Page 109 of A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Heirs

With determined steps, she marched back into the house, calling forward the girl who defied the rules of propriety to protect who and what she loved.

Later that evening,in his studio, Victor leaned back in the chair at his desk and admired the sketches he’d made of Juliana.He could draw her from memory now; the curve of her cheek, the slight upturn of lips when she gifted him with her enigmatic smile, the sparkle in her cornflower blue eyes. Careful not to draw anything that would be considered scandalous, he kept the sketch confined to her face. But once they were married—well, as he’d told her—he had a lot of plans for when they were in private and wouldn’t have to answer to any judgmental gossip.

In addition to his sketches of Juliana, he’d drawn some of her mother—that’s if Burwood hadn’t changed his mind about commissioning Victor to paint portraits of the rest of the family. It had dawned on him how much the two women looked alike, giving Victor an idea what Juliana would look like in her forties. But more than Juliana’s pretty face, Victor knew his future bride would be a kind and thoughtful wife and mother, one her children would run to for comfort. One who would encourage them to pursue their dreams.

And if thetonnever accepted her, so be it. He never wanted a career in politics anyway. He closed his eyes and envisioned the life ahead of them.

Idyllic lazy days spent painting while Juliana worked with her horses. Their children gathered about them in the evenings. Their eyes would meet and the connection between them would sizzle with electricity.

Naturally, she would read the glint of seduction in his eyes, and after calling the nanny to mind the children, he would lead her to their bedchamber where they would?—

“Sir, beg pardon. This was just delivered, and it’s marked urgent.”

Victor’s eyes darted open, frustrated to have such a pleasant daydream interrupted at such a moment. He plucked the missive from the tray and glanced at the vaguely familiar handwriting. Flurries of tension built in his chest as he broke the unadorned seal and read.

Mr. Pratt,

If you wish to discover the identity of the person behindThe Muckraker, come to the back entrance ofThe Knave of Heartsat ten this evening. Be certain to come alone.

X

Victor’s gaze shot to Tierney. “Who delivered this?”

“A street urchin, sir. I sent him to Cook to be fed.”

Grabbing his pencil and a sketchpad, Victor bolted from his seat and headed for the door. “Good. Hopefully, he’s still there.”

In the small kitchen, the boy Tierney mentioned sat stuffing his dirty face with some bread, meat, and cheese. The lad gazed up, his cheeks puffed up like a squirrel’s pouch, and his eyes widened.

Not wishing to scare him off, Victor smiled and lifted the letter. “Thank you for delivering this. Can you tell me who gave it to you?”

With an audible gulp, the boy swallowed, and Victor hoped he wouldn’t choke himself. “A man. Said to keep it secret. Give me two shillings, ’e did.”

“Can you describe him?”

The boy shrugged his thin shoulders. His coat was worn and threadbare. Bony knees poked through the holes in his too-short breeches.

Compassion flooded Victor’s heart, and he took a seat next to the boy. “Did the man threaten you?”

The boy shoved another piece of cheese into his mouth as if someone would snatch it away, then shook his head and mumbled, “Nah.”

“Was he old or young?”

“Old.”

Now they were getting somewhere.

“Like you.” The boy grinned.

Unable to resist the chuckle, Victor said. “So, about my age, then? Not old and wrinkled with gray hair?”

The lad swallowed again. “Wha’ do ya want me to answer first?”

Right. “He was about as old as me?”

With a nod, the boy shoved the remaining piece of meat into his mouth.

“Was he dressed like me?” Victor waved a hand in front of his superfine coat, silk waistcoat, and—thanks to Tierney—his expertly tied neckcloth.

---