An Artless Demise Page 5

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As it happened, there were two major domestic stories featured in the newspapers the following morning. Apparently, a group linked to pro-Reform measures had been pressured into canceling their meeting out of fear that the rally would turn into a violent mob. But the most salacious article by far was that of the poor Italian Boy, and the attendant discovery that a possible Burke and Hare–style gang of resurrectionists had been at work in the city.

  I perused several of the articles and then set them aside, along with my breakfast. Such news—and the realization that all of polite society would soon be aware of it—had soured my appetite. Still, I was determined not to hide. I’d done enough of that after the initial allegations were made following Sir Anthony’s death. So I inhaled a deep breath past the quavering in my stomach, gathered up my supplies, and set out for my scheduled appointment with Lady Morley.

  Though the Morleys’ townhouse was only as far as Mount Street, and I was tempted to walk given the fair autumn morning, I elected instead to take the carriage. After all, there was a difference between bravery and stupidity. Had I the misfortune to encounter one of society’s more sanctimonious matrons and endure her snub, I might have lost my courage. Or said something I would later regret. My emotions were such a jumble; I wasn’t certain which would emerge victorious when I was first tried.

  The Morleys’ butler did not bat an eyelash upon admitting me to the house, though I was certain he must be aware of the inquest into the Italian Boy and my unhappy past. Butlers always knew. He announced me into the back parlor, where Lady Morley stood behind a chair positioned before a set of French doors. She was attired in the white organza silk gown she’d chosen to be captured in, her hair dressed in a style I thought too young for her but was not about to criticize. I might gently steer a subject to choose a gown of a different color or style—using art terms to explain why it would not suit the canvas rather than tell them that shade of pink made them look anemic—but there were certain things I never broached, and hair was one of them. It was something ladies and gentlemen, even those who had little, felt particularly attached to.

  Nevertheless, while Lady Morley was prepared for our session physically, it was clear she was not contented with it. Her hands fluttered about her as I swept into the room, having decided to maintain my usual efficient demeanor. Even when I realized Lord Morley stood before the hearth, though he usually absented himself from his wife’s sittings.

  I greeted them both as my footman, Samuel, set my bag of art supplies on the table provided. “If you’ll give me but a few minutes to prepare my palette, your ladyship, then we’ll begin.” I spoke distractedly, removing the necessary items from the valise while Samuel removed the sheet draped over the unfinished portrait on the easel and then departed. But not for a minute was I unaware of Lord Morley’s continued presence and evident agitation. He seemed hesitant to speak while I was otherwise engaged, but I preferred him to say whatever he wished to before I hadn’t the means to conceal my own uneasiness.

  “Are you here to observe?” I asked him as casually as I could.

  He cleared his throat. “Hmm . . . well . . . in a manner of speaking.” He dithered for a moment longer before coming to the point. “I wonder if you’ve seen the Times this morning.”

  I shook out my folded apron with a snap. “My husband has any number of newspapers delivered to our breakfast parlor.”

  “Yes, humph, of course.” His feet shifted. “But did he happen to mention the article on the front page to you?”

  I glanced up at him as I tied my apron strings, some devil inside me urging me to deliberately misunderstand. “That ‘Monster Meeting’ in the East End? Yes. Lucky the rally organizers canceled it before anyone was harmed.”

  His face reddened. “Er, no, the other one.” I thought his flush was caused by embarrassment and not anger, but one couldn’t always be certain. Some men could go on speaking quite cordially even while their blood was boiling.

  Either way, I decided I’d demurred enough. “That Italian Boy?” I shook my head sadly as I began opening jars of prepared paint and adding dabs to my palette. “The poor lad. Such a horrid tale.”

  “Yes. Indeed.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as he rocked back on his heels before sending his wife an uncertain look. “We were both troubled by it.”

  I nodded. “As I should think any rational, God-fearing person would be. But I trust the New Police shall get to the heart of the matter.”

  But Lord Morley wasn’t prepared yet to let it go. “So you had no knowledge of such things?” he began haltingly.

  My hands stilled, irritation bubbling up inside of me, warring with remembered shame. That anyone should ask such a thing of me, even if half the ton was thinking it, was insulting. I turned my head sideways to glare at him.

  “It’s only, one can’t help but recall your late husband. That you . . .” He seemed incapable of speaking the words, and I didn’t need him to.

  “Yes. It’s one of the reasons you wished me to paint your wife, isn’t it?” I charged, as weary of the fickleness of society as I was baffled by it. Too scandalous to be tolerated one moment, and then desirably infamous the next, at least for my artistic ability. “‘The Notorious Lady Darby.’ My portraits have become all the rage.” At least, for the moment. Perhaps I was about to be relegated an artistic, as well as, social pariah.

  “Yes, well, that was before . . .”

  I lifted my hand, forestalling him, furious that I should have to defend myself in such a way yet again. “I shall only answer this once, so you may repeat it to all of your friends. I had nothing to do with Sir Anthony Darby’s procurement of bodies. I did only what was demanded of me by my husband. As a . . .” I faltered over the word “. . . dutiful wife, I had no other choice. But I had no part in obtaining subjects. That was all my late husband’s doing.”

  This conversation was distasteful in the extreme, to me and to the Morleys, but his lordship was the one to have forced it upon us. If I could have slapped the disgusted sneer from his lips, I would have.

  “Thank you for answering me,” he said. His gaze dipped to the palette gripped in my white-knuckled hands and then toward his wife. “I shall retire to my study and leave you to your session.”

  This had been stated for the benefit of his wife, whose wide eyes communicated how distressed she was. What she believed I would do to her, I didn’t know, but I took a few moments to settle my specially weighted brushes to my liking so I could compose myself.

  Once I felt certain I would not snap at her, I offered her a small smile. “Shall we begin?”

  She nodded jerkily and settled into her chair.

  I counted it a fortunate thing I was not focusing on the details of her countenance that day, for her expression remained rigid and distraught. It took all of my own hard-earned self-possession not to throw my paintbrush down in a fury and end the session. But I knew such a display of temper would not help my case. News of such a volatile display would reach the ears of every member of the ton before nightfall.

  However, I decided ending the session half an hour earlier than planned would do no harm, and in fact, it might do some good. Especially when phrased as a diplomatic kindness.

  “Lady Morley, I know sitting in such a confined position for so much time is quite a strain. Perhaps I scheduled today’s sitting for too lengthy a time. Indeed, my hands are even cramping. Shall we adjourn until tomorrow?”

  “Oh, yes. Please,” she stammered.

  I dipped my head and turned to clean my brushes. She did not waste a moment in beating a hasty retreat, leaving me with a bitter premonition. If I didn’t receive a letter the following morning canceling the commission, I would eat my hat.

  * * *

  • • •

  When just such a message awaited me at breakfast the following day, I choked back a harsh laugh. But once
I lifted it to find another letter beneath it, any humor I might have been able to summon about the situation quickly fled.

  I sliced open the seal on the missive from Lord Morley first, and a draft on his bank fell to the table. The sting of the implied insult washed over me. I was compensated for my portraits, but as a lady, a gentlewoman, this was not something I sullied my hands by managing. Such matters were referred to my solicitor to arrange.

  Setting it aside, I read the short note. Contrary to the bank draft, it was unexpectedly polite. He claimed his wife was not in her best health, and so they’d decided to cancel the portrait commission until a more propitious time. This when he could have simply told the truth—they wanted no scandal attached to their name—or declined to give any explanation at all. I didn’t know what to make of the man.

  Breaking open the second letter, I glanced at the signature at the bottom, discovering it had been sent by the lady whose portrait I was to begin in a fortnight. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I perused its contents to learn she was withdrawing her commission as well.

  I slowly set the missive down on the table next to my customary cup of warm chocolate. Jeffers had delivered it moments before while I was reading. Fortunately, he’d already withdrawn, so I didn’t have to face the awkwardness of meeting his gaze.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, presaging a rainy, gloomy day. I stared out the window past the floral chintz drapes at the damp garden beyond, suspecting this wet weather would usher in even cooler temperatures than before. Autumn was beginning to give way to winter.

  I felt at odds with myself, not knowing which emotion to grant reign. Though I’d expected just such a thing would happen, that didn’t stop me from feeling anger and frustration, or quiet the part of me that feared this was only the beginning. However, venting my rage or dissolving in despair would solve nothing.

  Gage strode through the door looking as attractive as ever in a Spanish blue coat, slate gray waistcoat, and sorrel fitted trousers. “Be certain you take the carriage today. I don’t want you walking in this weather.” He paused in taking his seat, arrested by my expression.

  What was stamped there, I could only guess.

  “What is it?” he asked, lifting the tails of his coat to settle across from me. His sharp gaze took in the sight of the missives arranged before me.

  Rather than speak, I passed them across the round, gleaming wood table. He scowled at the sight of the bank draft but said nothing until he’d read both letters. As he set them aside, I could see he was struggling with some strong emotion, and perhaps it was this answering well of fury that quieted my own.

  “Well, we said there would be some repercussions, didn’t we?” I reached up to finger the amethyst pendant dangling from my neck—a gift from my mother before she died. “Society does love a good scandal, so long as it does not touch them.”

  “You’re remarkably calm about this.” His voice sounded almost accusatory, but I knew his aggravation was not directed at me but the Morleys and their like.

  “Oh, I’m not,” I replied with a huff of dry amusement. “But there’s no use in yelling now. Not when the people I wish could hear me aren’t present.”

  Some of the vehemence drained from his pale blue eyes, leaving behind a look of concern and uncertainty. “I wish there was something I could do.” His hands clenched where they rested on the table. “I wish I could make people see reason.”

  “I know, darling. Don’t we all?” I sighed. “But sadly, I suspect this is only the beginning.” I released my grip on the pendant and raised my cup of warm chocolate to my lips but hesitated before drinking. “Should we consider bowing out of our invitation to attend the theater with Trevor and my cousins tonight?”

  Gage lifted his gaze from where it was boring a hole in the wooden table. “I should think that would be the worst thing we could do. Philip was right. If you hide, that only makes you appear guilty.” He inhaled a deep breath, clearly trying to release the rest of his anger, and forced a smile to his lips. “Besides, I believe your brother was counting on you to act as chaperone.”

  I returned his smile over the rim of my cup. “Yes. Can you imagine a less appropriate duenna than myself?”

  Gage’s gaze warmed. “That’s not what I was implying.”

  “Maybe not. But I see you can appreciate the irony of my playing chaperone for Miss Newbury when Lord Morley doesn’t even trust me to paint his wife.” I arched a single eyebrow before taking another sip of my chocolate and returning the cup to its saucer. “So tell me, what are your plans for the day?”

  He sliced into the sausage on his plate. “I thought I might stop by Tattersall’s to see what gallopers they’ve currently got up for bid. And then, of course, the coroner’s hearing for the Italian Boy begins today. I thought I might visit the Unicorn pub, where it’s being held, to get a sense of these fellows who are suspected of burking.”

  It said much about how our relationship had grown—both privately and as investigative partners—that he didn’t attempt to hide this last part from me. In the past, he would have glossed over the matter, hoping I wouldn’t notice. But for once, he had no need to fear I would try to persuade him to take me along. I had absolutely no desire to set foot near the maelstrom of this case. The reporters would undoubtedly spot me the moment I walked through the door, and no end of outrageous speculation would begin. As it was, they were certain to recognize Gage, but his presence could be explained by his and his father’s reputations as gentlemen inquiry agents. My involvement with their favorite hobbyhorse was too recent, and my scandalous past too tempting to overlook.

  “Well, take care,” I said, uncertain what manner of men would be attracted to such a hearing. “Perhaps you should take Anderley with you.”

  “I planned to,” he assured me. “What of you? What will you do with your day now that you find yourself a lady of leisure?”

  It was a searching question, and well I knew it. I smiled. “I’m not going to come after you, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Some of my good humor abandoned me as my gaze skimmed over the missives still resting on the table and then up to the Paul Sandby painting of the English countryside hanging above the mahogany sideboard. “I suppose I shall still paint. There are the Irish portraits, after all.” I frowned. “Though with my renewed infamy I’m not certain how much good they will do.”

  I did not attempt to hide my dissatisfaction and restlessness from him. I’d enjoyed the challenge my portrait commissions had given me over the past few months, the press for my time, the chance to stretch my abilities. And I would be lying if there wasn’t also an element of pride, even if I knew part of my allure was the notoriety of my name. I hoped all of that wasn’t about to change.

  Gage offered me a gentle smile. “Don’t fret. Something will turn up.”

  “I trust you’re right,” I replied, forcing a brave face. No use dwelling on such a dismal thought.

  If only he’d chosen his words with more care.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Despite the stormy weather, the boxes of the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, were packed with spectators, and I doubted it was the rather indifferent performance of Fra Diavolo which had drawn them. Particularly when I could feel what seemed to be half the opera glasses in the theater trained on our box for much of the evening. I ignored them as best I could. Just as I ignored the hushed whispers that had begun in our wake when we arrived at the theater. Thus far, only the haughty society matron Lady Willoughby de Eresby had dared to snub me, but she had never liked me and was pleased to have any excuse to cut me dead.

  That being said, I was touched and gratified by the number of people who visited our box during the intervals, almost in defiance of the ton. The subject was never broached, but their determined presence and kind smiles made it clear why they were there. Some were ladies and gentlemen Gage and I had assisted in the past, or the relatives of t
hose people, while others were acquaintances formed since our return to London or old friends of Gage. Even Lord Gage dropped by, though I suspected that was more to do with the matter he discussed with his son at the back of our box than a show of support for me. Whatever the case, I was relieved to discover that not all of polite society had abandoned me.

  On the carriage ride home, I’d intended to speak with Gage about what his father had to say, but after such an emotionally harrowing day, I had struggled to keep my eyes open. The warmth of Gage’s body, the drumming of the rain, and the rocking of the conveyance as we waited in the London theater traffic all contrived to put me to sleep. Normally I found it impossible to slumber sitting up, even leaning against my husband’s shoulder as I was. I supposed this weariness was yet another consequence of being heavy with child.

  Upon our return to Chapel Street, Gage had to practically carry me inside, and in fact, would have, if I’d not objected. As it was, I’d forgotten all about his father until the following morning, when he asked me to join him in the morning room.

  The sky was overcast, shedding a pall over the brilliant autumn garden beyond the French doors, but the morning room was still the cheeriest space in the house. I’d had the walls painted in a shade of primrose yellow with white drapes. The cozy furniture was upholstered in varying patterns of apple green, fawn, and white, with the same primrose used sparsely as accents. All of it revolved around the painting Le jeune dessinatrice by Louise-Adéone Drölling, whom I greatly admired.

  Gage stood staring up at this painting, his arm draped over the mantel beneath, when I entered the room.

  “Is this about your father?” I guessed. “I intended to ask you about your exchange last night, but, well . . .” I smiled sheepishly as he swiveled to face me “. . . apparently my body had different ideas.”