He could andwouldbe friends with her, just as he always had been. He’d be abetterfriend than ever before. He would listen—properly—and take an interest in…in art and all the things that most concerned her. He’d make himself of service to her and consider all her wants before his own. That must be the solution—treating her as a true friend would conquer the…ah…more than friendlythoughts that had so tormented him of late.
But he would start tomorrow. When he was better able to bear it.
Still restless, Jack freshened his appearance with a haste that would normally have appalled him and left his house with no real plan in mind, but was unsurprised when his steps took him towards his club. An hour in the familiar rooms, making idle conversation with vague acquaintance, might be tonic enough to help him sleep.
There weren’t many people he knew present, the hour being such that most of his friends would currently be seeking livelier entertainment. Some of Warde’s close friends he acknowledged with a nod, but he passed them by, having caught sight of Mr Cotton in a dim corner.
The slim young man was only a casual acquaintance, but he was an artist, which made Jack think of Min and therefore made the man glow like a beacon. Jack could quiz him on art, learn something, and perhaps make himself seem one iota less ignorant when he pursued the subject with Min in future.
But Jack paused when he reached Cotton’s table. The man was sitting hunched, the fingers of one hand digging into his disordered hair, the other clutched around a brimful glass ofstrong spirits. The smell was potent, and when Cotton looked up at Jack’s arrival, his eyes were hazed and there was an expression of great irritation on his face. Jack was surprised. The slim, eccentric man was normally animated more by pomposity and fervent, wide-eyed ambition than wrath.
“I wanted to ask you about art,” Jack began with a friendly smile, “but perhaps you’re not in the mood for conversation? Everything all right, old man?”
Cotton grimaced. “Art! Ask me about anything butthat.”
As art had been the only reason for Jack coming over, this wasn’t good news. But he settled himself into the chair opposite, resigned to spending the next half hour attempting to discover the issue and raise his spirits. It would be a distraction from his own, at least. However, it was Cotton who spoke next, immediately referring to the supposedly forbidden topic.
“Art, art,” he exclaimed bitterly. “You wonder why I’m here tonight and not at Thornton’s studio when I’ve been a most religious attendant of his Friday sessions for over a twelvemonth. I give you one answer: Gilbert Rokesby.”
Being entirely unaware of the existence of Thornton’s studio sessions, or, indeed, anyone called Rokesby, Jack merely made a sympathetic noise.
“How can a man draw with Rokesby and his snide comments at one’s elbow, his eye forever on your work, some criticism forever on his tongue? He’s worse than a buzzing fly. Hestings. And most intolerable of all is that he’s a mere dabbler, with no more talent than…than I dare say you have, Orton.”
As Jack could barely draw a straight line, he merely sipped his drink, more amused than offended. He raised an eyebrow in sympathetic comment as Cotton scowled and threw back his liquor.
“I vastly preferred my neighbour last week,” continued Cotton, slamming his glass back down, both the vigorous motion andhis scowl trailing off as he began to idly draw with a fingertip in the wet patches on the lacquered tabletop. “Your talented Miss Fanshaw is more in the mode of a muse. The soft white arm working away in the corner of my eye. The little soft sighs she gives when she’s concentrating. And she hardly speaks, which is a wonder, but when shedoesspeak, it’s only to say something both charming and to the point.” He gave Jack an amiable smile. “You know, I always thought you just a pleasant sort of fool, Orton, but your choice of friends is most excellent. George Simmons is another good one. The most decent sort of fellow one could meet. Buys art frequently too. Yes, I like him a lot.”
Jack had sat frozen through most of this speech. “Miss Fanshaw?” he said. “Miss Lucy Fanshaw?”
Cotton nodded, seemingly oblivious to the tight, incredulous note in Jack’s voice as he added some flourishes to his tabletop artwork. “She was there tonight, of course, but I had no chance to get near her. Every dumb buck in the place was fighting to set their easel up next to hers. Though I can’t understand why; it’s a foolish move when her work outshines them all. The close comparison can only make their scribbles suffer.”
“Miss Fanshaw was at Thornton’s studio tonight, taking some manner of drawing class?”
“Still there, I suspect. I left early. Rokesby—”
But Jack cut him off. “She is there at this late hour? Taking a class withmen?”
Cotton frowned at him, perplexed by his stupidity. “It’s the Friday night session, Orton. It’s not a class. It’s life drawing.”
“Life drawing?” Jack squeaked. “Nudes?”
“Yes.” Then some understanding dawned. “Oh, you probably think it untoward, a young lady being there. Well, I suppose it is now I think about it. But she’s hardly the first woman to attend, and I must say, compared to the likes of Rokesby and theother talentless hopefuls who keep turning up, Miss Fanshaw is a welcome breath of air. I’d say she’s an asset to the place.”
Jack said nothing, assailed by an image of Min in a circle of men, all of them ogling hersoft white armsand listening out for everylittle soft sigh. He knew those sighs. They felt like the press of fingertips to his neck.
Excusing himself to the confused and frowning Cotton, Jack got to his feet and practically ran down the stairs to the street. He was already hastening towards Thornton’s house when he belatedly recalled Min’s safety was not his responsibility. But when he hurried to George’s house, he was met with the news that George was out, attending a ball with some of his innumerable cousins and not expected home for some time. He turned once more towards Thornton’s house.
Jack had never been to such an evening as the one at Thornton’s, but he knew they were the realm of men, and he knew the types that attended them. Some might be serious artists like Cotton, but a vast majority were libertines, attracted by the informal society, or idle youths, bored and dissolute. He’d seen them spilling out of such places late at night, crowding into the nearest tavern or coffee house, their appearance careless, clothes pungent, already drunk or well on their way. A young lady in such company would be subject to any manner of insult and impertinence.
He was out of breath and sweating by the time he pulled heavily on Thornton’s doorbell. A heavyset footman, his expression even more censorious than Dalcher’s had been, admitted Jack grudgingly, bidding him to wait. Jack paid no heed but strode straight into the depths of the house, his destination easy to discover by the sound of voices and the glow of candlelight spilling through a crack in the door.
Ripping the door open, ignoring the protesting footman at his shoulder, Jack stepped inside, scanning the crowd. Many headsturned towards him, but he ignored them all, eyes fastened on one across the room.
Min didn’t see him, hadn’t noticed the disturbance at all, so focused was she on her art. It was only when he was at her shoulder, saying her name in an urgent hiss, that she startled, her pencil scoring an ugly streak across her work.
The pencil fell from her hand as he took hold of her arm, and it was only now, with Min blushing scarlet and staring at him in horror and every face in the silent room watching at them, that Jack began to regret the haste of his actions.
“There is…um…an emergency,” he said, loud enough for others to hear. “Some terrible news. You must come at once, Miss Fanshaw.”
