Snowdon scratched his ear “Should I?”
“Yes.” Juliana flapped her hands. Sometimes, her brother was impossible. “He wanted to talk to me, he was going to tell us who had hired him to go after father. And then he gets killed. The timing of it is too—”
“Improbable,” Snow said. He shook his head. “Your whole story is improbable. The man was a criminal. He was killed by another criminal. That's the way life goes. Truly, Jules, I begin to worry for you.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “That is not—”
Brogan nudged her. He shook his head.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm her ire. Her brother probably needed time to fully assess the situation. It was shocking news. He would come around. “Well, I thought you ought to know.”
“And now I do.” He stepped around Brogan and picked up a platter, heavy with grapes and orange wedges. He brought it to the model on the settee. “You've been posing for hours. You must be hungry.”
She plucked a fat grape from its stem. “So, was the news your sister imparted as interesting as she made it sound?”
He scoffed. “Hardly. Just my father's former secretary, apparently dead, killed in prison. Saves the Crown the expense of a trial. Good riddance, I say.”
Miss Lynn sat up, readjusting her robe as it threatened to expose more than just a shoulder. “The Crown can spare the blunt in order to provide a fair trial to one of its citizens. Truly, Snowdon. Sometimes I do despair of you.”
The man in the corner snorted. “What did you expect from the son of an earl? A humanitarian?”
Miss Lynn’s lip curled. “Lady Juliana, have you met my brother?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.” Juliana stepped forward and inclined her head. Upon closer examination, she could see this must be the brother who had been in the riots last year. He showed signs of serious injury. One eye was discolored, milky, as though covered in a thin layer of egg white. He held his left arm close to his side, protectively, and a wooden brace covered the lower portion of his leg.
“How do you do?” she asked.
He said nothing, just looked at her with contempt.
“Jacob, play nice,” his sister reproached him.
But it was only when Brogan stepped up beside her and glowered at the man that he deigned to nod.
“And this is Philippe LaConte.” Miss Lynn pointed to the artist. “A name you, and everyone else, shall soon recognize.”
He waved his paintbrush in the air, but kept his focus on the canvas.
“I seem to have become one of his favorite models,” Miss Lynn said.
The artist glared at her. “You'd be even more favored if you'd stay in position.”
Miss Lynn sighed dramatically but rolled back to her belly. She gave the painter a wink. “Have you heard of the pressure being brought on King Ferdinand? How the people are demanding he restore the constitution?” she asked, Juliana. “If your father has any influence in the House of Lords, don't you think it would be good for him to propose such reforms here as well?”
“I have heard of Spain’s troubles.” Some saw them as an opportunity to bring freedom to more of the world. Others worried it would be a repeat of France. Juliana was of both minds. She wanted more opportunity and rights for the lower classes, but after hearing Madame Tussaud speak to the Rose Salon of her time casting death masks on all the severed heads in Paris, well… She shivered. That wasn’t something she ever wanted to see happen in England.
“I’m not sure how my father feels about such reforms,” she said. “I do know he would do much to prevent seeing our streets run red with blood like they did in France.”
Miss Lynn flapped her hand. “It was a noble attempt on the French citizens’ part. And if it inspires other countries to revolt, it was all for the good.”
“Can that amount of blood spilled ever be good?” Juliana asked. Although America seemed to be making a go of it, and much blood had been spilled in that war.
Miss Lynn fluttered her fingers. “That business was over years ago.”
“Over for some,” Brogan said, his voice low. “Many still live with the consequences of what the French revolutionaries did. Those left without mothers or fathers, sons or daughters.”
“So, he does talk.” Miss Lynn rolled to her hip. “I thought you were just here to look pretty.”
Snow handed her another grape. “That's your job, my dear.”
