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Someone tittered, Maude or Susan. Lucy didn’t know which, so she treated them both to her most ogreish expression.
“There was disagreement, as I recall. I maintain that your sleeve touched the ball on that last shot. Hence the rematch.” Redcliffe Davis looked to Thomas Ponsonby for confirmation. Ponsonby smiled regretfully.
“There’s no disagreeing with a lady,” he said. “I gave the match to Miss Holroyd.” He inclined his head, nodding at Kate, who looked ready to stab him in the eye.
“Oh, stuff it,” she said. “You didn’t give me the match. I won it, and I’ll win the next one. Tomorrow, Davis. Long break, and the bet is doubled.”
Augustus Burgess clapped Redcliffe Davis on the back of the neck, pushing him toward the center of the room. “She bested you at billiards, and now she’s besting you at sparring over billiards. Stop now while you have a shred of dignity.” His eyes twinkled. “Besides, the maidens have to dress.”
He whirled, pointing to a sofa. “Robes. Instruments.”
“Dress?” Kate blinked. “Are we to draw each other, then?”
“No drawing tonight.” Burgess shook his head. “Tonight, we provide artistic entertainment for London’s finest.”
“We’re to be a tableau vivant.” Maude sighed her enthusiasm. “For the Duke of Weston!”
Lucy startled, then pressed her lips into a tight smile. Over the past week, she and Anthony had displayed a great aptitude for avoiding each other. In fact, they made better strangers than dinner companions. No regrets. She was happy, painting. Only . . . his absence in the glasshouse produced an odd, almost physical irritation. An itch.
She’d hoped the salon would provide a respite, remind her of her aspirations. Which had nothing to do with the blasted Duke of Weston.
She studied the frieze, crimson on rose, naked boys riding dolphins around the top of the room. Tomorrow was Anthony’s birthday. Of course he’d planned a party for the night before. A spectacle. Even if he burned down the house, by the time the news was printed, he would be thirty, in possession of his fortune.
“Tableau vivant of what?” asked Kate. She sounded unconscionably eager. Lucy stared at her. Good heavens, she wasn’t thinking she’d participate in this nonsense!
“Ned’s painting, The Golden Stairs.” Augustus Burgess walked over to the sofa and lifted a diaphanous silver gown from the pile. “These are the very gowns worn by his models.”
“Ouch,” Lucy grunted. Kate had just elbowed her hard in the kidney, face glowing. Lucy scowled to suppress her own excitement.
They were talking to a man who called Edward Burne-Jones Ned.
A tableau vivant of The Golden Stairs did sound marvelous.
Lucy and Kate had seen the picture the year before at the Grosvenor Gallery. Tall and mysterious, the canvas showed robed young women with violins, cymbals, and trumpets processing barefoot down a winding stone stair. It had taken their breath away.
Ponsonby jumped in. “Lady Graham will be at the party, and Miss Howard and Miss Aitchison. They were among the original models for the painting and they’re set to join you in the pose. The staircase in Weston Hall winds and the railing is crystal and perfectly ethereal. The effect will be brilliant.”
To Lucy’s horror, Kate nodded.
“Splendid.” She announced her approval. “You can count on Lucy and myself to lend our artistic support to this party of the century.”
“Kate.” Lucy barked it, but Kate was enjoying the attention of the crowd.
“I won’t pose for The Golden Stairs, however,” she said airily. “A second tableau vivant is absolutely essential. I will do A Huguenot, by John Millais.”
A Huguenot was one of Kate’s favorite paintings. It depicted a pair of sixteenth-century lovers, entwined beside a garden wall, the gallant Huguenot refusing the white armband proffered by the woman in his embrace, an armband that might have saved him from the rampaging Catholic mob.
Lucy tried again. “Kate.” No good. She was competing with Burgess. He’d fixed Kate’s attention, raising his eyebrows, sauntering a few steps closer.
“Do you know that painting?” he asked.
Oh dear. Was Kate going to fight with the Augustus Burgess?
Kate folded her arms. “We could, if you like, see which of us could reproduce it better.”
“One hundred pounds on Holroyd,” hooted Redcliffe Davis. “Kate, we’ll split the winnings, minus the five pounds I owe you.”
Burgess laughed, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I asked because the lady in that particular picture is fair-haired and small of stature. Moreover, she wears a singular look of entreaty, a look I can’t imagine on your face.”
