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Nina turned her head. And stared. At a handsome dandy, with close-cropped hair, dressed to the nines in a double-breasted mulberry jacket and fawn trousers. The dandy leaned back in the chair, throwing one slim leg across the other.
Nina had seen women in breeches at the burlesque with Jack. Something pinged differently here. Miss Holroyd’s bright arrogance as she returned Nina’s stare brought a blush to her cheeks.
Why, Miss Holroyd was a dandy, an absolute rake!
She winked at Nina, a friendly wink.
“Mark this down,” she commanded. “We’ll need De’Ath to make hay with it later. Lloyd Syme, the old crank, told Henley, William Henley of the Magazine of Art, that all our pictures are quote a wicked folly and a blight on womankind unquote. He wants to see them burned! He said this in front of us, last night, at Sir Wyndham’s dinner.”
Nina’s pen sped across the page.
“Old crank,” repeated Miss Holroyd, for Nina’s benefit. “That’s key. And don’t bother with Duchess of Weston. Write Lucy Coover. That’s how she signs her pictures.”
The duchess was still sketching, looking between her sketchbook and Fritz, who suddenly screeched and raced down the side of the cabinet.
“Blast.” The duchess lowered her pencil. “But I must say, my mood has improved tremendously. Fyodor is a love.”
“Fritz,” said Nina automatically, but no one seemed to hear. Miss Holroyd had started talking again.
“My mood won’t improve until that old crank is taken down a peg or two. Do I balk at honest criticism? Never! But I refuse to tolerate bigoted abuse.”
She turned to De’Ath. “You will attend the private view tomorrow at the Olgilvie Gallery? We don’t ask for flattery. We demand pure aesthetic judgment, delivered without grudge or prejudice. Something to counteract the misogynist claptrap of that doddering old . . .”
She took a breath.
“Crank?” suggested Nina, pen flying.
“Bastard,” said Miss Holroyd. “You don’t object to obscenities, I hope?”
“Not at all.” Nina shook out her hand. “I have a brother.” She studied the notebook pages, spidered with close script, the lines slanting up. “I’m afraid I missed a bit.”
“Crank. Bastard.” De’Ath raised his brows, directing a wry smile in her direction. “I’m certain you captured the essence. When my hand is healed, I’ll resume my own note-taking. You’ll copy out and organize the notes. This state of affairs . . .” He lifted the bandaged hand. “It’s temporary. So for now, record what you can.”
His voice was warm. He’d spoken to put her at ease.
Nina shifted in her chair. Dammit, her conscience did prick. She’d taken her place among Casa De’Ath’s peculiar, likable assortment of individuals as a deceiver.
She almost preferred the cold atmosphere at Umfreville House. At least there, in the service of the unjust and despicable rich, she’d felt righteous. More Robin Hood, than, well . . . robber. It was robbing, in a sense. Signing a stolen name to a picture, which would be sold under false pretenses.
She realized she was still staring at De’Ath. His lashes were so long, they touched the lenses of his spectacles.
“I’ll do my best,” she said with a shiver, far too late.
De’Ath had already looked away from her, to his guests.
“I have good news,” he said. “The old crank’s day may well be done. There’s no danger of his becoming surveyor of the queen’s pictures.” A smile spread across his face—a devilish smile. “Not unless Her Majesty has a taste for fakes.”
—
Alan had guessed that Holroyd would react first. A victorious yawp, followed by Coover’s barrage of questions.
But Miss Finch beat them both.
She gasped.
“Huzzah!” cried Holroyd as she pounded the arm of her chair.
“What do you mean, fakes?” asked Coover, eyes narrowed.
