Petra would give her whatever she needed. But then again, if Marguerite started to borrow money, where would it end? No. She had insisted on her independence and she was determined to make her own way. It just seemed so unfair that Neville had come back from the grave to ruin everything.
Her head started to ache.
She winced. That was all she needed. A headache. She put the kettle on to boil. A tisane would help and a little willow bark. And then she would figure out a way to earn some extra money.
Jack had indeed been rude to Lady Marguerite Saxby. Marguerite. What a pretty name. Every time he spotted daisies in his lawn or on the roadside, which was all the time, he was reminded that he owed her an apology. Which was why, two days after she had brought his girls home, he was here in Westram village, wondering how to visit her in a way that would not get tongues wagging. It would be ideal if he came across her shopping in the village, or even picking flowers
