Page 30 of The Scoundrel of Drury Lane
“No, she’s anactualpainter. Vincent was wrong. She’s not an actress. She’s a set painter and lives as poorly as a bloody church mouse. I’m beginning to suspect she wasn’t left any money when Townsend died. So he must have spent whatever Balfour and Walsh paid him before then.”
“You said she’s painting a portrait of you?” Darius asked.
“Yes. A scandalous one that will have all of London beating down my door to see it, or burn it. When she’s done, you will all hire her for portraits of yourselves as well.”
Lionel spewed punch everywhere. “Wh—what?”
“You will hire Suzannah to paint you, and you will pay her three times the normal price that you would pay any male artist for the same work.”
For a moment, his two friends stared at him, and he wondered if they would agree to his request.
Darius shared a glance with Lionel as he handed his friend a handkerchief to wipe the punch off his sleeve. “I’m not objecting, as such, butwhy?”
“Because I am asking you to. I can give no other reason.” He wasn’t about to admit how he had recklessly thrown out that offer to Suzannah in the hope that she would agree to paint him. Guaranteeing business for her had been a large part of her agreeing to his offer.
“Fair enough,” Darius said without hesitation. Kit’s heart was filled with a warmth of friendship he’d long forgotten. “I haven’t had any portraits painted since we were at Eton. Is she any good?”
“She’s gifted. Truly gifted,” Kit admitted. “She paints the sets at Drury Lane in the evenings and sells her regular paintings in Hyde Park during the day.”
“Interesting. Vincent never mentioned seeing her at Hyde Park. He must have trailed her to the theater and assumed she was an actress,” Lionel observed with a sigh and gave his empty punch glass to a passing footman. “Well, I’m off. I promised my little sister a dance this evening, and my mother is already giving me a critical eye for failing to stand by her.”
“I’m not staying either,” Kit said, his gaze turning briefly to Balfour and Walsh. “Best to leave now before those two try something.”
“Agreed. I’ll go with you,” Darius said and followed Kit to the door.
Kit decided to visit the boardinghouse and make sure that Suzannah had gotten safely home. He was uneasy at the idea of her making that walk at night, especially after her encounter with those drunken louts that first night he had met her. Checking on her would be the gentlemanly thing to do, wouldn’t it?
* * *
Suzannah was paintinga portrait of Jude on a canvas she’d stretched herself. The colors were coming along nicely, but oil was quite a bit of work. She liked to practice when she could afford the cost of oil paint. Since Kit had given her quite a large advance on his portrait, she’d been able to take Henry shopping for clothes better suited to his height and build and had enough left over to buy fresh oils. This was a good chance for her to practice in preparation for Kit’s project, which would be quite large given the dimensions he’d requested.
She layered on the initial shadows of the stagehand’s face and soft light browns against the white canvas. She would layer in other colors one by one. It was a technique she had learned from the previous Drury Lane set painter. He was an older man who’d retired to the country last year, but he’d been happy to give Suzannah some finer points of instruction. She’d been approaching oil painting completely wrong for years, she’d discovered. No matter the subject, man or animal or landscape, she learned that the best thing to do was to lay in the initial outlines with a light brown layer to provide a base. Then she built layer upon layer of new colors one by one. Once she’d tried that method, she’d been stunned to see how much deeper and far more real her paintings seemed to look.
She had chosen Jude as a subject because she wanted to capture the emotion in his eyes. The gentleness, the strength, the compassion and keen intelligence. It would be good practice for conveying emotion when it came to Kit. Of course, Kit’s emotions were far different from Jude’s. They were like two ships caught in the same storm, but one had made it safely to port while the other was still lost in the tempestuous gales.
Someone knocked at the door, and she nearly spilled the paint she was using to refresh her palette. It was close to midnight, and everyone she knew would be home by now. Perhaps she had left something behind and Flory was bringing it to her. She set the palette on the small table by her easel and went to the door.
“Who is it?” she called out.
“It’s me,” a deep voice said.
She repeated the comment softly to herself, wondering who on earth “me” was. Then she realized she recognized the voice, as well as the arrogant assumption that she should know whoever this man was.
She opened the door, and there stood Kit. Wearing fine evening clothes, his dark hair falling into his dark eyes, he painted quite the picture of a handsome gentleman of leisure. Yet there was a danger that still hung about him, warning anyone sensible to keep their distance. Her sensibility seemed to have vanished long ago when it came to this man. Every time she saw him, she was astounded at his height and the breadth of his shoulders and how he made her tremble, but not from fear. The man was as large as an old forest God from the tales her mother used to read to her as a child.
“What are you doing here, Lord Kentwell?” she whispered. “You told me not to expect your hired coach this evening because you had a prior engagement...”
“Invite me in, Suzannah.” His tone was less gruff than she would have expected at issuing such a command.
“No. If you’re here to... to...”
“Do you mean to suggest I’m here to seduce you with reckless abandon until you want no other man’s touch but mine?” His lips curved in a crooked grin.
“Yes, that is something I most certainly do not want,” she said as she frowned at him. How did he always know exactly what to say to befuddle her? She was supposed to be afraid of him, of what he might want, and yet he teased her about it in such a way that she now felt as if she wanted him to do just that.
Seduce me with reckless abandon until I want no other man’s touch but yours...
“Then you are in luck. I wish only to see that you made it home safely since I could not escort you this evening.”
