Page 13 of Miss Devoted
“Triple, and you will take a cab both directions, because that will give us more time to work.”
“Double and a half.”
“By the balls of the fiend, Delancey, toss the money into the river if you like, but don’t throw it back in my face.”
He snorted. “Triple, then, and I will not stay past eleven of the clock.”
“But you will arrive by eight. What about Sunday evening?”
“My Sunday evenings are my own, and that is not open for discussion. I will take as many breaks as are necessary for my comfort, and you will feed me the evening meal.”
He was a talented model, able to hold a pose longer and better than most. More evidence of his self-discipline. In three hours, they’d get a lot done, even if he took a break to eat.
“We have a bargain. Shall I reduce it to writing?”
“Please do not.”
If he wanted to say more, he restrained himself from even a few words of ungoverned speech. He stood on the walkway as Psyche whistled herself a cab and climbed in, and only when the horses were trotting away from the curb did she see him turn his steps toward the river.
Psyche’s mind was awhirl with artistic possibilities—Michael Delancey, modeling for her, in her studio!—and at the same time, she was plagued with a question: What would it take to put that man into an unbridled passion?
ChapterFour
Dermot ordered a second bottle of port while Belchamp gawked at one of Mayfair’s better gentlemen’s clubs. Better, but not among the best. One didn’t take the peasantry to White’s or Brooks’s, after all.
“Are the landscapes genuine?” Belchamp asked quietly. “They have the look of Claude Lorrain or one of his pupils. The elegance and sense of repose, the subdued Lorrain palette that’s nonetheless—”
“Do stop. I have no idea if the art is genuine or good imitations, nor does that bear significantly on whether the kitchen will ruin my steak or undercook your potato. What do we know about Mr. Smith?”
Belchamp left off gaping at the walls. “Mr. Smith? The life class model?”
“No, the butcher’s brother. Of course the life class model. He was very forward over a bit of fun with young Henderson.”
Belchamp boasted the robust good looks of the squire’s son—blond, ruddy, blue-eyed. He’d run thick in the middle in another ten years and go thin on top five years after that. He was careful of his manners, as suited gentry come to Town, and possessed a certain instinctive cunning common to the middling sorts.
“Why bully Henderson like that, my lord? He takes his art seriously, and we attend that class to better our craft.”
“Do we? I attend that class to get in my aunt’s good books and—hear me, oh merciful angels—into her will. She claims Berthold has an eye for the up-and-coming talents, and one does not ignore Auntie Esme when she’s sermonizing on the topic of art.”
The waiter brought over the wine and executed the little ritual of flourishing the bottle and offering Dermot a sample of the vintage.
“That will suffice, Stevens.”
Stevens whisked away the empty. “Your meal should be ready any minute, my lord.”
“Thank you. Do we expect Lord Enderly later this evening?”
“He’s already in the card room, sir.”
“Excellent. Mind Cook doesn’t wreck my steak again.”
Stevens bowed and withdrew, and Dermot poured for his guest. “Do you belong to a club, Belchamp?”
“Two actually, one Whiggish and one Toryish, at my father’s suggestion. They can’t hold a patch on this place.”
“Drink up, man. You needn’t fear having your pocket picked while you’re at table. One of the perquisites of the better establishments. Now, about the handsome Mr. Smith. I’m compelled by his action to take him into dislike.”
“Smith did you a favor. If Berthold got wind you’d destroyed another student’s sketch, you’d be out on your lordly ear.”
