The man, dressed in the fine clothes of a wealthy merchant, spun away from the painting of Andrew that hung above the fireplace. “My lord, my lady. I do apologize for my strong insistence, but my mission is of great import to the Duke of Marlboro.”
Andrew gave the slightest of nods. “And what could we possibly do that would be of assistance to the duke?”
Mr. Bartleby didn’t cower at Andrew’s tone. Instead he pointed to the painting. “It is artwork like this that the duke is searching for.”
Andrew walked her to his desk before responding. “Mr. Bartleby, I highly doubt the duke would appreciate a portrait of me in his home.”
The man strode forward, anxious to convey his true mission. “No sir. Of course he would not, but he is looking for such talent.” The man moved his gaze to her. “My Lady, I know this is most unusual, but the Duke of Marlboro was quite taken with your painting of the Tower of London.”
“The one at Lady Spencer’s in Town?” It wasn’t one of her best works, having been accomplished over a year ago.
“Oh yes. The duke is having a new home built in Mayfair, and he has very specific requirements for the artwork. It must be by someone trained in the classic style, but not an old master. It must be original. And it must have as its subject London specifically. He wants his home to reflect his home country, not some idealized version of Paris or Rome.”
The man recited the duke’s requirements as if he’d done so a hundred times.
“And most importantly, the artwork must be well done, and the Tower of London is most exceptional.”
Something was wrong, as she suspected. The painting Mr. Bartleby mentioned was in Lady Spencer’s ballroom, but she hadn’t hosted a ball yet this season. “How did the duke come upon Lady Spencer’s painting?”
“Yes, I don’t believe I’ve seen that one.” Andrew looked at her in question.
Bartleby was quick to answer. “It was Lord Harewood who told the duke of the painting. Upon which the duke called on Lady Spencer who, of course, had it brought out for him to view. He wished to purchase it from her, but she refused, at which point he asked the artist’s name. You can imagine what a surprise it was to him to hear it was a lady of the realm who had created such beautiful work.”
“Harewood.” Andrew grinned.
“Lady Spencer.” She shook her head, still finding the entire story difficult to believe.
Andrew motioned for Mr. Bartleby to sit and pulled out the chair at his desk for her. After she sat, he stood at her shoulder. “So how can we be of help?”
“My lord, I came at once on the duke’s bequest to discover if perhaps your wife had any other paintings of London. The duke would be interested in purchasing at least five or six, if they were available.”
She thought to the ones she had in her studio. “I have three, possibly four, though the fourth is set in the middle of Hyde Park with no distinguishing markings to show it’s there. Just a couple of ladies at the water’s edge.”
Mr. Bartleby scooted forward on the chair and leaned toward them. “I would very much like to see them.”
Andrew’s hand came down to rest on her shoulder. “I’m sure we can make those arrangements, but as we did not expect you and have other plans for our day, I hope you will excuse us now. Where should we send for you?”
Mr. Bartleby rose, looking contrite for the first time since arriving. “Of course. I apologize. I will await your leisure at the Owl’s Nest Inn. I dare not return to London without at least one piece of artwork for the duke’s approval. He was very insistent on that.”
Andrew lifted his hand from her shoulder and motioned for Mr. Bartleby to precede him to the door. Suddenly, Mr. Bartleby halted and turned to look at her. “My lady, would you be willing to paint the duke’s portrait? I’m sure he would be most delighted—”
“No!” Andrew’s voice reverberated through the study, causing their guest and herself both to jump. “She does not paint anyone’s portrait.”
Mr. Bartleby pointed to the one of Andrew over the fireplace and opened his mouth to argue, but her husband was having none of it.
“No one’s outside of her family. Do I make myself clear?”
The man was intelligent enough to realize he would get no further on that front. As the two continued toward the door, she grinned. No doubt her husband was thinking of exactly how he had posed for that particular portrait.
After seeing that Pratt showed Mr. Bartleby out, Andrew closed the door and faced her from across the room. “Do I need to reiterate now that your talent far surpasses others?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what to think. I’m still so surprised.” But it was more than surprised. Satisfaction, triumph, and excitement also filled her, the fairies in her stomach dancing for joy. “I did it.” The wonder of it was almost too much to comprehend. “I’m an artist.”
“Not just an artist, but a sought-after artist.”
His face was full of pride in her, and it was that which had her accepting the truth. Her skills were exceptional. She’d always hoped, but a niggling doubt never expected her dream would be fulfilled. And it was all because of him, a man she’d thought to dissuade. She smirked. “Whyever would you not want me to paint portraits then?”
He narrowed his eyes at her as he stalked toward the desk. “You know quite well why I’ll not have you painting other men.”
