Page 46 of Miss Devoted
“Ihave younger siblings—a half dozen at last count—and I hadn’t come up with that strategy. Reynolds was said to get down on the floor and spin tops and play soldiers with his youthful sitters. I will reenact the whole Peninsular campaign with these twins if that’s necessary to capture their likenesses.”
Belchamp’s eagerness bore the rank odor of servility. “Remind me never to accept a commission to paint a child. I’ll paint the pretty young ladies, and you can manage the infantry.”
The notion that Dermot might actually have to support himself with his art was laughable, not because he lacked the talent—even Berthold affirmed Dermot’s abilities—but because he lacked the toadying nature of the professional portraitist. Sir Joshua Reynolds had moved in the best society, but as an artistic novelty even after his knighthood.
“I’m glad to have work, my lord. Serious, artistic, paying work. Town will soon start to fill up, and if I must spend my spring painting children, then I will be grateful for the privilege.”
“This is why I will never excel in the arts,” Dermot replied, helping himself to the last of the wine. “As I view it, your sitters should be grateful to haveyoupaintingthem.”
Belchamp nodded to the Marquess of Fairborne’s youngest, a recent addition to the club’s membership. His lordship was determined to establish his gentlemanly bona fides with excesses of beamish friendliness.
“You know Fairborne’s brat?” Dermot asked.
“My father rides to hounds with the marquess. Lord Topham came off his pony at his first meet, and I let him ride in double with me while the groom set off in pursuit of the wayward beast. We’ve been friendly ever since. He has a marvelous tenor singing voice and doesn’t put on airs.”
The brotherhood of the houndsmen was appallingly democratic. “I don’t care for blood sport, myself. The contest is never fair, whether it’s a baited bear or a fox pursued by thirty couple of baying canines and four dozen drunken lordlings. Strikes me as the antithesis of true sport when the odds are stacked that steeply.”
“The hens terrorized when Reynard burrows into the chicken coop would take issue with your sympathies, my lord. I’m in the mood to celebrate my good fortune with a visit to the Coventry.”
The clock on the dining room mantel showed the hour to be far shy of midnight. “They won’t be serving free champagne for some time. Tell me about Mr. Smith. Where did you come across him this time?”
“On the south bank again. The day was sunny, so I thought I’d save cab fare by hiking the bridge—stupid idea. The winter wind on the river cuts like so many sabers. There I was, debating whether to save my pennies and imperil my health or hail a jarvey, when across the street Smith goes striding into the Lambeth gatehouse.”
“LambethPalace?”
“The very one. I expected the roof to cave in when he set foot on such hallowed grounds—what’s an actor and life model doing in a place like that?—but he did not emerge while I waited and watched.”
Why on earth…? “Lambeth is full of art. Perhaps some uncle or cousin took pity on Smith and offered him a tour. How was he attired?”
“He wore a greatcoat and top hat, my lord. Gloves and scarf too. In case the weather has escaped your notice, it’s winter.”
Belchamp was growing a bit too familiar, given his station in life, but the information he provided was interesting.
“Smith might have been at Lambeth to model for somebody doing a restoration or immortalizing some saint in stone. Berthold knows every artist, sculptor, engraver, and patron in London, and Smith can hold a pose. I can’t think why else he’d be frequenting Lambeth.”
“Neither can I. Most odd.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
Belchamp finished his wine. “He’s gorgeous, and not only in the looks department. He moves with a certain élan, a subtle grace and purpose, which is why I assume he’s an actor. In some ways, he’s the wrong model for life classes because he has that sense of contained self-possession. Drawing him sitting about in the nude is nearly a waste.”
“Tell Berthold that, why don’t you? He’ll surely retaliate with some cutting remark about how you sketch Smith’s ears. Shall we order another bottle?”
Dermot was two months behind paying the club’s monthly balance, but the next quarter’s allowance was only a few weeks off. Besides, spotting Smith at Lambeth was worth another glass or two of port. What the devil, as it were, could Smith have been doing atLambeth?
“I’ve had enough wine for the present,” Belchamp said. “A question for you, my lord. If you’re dabbling in art only to appease your aunt’s ambitions for you, and you don’t go in for the sporting life, and you apparently eschew the usual recreational wagers… What do you intend todowith yourself?”
What the hell sort of question was that? “I’m a gentleman, Belchamp. We famously do not turn our energies to brute labor and are instead a credit to our gender and the guardians of our families’ dignity. If we’re of a mind to, we take an interest in politics or the Church. We might in a weak moment stand for Parliament. We also treat the less fortunate to the occasional steak dinner and put upstarts and mushrooms in their places.”
Belchamp should have been offended by that speech, but he merely grinned. “You’ll marry the goddaughter of your auntie’s choosing, dutifully get little ladies and gentlemen on her, and live off the quarterly interest payments from her settlements?”
“Now you insult me.” Dermot added a smile to that observation, though Belchamp had blundered well past presumption with that comment. Another man might have called him out for it. “Take yourself off to the Coventry, why don’t you? You have a commission to celebrate.”
Belchamp pushed his chair back. “You’re sure you won’t come with me?”
“When I’m already squandering my coin on pity suppers for starving artists, I refuse to waste more funds wagering for the amusement of the Coventry’s pretty dealers. Go lose what little means you have and convince yourself thefreechampagne justifies the loss.”
Belchamp studied him across the table while Dermot signaled the waiter for another bottle of wine he didn’t want.
