Page 14 of Miss Devoted
“No, I would not. Auntie Esme wouldn’t allow it, and besides, Henderson provoked me.” The wine was quite good, though Dermot was glad he’d had the foresight to sit at a table that couldn’t be seen from the door.
“Henderson did not provoke you.”
“Yes, he did. Those flower girls were his work, and he provoked me by drawing them and now I see them for sale all over Town. The shopkeepers are saying Henderson is the next Adam Buck. I find that quite provoking.”
“Buck makes his living on little domestic bagatelles, mothers and kittens and sweet young things. Fashion plates.”
“He makes afortunedoing miniatures, and if it wouldn’t imperil my eyesight, I might do likewise. One can turn out a miniature in no time, whereas the heroic portraits take forever. More to the point, Buck has been exhibiting at the Academy for years. If Henderson is being likened to Buck, Auntie will eventually take notice of him.”
“You’re jealous of superior talent.”
At long last, the steaks arrived. Belchamp bowed his head for a moment before picking up knife and fork. Once gentry, always gentry, and that backwardness had a sort of quaint charm.
“Henderson does not have talent superior to mine,” Dermot said, “but he certainly has dedication that eclipses that of every other fellow in the class. I’m more concerned that Smith got above himself. As the scion of a noble house, I have a responsibility to stop that sort of nonsense. The fellow parades about in the altogether for coin. Who does he think he is, interfering with my diversions?”
The steak was done to a turn, the potato dripping with butter. A loaf of fresh bread nestled in snowy linen in a basket at Dermot’s elbow. Life was good, though it would be better if Enderly were not on the premises.
“Who do you thinkyouare, twitting Henderson?” Belchamp retorted around a mouthful of potato.
“I wasonlytwitting young Henderson. I would not have destroyed his little sketch. Smith would know that if he’d been to public school, but he’s probably some actor’s get following in the family tradition. How’s your steak?”
“Exquisite. If I were a portraitist, I’d immortalize England’s cows, and to blazes with all those dukes and duchesses.”
“In some of the noble subjects, one does note a certain bovine tendency, doesn’t one?”
Belchamp laughed at that quip, which was the least a fellow could do in exchange for a proper supper.
“What do we know of Smith?” Dermot said, circling back to the point of all this bonhomie and beefsteak. “Tell Uncle Dermot, and I will order another bottle.”
Belchamp paused with a forkful of meat halfway to his mouth. “We’ve barely started this one.”
“And whose fault is that? You’re in London, yet you drink like you’re in some Dissenter village in the West Marches. About Smith. What can you tell me?”
Belchamp considered his wine. “He’s the most symmetric specimen I’ve beheld. If he had any charm or presence, he’d be glorious. As it is, the very impenetrability of his reserve adds to his attractiveness.”
“Do you fancy him?” The question was intended to shock, to remind Belchamp that a Town sophisticate might break bread with a bumpkin, but their worlds were separated by vast chasms of social savoir faire.
“Smith can hold a pose better than any model I’ve encountered, so yes. If I were looking for a life model, I’d fancy him, but he doesn’t appeal to me in the sense you mean.”
The country boy had acquired a touch of Town bronze after all. “I wonder if he appeals to Henderson.”
“If he does, I don’t want to know about it. I did notice that Smith is wearing what appear to be Hoby boots, though they’re down at the heel, and the quality of his tailoring suggests Bond Street.”
“Interesting observation. How does he afford that? Berthold pays well, but not that well. But then, that suit was a bit loose on him.”
“Fit him perfectly through the shoulders. I don’t think he bought it used. I think he’s a gentleman fallen on hard times.” Belchamp turned the wine bottle the better to read the label. “This is truly wonderful port.”
“The ambience helps, as does my delightful company and the meal it’s served with. The vintage itself isn’t bad either. What sort of gentleman falls on times hard enough that he’s willing to shed his clothes for strangers?”
“He sheds his clothes for art, and we are to thank him for it. Smith’s height suggests that he hails from decent family. His hands are clean but for an occasional ink stain, so perhaps he’s the younger son of a younger son toiling away in the City.”
“Somebody must, though I don’t envy them the tedium. I wonder what Smith’s employer would think of his evening exploits.” Auntie would adore Mr. Smith, who managed to exude an air of reserve even when naked. How did a fellowdothat?
Belchamp speared a bite of buttery potato. “You’d wreck the man’s livelihood because he interfered with your abuse of Henderson?”
“Don’t be melodramatic. The art world is competitive, as you should know. I was affording Henderson a little sample of what he’ll face once the real critics take a gander at his flower girls. Here’s how this works: Smith and Henderson appear to be getting chummy. I cannot exactly bloody Henderson’s nose, so I must resort to bloodying Smith’s—figuratively, of course. One does appreciate a fine countenance from an artistic perspective.”
“Over a print of a flower girl?”
