Artfully Yours, page 7
“They are Kessler and McAdams.” Kuznetsov came to stand beside her. “Poet and composer. Also, footmen. You like orange?”
Nina spied the trove of oranges glowing in an opened crate.
“Oh, I’m quite all right. Don’t trouble yourself,” she began, but Kuznetsov was already crossing into the room.
“Not trouble,” he said, and then to Kessler and McAdams, “Gentlemen, meet Miss Finch and Mr. Fyodor.”
The music broke off. Both young men looked at Nina with abstracted smiles before turning their attention to Fritz.
“Brilliant little fellow!” cried Kessler, springing to his feet. “He deserves a sonnet.”
“A ballad,” called McAdams, pressing his fingers again to the keys, banging out a sprightlier tune.
“What is he, though?” asked Kessler. “I must seek the rhyme.”
“He’s a marmoset.” Nina stepped into the room. “Nothing rhymes with it.”
“Omelet,” mused Kessler. “Bilboquet. Or—has he a taste for fine cheese? How’s this for a beginning? He set out at dawn, the marmoset. But he hadn’t arrived in Parma—yet! It continues, interweaving the marmoset’s progress with that of the cheese itself. Cow to cauldron. Yes?”
“No!” called McAdams, banging an emphatic, negatory chord.
“Watch the nail,” added Kessler, an afterthought.
Nina narrowly avoided it, skipping awkwardly to the side. The floor was littered with nails, discharged by the lids of the packing crates.
“What is all of this?” she asked as Kuznetsov handed her an orange.
“Homage to the great De’Ath,” said Kuznetsov, waggling his eyebrows. Nina’s eyes roved. One crate contained a bronze Medici lion. Another, bottles of wine. And there, a cured ham.
“These are just from today,” said Kessler, nudging a crate with his boot. “They flood the house whenever an opera opens, or a ballet. Or an exhibition. Last week, a tenor from Parma brought a wheel of cheese so heavy he had to roll it down the hall. De’Ath made him roll it back.” He sighed his regret. Clearly, he had a taste for fine cheese. “De’Ath won’t accept any gifts. Except if there’s no card. As with these oranges.”
“It’s obvious who sent the oranges.” McAdams spoke over his shoulder, still playing. “Signorina Bonaccorso, who stood in the garden and warbled that song about the orange groves of Sicily.”
“Pure speculation.” Kessler wore a mischievous grin. “We can’t return the oranges on a hunch. If we’re wrong, the signorina will suppose De’Ath sent a gift to her. No, we must eat them, my friend. We have no choice.”
McAdams banged another chord and laughed, spinning around on the piano stool. He had a freckled, mirthful face, with bright eyes that he fixed on Nina.
“You’re not a desperate chanteuse, showing up empty-handed,” he observed. “Or do you mean to give De’Ath the marmoset?”
“No!” Nina almost tugged Fritz away from Kuznetsov. But he looked contented. Kuznetsov, too, looked contented. He was rubbing Fritz’s head with his thumb as he continued to peel his orange using one hand and his teeth.
Kessler and McAdams—they looked rather contented as well. Did they spend their days lounging in this parlor, picking out songs on the piano, chasing after rhymes, unpacking and repacking crates, sampling the delicacies?
Footmen in Casa De’Ath led far merrier lives than their equivalents in Umfreville House.
“Mr. De’Ath offered me a position,” she said. “As his amanuensis.”
She stiffened, prepared for ridicule, skepticism, even an impromptu interview, during which she’d try, and fail, to prove her credentials. She could imagine the men shaking their heads.
Doesn’t speak French.
Doesn’t know any words that rhyme with marmoset.
Kessler nodded mildly. “Finch, was it?”
“Welcome,” said McAdams.
The pieces clicked into place. The men weren’t incredulous, because De’Ath relied on serendipity to fill every position. Agencies didn’t deliver the likes of Kuznetsov, Kessler, or McAdams to lords in search of dependable domestics.
She’d wager De’Ath’s entire staff was serendipitous, a collection of down-at-heel bohemians he’d encountered in coffeehouses and literary salons.
He’d collected her as well. He hadn’t broken the mold. He’d acted true to form. His offer—it didn’t signify suspicion, or any inordinate interest, either.
Good. Better that she didn’t seem special in any way. To him, to anyone.
Still, a bit lowering, wasn’t it?
She was squeezing her orange. The sharp, sweet scent tingled her nose.
Kessler took a breath.
“Charming pet, the marmoset,” he intoned. “Compared to the kangaroo. The koala bear’s not half so fair, when you see him at the zoo. The platypi, I won’t deny, are—”
“Enough monkey business,” interrupted Kuznetsov, and looked at Nina. “I take you to De’Ath.”
* * *
—
She didn’t see De’Ath when they entered the drawing room. Her first impression was of the room itself, long and bright, bay windows looking onto the garden. A molded frieze topped the walls, pale owls in flight against a background of midnight blue. The room wasn’t cluttered, but neither was it sparse in its furnishings. It combined perfect comfort with perfect taste.
She couldn’t see him, but the room revealed his sensibility.
“And he might be the next surveyor of the queen’s pictures! Did you hear that? The wretch.”
Nina’s eyes moved to the speaker, an agitated young woman in aesthetic dress, the pleated apricot silk a striking complement to the deep blue tones of the room. Wispy curls had escaped her loose chignon and stuck every which way, adding to her look of bristled indignation. She broke off as Nina and Kuznetsov approached, swiveling in the upholstered armchair.
De’Ath was sprawled on a love seat, his cane propped beside him. He turned his head.
“Miss Finch.” He smiled with more satisfaction than surprise. “You’ve reconsidered. How fortunate.” He raised his left hand, wrapped in a neat bandage. “Not broken, but not functional either. Did you bring your things? It’s best if you live in. Mrs. Dormody will prepare your room.”
“I didn’t want to presume,” Nina murmured. She’d purposely left her packed valise at the Knack. An excuse to disappear for the evening, so she could report to Jack. “You might have filled the position.”
De’Ath looked as contented as his footmen, with that languid posture. His hair kicked up in waves, full and black. She balled her fist against the urge to comb its thickness with her fingers.
Dear Lord. She blamed Fritz for his bad influence. She wasn’t a marmoset, to groom De’Ath as though for nits! But his hair—it beckoned, wildly strokable, tauntingly soft in contrast with his hawkish features. She itched, as well, to feel his jaw beneath the side-whiskers, to map its obscured dimensions.
“So I did. The position is filled as of this moment.” De’Ath gestured, tipping his head, a lock of hair falling across his brow. “Get your things later. For now, take a seat. Do you need a pen? Paper?”
She fumbled with the clasp of her chatelaine in her eagerness to extract the pen and the small blue morocco notebook.
“I brought the essentials,” she said. “And one other thing.” She hesitated. “Not a thing. That is, I apologize, but I had to bring . . . I hope you don’t mind. I brought . . .”
“Fyodor!” Kuznetsov finished for her, stepping forward proudly. Only Fritz’s head was visible, peeping out of his waistcoat. Fritz chirped, then stuck out his tongue.
“Dear goblin!” The woman in the armchair leaned forward with a delighted cry. “Aren’t you an imp! I want to put you in a picture.”
This time, Nina did reach for Fritz, but he wouldn’t go to her. Too much stimulation. He wiggled out of Kuznetsov’s waistcoat and bounced between them down to the floor, skittering over the rug to a carved cabinet. Within moments, he was perched on top, beside a blue vase. Bollocks. An expensive blue vase.
“He’s very well-behaved,” asserted Nina, less a lie than a fervent wish. Dear God, if he starts breaking china . . .
De’Ath had removed his spectacles and was polishing the lenses slowly on his sleeve, watching Fritz with that amused smile. If the fate of the vase concerned him, he didn’t show it.
“He’ll fall asleep in another moment,” she added, another wish. “No one will notice him.”
“I’ll continue noticing, if that’s all right.” The woman hauled a large bag onto her lap and pulled out a sketchbook.
“Quite.” Nina fixed a smile on her lips. She’d worried about the impropriety, introducing a loud, potently aromatic, ill-tempered mammal into Casa De’Ath. But he’d already won the hearts of the occupants. Well, perhaps not De’Ath’s heart. Everyone else’s, though. Soon, he’d figure in poems, ballads, pictures, novels. With luck—lots of luck—he wouldn’t transform himself from hero into villain.
Kuznetsov clapped a hand to his heart and said something in French to De’Ath, who laughed and responded, also in French.
Nina drifted to a Morris chair near De’Ath and plopped into it, ears burning. She felt—oafish. Embarrassingly inadequate. Kuznetsov was disheveled, yes, but his very raggedness seemed proof of intellectual preoccupation. He had a cultured mind. Everyone did in Casa De’Ath.
Praying that they wouldn’t all begin speaking in French, she set her ink bottle on the side table, opened the blank notebook to the first page, and composed her face. She had a secretarial demeanor at least, with her pursed lips, and her plain dress, navy with thin white stripes.
She couldn’t concentrate. New worries intruded. What if Fritz had eaten too much orange? Fruit rarely sat well. The finely knotted Persian carpets on the floor looked older and rarer than those in Umfreville House, intricately ornamented with dense, curvilinear designs. If Fritz messed them . . .
Her lips screwed tighter. She began to scrawl with the steel nib of the pen, spelling out the only words of French in her vocabulary.
Boudoir.
Volupté.
Merde.
“Miss Finch,” said De’Ath, and her pen skipped. Hastily, she scribbled out the column. She realized Kuznetsov was heading for the door and almost rose in a bid to make him stay. Too late. He disappeared into the hall. Her benevolent guide. Suddenly bereft, she turned her eyes on Alan De’Ath.
He was settling his spectacles on his nose, an arm draped across the back of the love seat. “Let me introduce the Duchess of Weston and Miss Holroyd.”
Nina kept her lips together. Secretary. That was her role. No gaping. Elegant deference. But how to display it? She dipped slightly in her chair, a discreet bow. The duchess didn’t notice. She’d twisted around to sketch Fritz, who huddled against the vase, very much awake.
“He’s a perfect gargoyle,” said the duchess. “I might add wings.”
Nina cleared her throat but thought better of speaking.
This was the East Ender who’d painted Endymion, a massive, mythically styled nude modeled on her future husband, the Duke of Weston. Even Jack, who on principle ignored the hullabaloos that attended the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibitions, had taken note of that sensation.
The Duchess of Weston formed part of a clique of modern painters, all female. The Sisterhood. Aside from the ubiquitous engravings of Endymion, Nina hadn’t encountered their work. Over the course of her life, she’d spent thousands of hours in the National Gallery, copying the paintings in the collections, training her eye and her hand. But she never set foot in the galleries devoted to the latest canvases. Jack wouldn’t allow it. Too risky, rubbing elbows with the habitués of those exhibition rooms—critics and collectors, the very people who’d evaluate and buy their forgeries. She had no personal acquaintance with any artist of any fame.
She and Jack focused on the dead artists exclusively.
Until De’Ath had lectured her on the relationship between the trade in old masters and the depressed sales of new pictures, she’d never considered the negative impact forgery might have on living painters.
Did it make her conscience prick?
“We were just discussing Lloyd Syme’s impenitent stupidity,” said De’Ath’s other guest. Miss Holroyd, by process of elimination. Also a member of the Sisterhood, if memory served.
Nina turned her head. And stared. At a handsome dandy, with close-cropped hair, dressed to the nines in a double-breasted mulberry jacket and fawn trousers. The dandy leaned back in the chair, throwing one slim leg across the other.
Nina had seen women in breeches at the burlesque with Jack. Something pinged differently here. Miss Holroyd’s bright arrogance as she returned Nina’s stare brought a blush to her cheeks.
Why, Miss Holroyd was a dandy, an absolute rake!
She winked at Nina, a friendly wink.
“Mark this down,” she commanded. “We’ll need De’Ath to make hay with it later. Lloyd Syme, the old crank, told Henley, William Henley of the Magazine of Art, that all our pictures are quote a wicked folly and a blight on womankind unquote. He wants to see them burned! He said this in front of us, last night, at Sir Wyndham’s dinner.”
Nina’s pen sped across the page.
“Old crank,” repeated Miss Holroyd, for Nina’s benefit. “That’s key. And don’t bother with Duchess of Weston. Write Lucy Coover. That’s how she signs her pictures.”
The duchess was still sketching, looking between her sketchbook and Fritz, who suddenly screeched and raced down the side of the cabinet.
“Blast.” The duchess lowered her pencil. “But I must say, my mood has improved tremendously. Fyodor is a love.”
“Fritz,” said Nina automatically, but no one seemed to hear. Miss Holroyd had started talking again.
“My mood won’t improve until that old crank is taken down a peg or two. Do I balk at honest criticism? Never! But I refuse to tolerate bigoted abuse.”
She turned to De’Ath. “You will attend the private view tomorrow at the Olgilvie Gallery? We don’t ask for flattery. We demand pure aesthetic judgment, delivered without grudge or prejudice. Something to counteract the misogynist claptrap of that doddering old . . .”
She took a breath.
“Crank?” suggested Nina, pen flying.
“Bastard,” said Miss Holroyd. “You don’t object to obscenities, I hope?”
“Not at all.” Nina shook out her hand. “I have a brother.” She studied the notebook pages, spidered with close script, the lines slanting up. “I’m afraid I missed a bit.”
“Crank. Bastard.” De’Ath raised his brows, directing a wry smile in her direction. “I’m certain you captured the essence. When my hand is healed, I’ll resume my own note-taking. You’ll copy out and organize the notes. This state of affairs . . .” He lifted the bandaged hand. “It’s temporary. So for now, record what you can.”
His voice was warm. He’d spoken to put her at ease.
Nina shifted in her chair. Dammit, her conscience did prick. She’d taken her place among Casa De’Ath’s peculiar, likable assortment of individuals as a deceiver.
She almost preferred the cold atmosphere at Umfreville House. At least there, in the service of the unjust and despicable rich, she’d felt righteous. More Robin Hood, than, well . . . robber. It was robbing, in a sense. Signing a stolen name to a picture, which would be sold under false pretenses.
She realized she was still staring at De’Ath. His lashes were so long, they touched the lenses of his spectacles.
“I’ll do my best,” she said with a shiver, far too late.
De’Ath had already looked away from her, to his guests.
“I have good news,” he said. “The old crank’s day may well be done. There’s no danger of his becoming surveyor of the queen’s pictures.” A smile spread across his face—a devilish smile. “Not unless Her Majesty has a taste for fakes.”
* * *
—
Alan had guessed that Holroyd would react first. A victorious yawp, followed by Coover’s barrage of questions.
But Miss Finch beat them both.
She gasped.
“Huzzah!” cried Holroyd as she pounded the arm of her chair.
“What do you mean, fakes?” asked Coover, eyes narrowed.
“I shouldn’t have spoken so soon.” He shook his head, but he was grinning. He could see it all unfolding, see the end result with a clarity both giddy and pitiless, almost preternatural.
Like when he was a boy, during those chess games with his father. Counting the moves to checkmate before he touched his first pawn. Then and now, an addictive feeling.
“Do you know an art dealer named Sleaford?” he asked.
Holroyd glanced at Coover, who shrugged a shoulder. “Doesn’t ring a bell. He mustn’t organize exhibitions.”
“I’m making inquiries about him now.” Alan rested his left hand on his left thigh, neatly stacking his physical discomforts. The throbbing of his knuckles. The burning in his hip, dull and persistent, a hot coal nested in the socket. He sealed off his awareness of that portion of his body.
All mind. His existence began and ended right behind his eyes. Easiest to pretend when he had a puzzle to solve, a game to win. He was almost grateful to Geoffrey, to Syme, to Sleaford. Almost.
“From what I’ve gathered,” he continued, “his inventory consists of old masters. It’s a small firm, with a showroom in High Holborn. He sold my brother a fake Rembrandt. Syme buys from him as well. No proof, as of yet, that Syme purchased forgeries. But . . .”
