Kate said quietly, “You have to admit though, she sports a gigantic bird with great aplomb. That’s very difficult for a petite woman.”
Simon gestured to the crowds. “In any case, we are here to have a look at Rowan Barnes if we can find him through the smoke.”
Kate held up a finger and strolled on into the parlor. The two men followed, as if she were their ticket of acceptable entry in this salon of women. There were a few glances of interest from the gathered but no attempt to engage the newcomers. Simon stepped over the sprawled legs of a few women and men who had indulged a bit much in opium and lay senseless in a corner. There were other women who sat together, holding hands, engaged in close intimacy that seemed a bit more than sisterly chatter. Nothing he hadn’t seen before, but here at Red Orchid it seemed more comfortable and natural, not hidden in shadows.
Kate paused to chat with several young women who were huddled over small volumes of poetry. They smiled in welcome and pointed up.
Kate returned. “Rowan Barnes is upstairs.”
Malcolm leaned close to his partners. “What’s our play? Are we taking action against the man?”
“No,” Simon said. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’re here to talk and observe. We need evidence against Barnes first.”
“Right enough.” Malcolm adjusted his pistol under his coat. “You two should be able to handle a painter. I’ll nose about down here.”
“Let’s not have a riot,” Simon cautioned, and started up the stairs with Kate.
As they made their way up, they saw paintings hanging as well as stacked against the wall. Landscapes. Scenes of heroic figures and biblical images. Most of the figures were nude. Simon stopped to peruse.
“Common,” Kate observed. “He doesn’t reach very far, does he?”
“You think not? This Brutus at the Temple of Diana is vigorous and powerful, yet touching and with pathos. There is skill in perspective and color. It has the common immediacy of watercolor but with a foundation of excellent draftsmanship.”
“Please. All heavenly light and muscles. I wouldn’t hang it in my stables.”
Simon suddenly wondered with alarm if his tastes were more plebian than he had thought. He took Kate’s arm and went on. The upstairs was more open than the ground floor thanks to a peaked roof. The hallway was still crowded and hazy, and all space seemed occupied by small groups deep in discussion or busy sketching. It seemed questionable that the old wooden floor could hold up under the strain of so many feet. Kate led the way to a large doorway that opened onto a vast chamber, likely once a ballroom. A throng of fifty people, overwhelmingly women, stood shoulder to shoulder inside. Beyond the multitude of heads, in the center of the room, was a man and an easel. The fellow had his back to the door. He was tall and well built, clad in black pants and a blousy white shirt. His red hair was tied in a long queue.
Beyond the easel, Simon saw a nude woman leaning on a marble pedestal. The blatant exhibition of her nakedness in the center of so many clothed people struck Simon as decadent and shocking. But he realized there was no sense of licentiousness or judgment in the room. The model herself displayed no embarrassment and her attitude was as normal as if she had been chatting with a friend in Hyde Park on a Sunday.
Rowan Barnes moved around the easel with odd, palsied motions. He was silent, pausing to study the nude woman, then making swift definitive strikes against the canvas as if it were an enemy. Seemingly random marks combined over time to form an extraordinary rendition of the model’s body. The artist left the easel to prowl around the naked women. He gave off a sense of fascination without lewdness. He admired and studied her anatomy as one would a fine home or a wild glen.
There was no restless shuffling or whispered conversations in the crowd. They watched Barnes as if he would soon pronounce some great discovery.
The artist had been bent over making a close inspection of the model’s lower back when his face rose over her shoulder, and he froze. His eyes peered toward the door, two shining caramel-brown lights. The crowd began to look at one another, slowly turning around to find the object of the great man’s attention.
“I was hoping to stay more unobtrusive,” Simon whispered. “This is embarrassing for me.”
“More embarrassing than you know,” Kate responded quietly, “because they’re looking at me.”
Simon reevaluated Barnes’s fierce gaze. The object was indeed Kate. Not surprising, Simon realized. Kate was quite the most fascinating woman in London.
“That’s what I meant,” he said.
“Of course it is.”
Barnes ran his hand along the model’s bare shoulders and whispered something to her, never shifting his stare away from Kate. The blond nude looked briefly at Kate too. The artist parted the crowd, slowly striding toward the door. He stopped a few feet from Kate, regarding her as if she didn’t have a male companion with his arm looped through hers. Barnes extended his hand with its long, supple fingers.