Free Petticoat Rebellion by Joan Smith

Wessex. Have you been there at all?”
    “No, I should like to go sometime.”
    “You’ve been to Italy, I expect? That is where you artistes go first.”
    “No, how I should love to! I’ve never had the opportunity to travel.”
    “It’s very expensive.”
    “Yes, there’s the rub, but of course there is a good deal of art from all over the world in England.”
    “Oh, aye, the English have always been good at plundering their conquests. Those who have the art don’t appreciate it, though.”
    “And are not eager to share it with those who do,”she added, thinking of her fruitless letters to Lord Penfel.
    He began to talk about Ireland in a fond, reminiscent way, with his full share of Irish blarney. He was an amusing rattle. Abbie found herself telling him something about her background. Like Penfel, he was understanding and sympathetic. Even more so, as his experiences were closer to her own. Of course, being a man, he had more freedom.
    After a little conversation, he said, “But I’m keeping you from your work. I’d best be off. I came for a word with Penfel, but it seems the lazy hound is still abed. Nice to be rich, eh?”
    “Very nice, I should think.”
    “Teaching’s a hard game. You cannot have been at it long, Miss Fairchild. You haven’t the hagged look of the professional scold.”
    “This is my second year.”
    “Could you not make a living at that?”he asked, indicating her canvas.
    “Hardly. Being a lady makes it difficult to be taken seriously.”
    He hesitated a moment, then seemed to make his decision. He leaned a little closer to her and said, “What do you do with your pictures when you’ve finished with them?”
    “When I am lucky, I sell them. More usually, I keep them. I have quite a collection in the attic at home.”
    “I could find a buyer for that one, if you’re interested. We split the profit, fifty-fifty.”
    “That would hardly be worth your while, Mr. O’Leary.”
    He looked surprised. “I wager I could get you a couple of hundred for that Chardin. I know a fellow who collects French pictures.”
    She was surprised that he recognized the artist, but then his conversation had suggested he came from a good background. “But this is not a Chardin. It’s just a copy.”
    His easy smile assumed a wolfish look. “I know that, you know it, but my friend don’t know it.”Then he gave a knowing little laugh. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him or us, eh? The risk would be mine. I’d not involve you at all.”
    “Are you suggesting to sell it as a Chardin?”she asked, hardly believing her ears.
    “Why not? How much would you get for a Fairchild?”
    “But that’s against the law!”
    He laughed at her naiveté. “I didn’t make the law, nor did you. ‘Twas made by the fine lords to keep the likes of you and me down.”
    She pokered up. “I don’t believe we have anything more to say to each other, Mr. O’Leary,”she said, and picked up her brush.
    “Suit yourself, my dear,”he said, and sauntered off down the long corridor as if he owned the place.
    Really, the man was incorrigible! Whatever made him think she was a crook? She had let him think her circumstances were a little worse than they were, and from there he had leapt to the conclusion she would sell forgeries to better it. It is what happens when you let circus people onto your property. She ought to warn Lord Penfel. The man was as likely as not to stuff some valuable small item into his pocket. When she tried to continue her work, she found her concentration was broken and decided to see if Lord Penfel was about. She would warn him of O’Leary’s criminal tendency—and hopefully get the key to the da Vinci cartoons as well.
    She passed an open door on her way back to the main hallway. From it issued O’Leary’s lilting voice.
    “I’ve come about tonight, Penfel. We have a little game on after the show. ‘Twill give you a chance to win back the blunt you lost last