Page 52 of Rogue Lyon

“Wow, you have such knowledge for this world.”

“Knowledge you will quickly pick up with that sharp brain of yours.”

“You give me much credit.”

“I know a fast learner when I see one.”

Her cheeks flushed a little more, which was most endearing. “And do you have a favorite of these masters?”

“Caravaggio.” He’d spoken quickly.

“Oh, and why is that?”

“He’s a genius with light. I’ll show you if we see one of his. But it’s him, as a man, that captivates me.”

“Why, was he very pious?”

“No.” Jules laughed. “Totally the opposite. I suppose in modern times we’d call him ‘a scoundrel,’ ‘a ruffian.’”

“Tell me more.” She raised her eyebrows at him.

They turned a corner onto a wider street that was a bustle of carriages.

“He lived in Italy, and while he produced the most exquisite work, quickly too, he was a street fighter, a man with enemies, debts, and a drinking problem that led him to squabble and brawl.”

“A man with two sides.”

“Exactly. An angel with the brush in the day, and the devil with fast fists when the night came.”

“And you associate with that?”

“Whatever do you mean?” He turned to her.

“Well, you don’t have the best reputation around the ton, Jules. I was warned away from you several times.”

“Thank goodness you took no heed.”

“That has yet to be seen.” A flash of sadness crossed her eyes.

He hated to see that shadow of his doing. “We are having a fine time, are we not?”

She sucked in a breath. “Yes, indeed we are.” She paused and pointed forward. “Is that the building we are looking for?”

“Yes, and good, there is no queue.” He hurried their steps, keen to get to the art and also keen to not think of how he would inevitably hurt the sweet woman on his arm.

He really was a scoundrel. Likely even worse than Caravaggio himself, who had led a short and tempestuous life, because in this day and age, Jules should have known better.

They climbed several wide, stone steps and entered the gallery. A sense of anticipation and excitement gripped Jules. He had a good idea of what would be here, but there was always the element of the unknown. A surprise addition. And he loved to be surprised. Predictability wasn’t in his vocabulary.

“Wow, this is incredible.” Meredith halted in her tracks and looked at the squeeze of paintings on the walls surrounding them. “There are so many.”

“Yes, this is where the new artists are displayed, like the young man we just saw opposite the hotel. They don’t get the luxury of a wall to themselves.”

“Some of them are really good.” She slipped her hand from his arm and walked to the right, her pale-blue gown swishing slightly and skimming the slight curves he now knew only too well.

“You have a good eye,” he said, joining her. “That is very accomplished.”

“And by a woman. Look.” She peered at the signature. “Anne Vallayer-Coster.”