Page 74 of Miss Devoted
Michael was oddly pleased that Dermot would stand up for his own abilities. “The sketch I need is not an audition, but rather, a weapon to foil the person who’d see Preacher jailed.”
For Michael to discuss his work in the slums this way, as the undertaking of some dashing third party, felt odd, but also… enlightening. He had simply done the reasonable thing—brought babies in from the cold—but he’d also taken up arms against Church complacency and the convenient abuse of “God’s will” as an excuse for moralizing selfishness.
“We can’t have Preacher jailed,” Dermot said. “The common people need their heroes and villains, and heaven knows Fat George has been done to death in the latter role. I must depict Preacher cavorting about the slums if I’m to do a series on him.”
“Then be here tomorrow morning, and before you embark on the rest of the series, we can discuss the sketch I need.”
Michael knew the look of a creative mind caught up with an interesting idea. Dermot’s fingers were tapping again, and his gaze had gone preoccupied and just a tad cross-eyed.
“I’d have to do twelve. Ricardo said there will be twelve flower girls, which is twelve too many, in my opinion.”
“Do six,” Michael said, thinking only of the drudgery of sitting to Dermot hour after hour. “More exclusive that way.”
“Six.” Dermot rose and poured himself another brandy. “I like that. And I won’t allow Ricardo to make them too small just for the sake of saving on paper costs. That way lies cheapness. My work will not be cheap. Satirical, yes. Witty, pithy, and daring, but not cheap.”
His work would have to beaffordableto be popular, but Michael wouldn’t be the one to tell him that.
“I will return at noon tomorrow to discuss the details of the commission, and I will expect your sketch in hand twenty-four hours after that.”
“When will you introduce me to your Preacher friend?”
“When I come by tomorrow.”
Dermot grinned. “All very underhand and havey-cavey. I like it. How will I know the fellow you’re bringing ’round is the real Preacher?”
So his lordship wasn’t a complete dunderhead in business matters after all. “He will be able to tell you the specific churches from which he’s rescued infants in the past few months, which is something nobody else knows. Even if others try to copy your work, they won’t have that information to build on.”
“Better and better. Until tomorrow, Mr. Delancey, and as a word between gentlemen, you’d best give up your modeling. The Church supports the arts within reason, but flitting about in Adam’s attire exceeds all bounds.”
Dermot looked like he might prose on—a homily on Church mores, perhaps—but he instead escorted Michael to the front door and saw him on his way.
His lordship wasn’t a hopelessly bad fellow, though spoiled and insecure. He could derive income from his satires and emerge from behind a pen name when the aristocrats began collecting his work. Michael made a silent apology to the aunt, who, like Psyche, doubtless valued portraiture foremost among artistic endeavors.
The advancing hour had turned the weather snowy again, and everything in Michael ordered him to take himself to Psyche’s back garden gate. He instead turned for Circle Lane. He had a letter to write, and that errand would not keep until tomorrow.
“I expected you last night.” Psyche tried not to make the statement an accusation. Michael was paying this call at an hour far too early to be fashionable, and the harsh morning light suggested he’d slept as little as she had.
“I’m sorry, Psyche. I meant to come. I should have sent a note.”
He would not prevaricate, but he wasn’t offering much in the way of explanations either. With Jacob, Psyche had learned not to pry. She didn’t pry into Hazel’s affairs either, and she kept a careful distance from her fellow art students.
But this was Michael facing a looming tragedy. “What kept you?” she asked, yanking the bell-pull. The staff had shown Michael into the family parlor—no windows facing the street—and that had doubtless been at his request. He’d come to the front door rather than through the back gate, though. That was something.
He looked about the room as if he’d perhaps misplaced his gloves. “I fell asleep.”
The hurt feelings Psyche harbored ebbed marginally, while the worry remained at spring tide. “I have reason to know you are prone to such lapses. Are the children on their way to Scotland?”
She and Michael were once again awkward with each other, half a room between them when Psyche wanted to wrap her arms around him and never let him go.
“If I tell you what my plans are, my dear, you might be considered an accessory.”
Oh, that was the outside of too much. Psyche marched up to him and stopped short of shaking her finger in his face.
“Youneedaccessories, Michael. You need friends, family, allies, onlookers, stray cats, God Almighty, and town crier taking your part.”
“I’d settle for the Church or the law, but those are beyond my grasp. Might we sit?”
If he’d wanted merely to apologize for dodging off last night, he could have sent a note. Psyche was hit with the horrible conclusion that he’d come to say good-bye. She sank onto the sofa, abruptly short of breath.
