“Am I, now?”
“How else do you account for two months of daily, hour-long sessions? That’s sixty hours. I’ve heard good artists have been known to finish a portrait in a week’s time.”
“True. True.” He tapped his chin with a finger, leaving a bit of paint. “I suppose the only explanation is I’m not a good artist.”
Sherwood corked his bottle of oil and set it back on the easel’s tray along with the stained rags and vials of pigments, some of which were deceptively expensive. Beyond the Sea—or Ultramarine—was the most prized because the stone used to make the dark blue paint had to cross the ocean from the same fabled land whence came the incomparable Montemorcey wine. The paint was worth twenty times its weight in gold. Luckily, few non-artists knew this or his brethren would be routinely beaten and robbed.
“You admit it then?”
“Absolutely, I’m not a good artist.” He used the rag he’d made from his last decent shirt to wipe oil that had dripped from the stem of his brush to his hands. No matter how much care he employed, his hands were magnets for paint and oil. “I’m the best artist.”
She let out an uncharacteristic puff, which was almost a laugh, while one delicate brow rose in skeptical declaration. “You are an arrogant man.”
Finally, a reaction.
“No, I’m confident; there is a difference. Arrogance is an unjustified belief in oneself. Confidence is the simple understanding of one’s abilities. I do not boast about being a great lover—although I very well may be. On that particular subject, I simply am not in a position to accurately judge. I leave that determination to the women I entertain.”
This time both of her brows rose, creating the tiniest crease in her forehead.
“But we were discussing art, and when it comes to that, I am an expert. So you can trust me when I say there isn’t a greater artist than I, and the reason I say that is because there is no finer judge of artistic merit than myself.”
“Mister Stow, I don’t believe I can trust you about art or anything else. How can I when you refuse to let me look at your work? You’ve denied everyone even a glimpse at your two-month masterpiece.”
“Truth isn’t created on schedules.”
“Truth? Is it truth you are painting? I thought it was me.”
“I am painting you—or at least trying to—but you are causing the delay by your refusal to cooperate.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You hide from me.”
“I—” Her eyes almost shifted. He saw the pupils quiver with the struggle. Biting her lower lip, she gathered herself, and the lock of her gaze redoubled. She lifted her chin, just a smidge, in defiance. “I’m right here.”
“No…you’re not. The Countess of Dulgath in all her refined nobility and grand regalia stands before me, but that’s not you—not who you really are. I want to see the person inside. The person you keep hidden from everyone for fear they’ll see—”
She looked at him. Not a glance, not a stare, but a fierce glare of fire. Only a flash, but he saw more in that instant than he’d seen in two months. Powerful. Violent. A tempest corked in a woman’s body and glazed over with the sadness of loss and regret. He’d seen her. The vision rocked him, so much so that Sherwood took a step back.
“We’re done here,” Lady Dulgath declared, breaking the pose and throwing off the fox. “And I see no reason to continue with this foolishness. I only agreed to this portrait because my father wanted the painting. He’s dead, so there’s no need.”
She pivoted on her left heel and strode toward the exit.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Sherwood called after her.
“No—you will not.”
“I’ll be here.”
“I won’t.” She slammed the oak door on her way out, leaving Sherwood alone in the study, listening to the echo of her fading footfalls.
He stared at the door, which had bounced with her thrust, rebounding and hanging agape so that he caught a glimpse of her gold dress as she retreated down the corridor.
Fascinating.
A heartbeat later Sherwood picked up his brush and rag, both of which he’d dropped without realizing, and started to paint. The brush flew with unconscious ease, moving from palette to canvas in a blinding fury. So intense was his concentration that he didn’t notice the young man enter the study until he heard him speak.
“Is there some kind of trouble?”
Sherwood recognized the blue satin doublet even before seeing the goatee and immediately pulled the drape over the front of the painting. He kept the cloth tacked to the top of the canvas’s frame for quick deployment. Covering works in progress to keep gnats, dust, and hair out of the paint wasn’t unusual, but now it served a more important purpose.
“Lord Fawkes. Sorry, I didn’t see you. What did you say?”
“I was asking if there was a problem,” Fawkes said, looking around the study with his trademark mix of bewildered innocence and sinister suspicion. “I heard a loud bang and saw the countess storm out. Is there some way I can be of assistance?”
“Not at all. This was a particularly good session, but it’s over. I’ll just gather my things. We made excellent progress today.”
Fawkes circled around the easel and frowned at the covered portrait. “I hope that isn’t one of the bed linens.”
“My nightshirt, actually, or what’s left of it.”
“What do you wear to bed?”
“Now? Nothing at all. Can’t afford it.”
“Thank Novron it’s nearly summer.” Lord Fawkes picked up Sherwood’s bottle of Ultramarine and tossed it from hand to hand. For him to choose to play with that particular bottle of pigment was too coincidental. Unlike the rest of his ilk, Lord Christopher Fawkes must have been familiar with the art trade. “Why are you still here, Sherwood?”
The artist pointed at the covered painting and smiled. Pointing was easy; the smile was more of a challenge as he watched Fawkes continue to toss the blue bottle.
The lord glanced over his shoulder with a dismissive sniff. “You painted my aunt Mobi’s picture last summer at her villa in Swanwick.”
“Yes, I remember. Beautiful place. Lady Swanwick was most gracious and generous.”
Fawkes nodded. “Yardley painted her portrait as well, two years before, and yet she insisted on one by you, his apprentice.”
“Actually, that happens quite often.”
Fawkes paused in his game of toss to hook a thumb at the covered painting. “Everyone gasped when you unveiled her portrait.”
“I get a lot of that, too.”
“Aunt Mobi sobbed when she saw what you’d done. Ten minutes passed before she could say anything at all. Uncle Karl was certain you’d offended her.”
Sherwood nodded. “The Earl of Swanwick called his guards.”
“I heard they took you by the wrists and started dragging you away when Aunt Mobi found her voice and stopped them. That’s me! she said. That’s how I really am—no one has ever seen me like that before.”
“I get that, too.”
“Did you sleep with her?” He tossed the bottle higher than he had before.
“Excuse me?”
“Is that how you impressed her so? How you got her to be so generous?”
“Did you see the painting?”
Fawkes chuckled. “No. I just heard the tale. Aunt Mobi keeps it locked in her bedchamber, where I’m certain she dreams of the young artist who captured her so exquisitely. I wonder why a woman married to an earl would be so impressed by a penniless artist.”
“Does this story have a point?”
Fawkes smirked. “My point is, that painting—which captured Aunt Mobi so perfectly that she may have betrayed her husband—took five days to create. So once more I ask, why are you still here, Sherwood?”
“Some portraits are more difficult than others.”
“And some women are harder to seduce.”