Page 73 of Miss Devoted
He fished out the requisite item, somewhat the worse for his travels. The butler spared the card a condescending glance.
“Is his lordship expecting you?”
“He is not, but I’m a great admirer of his artistic talent, and I won’t take up much of his time.”
The butler, who doubtless reported to his lordship’s aunt, set the card on a silver tray. “This way.”
The household had apparently been admonished to support his lordship’s artistic inclinations. Thank heaven and meddling aunties.
The butler ushered Michael into a blessedly warm parlor done up in dark wainscoting, hunter green wallpaper, and substantial, well-upholstered furniture. The rug was spotless, so he skirted around it and took his sopping personage to the hearthstones to await his host.
The walls, not surprisingly, were decorated with the requisite landscape over the mantel, but opposite England’s bucolic splendor hung framed satirical prints. George Cruikshank’sThe Prince of Whalesheld pride of place over the sideboard, right next to James Gillray’sA Voluptuary Under the Horrors of Digestion. The Gillray dated from the last century, while the Cruikshank was fairly recent—and notorious.
Michael was made to wait for twenty deliciously toasty minutes. By the time Lord Dermot deigned to appear, Michael’s hair was dry, and his boots had ceased squeaking with every step.
“Dermot, at your service.” His lordship waved an imperious hand to dismiss the butler hovering by the door. “You have the advantage of me, Mr. Delan—Oh. Well, this is interesting. Smith, isn’t it? I suppose one must offer you a drink, lest you take a chill?”
“A drink would be appreciated.”
Dermot poured two brandies and passed one to Michael. “You are even more impressive in your clothes than out of them. Somebody should lodge a complaint with the Almighty for such generosity to a live model, but your card suggests the outlandish notion that you are clergy. I find myself reluctantly intrigued. You have been seen in the vicinity of Lambeth itself, you know. That was most puzzling. To your health.”
His lordship sipped delicately, very much in the role of the aristocrat whose hospitality must not be abused. Michael sipped, too, savoring the welcome glow of fine spirits.
“I have seen your work,” Michael said. “At Ricardo’s.”
Dermot paused in the midst of setting his glass down. He took another sip and gestured to the sofa. “Do have a seat. You recognized my work?”
“Easily, and you did initial the original. Interesting subject matter.”
“A whim, a passing notion. One hears gossip in the clubs and gets to doodling.” He took a wing chair, setting his glass on the side table, and flipping out his coattails with casual grace. The look in his eye, though, had shifted from haughty to carefully diffident.
“Your doodling is well composed, my lord, and well executed. Ricardo is nigh salivating for more where it came from.”
“Did he tell you that?” The question was likely meant to be casual, but a thread of eagerness had crept past Dermot’s defenses. “He did say the market is keen for fresh talent, but his market is not where my ambitions lie, alas for him.”
The hell it isn’t.“Nobody with that discerning an eye for the visual parable should disdain the gift he’s been given.”
Dermot finished his drink and pretended to study the empty glass. “Is that the pious clergyman speaking? How does a man of the cloth come to be wearing not a single stitch on numerous occasions, Delancey? I doubt the Church would approve, though your situation begs for clever puns and irreverent remarks.”
Nothing lent itself to punning so well as did the titles of satirical prints. “My situation begs for more of your talent, my lord. Your little sketch of Preacher wants a sequel.”
“I know.” He pursed his lips and stared into the middle distance. “How well I know. I made a damned fine job of it. Talent will out, you know. Nobody else has done that Preacher fellow yet in prints, and he could soon become something of anon dit. He could cast the damned flower girls into the shade. My aunt claims no gossip travels faster or wider than churchyard gossip—the fellow is churchyard fodder to the life—but how many sketches can I do of a cloaked figure lurking in the shadows?”
With some imagination andeffort,plenty. “What if you could draw his face?”
Dermot tapped the armrest of his cozy chair with two pale, manicured fingers. He frowned. He scowled at the fire. “Youknowthis Preacher person?”
“I know he could well end up in jail for saving a child’s life, and the same member of the clergy who menaced the child is now threatening Preacher.”
“You summarize a Gothic novel, Mr. Delancey.”
“Gothic novels have made many a fortune, and taking a hand in Preacher’s situation would also put you on the right side of popular opinion.” That conclusion was a gamble. Michael placed his bet based on years of growing up in a vicarage, the success of Psyche’s flower girls, and an informed respect for John Bull’s bone-deep decency.
Dermot studied Michael as an artist studied a subject. “Auntie was all up in the bows at me again. So tedious. A gentleman cannot maintain a proper abode on a wish and a prayer.”
“You need to publish a series of prints,” Michael said. “To make a splash just as Town is filling up in anticipation of the Season, and I can arrange for Preacher to sit to you and no other satirist, but first, you must do a sketch for me.”
“You’ve seen my work, sir. I do not audition like some Drury Lane hack.”
