Page 89 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

“It’s where Turner was born.”

Her mouth tilted with humor. “Ah yes. I remember. But you don’t mean you’ve really managed to let a place there?”

Teddy’s spirits perked, recalling how he’d felt as Mr. Chakrabarty had led him through the house’s lower rooms. He’d known immediately that it was the place for him. “I have. The property just came available. It’s been rather neglected. The solicitor nearly didn’t show it to me.”

“It’s not Mr. Turner’s actual house?”

“Lord no. That was torn down ages ago.” He guided Samuel around a hackney cab blocking the road. “No, this place is a distance away. But it’s not the house itself that’s important, it’s the location of the street. It’s near the river.”

“Why is that important?”

“The water. The fog. The atmosphere.”

“The light?”

“And the light.” Teddy smiled briefly. “It’s not as I’d like in the house itself, but outside…yes. It suits me perfectly.”

The bustling streets of Covent Garden, with its theatres, fruit stalls, and flower market, lay but a mile from the luxury of Brown’s Hotel in Mayfair. Teddy continued driving north of the Strand, turning down one street and then another until, finally, arriving at a narrow lane that was flanked on either side by shops, pottery works, and close-set blocks of private dwellings.

He slowed the wagonette in front of a slightly sagging, three-story redbrick house with a splintering white wooden arch over its entrance. A single, shallow front step led up to the door.

Stella gazed up at the place with doubtful curiosity. “This one is yours?”

“As of two days ago, yes.” Teddy cast a thoughtful eye over the half-boarded windows and the peeling paint on the door arch and window frames. The house was old, and crooked on its foundation, but, with its inviting front entrance and the effect of the sunlight reflecting off the leaded windowpanes, it had character in abundance. “It won’t look like this long. I’ll have stonemasons, painters, and paper hangers in presently. With some minor refurbishment, it will be good as new.”

Getting the place up to snuff would take the lion’s share of Teddy’s income from the perfumery, but he reasoned to himself that it would be worth it. Inspiration was a large part of art. And this house, with its inherent charm and storied location, was inspiration personified.

Stella surveyed the shabby property from her seat in the wagonette, looking from the disintegrating roof tiles to the cracked stonework below. Her expression brightened at the sight of a black-and-white tomcat wandering boldly past the step.

“Does he come with the house?” she asked.

Teddy had seen the cat before when he’d visited the property with Mr. Chakrabarty. The fluffy feline reminded him a little of Magpie. “As far as I’m aware, he has no fixed abode.”

“Poor thing,” Stella said. “Now you’ve taken the place, you must take care to feed him.”

“He looks well fed enough to me,” Teddy said. “No doubt he’s already getting free meals from every tenderhearted shopkeeper on the street.”

“You make him sound rather mercenary.”

“Most cats are. I say that with affection. My family keeps a cat, not unlike this one. Magpie is his name. He’s as mercenary as they come.”

She gave him a curious look. “You never mentioned you had a cat.”

“Should I have done?”

“You might have,” she said. “It occurs to me that, outside of art, and the fact that you once loved a young lady named Miss Talbot, I don’t know very much about you.”

“Love is stretching the word where Miss Talbot was concerned. As for not knowing anything about me—you know my family makes lavender water. And you know I studied with Charles Gleyre in Paris.”

“Art again,” she pointed out.

“Very well. How about this—I don’t only like cats. I like dogs, too. And birds. I enjoy visiting the seaside. I prefer the city to the country, Beethoven to Brahms, and my favorite dessert is charlotte russe.”

Her chin dipped, concealing a smile.

“Shall we go in?” he asked abruptly.

Stella blinked. She clearly hadn’t expected they’d be getting out. “Is that—” She stumbled over her words, briefly flustered. “It wouldn’t be too inconvenient for you, or difficult—”