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“You can’t guess who I saw in the Gibson Gallery!”
In an instant, Lucy and her picture were forgotten. Susan all but sprang toward Maude, grasping her hands.
“Simon Poole?” She named a student in his sixth year, an architect whose height, handsome face, and long blond hair were entirely to blame for his rakish reputation. Lucy doubted he’d ever met a debutante he preferred to the Doric column.
Maude swept her head from side to side in a gesture of magnificent negation. She pulled back and spoke slowly, inserting significant pauses after every word.
“The. Duke. Of. Weston.”
Susan let out a gasp, more than loud enough to invite Mr. Barrett’s censure. But he was locked in discussion with Ada Jenkins, a fine cartoonist with no color sense. If he noticed the commotion, he made no sign.
“What was the Duke of Weston doing in the Gibson Gallery? What were you doing in the Gibson Gallery?” Susan’s eyes narrowed. The Gibson Gallery was just up the stairs from the classrooms. There was no attendant posted to watch who came and went, and male and female students often climbed the steps together. To study the statues. The Royal Academy was filled with statues, but everyone seemed to agree that they were more educational in a private setting, with the right company.
“Arthur Creswell wanted to show me a statue,” said Maude vaguely. “Something clever about a foot.” Maude did not sound as though she’d found the foot clever. Lucy supposed whatever cleverness Arthur Creswell had on offer ceased to rate once a duke appeared on the scene.
“Why, he must plan to acquire a marble!” said Susan. “The one of Courage killing the serpent, do you suppose? I’ve always thought it the perfect statue for a war hero.”
“Have you?” purred Maude. “When were you in the Gibson Gallery?”
Susan’s cheeks pinked.
“He might prefer bronze,” she said, straightening her pinafore.
“I shouldn’t say this,” said Maude. “You’re too prim.”
She glanced at Lucy to make sure she was listening before continuing in a lowered voice.
“The duke’s older brother, who died, he once came to the Schools, and he commissioned William Beauclerk in the School of Sculpture for twelve foot-long marble . . .”
Her voice caught on an irrepressible giggle, and she buried her face in her hands.
“I can’t,” she said into her fingers.
Despite herself, Lucy found that she’d twisted to stare. Susan’s eyes were saucers.
“Dildos,” breathed Maude.
“Those are . . .” Susan couldn’t finish her sentence.
“Yes.” Maude nodded. “Exactly. Twelve foot-long marble dildos for something called the Feast of Venus at a brothel he owned.”
Susan looked aghast. Lucy stifled a groan. Maude flushed with triumph at the effect she’d produced.
“What did they do?” asked Susan breathlessly. “With the . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper, but this time she was determined. “Dildos,” she said.
“Well, there was a banquet, of course, with courtesans dressed up like nymphs,” said Maude, less certainly, eyeing Susan to gauge her reaction.
“Which means they were practically naked,” Maude continued. “And they danced in that state, danced around the dildos, to which they made offerings, of fruits and flowers.”
“While the men ate cutlets?” Susan’s nose wrinkled.
“And watched,” said Maude. “It was entirely perverse. The orchestra didn’t dare to glimpse the goings-on. They played facing the wall.”
Susan’s mouth formed an O of nervous excitement. Lucy shook her head wryly. She’d seen enough rutting in alleyways to fill in the blanks should Susan ask Maude to elaborate further. She’d wager spectatorship didn’t satisfy hungry guests at a Feast of Venus.
But Susan had hugged herself, shivering, her thoughts clearly leaping ahead.
“You don’t think the duke is here to commission . . . dildos?” Susan asked. “I won’t believe it. He’s not so very wicked as his brother. He did get sent to the Magistrates’ Court. For breaking the stained-glass window at All Saints Church. That was him, wasn’t it? But he fought to defend the empire!”
