Page 63

“Both,” said Kate. “The painting will take more work. Too much external composition, no definite end. Look there . . .”

As Kate pointed out the painting’s myriad flaws, Lucy felt her spirits surge. The criticism stung, but it meant she and Kate were together, more together than they’d been in months. When Gwen walked past again, accompanied by Mr. Barrett, Lucy tried to catch her eye, preparing a smile. The smile, once it reached her lips, felt genuine. But Gwen didn’t look her way.

She had another chance, though, the very next afternoon. As Lucy struck out from the Schools at the close of the day, she caught sight of Gwen walking in the same direction, a half block ahead on the opposite side of the street. Could it be? Yes, she was stopping at the cabstand in front of the Criterion Theatre. Why on earth would Gwen Burgess take a cab? A family coach dropped her off and picked her up each day in the courtyard of Burlington House.

She was going somewhere without her family’s knowledge.

Lucy dodged between carts, her bag banging her hip.

“Gwen!” she called. Clearly, the girl had no idea how to acquit herself. A dozen cabmen had gathered around her, vigorously offering their services. The most aggressive among them was leading her toward his carriage as Lucy ran up, panting.

“Gwen,” she repeated. Gwen didn’t turn. Lucy touched her shoulder and her head snapped around. They stared at each other. Gwen’s face was unreadable. Lucy became aware of her ragged breathing and sweaty forehead. She pushed back flyaway strands of hair.

“I saw you and . . .”

She broke off. Gwen’s paleness belied her composure. She had been startled, and badly. No one on a furtive expedition liked a witness.

Lucy said, impulsively, “I couldn’t let you choose this cab. The cabby’s a pest.”

She put her hands on her hips and glared up at the cabman, who had clambered up onto the box. He was a barrel-chested, red-nosed rascal who glared back at her. Every day she walked past the stand, she heard him deliver a bullying phrase to whatever woman on the sidewalk strayed into his range. He muttered around the tobacco packed into his mouth as Lucy tugged Gwen away.

“Go on. Walk sharp, then,” he called down. “None of us want you.”

But he didn’t speak for his brethren. The other cabmen whistled and clapped and crowded around. Gwen’s eyebrows drew together. She looked confusedly between Lucy and the throng of cabmen, many of whom were gesturing to their cabs with newspapers, pipes, whips, each extolling the virtues of his particular carriage and horse.

“Now,” said Lucy. “Any of these cabs will do. Do you know the fare?” Gwen’s eyes flitted back to her. Her lips parted and she shook her head slightly.

“They’ll charge you double and accuse you of bilking when you pay,” said Lucy. Cabmen scented timidity. Gwen, with her quiet grace, made for an easy mark.

“When he tells you the fare, say, ‘You’re a rogue, it’s not half so much,’ and pay two-thirds plus a penny. You’ll come out all right, and so will he.”

She smiled. It was a neat formula, one she’d worked out the hard way. Gwen had been watching her closely and now she smiled too. Fancy that. A smile from Gwen Burgess.

“I’d take that one there,” said Lucy, pointing. The horse was well fed at least. At her words, the cabman, white-haired, leapt with surprising agility to his high seat and caught up the reins.

Gwen glanced up at him and nodded.

“Did your brother paint a miniature of Lady Euphemia Philby?” Lucy felt the question burst from her. Not the question she’d intended to ask. Gwen angled her head, presenting the tiny shell of her right ear, its upper curve hidden by a loop of chestnut hair. She peered at Lucy out of the corners of her eyes.

“What?” she said.

Lucy repeated herself, blushing. Gwen’s oblique concentration disconcerted her.

“Lady Euphemia? They’re friends.” Gwen’s voice was low, words slightly blunted by an almost undetectable hesitancy. Was Lucy imagining things or did her mouth twist slightly to the right when she spoke? “I believe he did paint a miniature, over a year ago.”

“They are not in touch, though?” Lucy persisted. “Your brother and Lady Euphemia?”

“Effie’s in France,” Gwen murmured. She seemed perplexed, and Lucy smiled to show the subject was closed. She’d do better to pursue the lead Anthony had given her.

Aunt Marian didn’t know of any theater managers named Frank or Madge, and neither did the chorus girl who’d come by the shop for tailoring the day before. Nor the two acrobats with the snapped elastics.

An unpromising start, but she’d hardly exhausted the pool of theatrical personages to whom she might direct her queries.

Gwen glanced again toward the cab. Lucy could see her bunching her skirt in her hand, readying herself to clamber up.

“You can ask Augustus yourself,” she said, slowly. “If you were to come to one of his salons . . .”

The sentence trailed off, more a hypothetical than an invitation, but Lucy seized upon it.