The Marquess Who Loved Me - By Sara Ramsey Page 0,27
for profit. And she could no longer afford to be sentimental.
She turned back to Lucia. “Gather the catalogues of my collections to take back to Folkestone. We will make a prospective sale list tomorrow. Lord Salford knows the private buying sphere as well as anyone. He may have some thoughts on how to liquidate everything without letting my financial difficulties slip.”
Lucia was better suited to be an aide de camp than a lady’s maid, and was more than competent for the task at hand. She also understood the stakes. “It may be possible to sell some items without arousing suspicion,” she said slowly. She was calmer and more methodical than Ellie; where Ellie’s voice sometimes tripped a rapid staccato in its attempt to keep up with her own thoughts, Lucia's voice had the feel of a deep, mysterious lake, with currents rippling across it only after she had considered all the possibilities. “But the provenance of your collection is well known to any major buyers. And with Lord Folkestone’s return…there will be rumors no matter how discreet you are.”
“What would you have me do?” Ellie demanded. “I can only live for free at my brother’s house or at the Folkestone dower house — and since my mother-in-law still clings to it, you can be sure I will avoid that wretched place at all costs. Selling is the only option.”
Lucia stood, stiff and formal, the way she always did when she prepared to tell her mistress a truth that Ellie didn’t want to hear. “There are two other options, my lady. Accept Lord Folkestone’s bargain, distasteful as it is, and keep everything. Or, if I may be so bold, sell your paintings.”
“You just said I can’t sell my paintings,” Ellie said peevishly, ignoring the first option entirely.
“Not these paintings. The paintings you created yourself.”
“I couldn’t possibly.”
Lucia frowned. In these moments, when her logic made her forget herself, she had the assured, confident demeanor of a lady, rather than the subservient class her youthful sins had cast her into. “You have the connections necessary to set up a display in a private gallery, and you have hundreds of canvasses to choose from. You might not raise the entire forty thousand pounds, but you could surely earn enough to shorten the duration of Folkestone’s demands.”
Ellie turned away from Lucia and looked at the paintings on the walls. She’d dreamed of showing her paintings publicly when she was younger — might have done it, too, if it could have caused the scandal she needed to prevent her father from finding a second husband for her. But that desire had faded as her painting had turned wilder, as her perfect little landscapes and watercolors turned into fierce, tempestuous fantasies.
Ellie left too much of herself on the canvas. And her real self wasn’t fit to be shared with anyone.
“Unthinkable. I’d sooner stay with Nick than whore my paintings like that.”
She couldn’t see Lucia, but she sensed her maid’s disapproval. “It’s the world’s loss,” Lucia said. “If you weren’t so precious about your work, I am convinced you could rival any of your contemporaries.”
Ellie’s voice turned cold. “See to the catalogues. I want to be in the carriage in less than a quarter of an hour.”
She heard Lucia leave; the maid was wise enough to know when Ellie’s limits had been reached.
If only Ellie knew her own limits. She hugged her arms around herself. The caretaker had lit a fire for Ellie when she had returned unexpectedly, but a single fire wasn’t enough to banish the chill of a house that had been empty for a week.
She heard steps in the hallway — heavy, masculine steps, not Lucia’s lighter gait. More than one man, if she heard correctly. One moved faster than the others, faster than dignity would usually allow. She turned to the door just as it burst open. One of her footmen — the youngest one, hired for his blond hair rather than his ability to serve — rushed across the threshold. “Lord Folkestone, my lady,” he gasped.
Her arms dropped to her sides. Her hand itched for a paint brush. She suddenly saw the footman in Athens — not a glittering Adonis, but a winded Pheidippides, the messenger who had run twenty-six miles to give news of the victory at Marathon before dropping dead at her feet.
Stop being dramatic.
But there was no time to stop. Nick rounded the door behind him and the footman had just enough sense left to slide out of Nick’s path