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“I’m foxed,” he said. “Don’t listen to me. I should never have come here. Forgive me.”
Then he was gone, down the road, to where a carriage waited, she now saw. He climbed inside, and she stared at its lights as it trundled away, while the heavy raindrops slapped her skin.
* * *
The next morning,Juno awoke on the daybed in her studio with a crick in her neck. She winced at the aggressive daylight, then at the pages of useless drawings carpeting the floorboards, and then at a bright-eyed Beatrice bounding in.
From the sitting room came the sound of Mrs. Kegworth rattling around with a tea tray. Yawning, Juno tugged on her dressing gown and blinked blearily at her guest.
“You must forgive me for calling on you like this, but really!” Beatrice poked her. “Still abed at this hour. What are these drawings? Surely these are not yours?”
The offending drawings were simple sketches of cats, flowers, hands. At least she drew.
I regret… A mistake…
How did one draw regret?
“I was practicing technique,” Juno mumbled.
Beatrice wasn’t interested. “I have decided on the solution to our problem,” she said.
Rubbing her eyes, Juno stumbled into the sitting room and sat down. Steam rose from the teapot. It took her a moment to understand what she was seeing: The teapot was from the service Leo had promised to send over, the one painted with a goddess for each season.
“Our problem?” Juno repeated. “We have a problem?”
“Have you forgotten so soon? The question of how I shall gain entry into the highest echelons of society. Which is important for you and your career.”
“Oh. That problem.”
“I do hope you haven’t been drinking. Prescott cannot abide it when a woman drinks.”
Juno let her head fall back on the settee. “Prescott’s views on my activities are irrelevant. Your husband can dictate your behavior, but he has no say over mine.”
“But what you do reflects on me. He was very clear about that when I took you on.” Beatrice peered at her and laughed. “You’re quite grumpy when you don’t get enough sleep, aren’t you?”
“Apparently.”
“The Duke and Duchess of Dammerton,” Beatrice announced.
Juno bowed forward and pressed her palms into her eye sockets until little lights appeared.
“You must persuade the duke to let you paint them together as a wedding gift. Suggest we meet them in Brighton. Once society learns they are to sit for you, everyone will want your art and my acquaintance.”
“No,” Juno said into her hands. “Let them be.”
“It is a useful connection. He came to speak to us yesterday. Do you not realize what an honor that was? No more coyness, Juno. We can use your connection with the duke—”
“No!” Juno’s head jerked up. “Leo—the duke, he and his wife—betrothed—person. They are notthingsto be used for our benefit.”
“Of course, ofcourse, but you could ask him—”
“I could not. I will not.”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes, hands on hips. “I need this, Juno.”
“If you must use someone, use your husband. London’s foremost art critic, remember? Talk to him.”
“I tried.” Her mouth trembled. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? Living independently, not following anyone’s rules. I cannot ask my husband—”
