An Experienced Mistress Page 21

“The name of the painting, my dear.”

  “Ah.” Genevieve realized, with a shock, that she’d not actually thought of a name for the painting. It would be too plain to simply call it Adonis. One had to have a little more style than that, but what should it be...?

  The words slipped out of her mouth before she even considered them. “Adonis Remembered.”

  “Oh. Yes, I thought it was a classical subject. Adonis was...”

  “The lover of Venus,” Genevieve supplied.

  “It’s quite...beautiful.” Mrs. Boldridge gave Genevieve a curious look. “But surely it wasn’t painted from...” She blushed.

  “From life? Certainly not,” Genevieve said. “Good heavens, no.”

  “I didn’t think so,” the lady said with a relieved titter.

  “The rendition is strictly a product of my imagination—my inner vision, Mrs. Boldridge.”

  “It’s just that the body is so lifelike,” Mrs. Boldridge said after a few more moments of gazing at the picture. “The shoulders...and the muscles in the, ah, middle area...”

  “Yes. I take my inspiration from the ancient Greeks. It’s a companion piece to the Venus owned by Mr. Valerio.” The one that Will had thought was nearly a self-portrait. But he was mistaken, certainly.

  “Is it?” Mrs. Boldridge was clearly impressed by this information. “Has Mr. Valerio seen it yet?”

  “No. You’re the first to see it.”

  The woman’s eyes glinted. Genevieve hadn’t expected things to go this way. She’d brought the painting as another example. But the Italian collector was well known for his taste and his knack of making investments that, in retrospect, turned out to be brilliant. A companion piece to a recent acquisition of his was likely to be an excellent purchase.

  “How much are you asking for this painting, Miss Bell?”

  Genevieve was certain she could get as much for this as for the Venus, perhaps more. And while exhibiting a male figure publicly might cause scandal for her as an artist, a private sale of such an item to a Society matron was less likely to hurt her reputation.

  Since the time she began painting, she’d hoped to be in as much of demand as this.

  But she couldn’t do it. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Boldridge. This particular painting is not for sale.”

  “Oh.” The woman nearly pouted.

  “However, perhaps you would like something in the same vein?”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Boldridge nodded slowly. “Yes, I believe I would.”

  A door slammed and in the next moment a man sauntered into the room. He looked a few years older than Genevieve: a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with a shock of unruly blond hair and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. “Hullo, Mother.”

  “Jack. I didn’t know you were dropping by. Miss Bell, this is my son, Mr. Boldridge. Jack, Miss Bell is a painter.”

  Genevieve rose, and the man loped over to shake her hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said, a roguish gleam in his eye. “Haven’t I seen you before?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  He looked over his mother’s shoulder at the painting she still held. “You painted the naked man?” he demanded of Genevieve.

  “Jack! This is an Adonis. A classical subject.”

  “Huh. Does ‘classical’ mean ‘naked,’ then?”

  Genevieve felt the corners of her mouth turn up in spite of herself. If she wasn’t careful, this oaf would ruin her professional artiste façade. “I take it your son is not an art lover,” she said to Mrs. Boldridge, feigning haughtiness.

  “Ignore him. He has no sense of culture.”

  Jack still studied the painting. “Damned if that fellow doesn’t look familiar,” he muttered.

  “Mind your language.” The woman tried to glower at her son, but it was unconvincing. Genevieve suspected the young man was quite spoiled.

  “You’ve probably seen other Adonises,” Genevieve suggested. “He is almost always pictured going off to hunt.”

  The man shot her a look. “And how many Adonises have you seen, Miss Bell?”

  “Jack.” His mother reddened.

  “I’m off, I’m off.” He raised his hands in defense as he swaggered toward the dining room. “Did you and Father already have lunch?”

  Mrs. Boldridge sighed. “Mrs. Appleby can probably get you some cold roast.” She turned back to Genevieve once her son left the room. “I do apologize, Miss Bell. He’s my youngest, and I’m afraid he’s a bit wild.” Mrs. Boldridge set down the painting.

  “No matter.” Genevieve got up, retrieved the canvas, and buttoned it back into its leather case. “Shall we discuss what kind of painting you might like?”

  ****

  Genevieve hurried back to the train station. A new day had arrived for her. She was no longer an obscure painter, no longer some rich man’s plaything either. She was a respected artist in her own right, just as she’d always wanted to be.

  In her cottage, she took the picture back upstairs, leaning it against a wall, and then went down to have some toast and tea. Flory sat down to join her. They were discussing Genevieve’s latest letter from her father. A bump sounded upstairs, and then a creak.

  “Did you hear that?” Flory asked.

  “Oh, it’s only those squirrels again,” Genevieve said. More than once, one of the rodents had gotten in. “Don’t worry about it right now.”

  “Don’t worry about it? The nasty creatures!” Flory marched to the corner to grab the broom she’d left leaning there. “I’ll take care of it right now.”

  “All right, if you must.” Genevieve didn’t give it another thought until Flory appeared again, her face as white as the lace cap on her head.

  “Miss Genny. You’d better come at once!”

  Genevieve almost laughed. “Well, what is it? Just tell me.”

  “It’s the Adonis, ma’am. It’s gone!”

  “What?”

  “The window was open—”

  “Cage!” Genevieve gasped.

  She launched from her chair, looked around wildly, then darted to the next room to snatch an iron poker from next to the fire. With the implement firmly in hand, Genevieve raced out the front door and around to the side garden under her studio window.

  He couldn’t have gone far, could he? She thoroughly intended to hit him with the iron and knock him down. She’d be damned if he was going to get away with this!

  But the side garden was empty. She circled the big apple tree—he must have climbed it to get to her window! Why had she never thought of someone doing that before? Why hadn’t she cut it down?

  No one was there. Which way would he have run?

  Out to the lane, of course. She raced in that direction, still brandishing the long poker, her heart pounding in her chest. She had to get the painting back...

  But the lane was empty.

  The wind blew softly through the leaves of the trees; a bird chirped once, and then was silent. Cage—and it had to have been Cage—had disappeared, as if into thin air.

  And her best painting was gone.

  ****

  Genevieve leaned on the windowsill in Ruth’s rooms, telling her the same story two days later.

  “So we went to the police here in London. We gave them a description of Cage. But they haven’t been much help at all.”

  “Because they don’t know where he’s living?” Ruth asked. “Well, you have to call them and tell them that he’s entered some work in the Blunt Gallery exhibition tonight. Ida Keating heard from the gallery owner that he’s going to be there!”

  “What?”

  “Yes! Tell the police that he’ll be there, and they can come arrest him.”

  “But that’s just the problem. They say they don’t have a shred of evidence against him. And I suppose they don’t.” Genevieve drummed her fingers on the sill in frustration.

  “Well they could at least...I don’t know...demand him to lead them back to wherever he lives, and search the property.”


  “I don’t think they will. The truth is I don’t think they have any interest in pursuing the matter.”

  “What do you mean?” Ruth’s young brow furrowed. “Thievery is still against the law, isn’t it?”

  Genevieve forced a tight smile. “Yes. But they say that with all the ‘serious’ crime in the City, they don’t have time to look into minor offenses.”

  “A theft of a great painting is hardly minor!”

  “Yes, well. Since it’s a painting by me, it can hardly be a great painting, can it? They didn’t see why an artist would steal ‘a painting by a lady.’ One of them said, ‘Frankly, I’m surprised anyone would bother to steal it.’ He said maybe it was one of my lady friends, playing a prank on me.”

  “That’s outrageous,” Ruth gasped.

  “That’s what I said, too. But it didn’t make any difference.”

  The past couple of days had been bleak for Genevieve. All at once, she had lost not only Will, but her picture of him—a symbol of her talent as an artist.

  Would she ever paint a picture as good as that one again?

  “But you say Cage is going to show his work,” Genevieve said. “So he’s been painting again, after all.”

  “That’s what Ida heard. That Frenchman she knows told her that he’s been painting for a couple of months now.”

  “And he’s already exhibiting again.” God, it wasn’t fair. She was so much more talented than Cage, but even though he was a drug addict and a thief, he earned more artistic success.

  “I think we should go to the exhibition,” Ruth said. “You can confront him.”

  “What’s the use? He’ll just deny it.”

  “Maybe. But you might shame him into returning it. He used to be very fond of you, you know. I’m sure he’ll feel guilty.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Well, it’s worth a try!” Ruth insisted. “You can’t just let him steal from you without a fight.”

  “You’re right. You’re right.” Genevieve shoved away from the windowsill and stood up straight. “If the police won’t help, I’ll deal with it myself.”

  “If nothing else, you may embarrass him a little.”

  “Oh.” Genevieve felt a little of her usual fire returning. “Don’t you worry. I’ll embarrass him a lot.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  As Will waited for his father in the study of his parents’ townhouse, he wondered what the devil he was doing here this afternoon.

  His father’s footman had knocked on Will’s door that morning, saying William Creighton, Senior had something of importance to discuss. Will wouldn’t have come, except that part of him almost looked forward to scoffing at whatever his father claimed he’d done wrong now. As he had that night at Boodle’s when some foolish gentleman stood up to defend the honor of the Queen, Will spoiled for a fight.

  For about the hundredth time, Will put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and fingered the object there.

  The gold ring had been fashioned into the figure of a snake, symbolizing eternity. Will had pondered long on whether to buy Genevieve such a traditional ring, similar to the wedding ring of Queen Victoria. But the snake was beautiful, with sinuous curves and an emerald eye. He was not even sure of the size anyway, and she could return it for whatever she liked.

  If she chose to accept it in the first place, which seemed more doubtful by the hour.

  Will’s father walked into the study. He of course didn’t apologize for being late. “There you are, then. Hmmph. I’ve had a lot of accounts to go over this morning.” He sat down behind his huge rosewood desk, carved with irate-looking lion’s heads. “I should get you acquainted with those soon. One never knows the future.”

  He was referring to his possible demise. Will felt required by common decency to say, albeit stiffly, “I’m sure I won’t need to worry about that for a good while yet.” He seated himself in an old leather chair.

  “Well, I suppose you know why I asked you to come here.”

  “In fact I have no idea.”

  “You paid a lot of attention to Miss Tudbury at her cousin’s wedding.” He skewered Will with his stare. “I have to ask you again, what are your intentions toward her?”

  Oh, bloody hell, not that again.

  “Why, I intend to ravish her, and all her friends too.”

  His father scowled. “Do you think a lady’s reputation is a joking matter? Do you have any idea what the fate is of a woman who’s lost her good name?”

  Will snorted at the irony of that. He’d contemplated Genevieve’s fate, her punishment for a youthful, passionate indiscretion. “Of course I know. That was precisely my point.”

  “Do you intend to marry her?”

  “No.”

  His father grunted in disgust. “I expected as much. You don’t know a good thing when it’s right in front of you.”

  Will looked up at that. He’d thought he was immune to his father’s insults, but that particular accusation stung. “I daresay that may have been true in the past,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Will shook his head. “Daisy requested my company. I obliged as a friend. She could use a friend or two, I think.”

  “Don’t take that superior tone with me. You think you know something I don’t? Well, you don’t. I know all about her and her past foolishness with that vicar. It nearly drove Cyril to drink.”

  More than nearly. The situation all seemed so tiresome. “The girl’s already got a fortune. She didn’t need to marry another.”

  Mr. Tudbury recoiled at this. “So I take it you’ve been encouraging her in this disastrous folly. I’m ashamed of you.”

  “Actually, I told her just the opposite. That it would never suit.”

  “Well, you can feel good about that, at least,” his father grumbled.

  “I don’t,” he answered flatly. “It’s true, I’m glad now I didn’t encourage it, because it might have made her rejection all the more painful. But I see no reason why Daisy shouldn’t marry for love. I hope that in the end she will.” Then he added, “And I hope to do the same.”

  “You might wait a lifetime to find a suitable woman who stirred your feelings,” his father sneered.

  “I quite agree. That is why I intend to propose to an unsuitable woman.”

  Will Creighton, Senior, stood slowly. “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s a painter,” Will said. “Ruined woman. Virtually penniless. I am quite besotted with her.”

  “Is this your idea of a jest?”

  “No. I have been sharing her bed for a good while now, and I am convinced that I would be quite happy with her.”

  His father’s arm started to rise, almost as if he meant to strike his son. Will stared him down.

  “I would disinherit you,” his father said.

  “Yes, well, I have Uncle Manfred’s inheritance. Of course, we will need enough servants...she will need help with any children, so that she can pursue her painting.” He’d thought through all of this, and it was gratifying to voice it aloud.

  “That is madness.”

  “Not at all—I’m certain we can afford an adequate staff, one way or another. I could complete the last of my medical studies and become a doctor. A fine profession.”

  “A money-grubbing profession, like any other,” his father growled. “No son of mine will dirty his hands with work. Now I don’t know who this trollop is—”

  “You will not refer to her in that way again,” Will said with dead calm.

  His father drew back.

  “Whoever she is, you cannot mean to introduce her to your mother? Your sister?”

  “Yes. I’m quite certain they would like her. You might even eventually like her, though to be honest, I can’t see that it signifies either way.”

  “I would never speak to such a woman. I would never speak to either of you again.”

  Will restrained himself from asking whether that was a promise. “Well, I shou
ldn’t worry too much about it, Father,” he said. “The truth is I expect she will reject me. But as you always said, one must do one’s best.”

  ****

  “So he is going to be a married man,” Coventry marveled.

  Will sat at a table at Boodle’s with him and Jack. He just told them about Babbage’s latest news. A surprise fresh on his mind, since he’d just heard about it from the butler a few hours ago, upon returning home from his father’s house.

  “It’s hard to believe,” Jack said. Both he and Coventry had known Babbage since boyhood. “So you have a mistress, and your mistress has a maid, and your butler is marrying her maid?” Jack turned to Coventry. “I say, have I met her? The mistress, I mean.”

  “No. But you remember her,” Coventry prompted him. “You saw her at that art exhibition. With the long red hair? You said she was wearing a nightdress. No offense, Will.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jack said woozily. “You know...I think I did meet her. She was talking to my mother.”

  “Your mother wasn’t there. You’re drunk.”

  “Of course I’m drunk. What do you mean by saying that?”

  Will cleared his throat. “Actually, she’s not my mistress anymore.”

  “The Devil you say.” Coventry gave him a keen look.

  “Yes, well. We had a falling out.”

  Will almost went on to say that he hoped to make it right soon, and right for good.

  But the longer he thought about it, the more he felt convinced that he’d ruined his chances. Genevieve’s fiery spirit, one of the things he loved about her, would make it less likely that she’d forgive him. She didn’t need him. It was altogether possible she had written him off.

  “Oh, I know how that goes,” Jack said, clapping a fraternal hand on Will’s shoulder. “You never know what’s going to get them in a right state. Now that bendy sort of girl I was with for a while...what was her name, Coventry?”

  “Maria?”

  “That’s right, Maria. She got mad at me because I asked her to move over in bed for Sally.”

  Coventry raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

  “Sally, the girl who sells the gloves. Well, her latest man had kicked her out and she didn’t have anywhere else to go, did she? I couldn’t have her sleep on the floor, what could I do?”