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“Beddington
holds the key.”
—Last coherent message received from
Angus Dalrymple, Esq.
Covert agent for Her Majesty’s
interests
on the Indian sub-continent.
Chapter 1
“I’m going to have to shorten his willie.”
The artist stepped back from her
easel and regarded the offending member with a critical eye. Her
name was Artemisia. “Sounds like amnesia,” her father had complained
when her mother insisted upon the unusual moniker. Artemisia
Dalrymple Pelham-Smythe, to be exact. Such a heavy load might have
been a burden for some. But Artemisia was a duchess, so most people
simply called her ‘Your Grace.’
“Of course, it’s absolutely true to
life,” she said finally, closing one eye and holding her thumb
upraised to do a rough comparative measurement. “The proportions are
accurate to the model, but critics tend to find well-endowed males
in art to be prurient. I can’t imagine why. A willie is just a
willie, after all. What do you think, Cuthbert?”
“On the
subject of art, Your Grace, one is of no opinion.” Cuthbert
set down the silver tray and poured out a steaming cup of tea with
extreme dignity. “But if one may be so bold as to suggest, perhaps
Madam would do well to be more delicate in her speech.”
Artemisia
took the offered cup and sipped the aromatic blend. It was almost as
good as the tea she grew up with in Bombay.
“I was being delicate, Cuthbert.
That’s why I called it a willie instead of a pe—“
“Your daily
reading, Your Grace,” Cuthbert interrupted smoothly, handing her a
neatly folded newspaper.
Hiding her
smile, Artemisia set down her tea cup. She knew she shouldn’t
purposely try to irritate her butler, but his ears turned such a
charming shade of purple when she did.
Artemisia ran her gaze over the
headlines. “The Tattler?” She tried never to read the
ubiquitous scandal sheets and The Tattler was worst of the
lot, laden with juicy on dits and sly innuendo. “You know
I’ve no time for such drivel.”
“Indeed.
Then perhaps Madam should refrain from giving the writers so much
fodder. The article just below the fold could not escape one’s
notice. Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”
“No, I think that’s quite enough,”
Artemisia said wryly.
The butler bowed and retreated with
dignity. Almost as an afterthought, he stopped and turned back.
“A gentleman is waiting to see you,
Madam.”
“Ah! That will be the model Mr.
Phelps is sending round today. I’m ready to start sketches of Eros
now that Neptune is finished. Nearly finished,” she amended,
silently reminding herself that there was yet a willie to be
shortened.
“It is highly unlikely that this man
is one of your young gods.” Cuthbert shook his head solemnly. “He
dresses like a proper English gentleman.”
“There are so many second-hand
clothing shops in London a stable lad can fit himself out like a
lord if he wishes.”
Artemisia
bit her lip. She realized she was sounding just like the writer in
The Tattler
who last week bemoaned the fact that class distinctions could no
longer be made by dress—not with so many ladies’ maids larking about
London as well turned out as their mistresses. It irked her that she
should be mouthing the sentiments of a scandal sheet. Artemisia made
a mental note not to read The Tattler again even if Cuthbert
shoved it under her nose.
She
consulted the Ormulu mantle clock above her fireplace. Even in
summer, she burned a fire for the comfort of her models. Goosebumps
did become an Olympian, after all. “Send the man in.”
Once Cuthbert closed the French doors
to her studio, Artemisia released a pent-up sigh. Perhaps she should
encourage him to retire, but the crusty gentleman’s gentleman
probably wouldn’t hear of it. Cuthbert’s family had been with the
estate for two generations. He had served Artemisia’s late husband,
the Duke of Southwycke, as his father had served the duke’s father
before him. Even though his master was dead and Cuthbert
not-so-tacitly disapproved of his unconventional mistress, he lived
to serve Southwycke. Anything else was unthinkable.
Artemisia donned a paint-daubed smock
over her simple day dress and began assembling her materials. Today
she’d do a few preliminary sketches and experiment with poses. Once
she settled on a composition, she’d transfer her ideas to canvas
with her brushes and pallet knife. As she arranged her tools, one of
the soft sticks of chalk rolled from the table’s edge and she bent
to retrieve it. She was so intent on her task, she didn’t even hear
the door swing open behind her.
* * *
Trevelyn Deveridge had been warned the duchess had a well-earned
reputation for the unexpected, but he certainly didn’t anticipate
being greeted by the sight of her bottom first.
And a bottom as ripe as a plum, he almost said
aloud. She wore no crinoline, no contraption of horsehair and wires
to enhance her form, just a simple shift covered by a short smock,
nothing to obscure what was a decidedly shapely derriere.
Stick to business,
he ordered himself. You’re here to find Beddington, not to
see the sights.
Wiping off his salacious grin,
Trevelyn cleared his throat.
“Oh!” She straightened and turned
abruptly. Trevelyn’s first impression was that the duchess was much
younger than he expected and far more comely. Several locks of her
raven hair had escaped from the loose chignon, teasing her delicate
neck and nape, the curls off on jaunts of their own. She looked as
if she’d just risen from a rousing tussle on a feather tick. He
flexed his fingers, imagining threading the silky tendrils through
them. As if she read his thoughts, a becoming flush kissed her
cheeks. Then her delicately arched brows lowered in a frown.
“You’re late,” she accused.
“Your pardon, Your Grace, but—“
“Spare me your excuses. Surely Mr.
Phelps explained that punctuality is essential to your position. I
don’t want to lose the morning light.”
“Clearly, there’s been a
misunderstanding, mum,” he began in his best imitation of a rough
country burr while he made an old-fashioned courtly leg to her. He’d
been trained to adopt an assumed identity when the situation called
for one. Trevelyn had already decided this was a job for Thomas
Doverspike, his less aristocratic alter-ego. “Allow me to introduce
myself, an’ it please you. I’m—“
“No names, please,” she said crisply.
“At least, not until the painting is well under way. I find calling
you by the title of the work enables us to maintain professional
distance.” The duchess beckoned him closer with a wave of her slim
fingers. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come here so I can get a
good look at you.”
Amused by
her abrupt manner, Trevelyn swallowed his retort and strode forward.
The first lesson drummed into him when he joined Her Majesty’s corps
of intelligence officers was to listen more than he spoke. He might
learn a wealth of information if he simply let his subject talk. The
duchess had obviously mistaken him for someone seeking employment.
Once she realized her error, she’d be embarrassed enough to tell him
anything.
Even where to find the elusive Mr.
Beddington.
She eyed him
carefully, walking a slow half-circle around him. Finally she
stopped and pinned him with a direct gaze. Her eyes were a deep,
moss green and a faint streak of blue chalk was smudged near her
temple. The scent of oleander, mingled with oil paint, wafted about
her. He inhaled her sweet fragrance, surprised to find his soft
palate aching for him to plant a kiss on the chalk smudge.
She shook
her head. “No, I’m afraid you won’t do at all.”
Trev blinked
in surprise. Women usually found him most agreeable. “An’ it not be
too forward to ask, in what manner do I disappoint Your Grace?”
“The fault
is not yours. I shall have to speak to Mr. Phelps about this. I
specifically requested blond curls and a soft, cherubic face for my
Eros. While there is a hint of a wave in your hair, the color is
definitely chestnut and the planes and angles of your face are far
too jarring to belong to the god of love. With those brooding dark
eyes and strong jaw line, you’re much more a god of . . .”
She stopped and her eyes seemed to go
out of focus for a moment as if she were seeing something other than
him. One of her brows arched.
“There’s nothing else for it,” the
duchess said. “You shall be Mars, my god of war.”
“I’ve been
called many things, Your Grace. A god of anything was never one of
them.” He inclined his head slightly. “I’m honored.”
“You will
be,” she said with certainty. “When I’m finished, your face and form
will be immortal. Now then. Let’s begin, shall we? The dressing room
is through that door. There’s a robe in there for you. Remove your
clothing—all of it, if you please—and return in the robe. Pray be
quick about it. The sun waits for no one.”
And neither
evidently did the Duchess of Southwycke. She wanted him naked as God
made him, did she? Trevelyn never expected to have to pose as a
figure model to serve his Queen, but he’d done far more difficult
things for the sake of Victoria Regina. Besides, when a lady asks so
prettily for a gentleman to disrobe, how could he in good conscience
refuse?
Especially when the lady is a well-favored, widowed
duchess,
Trevelyn decided. No marriage trap here,
even if the session ends in something more involved than etchings.
He might have thought better of it if
the duchess had been a wrinkled old hag, but a leisurely morning
spent unclothed in the company of a lovely woman would be far more
interesting than the quick interview he’d expected. And if all went
well, the job would certainly provide him with an opportunity to
spend enough time with her to glean all the information he sought,
probably without her ever knowing his true business.
He squared his shoulders and decided
to play the hand dealt him. Trevelyn headed for the dressing room,
whistling Rule Britannia between his teeth.
The things one does for one’s Queen
and country. . .
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