The Lady Who Drew Me In. Thomasine Rappold
that I will report her to the authorities. That—”
“The price for the painting has doubled,” Daisy announced.
“What?” Felice shot to her feet.
Daisy straightened her spine. “Ante up, Felice, or your likeness is on the next train bound for the Yellow Rose Saloon and Gaming Parlor.”
The woman gaped.
Gallway coughed.
“Criminal!” Felice screeched.
The woman’s undoing filled Daisy with a satisfaction so strong she had to bite her lip against smiling. She shrugged. “I’ve done nothing illegal. Have I, Mr. Gallway?”
He shook his head, coughing some more. “Mrs. Lansing is well within her rights,” he sputtered, composing himself. “Possession and all.”
“But—”
“The law is the law.” His solemn words contradicted the gleam of amusement in his eyes.
“You don’t know everything, Jackson Gallway. This matter is far from settled.”
“Pursue it, if you must.” He stood, his voice rising in the volume and formality so common among lawyers. “But consider the publicity. Settle your debt with Mrs. Lansing, and enjoy your new portrait.” He glanced to Daisy. “Remarkable work.”
His admiration seemed genuine, and she gobbled it up like a woman starved. If he noticed her pathetic reaction, he didn’t show it. He merely took a deep breath and turned to Felice.
“If you will pardon us, I have some important business of my own to discuss with Mrs. Lansing.”
This news surprised Daisy as much as it insulted Felice. The woman adjusted her bonnet, then gave a stiff fluff of her skirts, composing herself as she swished toward the door. She tossed a flippant wave behind her. “Have the thing wrapped. My coachman will stop for it tomorrow. He’ll deliver your payment as well,” she called over her shoulder as though she were the victor of the dispute. She disappeared from the room.
“Well done.” Jackson turned to Daisy. “Very well done.” He laughed, shaking his dark head.
“She deserved it,” Daisy said, enjoying the sound of his laughter. The man was a charmer, she’d give him that. How had she not met him before now? She’d spent enough time with Tessa at the Gallway mansion to know the servants by name, and yet her path had never crossed his. Until now.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Gallway?” she asked, gesturing him back to his seat.
He stretched his long legs and settled into the sofa, which suddenly seemed too small to contain his broad frame. She let her gaze drop to his shoulders, his waist, and his powerful thighs.
“William Markelson sent me.”
“Yes,” she said, springing back to attention. “I’ve been awaiting word from him on the matter of my late husband’s will.”
“I’ve come to inform you that Markelson refused your request to review the document.”
Her heart sank. “He will not even look at it, then?”
“No. Your husband was a revered attorney, and you’ll be hard pressed to find anyone in his profession to challenge his will.”
As she had heard from every other lawyer she’d approached on the matter.
“Your husband was quite vocal in his concerns you might be inclined to overindulge in your charitable works.”
Daisy lowered her gaze. “Yes, well. Lawry never was one for overindulgence,” she muttered. A blush of shame warmed her face.
“Your monthly allowance cannot be exceeded.”
Daisy sighed. While she would somehow make do with the paltry sum, it would take years for her paintings to earn what she needed for the day home. She glanced toward the portrait in the stream of sunlight by the window and frowned at Felice Pettington’s smug face. “I should have tripled the price.”
* * * *
Jackson watched the young widow, her solemn blue eyes, the desperation in the slump of her shoulders. Perhaps she was more than the greedy schemer his associates had labeled her. She was challenging the old man’s will to gain funds for her charity work, and her drive and generosity touched on his rusty conscience.
He straightened in his seat and returned to business. He sympathized with her dilemma, but after shattering her hopes for her charitable endeavors, he had a problem of his own to solve. The wheels in his mind spun with the best way to broach his forthcoming request.
“Well, thank you for delivering the message, Mr. Gallway.” She stood, lifting her chin. “Unless there’s anything else…”
He stood, then stepped toward her. The sweet scent of her was subdued and not fancy. As refreshing as a brisk walk in the park. “As a matter of fact, there is.”
“Oh?”
She tilted her head as they returned to their seats. Shades of gold shimmered in her hair. Christ, she was pretty….
“Mr. Gallway?”
She wet her lips, and the glimpse of her pink tongue left him speechless. He shook his head, flustered.
“I need your help,” he said quickly.
“My help?”
She blinked in surprise, and he found himself pleased by his role in replacing the sadness in her eyes. “Your artistic talent is evident,” he said with a nod toward the painting of Felice Pettington. “But what I’ve heard about your other talent impresses me more.”
She frowned, her face flaring with anger.
“The ability to transfer people’s thoughts onto paper seems unbelievable to me,” he said, “but witnesses swear your ability is real.”
“It is all too real, I assure you,” she snapped. “And it’s an ability I no longer utilize.”
“Perhaps you’d consider making an exception?”
She narrowed her eyes.
“I need to procure a sketch from a witness. Others have failed in soliciting any details from this witness—”
“No.” She shook her head. “As I’ve stated quite clearly, I don’t draw in that manner anymore.”
“But you could.”
“I won’t.” She lifted her chin. “And I won’t be persuaded, so you are wasting your breath.”
“And you’re wasting your gift. If there’s a chance you can help—”
“My gift? That gift ruined my life, Mr. Gallway. Not to mention the lives of several others.” She tilted her head. “But you know this already, don’t you?”
She had him there. Although the details were vague, the trouble she’d instigated in Troy was notorious. He couldn’t blame her angry reaction. He’d had his nose rubbed in his mistakes enough times to know how she felt.
“That’s all in the past,” he said.
“And yet, here you are. Dredging up the sordid incident to suit your agenda.” She frowned in disgust. “Blasted lawyers,” she muttered as she shot to her feet. “Allow me to show you to the door.”
“Please, Mrs. Lansing.”
She stopped in her tracks. The tight lines of her mouth slackened at his gentle coaxing. His skill to seduce never failed, and it wouldn’t fail now.
“This witness is a child,” he said.
“A child?”
“His father was murdered.”
She