“She died when I was eight.” He took another long pull on his cigarette. “Any other question I can answer for you? It’s late. I need to go to London early in the morning.”
Her hand closed around the doorjamb. She did have another question, she supposed.
“Can you take me to bed?”
He went very still. “No, sorry. I’m too tired.”
“Last time you had a river of rum in you and a bullet wound.”
“Men do stupid things when they’ve had that much to drink.”
He threw the remainder of his cigarette outside, walked to the connecting door, and closed it, gently but firmly, in her face.
Angelica had to read Freddie’s note three times.
He was inviting her to see the finished portrait. The finished portrait. Freddie was a slow and meticulous painter. She’d expected that he needed at least another four to six weeks.
When she arrived at his house, he clasped her hands briefly and greeted her with his usual warm smile. But she could tell he was nervous. Or were those her own nerves making themselves felt?
“How are you, Angelica?” he asked as they climbed up toward the studio.
They hadn’t seen each other since he took the nude photographs to help with his painting: He hadn’t called and she had been determined not to contact him until she’d heard something.
She’d already pushed herself at him plenty—too much—since her return.
“I’ve been well. Cipriani replied to my letter, by the way. He said we are welcome to call on him Wednesdays and Fridays in the afternoon.”
“Then we can call on him tomorrow—tomorrow is Wednesday, isn’t it?”
“No, Freddie, that would be today.”
“Ah, excuse me. I’ve been working day and night,” he said. “I thought today was Tuesday.”
Freddie did not usually paint day and night. “I never knew you could work so fast.”
He stopped two steps above her and turned around. “Perhaps I’ve just never been so inspired.”
He said it very softly, but very properly, as if they were discussing something quite removed from her nakedness.
She rubbed her thumb against the banister. “Well, now I really can’t wait to see it.”
The bed was still in the studio, artfully rumpled, the canvas that was her nude portrait draped behind a large white cloth.
Freddie took a deep breath, then gripped the cloth and yanked it off.
She gasped. A goddess lay before her. She had dark hair that glimmered gold and bronze, warm-hued, flawless skin, and the figure of a courtesan—a very, very successful courtesan.
But as beautiful as her body was, what riveted Angelica was her unsmiling expression: She gazed directly at the viewer, her dark eyes burning with a desire that would not be suppressed, her parted lips full of agitated need.
Was this how she had appeared to Freddie?
She stole a glance at him. He was studying the floor rather attentively. She tried to look at the painting again and could not meet herself in the eyes.
“Well, what do you think?” Freddie asked at last.
“It’s…it’s rough around the edges.” The edges being all she could manage to look at. The brushstrokes were not as fine as she was accustomed to seeing in a painting from Freddie. But there was such an intensity to the image, such a sexual charge, that if he questioned further, she would have to concede that the less polished style suited the raw, frustrated hunger the woman in the painting emanated.
He covered the painting again. “You don’t like it?”
She smoothed her hair, hoping she was the very picture of decorum and propriety. “Did I really look like that?”
“You did to me.”
“Perhaps you could repaint it and turn my face away.”
“Why?”
“Because I look as if…as if…”
“As if you’d like me to make love to you?”
A surge of fearful anticipation nearly strangled her. They stared at each other. His throat worked. In the next heartbeat he had her in his arms, his kiss sweet yet forceful.
It was everything she had ever imagined—and more. They fell into the conveniently located bed. He pulled off her hat. She yanked loose his necktie.
“Just one moment,” he whispered against her lips. “Let me lock the door.”
He hurried to the door, but before he could turn the key in the lock, it was opened from the other side and in stepped Penny.
“Oh, hullo, Freddie. Hullo, Angelica. Two of my favorite people in the same place—excellent. Say, Freddie, your necktie is undone. What happened, a frenzy of artistic ecstasy?”
Freddie stood speechless as Penny reknotted his tie for him.
“And what’s the matter, Angelica? You had to lie down? Do you need me to find some smelling salts for you?”
She scrambled off the bed, where she’d sat frozen. “Ah, no, Penny, I’m much better already.”
“Oh, look, Angelica, your hat is on the floor.” He picked up her hat and handed it to her.
“My,” she said. “I wonder how that happened.”
Penny winked at her. “You are lucky it wasn’t some nasty old gossip who walked in when you had to lie down for a spell, Angelica. Lady Avery would be marching the two of you to the altar already, like she did me!”
Freddie, flushed scarlet, cleared his throat. “What—what brought you to London, Penny?”
“Oh, the usual. Then I remembered I still had the key to your house and thought I’d come by and see you.”
“It’s always good to see you, Penny,” said Freddie, belatedly embracing his brother. “I’ve hardly left the studio for days. But this morning my housekeeper told me some ghastly rumors. She said Lady Vere’s uncle is awaiting trial for some terrible crimes. I already wrote you a letter. Is it true?”
Penny’s face fell. “I’m afraid so.”
“How are Lady Vere and her aunt taking the news?”
“As well as could be expected, I suppose. Although I suspect I’ve been a true bulwark to them in this awful time. But there’s nothing any of us can do, so we might as well talk about happier things.”
He looked about the studio, his gaze landing, to Angelica’s dismay, on the covered canvas. “Did you just say you’ve been spending a lot of time in the studio, Freddie? Is it for the commission you accepted right around the time of my wedding?”
“Yes, but I’m not quite finished yet.”
“Is that it?” Penny walked toward the draped painting.
“Penny!” she cried, remembering that Penny was one of the few people Freddie allowed to see his works in progress.
He turned around. “Yes, Angelica?”
“Freddie and I were just about to leave to call on the art dealer Signor Cipriani,” she said. “You want to come along?”
“That’s right, Penny. Come along with us,” Freddie echoed fervently.
“Why are you calling on him?”
“You remember the painting at Highgate Court, the one of which I took photographs?” Freddie rushed, his words stumbling over themselves. “Angelica has been helping me track down the painting’s provenance. We think a painting by the same artist passed through Cipriani’s hands—and Cipriani never forgets anything.”
Penny looked briefly astonished. “There was a painting at Highgate Court? But sure, I will come. I love meeting interesting people.”
They ushered Penny out. Angelica placed her hand over her heart in relief: She would have never been able to look at herself in the mirror again if Penny had seen her the way Freddie had.
Penny descended the stairs first. Freddie pulled her into a blind corner and quickly kissed her once more.
“Come back to my house later?” she murmured. Her servants had the afternoon off.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Douglas had not talked while awaiting trial—set for five days hence—but progress had nevertheless been made on the case.