Eleanor
Afew understandingwords, some hints as to the urgency of her visit, and Eleanor soon had Miss Abbott’s location from the woman who ran the lodging house where Miss Lydia Abbott rented her rooms.
Mrs. Morgan planted her hands on her wide hips. “That girl has no decency. If it weren’t for my husband’s good heart, I would have kicked her out years ago. First, she tried to start asalon, in her rooms, but me and the mister put an end to that right quick.” She said the word salon like it was poisonous. “We weren’t going to have those types coming and going in our building. Shabby, the lot of them.” She sniffed and traced her finger along the print of a flower’s stem in the paper covering the hall. “Unbathed. But the mister says we can’t condemn her for still going to those things, as long as she don’t have them here no more.”
The lodging house was a lovely building, with fresh flowers brightening the side tables pressed against the walls and a patterned molding on the ceiling. Eleanor could understand the owner’s reticence in having the unwashed masses to’ing and fro’ing all over the buffed hardwood floors. It wasn’t a place an aristo would condescend to live in, but for the average Cit, the lodgings were luxurious.
“So she is at a salon? Do you know where?”
Mrs. Morgan frowned down at her, giving Eleanor the exact same look her governess had when she’d come up with thewrong answer in her studies. “Today’s Sunday. This is her painting day. She takes lessons somewhere on Burton Street, with a Frenchman named Geerod. Says he’s a great master.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d think a good master would be able to teach his pupil to get the paint on the canvas, not all over herself. But every week she comes home with splotches on her neck, her hands. I told her it better not get on my furniture, or I’d—”
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Morgan.” Eleanor backed away. “You’ve been most helpful.” She reached for the handle to the front door and yanked it open. “I can tell Miss Abbott is most fortunate in her landlady.” And with one last smile, she fled.
Her driver, Johnny, was chatting with two young women who wore flour-dusted aprons. When he caught sight of her, Johnny gave the women an impish tilt of his hat, then hurried to open the carriage door. “That didn’t take no time a’tall.”
“No, not enough time to court a pretty young miss.” Eleanor smiled as she took his hand and climbed into the carriage. Ever since she’d found Frederick sleeping on the settee in her front parlor the night before, she’d had a feeling of giddiness, a lightness that made her want to tease everyone around her until they felt as happy as she.
Frederick hadn’t looked upon their indiscretion with remorse. Hadn’t looked upon her with the disgust she knew some men felt after having taken what they wanted from a woman. Every indication pointed to the fact that he wanted her in his life on a permanent, and formal, basis. They had only to catch a killer, one other than her mother, of course, to take the next step.
“T’weretwopretty young misses,” he said, an exaggerated mournful expression on his face.
She laughed and gave Johnny the directions to the artist’s studio. Eleanor sat back in the creaking coach. It had been awhile since she’d felt happy in her own home. Protected. Lastnight, Frederick had brought those feelings back with just his mere presence.
Her high spirits stayed with her through the drive and up the narrow stairs to the third and top story where the French painter worked. Panting softly from the climb, Eleanor raised her hand and knocked.
When the door opened, she plastered a smile on her face. And stared into air.
“Yes?” A nasally voice asked.
Eleanor dropped her gaze. The Frenchman was shorter than she expected any man to be. He couldn’t have stood five feet, but his body was slender and well-shaped even for its lack of height. He had golden blond hair that curled about his collar and startling blue eyes.
“Oh.Monsieur Girod?”
“Giroud.” He rolled out the vowels.
“Bonjour, est Mademoiselle Abbott ici?”
The painter sneered, covering his ears. “Please stop. I speak English.”
Eleanor ground her teeth. There was no need to be rude. Her accent might need a bit of work, but her French was clearly understandable. She had felt a little badly about comparing him to a wingless fairie in her mind, but no longer.
“So is she here?” Eleanor asked stiffly. “I need to speak with her.”
“Wait here.” Giroud sniffed, and strode away as fast as his tiny fairie legs could carry him.
All right, he walked at a normal speed, but Eleanor was still annoyed he’d insulted her French.
He disappeared around a corner, and a few murmured words drifted to the doorway.
Eleanor shifted, considering her options. If she were denied entry, she could push past the painter and force Miss Abbott tospeak with her. She valued her chances against the diminutive man.
A little to her disappointment, when the Frenchman returned, he gave her a low bow (it could hardly be otherwise) and invited her inside. “Entrée, s’il vous plait.” If she didn’t suspect he was poking fun at her, it would have been prettily done.
Eleanor stepped inside, the scent of turpentine and paint burning her nose. She followed Giroud around the corner and into a room splashed with sunlight. Large windows sat on both walls of the corner suite, and a high skylight added to the brightness. Nothing was hidden in shadow in this studio.
Including a very naked Miss Abbott curled provocatively on a nest of silk counterpanes and pillows in the center of the floor.
“Good afternoon, Miss Lynton,” Lydia Abbott arched her back in a small stretch. “How industrious of you to find me here.”
