Part 37 (1/2)

He remembered how she flirted with her customers, how she wooed them and practically seduced them into buying her mostly worthless stock, how she so bedazzled the poor males into emptying their purses then and there. Is that what she wished to do here in London as well? Was that world so much more enticing than what he could offer her? And though there was no mention of those infernal brothel pictures, she'd made such a pretty penny showing them in Naples that he couldn't believe she wouldn't display them here, too.

He glanced back at the smiling mother in the painting, that wondrous testimony to Francesca's true, rare talent, and then back to the advertis.e.m.e.nt for her mountebank collection of forgeries. d.a.m.nation, she should be painting for herself, not pandering to the vanities of would-be connoisseurs!

”She seems to be calling herself Signora Robin,” said William, ”but I'd wager it's the same lady, don't you?”

”Aye, it is,” said Edward, his expression stony. How long would it be before some wag realized the signora was also the new d.u.c.h.ess of Harborough? He'd end up challenging every blade in London, defending her honor.

”Shall I go ready your dress uniform, Captain Your Grace?” asked Peart with an undeniable gleam in his eye, the same as he'd shown when the Centaur would prepare for battle. ”There's no lady alive that can refuse a uniform as grand as that one.”

”Aye, aye, Peart, clear for action,” said Edward, setting the painting on the floor with a determined thump. He was done with sentiment, with rattling around in this huge tomb of a house and pining after Francesca. He'd never hung back from a battle before, and by G.o.d, he wasn't going to do it now.

”We're off to the signora's gallery, are we?” said William with a gleam of antic.i.p.ation in his eye. ”I do so enjoy a good showing.”

”Not today, you won't,” said Edward firmly. ”I thank you for your help this far, but this must be between Francesca and myself. The lady's fired first, and it's time to take her challenge. And mind me, Will: I'm not hauling back until she surrenders.”

0=”14”14.

”Oooh, this vase is monstrously fine, signora,” said Lady Hingham, lifting the vase to the light in the window. ”And very ancient?”

”I believe it so, my lady,” hedged Francesca, remembering her promise to her uncle to tell only the truth regarding the pieces for sale. ”Though I cannot say with any precision exactly how old.”

”Ha, you shopkeepers are so coy, striving to drive your prices higher!” said her ladys.h.i.+p archly. ”My eye is most excellent in these matters, and it tells me this black-figured vase is from the days of the Caesars and not one minute older. What say you, Chetwynd? Would this do for Lord Hingham's birthday?”

More accurately the vase was from the days of last June and not one minute older, but Francesca knew better than to correct a customer. Instead she dutifully stood to one side in silence, ready to catch the vase if the lady's grip wavered.

Lady Hingham was a leader of style and fas.h.i.+on, her approval important to Francesca's success. She'd already spent the better part of the afternoon considering nearly every piece in the room, raising each one in turn to display her bosom and her profile to the Honorable Henry Chetwynd. Francesca was quite sure the two were lovers, although Lady Hingham was a good ten years older than she painted herself to be, and far older than Chetwynd. Chetwynd was handsome, but, in Francesca's opinion, he was also so woefully simpleminded that her ladys.h.i.+p practically needed a leash and dog collar to keep him from wandering off.

No matter: Francesca had seen worse arrangements in her time, and as long as Lord Hingham's purse was deep enough to indulge his wife's fancies, then Francesca resolved to be happy. Or she would be, anyway, if she didn't have to keep dodging Chetwynd's constant attempts to squeeze her bottom each time the older lady's back was turned.

”It's vastly fine, Sophronia, dearest,” drawled Chetwynd. ”by all means, buy it for his lords.h.i.+p. That is, if he can find any use for an empty vessel.”

Her ladys.h.i.+p gasped, then giggled, and jagged at Chetwynd with her elbow. ”Oh, you are too wicked! An empty vessel, indeed!”

”Much better to have 'em filled, eh?” he leered, leaning forward to kiss her neck. ”Beautiful and stuffed to bursting, I say.”

Deftly Francesca rescued the vase, and carried it to a table well away from danger. ”Shall I have the vase sent to you in the morning, my lady?”

”Yes, yes, of course,” said Lady Hingham breathlessly, disentangling herself from Chetwynd, ”with the reckoning to Lord Hingham's attention. Ah, signora, you have so many lovely things!”

Francesca nodded, already watching to see what next would be in peril. She'd been busy like this since she'd opened for trade, and though she'd shown her paintings to a great many more people than she'd expected, she'd forgotten the effort of always being charming, always agreeable.

It had been over a year since she'd had so many customers in a single day, and nearly three months had pa.s.sed since she'd left Naples entirely. In that time she'd grown accustomed to the luxury of painting and drawing without having to sell as well, and forgotten how hard it was to be always entertaining and charming.

Even the effort of dressing the part-today she wore a high-waisted gown of Indian muslin, a rich emerald green with gold ta.s.seled fringe along the hem and edging the sleeves and neckline, red ribbons st.i.tched with golden discs like coins threaded through her dark hair, all faintly inspired by the ancient woman painted on the vases-seemed more taxing than she'd remembered. But as long as she must earn her living, what other choice did she have?

Only three other customers remained besides Lady Hingham and Chetwynd, and when they could be guided through the door and into their carriages, she would close. She caught the eye of Mrs. Monk, who was using the lighting of the evening candles as an excuse to gawk at the gentry in what used to be her master's parlor.

”Tell the footman not to admit anyone else tonight, per favore,” she whispered to the housekeeper. ”I fear my mouth will crack if I must smile at yet one more new face.”

Mrs. Monk nodded and bustled away, just as Chetwynd lunged for another attempt to fondle her. Saints in heaven, this day could not end soon enough!