ColorMeBad by Olivia Waite Page B

word in two days. Mother
has noticed and is somewhat relieved—she thinks you’ve finally learned proper feminine
docility—but you haven’t said anything to me or to Evangeline either and that
isn’t like you. Also, Dorothy told me that some nights it looks as though your
bed hasn’t been slept in.”
    Hecuba froze with the teacup halfway to her mouth.
    Anne peered at her with narrowed eyes. “Dorothy’s right—you
haven’t been sleeping well, have you? You have such dark circles beneath your
eyes.”
    Hecuba silently cursed herself for a fool. She ought to have
thought to muss the bedclothes a little upon returning to her aunt and uncle’s
house. Damn Rushmore and his distractions. But Anne had that set to her mouth
that told Hecuba she wouldn’t be put off without answers. “You’re right,” she
said, thinking quickly. “I haven’t slept well at all this week.” It had the
benefit of being true—but Anne, though she nodded sympathetically, would need
more than that to be satisfied. “Do you remember those four paintings that used
to hang in the parlor at the cottage, before my parents died?”
    “The portraits?” Anne asked. Hecuba nodded. “I always liked
those, especially the one of your mother. Whatever happened to them?”
    “Your father sold them,” Hecuba said bluntly.
    Anne had the grace to look shocked. “But—the will said those
were to stay in the family. I mean—that is—they were family portraits!”
    “And now they belong to the Earl of Underwood’s brother.”
    “Good God.” Anne fell backward against the over-upholstered
back of the chair. “No wonder you were so snappish when we introduced you.” She
glanced at Evangeline, who was straining to hear her sister and cousin’s
conversation, and lowered her voice. “However did you find out?”
    Hecuba spoke as low as she could while Anne took a leisurely
sip of tea to mask her avid interest from Evangeline and Aunt Eleanor. “Your
father kept putting me off when I asked about the paintings so I picked the
lock on his desk and found a bill of sale dated last spring.”
    Anne choked on her tea. She set the cup aside and coughed a
little into her hand. When she could speak again, her voice was rough. “He used
the money to pay for our Season.” It was not a question.
    Hecuba inclined her head. She’d come to the same conclusion.
    Anne’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “And now you’re
wearing my castoffs while Evangeline and I have new wardrobes bought with funds
that by rights belong to you.” The wave of her hand took in both her own
pale-pink gown, expertly ruffled, and Hecuba’s ivory muslin, the paleness of
which made her look as though she were the victim of an intestinal complaint.
    “You didn’t seem to mind before,” Hecuba couldn’t help
pointing out.
    Anne turned her teacup around and around on its saucer. “You
made it plain you thought the whole thing was a waste of time and effort, that
you had no desire to—how did you put it?—to be dragged to the altar like a
sacrificial lamb.” She put aside the teacup and met her cousin’s gaze frankly.
“I do want to be married, you see. I want children and a home of my own. A
London Season is the best chance I have of getting that.”
    “I know,” Hecuba said. On impulse she reached out and took
Anne by the hand. “And I don’t resent you for wanting something different for
your life. I just wish…”
    “I do too,” Anne replied when Hecuba trailed off. She
squeezed her cousin’s hand and the light of trouble kindled in her eyes. “Do
you think you might teach me how to pick locks?” she asked.
    Hecuba agreed with a grin, thrilled both to have made an
ally and because she had succeeded in distracting Anne from her original line
of inquiry.
    She took pains to disarrange the bedclothes thoroughly that
night before slipping out on her way to the Earl of Underwood’s townhouse.
    Rushmore wasn’t waiting downstairs for her but that was
hardly an