2
LADY LUCK
FRIDAY MORNING.
The Duke of Rothwell’s study was a bastion of perfect orderliness and ducal authority. Every surface polished to a pristine shine, the desk a burnished beacon of command with quills trimmed to refined perfection. Even the portraits preened with pride.
Hebe admired the trimness, even if the leather chair was rather austere, and her gaze kept straying to the comfortable blue chaise beneath the window.
Mind you, the ducal perfection was somewhat ruined by the sable-black cat who leaped to the desk, strolled upon beribboned documents and then rubbed itself against the ink stand, leaving clods of fur attached to the brass.
The duke finished scribbling, steepled his fingers and smiled from across the desk. “I apologise for the delay. Is all well, Mrs Locke? Are you and your aunt set?”
“We are indeed, Your Grace. And we do appreciate your offer of a carriage to take us. Ours is not fit for travel to the country.”
“Not at all, and I am looking forward to your finished artwork.”
Some six months past, this duke had offered to sponsor her after admiring her painting of a countess’s favoured pug. As a female artist, pug commissions had been the most she could hope for, but she so yearned to paint her beloved horses – stallions and mares with all their grace and vigour.
She’d never had a patron before and hoped this duke would introduce her to potential clients in the male-dominated world of horseracing, but to further her prospects, he had also commissioned her to paint his own hunter, and she was to journey to the ducal seat of Wychmere Castle in the Cotswolds where the horse was stabled and commence upon preliminary sketches.
The duke rose from behind the imposing desk and curled his fingers. “Come view my latest acquisition, Mrs Locke. I value your opinion.”
She swiftly abandoned the incommodious chair and followed him to the easel in the corner of the study, black cloth concealing a canvas some thirty by forty inches.
The material was tugged upwards, and as she beheld the glorious oil painting beneath, a sense of serenity filled her. She lost herself in the delightful subject matter with its nebulous landscape and the sleek muscles of the horses, the stamp of hooves and the roll of thunder…
“Mrs Locke?”
And she realised she’d not been paying heed to a duke’s words at all. “Yes, Your Grace?”
He cleared his throat, tapping a waistcoat button. “I asked your opinion?”
“It’s wondrous.” She peered closer. “The blending of iron grey and raw umber to convey a passing storm is sublime and contrasts with the clearer skies of bone white. Yet my eye is drawn to the two horses.” She reached out a hand but only traced them in air. “The sleek grey Arab is strong and beautiful but afraid as he approaches the amiable bay.” She sighed. “And the detail of leg and muzzle is superb. I solely hope I can emulate such skill with Your Grace’s hunter.”
“I admire your work equally, Mrs Locke. You imbue passion and fluidity.”
“Thank you.” Yet she frowned. “’Tis just such detail that I want to improve upon, especially in a natural setting. Here in London, my horses share stables and ’tis noisy and dark.”
“Sketch all you wish at Wychmere then. You should find gentle mares and stumbling foals as our stud farm is also located there.”
“I am most grateful, Your Grace,” she replied, aware of the great honour. After all, to theBeau Mondeshe was just a gentleman’s daughter, a widow with hardly a fingertip to the midpoint of society’s ladder, and since she had made known her wish to be an artist, she’d even slipped a couple of rungs.
The duke waved a hand in response. “In fact, our neighbour Sir Henry Winkfield has an adequate stable as he oft purchases our colts and fillies to train as racehorses. I’ll send a missive and you can sketch them also.” He folded his arms. “Perhaps Squire Skelton’s too – he’s some tolerable geldings.”
“Won’t they mind?”
A superior aristocratic eyebrow lifted.
No, of course, for he was a duke used to command and deference, although she did wonder how he dealt with his profligate brother who doubtless had never heeded a single command in his charmed life.
The black cloth was returned to the oil painting and Hebe returned to the durable leather chair.
“Will Your Grace and the duchess be at the castle this summer?” she enquired.
“Alas, there are other estates which need our attention. The Rothwell family is to reside at the Chiltern manor this August, so you will be alone at the castle but for the staff. My duchess’s maid will, needless to say, be at your disposal.”
Hebe imparted her thanks. Could think of nothing finer than to pass the late summer weeks in the Cotswolds with her aunt, sketching beautiful horses.
