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A napkin flew across the table. It smacked the grin from Miss Holroyd’s face before dropping onto the table, where a corner splashed into her coffee.
“You can ignore her,” Miss Knotwood told Nina.
“Kate,” said the duchess again. “Miss Finch wasn’t asking about De’Ath’s romantic entanglements.”
“Of course she wasn’t.” Miss Holroyd’s grin reappeared, more wicked than before. “She doesn’t have all day.”
“You’re a terrible gossip,” commented the dreamy beauty, resting the back of her head against the pillar.
“I’m an astute and interested observer of the human condition in all its manifestations,” corrected Miss Holroyd. “And so is De’Ath. Our motto is the more, the merrier.”
“One can observe the human condition by studying a single person in such depth as to reveal multitudes.” The duchess crossed her arms. “And in so doing can get just as much fulfillment by it.” Her fiery blush made it clear what she meant by fulfillment.
She was referring to her husband, the naked duke.
Nina was used to men talking, in the most forthright and vulgar terms, about various and sundry parts of the anatomy and what they did with them. But hearing the Sisters discuss matters of the heart, and other bits—albeit circumspectly—made her feel slightly dizzy. It was highly disconcerting.
“Well,” she said, at a loss. “I should be getting back.”
“You can’t leave just yet.” Miss Holroyd plucked the lilac from her buttonhole and pointed with it, first at Nina, then at the dreamy beauty. “You and Gwen haven’t been introduced. Miss Finch, Gwen Burgess, the finest painter in Albion.”
“I’m not yet the finest painter in Albion.” Miss Burgess shrugged. “For now, it’s Augustus.”
“I say! Augustus.” Miss Holroyd made a face. “You’re not very complimentary to your Sisters.”
Miss Burgess’s expression remained bland. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Finch.”
Nina bent her knees in an absurd little curtsey.
“Before you run off!” The duchess held up her sketchbook. “Let me show you my drawing of Fyodor.” She flipped the pages. “Here. I fear I didn’t do the dear monkey justice.”
“I saw the little beast myself.” Miss Holroyd propped her cheek on her hand. “You’ve got the likeness. Miss Finch, do you agree?”
“Yes.” Nina tore her eyes from the drawing, avoiding the duchess’s gaze. “You’ve got the likeness.”
The duchess blinked. “But?”
“But . . .” Nina paused. There were so many buts. The duchess had no idea how to model Fritz’s body, no understanding of its particularities, the shape of his skeleton under the muscle and fur. She’d relied on inference and analogy.
“It’s just, you see . . .” She groped for diplomatic phrasing. “All of his grandparents were marmosets.”
The duchess turned her sketchbook around and stared grimly at the drawing. Finally, she nodded.
“I understand. He looks like one of his grandparents was a cat.” She lowered the sketchbook and regarded Nina thoughtfully. “You don’t take an interest in art, you said?”
All of the Sisters were peering at Nina, four sets of lovely, curious eyes.
She cleared her throat. “I’m terribly sorry. Mr. De’Ath is waiting.”
—
De’Ath lay sprawled in the chaise longue just as Nina had left him, except his color had returned and he was writing—right-handed and with evident dissatisfaction—in a black duodecimo notebook. He didn’t look up until she’d set the coffee and the billfold on the table.
“Where’s your coffee?” He slid the notebook into his breast pocket, reached for the billfold, and sent it after the notebook. “Or wasn’t there cream?”
“There was cream. But there weren’t any Chelsea buns.”
He looked at her blankly.
