Page 42 of Thief of the Ton
“Well, never mind that,” Lavinia said, squeezing her friend’s arm. “I didn’t come here to take tea with your mother—I came here to seeyou. Shall we indulge in the rose garden and, I might add, better company, now there’s just the two of us?”
“Your aunt is charming,” Eleanor said.
“There’s no need for civility,” Lavinia replied, “or I might be obliged to reciprocate and say something complimentary about your mother, which I’m afraid would be a challenge.”
Eleanor giggled. “Mother despairs of me,” she said. “When Juliette’s around, I’m largely ignored—except by Papa, of course.”
“You don’t deserve to be overlooked.”
“Oh, I prefer it, I assure you,” Eleanor replied. “Better to see than be seen. But not even Papa can talk Mother out of making me go to so many parties. Iloatheparties. I’m dreading the prospect of Lady Houghton’s ball. And Mother’s been complaining that we’ve not been invited to the house party at Hythe Manor next month. I can’t think of anything worse—being stuck in a house filled with noisy people for three days!”
Hythe Manor…
The location of Papa’s painting, procured by Lord Hythe at auction.
“I hear Hythe Manor has an impressive collection of art,” Lavinia said, “including a piece by Peter Lely, or so I’ve heard.”
“Oh yes!” Eleanor cried. “It’s rather famous.”
“You know the portrait?”
Eleanor nodded. “It’s of the fifth Lady Hythe. She was rumored to have been a mistress of Charles II, which is likely to be true, if Sir Peter Lely painted her portrait. He was the royal portraitist, you know.”
Lavinia smiled. Eleanor had an obsession with art, particularly portraiture and paintings of horses, and she knew all manner of insignificant facts about art history. Sadly, by virtue of her sex, she would never be valued for her knowledge—except by those who loved her.
“You’ve seen the painting?” Lavinia asked.
“Once,” Eleanor said. “I painted a replica last year after Lady Hythe gave us a tour of the gallery.”
“Did Lord Hythe permit you to copy it?”
“I painted it from memory.”
“And—it’s a true likeness?”
“Of course,” Eleanor began, then she colored and looked away. “Forgive me. Mother’s always telling me that a lady must show humility.”
“Are you denying your talent for art?” Lavinia laughed. “You forget, I know you well enough to believe that, if anything, you’d rather hide your talents than advertise them. So, you can replicate a painting?”
Eleanor nodded. “When I see something I like, I can commit it to memory—when I close my eyes, it’s as if it’s there before me. Would you like to see the picture? It’s in my study.”
“Of course!”
Eleanor’s expression illuminated with joy, and her eyes sparkled as she met Lavinia’s gaze. Eleanor spent most of the time staring at her hands or feet—anything to avoid looking at the people around her. But in the rare instances that she looked at Lavinia in the eye, it was as if she entrusted Lavinia to safeguard her soul.
Eleanor’s study was a peculiar combination of tidiness and disorder. At one end was a pile of books, placed such that the gold embossing on the spines perfectly aligned to form a pattern. At the other was a table and desk covered with papers—sketches, watercolors, and an array of painting tools. Eleanor approached the desk, opened the second drawer down, and pulled out a canvas.
The painting was exquisite. A lady with pale skin reclined in a wing-backed chair. Her eyes, a deep liquid brown, seemed to shine with mischief. The gown, a soft pink color, had a modest neckline trimmed with lace, and a full skirt that fell in folds about her legs, catching the light in soft ripples.
Lavinia reached out to touch the painting, almost expecting to feel the soft silk.
“Is it identical to the original?” she asked.
“Almost, except for the size and the signature,” came the reply. “It’s half the size of the original.”
“Are you sure it’s a good likeness?” Lavinia asked. “I’ve not seen the original—I’ve only heard about it.”
Eleanor opened another drawer and pulled out a sketchbook. “If you don’t believe I can draw likenesses, perhaps you’ll recognize these,” she said, flicking through the pages. She stopped at one, then passed the sketchbook over.
