An entrance fee, together with a shilling for the catalogue, had been introduced to discourage the riff-raff from this affair, but it still attracted an eclectic range of motley persons – rakes sauntered with eyes for more corporeal works of art, debutantes tittered at rendered masculine arms, and critics studied with monocle and a superior air.
Flora trailed behind, and although many a rake ogled her angelic appearance with interest, she remained oblivious, eyes flitting and mouth wide as a chimney pot.
With a light hand to Evelyn’s lower back, the duke steered her to a painting tucked in a corner, but his touch did not deign to depart as the two of them stood in comfortable silence, the chatter of the room waning as they were drawn into the small canvas.
A girl in periwinkle blue lay asleep in a hay meadow, imbuing peace and joy.
Evelyn’s own peace was being disrupted quite successfully by audacious fingers caressing in circles upon her waist.
The duke leaned close. “Would you recognise the artist?”
She stared into the depths of his eyes. “The Prince?” she mouthed.
Pleasure flickered across his features. “Quite so.”
“Beautiful.”
His eyes never left hers. “Indeed, it is.”
To the bystander, he simply removed his hand, but to Evelyn, he stroked her spine, dallied with a button and lingered at her hip in farewell.
They moved on from the serene canvas and wandered the galleries, but now her senses had heightened – to Casper’s every breath, every guiding touch, every scalding glance.
With the Antique Academy room came victorious leaders, their eyes appraising the viewing mortals from their regal green walls – commodores, officers and admirals – heroic and immortalised in their moment of glory.
One large battlescape also depicted the agony – fallen horses and clutching men. For herself, it could not match the emotion of that lady’s painting in Casper’s study, of Captain Miles Firth and his men, but perhaps talking to the soldiers had added a nuance, a depth to that composition.
Evelyn wished she could spend a whole day within each gallery, to absorb every artist’s work, guessing at their techniques and admiring their skill, but Somerset House had now become crowded with laughter and conversation, further visitors ascending the staircase, wet hems trailing the floors and tall hats crowding the most famed pictures.
As though both reluctant for this allotted time to end, they meandered their way through the final picture gallery, but a small canvas at low level caught her gaze and she peered at the Classical scene to find a centaur impossibly seducing an angelic-looking nymph with blond hair, porcelain skin and rose-petal lips.
The duke leaned close to the work. Then closer. “Upon my word, is that not your mai–”
“Flora, my lovely, where have you been of late?” A diminutive gentleman preened with lilac handkerchief and a neckcloth so stiff he must have to kneel to view the lower pictures. “We’ve missed you at life class.”
All eyes swapped to her maid, who tittered and offered a gloved hand. “Why, Mr F, I didn’t think you’d recognise me face.”
“How could I not,” he replied diplomatically as he held Flora’s palm to his heart and perused her form. “You’re dressed as a maid. Have you been posing?”
“Well, in a manner, yes, Mr F.”
“I don’t suppose…” He peered to the duke, then back to Flora. “Are you finished here? Could one presume to whisk you away to discuss a commission. I’ll buy you a pie and escort you home afterwards.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I can. I’m–”
“You have my full permission,” the duke drawled. “I will attend to your mistress’s needs.” He smiled – a lion’s grin before supper – and drew an attendant aside to order their equipage.
Evelyn bit her lip, yet she knew her friend would far prefer to be feted as a beautiful model than pose as a modest maid. “Don’t worry, Flora. Pie is pie, after all.” She leaned close. “And Iama widow.”
Those blond eyebrows rose. “And I’m the Moaning Lisa, but ta. Mr F paid me five quid last time.” And off she skipped, the least likely maid in all Christendom.
Rothwell twisted and proffered a forearm.
Evelyn hesitated.
“You can trust me to behave myself,” he growled. “I’m a duke.”
Chapter 24
