“Of course—it would be hard to keep the portrait a secret otherwise!” Lady Wilmot affirmed. “And your lessons with Lilly will offer us a perfect way to conceal your sketches.”
“Certainly.” Lena had hoped the lessons would be forgotten, but Lady Wilmot seemed to have imagined the whole scheme quite thoroughly. “If it suits your ladyship and your daughter is here, I could meet her before I leave, and perhaps even take a likeness or two today.”
Lady Wilmot beamed. “Yes, that would be lovely! I was hoping . . .”
At the same moment that Lady Wilmot agreed, Lena saw the duke enter at the far end of the salon, followed by two other men. The three sat at the end of the long table, deep in conversation.
She recognized her burglar immediately. In his earlier drab clothes, he could have filled any number of professions. But his current attire left no question that he was a member of the aristocracy.
Even so, she knew him: the same look of intense concentration, the same confident stance, the same hair black as jet, curling in a thick mass almost to his shoulders. Though the flamboyance of his dress surprised her, the fit of his jacket and the colors of his attire suited him perfectly. She felt his presence as a shiver down her spine. If she were to paint this version of him, it would be as Adonis, Aphrodite’s strikingly handsome lover.
Was he the duke’s incorrigible brother? The rascal from whom Lady Wilmot wanted a full report? On what? Her? What he’d found in Horatio’s office? Suddenly, the duke’s house felt far less safe, and Lady Wilmot’s friendliness less sincere. Had Lena walked unwittingly into the very situation Horatio had warned her to avoid?
Lena turned her back, hoping her Adonis might not notice her across the long hall. She might have fooled him in the Rotunda office, but even there, something in his expression had suggested he wasn’t completely convinced by her performance. She’d never been able to simper for long, much to her father’s dismay. And something about her Adonis’s manner—and the depth of interest in his eyes—made her fear he might be exactly the kind of man who could see through all her protections.
Lena fingered Lady Wilmot’s banknote. Surely Constance wouldn’t have vouched for her ladyship if Lena should be wary of her. It was a situation in which she couldn’t win. If she refused Lady Wilmot’s commission and gave back the money, she would certainly lose the exhibition. If she kept it, she might be putting herself in danger. At the same time, by becoming valuable to Lady Wilmot, she might gain some information about the character and intentions of her burglar. As a female English painter working in Napoleon’s France, she had learned that mutual self-interest was always more reliable than friendship.
“Miss Frost.” Lady Wilmot’s face was concerned. “Are you ill? Your face has turned quite pale. The duke’s brother is a physician, and quite a talented one. Would you like for me to send for him?”
Lena studied her ladyship’s face. Horatio, who had been her friend when she was friendless, had abandoned her. But Lady Wilmot—who might be the enemy Horatio had warned her about—had offered her hope. Lena leaned in, hiding both her face and Lady Wilmot’s from the men’s view. “No, I’m well. If I can borrow some paper in the nursery, we can have our first lesson today.”
“Yes.” Lady Wilmot beamed, wrapping her arm in Lena’s. “Let’s surprise my sweet Lilly.”
* * *
The nursery was four flights up, and Lady Wilmot chatted brightly about her children as they climbed. Lena listened with half interest.
Each flight put more distance between her and the burglar she now knew was associated with the duke. She was certain, or at least partially so, that her burglar had not seen her face before she turned away. Could she remain in the nursery until he had likely left? Or would it be better to face her fears and find a way to learn more about him, his intentions, and his character? Anxiety, more than the stairs, made her blood pulse hard.
The nursery itself was painted a warm terra-cotta, a color she’d seen often in Italy, and the walls were hung with drawing after drawing by an unformed but talented hand.
At the center table, two dark-haired children sat engrossed with a set of playing cards, supervised by a young man who resembled them. A cousin, perhaps?
Seeing Lady Wilmot, the young man joined them at the door to the nursery.
“Ah, Luca, you have returned!” Lady Wilmot embraced him. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I brought the duke my report just an hour ago. But he is engaged with Lord Clive, and you were busy in the salon, so I came here with a new geography game I found in Portsmouth.”
Lord Clive. Lena tucked away the name.
Lady Wilmot turned to Lena. “Miss Frost, may I introduce Luca Bruni, my ward.”
The young man bowed graciously over her hand, his charm decidedly Italian. A young Casanova, perhaps, if she were to paint him.
The two children rose from their game and stood by Lady Wilmot’s side.
“Miss Frost, my children: Ian Gardiner, Lord Wilmot, and Liliana Gardiner.”
The young Lord Wilmot outstretched a solemn hand, already aware of his role and obligations.
“Darlings, Miss Frost is going to paint the salon ceiling. And she has agreed to give Lilly lessons.”
“Lilly likes to draw landscapes. Those are of Italy.” Ian pointed to a series hung on the wall. “That’s Vesuvius.”
“When I lived in Italy, I spent some weeks in the countryside near the volcano.” Lena drew close to examine the image. Though the hand was untrained, the eye was good. “These flowers in the foreground remind me of the coast.”
Lilly, standing partly behind her brother, smiled broadly.
“Lilly and I were born in Italy. We returned to England after our father died.” Though the boy spoke well, Lena could still see the touches of grief around his gray eyes.
“Your sister remembers the land of her birth well, Lord Wilmot.” Lena smiled encouragingly at Lilly. “Miss Gardiner, this green here is perfect.” The child turned shy, slipping her hand into her brother’s.
“Speak up, Lilly,” Ian prodded. “If you want lessons, you must speak to her.”
“Hello, Miss Frost.” The slightest lilt of an Italian accent softened Lilly’s vowels. “Sophie said to draw better I must be a good pupil.”
“Do you wish to be a good pupil?” Lena suddenly wished she had arranged to meet the child more privately, giving Lilly more space for confidence.
“I like to draw. But I grow frustrated when I can’t draw as well as I would like.” The girl’s thick hair fell in rivulets around her face.
“We all grow frustrated. What matters is how you manage that frustration.”
“I used to throw my pencil on the table, but then I broke my favorite one, and I stopped doing that.”
“That’s very wise,” Lena said gently.
“Papa couldn’t draw, but Sophie can. I would like to be like Sophie. She’s very brave.”
The child had called Lady Wilmot by her first name twice, while referring to her father as Papa. Lena noted the distinction, but let it go. She’d known French aristocratic families with far stranger arrangements.
“I still dream sometimes of Italy. My papa—our papa—would walk on that hill with us before he died.” She pointed to a drawing close to the window. Lena moved to take a closer look, glancing into the carriage yard below. No carriage waited before the house. Had her Adonis—Lord Clive?—already gone? Surprised at her disappointment, she turned to Lilly’s drawing. “Let’s begin with this one. Tell me the parts that frustrated you.”
Chapter Four
Clive spread out a hand-drawn map of London on the table, using two candlesticks, a nearby book, and an apple to weigh down the corners. “I was hoping you might see something I’ve overlooked. I’ve put boxes around the surgery schools and circled the cemeteries and churchyards. The hash marks represent the numbers of bodies reported stolen.” Clive pointed to examples of each notation.
“I had no idea there w
ere so many.” The Duke of Forster leaned forward, examining Clive’s marks.
“Cemeteries, schools, or stolen bodies?” Adam Montclair looked on as well, his face inscrutable.
“Each, I suppose. It would seem so easy: cemeteries don’t have enough space, and doctors don’t have enough bodies to practice on. But no one wants grandmother disinterred to solve the problem.” The duke tapped his finger on Clive’s map. “You say that the last body was found near the Royal College of Surgeons?”
Clive nodded, then set a sketch of the woman’s face before his brother. “She was likely an actress; she still had paint on her hands and face as if she’d walked off the stage and into the hands of her killers.”
“The Royal College is near both Drury Lane and Covent Garden,” Montclair added.
The duke studied the sketch intently. “You are certain she was murdered?”
“The hand prints were still visible around her neck.”
“Talk to Ledbetter, the doorman at the Drury Lane. If she was an actress, he’ll know.” The duke placed the drawing back on the pile. “Sophia and I are going to the theater on Thursday. If you wish to join us, you can interrogate the doorman at intermission.”
“I don’t interrogate,” Clive corrected. “I merely ask questions.”
Montclair stifled a laugh, but Clive ignored him. With attention, he’d grown adept at reading the subtleties of social engagement among the ton. But it was wearing to pay such careful attention to every nuance and personality, except somehow when he was in pursuit of an answer—whether in his laboratory or his investigations. He straightened the papers before placing them in his valise. “When Montclair and I arrived, Sophia was speaking with a woman. Do you know who she is or an address where I might find her?”
The door at the end of the hall opened, and Lady Wilmot approached them. Forster waited to answer until she came into earshot. “I can’t help you, Clive. I simply carry Lady Wilmot’s reticule when needed.” He winked at his fiancée.
Sophia batted Forster’s arm. “My reticule, is it? I will remember that.”
“Sophie, who was that woman with you before?” Clive added quickly, before his brother could continue his jest.
“Frost. Miss Lena Frost of Calder and Company.”
“She’s an artist?” Clive felt the tip of his tongue sour. Somehow she’d deceived him. He’d have to set aside his attraction and be more attentive at their next meeting.
“Yes, and a talented one. She just finished her first drawing lesson with Lilly. I invited her to stay for dinner, but she had other obligations.” Sophia studied his face carefully. “What is your interest, Clive? You rarely notice the women who visit me, unless of course you believe they have some deadly illness.”
“Lady Pelart did die,” Clive objected.
“Yes, but did you have to tell her she had only months to live over soup?”
He shook his head. “Even I know better than that. No, I sent her a note, asking her to meet me at midnight in the summer house. I simply didn’t anticipate she would expect a different sort of conversation.”
“Ah, let’s see . . . The very eligible son of a duke invites a recent widow to meet him at the witching hour for a private assignation.” Montclair held out his pocket watch to show Clive the time. “What else would she expect?”
“I was younger then. I wouldn’t make the same mistake today.” Clive attempted to shift the conversation back to more solid ground. “Besides, Miss Frost appears to be in perfect health.”
“I’m glad to hear that. But as Miss Frost has accepted my patronage, she is off-limits for seduction.” Sophia stared hard into his eyes.
“Seduction?” Clive made sure not to look away. If Miss Frost were not a criminal and were willing, he saw no obstacle to a mutual liaison. But that was no business of Sophia’s.
“Don’t sound so innocent. I know that look in your eye. It’s the avaricious one you and your brothers get when they are pursuing some desired object . . . or woman.”
“My interest in Miss Frost is purely professional.” He was surprised at how easily the lie slid off his tongue.
“Excellent,” Lady Wilmot said. “Make sure it remains that way—and arrange no assignations in my summer house.”
Chapter Five
After making her good-byes to Lady Wilmot, Lena hurried as quickly as was seemly down the porch steps to the street. She paused at the gate, looking back at the duke’s imposing home.
Had the duke’s incorrigible burglar seen her?
If he had, there was no advantage to running. He had only to ask Lady Wilmot who she was, and the answer would lead him back to the Rotunda. But she didn’t have to wait for him to find her. For the moment she had the advantage; she knew who he was—or at least who his relatives were—and he might not yet know any more about her. And she wanted—no, needed—to know more about him.
She looked for a place to observe the duke’s property without being seen. She found it across the street in the park, where a large equestrian statue allowed her to observe the front of the duke’s house without being noticed.
Taking the paper on which she had made some preliminary sketches of Lilly, Lena seated herself comfortably and began to draw. A long time later, when her stomach was about to send her back to Constance’s for bread and cheese, the door to the duke’s house opened. Carrying a valise and with a book tucked under his arm, her burglar stepped onto the porch accompanied by a man in dark clothing. His companion pointed at his pocket watch, and her Adonis nodded in agreement. The men shook hands before parting.
Again Lena noticed how well his frame fit his clothes, the way that his waistcoat hugged his abdomen and his breeches revealed the shape of his legs. She doubted that pads were responsible for the appealing curve of his calves or thighs. In the office, she hadn’t allowed herself to examine him fully. But this time, unnoticed and unknown, she allowed herself the pleasure of watching him. His body was lean; his movements were economical, no motion any larger than it needed to be. But under that facade of economy and reason, she had seen hints of a man of passion. He descended the steps quickly, but with an easy grace, suggesting a strength and power ready to be unleashed. Like a mountain lynx or brown bear—other things she wished to paint or sculpt—he was likely best observed from a safe distance.
At the bottom of the porch steps, he stopped, opened the book, and began to read as he walked. Curious. She would not have pegged him as a bookish man. The duke had indicated that his family residence was in Grosvenor Square, but Lord Clive Somerville (if that’s who he was) turned east. Rising, she folded her paper into a small packet and put it back into her reticule; she stuck the stub of pencil behind her ear, hidden under the edge of her bonnet. She stepped back, letting the statue hide her, then when he had passed, she stepped out of the park some distance behind him.
He was easy to follow; his head rose above those of most of the men on the street. She kept him in view, letting a half dozen other pedestrians walk between them. But eventually she gave up even that pretense. His nose in the book, he was completely unaware of her. Surprisingly, the pedestrians parted for him, as if familiar with his pattern.
At Lincoln’s Inn Fields, he cut across the fields, heading, she thought, toward Sir John Soane’s Museum. But he soon turned south toward a Greco-Roman style building whose broad portico was held up by six large Corinthian columns. He took the stairs two at a time and disappeared inside.
She waited in the crowded fields, with flower girls, orange merchants, and boys holding advertising boards all peddling their wares around her. Eventually, she drew close enough to read the building’s name: Royal College of Surgeons of London.
A doctor? So her burglar was the duke’s brother. She shook her head, puzzled. What would a doctor have to do with Horatio?
She patted her pocket, feeling the firm paper of Horatio’s letter through her skirt. Then she waited again, except this time, he never came out. At dusk, she made her way to Constance’s,
certain she would see Lord Clive Somerville again, and this time, she would be prepared.
* * *
Clive approached the table where his friends had gathered. Roland Langdon and James Battenskill, also younger sons of the aristocracy, had been his friends since boyhood. The three had pursued careers in medicine, rather than in law or the church, after hearing John Hunter lecture on anatomy. During their medical studies, the three had enlarged their circle to include Arthur Carlin and Robert Garfleet, both sons of wealthy merchants, and John Stillman, reputedly the bastard son of a famous member of Parliament.
“You’re late,” Garfleet chided. He filled his glass of claret, holding the bottle at its base, a trick he’d learned selling wine in his father’s warehouse. “You’ve missed Carlin’s objections to some art dealer selling Old Masters taken from the collections of continental nobility.”
“Late or absent, that’s Somerville.” Langdon, his cravat tied in one of his valet’s more elaborate configurations, leaned forward to take Garfleet’s bottle by the neck and pour himself a splash. “Good thing that cadavers don’t watch the clock.”
“Good thing Montclair always manages to find him.” Carlin opened the cover on his pocket watch and read the time. “Somerville’s great-aunt Agatha has probably told him all about this dealer already. Unlike her friends, she declined to purchase any of his stock.”
“I predict that Somerville has no idea where his great-aunt goes or even who her friends are.” Garfleet shifted his chair over to make room for Clive. “The exception would be if one of his great-aunt’s friends ends up on his table, then he will insist on knowing everything about them.”
“Here. Here. And when he misses our weekly dinner, his excuse will be that he’s been about some very important business.” Battenskill, famous for his ability to charm investments and patients, pushed a platter of bread and cheese toward the empty space Garfleet had created. “But he won’t tell us a thing about it.”
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