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Chapter One
OCTOBER 1883
“That’s a fine one,” Bobby Perry said as she lounged in the studio at the top of Miss Judith Townsend’s London townhouse. She regarded the painting taking shape under Judith’s capable hands with admiration.
Judith added highlights—or whatever it was she was doing—to the golden hair of the lady in the portrait. Said lady was draped across a chaise, lavender skirts billowing, the painted bodice shimmering as the real one would when a beam of sunlight danced upon it.
“I’m pleased with it,” Judith said in her modest way.
Bobby kicked her legs over her chair’s cushioned arm and suppressed her longing for a cheroot. No smoking, not in the studio. Judith’s rule. Too many paint fumes, darling, Judith had explained the first time Bobby had been ushered into this sanctum. You’ll blow us all up.
The deprivation was worth it. Bobby would give up tobacco altogether to bask with the dark-haired Judith in her aerie, watching those skilled fingers work.
“Surprised you persuaded good old Cyn to sit still that long.” Bobby sipped the fine brandy Judith always stocked. There were compensations for not being able to smoke.
“A large slice of Mrs. Holloway’s lemon cake and a bottle of Beaujolais.” Judith’s lips quirked into her gentle smile. “It helps that I can make a sketch very quickly.”
The subject and their mutual friend, Lady Cynthia Squires, was a restless soul, more at home, like Bobby, in trousers and suit coat than skirts.
“For her family, is it? This portrait?” Bobby waved her glass at the painting.
“Indeed. Something nice to hang in the hall, said her aunt.” Judith’s brush halted in midair as she tilted her head to decide her next stroke.
“Her aunt means something that won’t embarrass them.” Cynthia’s aunt was horrified that her niece put on men’s clothing and went about with Bobby, though she’d already realized she couldn’t stop Cynthia doing exactly as she pleased.
“I believe that is the intent.” Judith’s eyes narrowed as she made a precise dab.
Bobby lifted the brandy to her lips once more, then froze in dismay. “Hang about. You won’t let my family bribe you into painting me like that, will you? In a frock and all?”
Judith’s silvery laughter rang out. “Never, darling. You are much different from Cynthia.”
“I don’t wish to placate my family, you mean?”
Judith glanced at Bobby, her dark eyes coiling need through Bobby’s limbs. Bobby blessed her luck every day that Judith Townsend even considered looking at her at all.
“Cyn is in love with her mathematician,” Judith said. “The fact that he might gaze upon this painting of her allowed me to coax her into sitting. Not that either of us admitted such a thing.”
“I wish them happy,” Bobby said with sincerity. “The pair of them would be good for each other. I hope they produce twenty-seven bouncing babies for Uncle Bobby to spoil rotten. Then I’ll hand them back when they need changing and bathing and whatnot.”
Another glance from Judith, this one assessing. “You are fond of children, aren’t you?”
Bobby shrugged, trying to hide her embarrassment. She often referred to her brother’s children as squalling brats, but in truth they were charming little lads. “They’re all right.”
“Hmm.” Judith returned to the painting, leaving Bobby nonplussed. Judith’s hmms always held a world of meaning.
“Ever think about having babies yourself?” Bobby asked in curiosity.
Judith hesitated. “I doubt I’ll have time for that sort of thing,” was her light response. “Too much I want to paint first.”
A nice, vague answer. Of course, Judith bearing children required a man to touch her. Said man would likely end up in three pieces at her feet if he tried.
Judith could use an actual sword. Learned it in a foreign land for some reason or other, she’d told Bobby, rather evasively. Judith’s life had been far more exciting than Bobby’s thus far.
Any further speculation on children or life and its profundity was interrupted by a blast on the speaking tube Judith had installed. No old-fashioned, clanging bells for Miss Townsend’s grand Mayfair home.
Judith set her brush on the lip of the easel, lifted the ear horn from its wooden box, and spoke into it. “Yes, Hubbard?”
The muffled tones of Hubbard, Judith’s creaky butler, came though the tube, his words too garbled for Bobby to discern from across the room.
