“I believe it is best known as theHead of Medusa,“ he replied, a satisfied smile spreading on his lips.
Lady Ashby shot to her feet, although at her height, at least a head shorter than he, she was far from intimidating.
Egglesford held out his arms like Moses parting the Red Sea, with more than a bit of exhaustion showing in his expression. “We will end the exposition here for today. Next week I will present on the influence of Petrignani and Cesari on Caravaggio’s work.” He narrowed his eyes at Henry before sweeping from the room.
Henry stood and stretched as the men dispersed, enjoying the release of some of the tension in his long body. He rarely felt tense, especially when the lively debate over art had proven one of the most engaging moments of his past week.
Lady Ashby was by his side before he had righted his coat and donned his hat. “Venereal disease?” she asked, glancing at him askance.
He threw her a mischievous grin. “Egglesford can handle it. You’re the one who brought up homoerotic imagery, my dear Eleanor.”
Ellie rolled her eyes as she fell into step beside him, her footsteps echoing as they crossed the massive gallery and descended the marble steps of the museum, spilling onto the bustling Great Russell Street. “He wrote an entire thesis on the topic, and I referenced it heavily in my letters to him before the lecture,” she said as they passed a gentleman peddling flowers out of the back of a cart. “I assumed he would take up the mantle of discussion and leave you to do your sketches. You only wrote about three words before you started drawing.”
Henry paused, drawing a coin from his pocket and exchanging it for two yellow rosebuds. “You’re wrong. I only wrote one,” he said as he nudged her shoulder with his, then slid the rosebud into the brim of her hat before tucking the other in his buttonhole.
Lady Eleanor, the Dowager Countess Ashby, was one of the few people who knew how much he enjoyed creating art, and would only gently tease him about his habit of filling pages with drawings instead of words.
“How is your exhibition going? Have you selected the works you plan to display?”
Hiding his grimace, Henry rolled his eyes. “You act as though I am a prolific artist with scads of work to choose from, when in reality Monsieur Robette is merely doing me a favor.”
More specifically, the Frenchman was doing a favor to Henry’s father, the earl and loyal patron of the Robette Gallery in Knightsbridge, by giving the earl’s wayward son an exhibition in late summer. Henry suspected it was a ploy by his father to force some responsibility on his only child. In reality, it had caused him to suffer a crippling artistic block.
“I don’t believe that,” Ellie said, lifting her skirts to step onto the gravel path lining the gardens. “You have a talent, even if you won’t admit it. Isn’t that why you attend these lectures?”
“I attend these lectures so I can keep you from losing your clever mind to boredom.”
Ellie shrugged, a flush rising up her neck to meet the fiery red curls tamed into submission under her grey bonnet. Hair like hers did not belong in mourning clothes. “Admit it, you enjoy the lectures.”
Scoffing, Henry guided her around a puddle blocking the path. “There is very little I would enjoylessthan hearing Egglesford discuss homoerotic imagery.”
“Except perhaps a venereal disease?” Ellieasked, turning her pointed chin up at him.
He howled with laughter, drawing the gazes of several schoolchildren filing past. “Yes, certainlythat.”
“You were falling asleep. I worried you would start snoring again and become the object of ridicule at White’s.” She turned her face towards the sky as though soaking in the sunlight. Her pale skin had finally regained some of its color. Henry felt his heart clench with affection. After becoming a widow at the shockingly young age of twenty-four, his friend deserved some joy in her life.
“Have you ever seen theMedusain person?” Henry asked.
Ellie scoffed. “Of course not. Nor Michaelangelo’sDavid, nor the Raphaelite frescoes, nor any other work of value. They’re all in Italy.”
Henry curled up his nose in distaste. This was not the first time Ellie had railed against the nation’s puritanical dictate forbidding women from entering galleries without their husbands’ supervision.
“We wouldn’t want you catching the vapors at the sight of David’s…” Henry bobbed his eyebrows.
Ellie laughed, placing her hand in the crook of Henry’s elbow. “I doubt they’ll ever remove the fig leaf Queen Victoria insisted upon during her last visit.”
“Sensible, really. If women compared men's bodies toDavidand inevitably found us lacking, the male species would be forced to—” He lifted his hand to his brow as though swooning— “use ourmindsto convince you of our merits. An impossible task, if you ask me.”
She did not refute his claim. “You could go to Rome,” she suggested, turning her sparkling gray eyes in his direction.
He scoffed. “A trip to Italy, to look at art of all things?” He waved his hand, attempting nonchalance. “How dreadful.”
“Yes, it is unfortunate the masterpieces of Italian art are, in fact, in Italy,” she retorted. “But think of all the other wonderful things, wine, for example?”
He nodded, making a show of thinking by scratching his chin. “I do enjoy wine.”
She smiled in victory. “And think of the inspiration you could draw from for your own art. Why would you not go?”
