Such a mystery.
Sutherland leaned toward him. “Who is she, do you think?”
Joshua swallowed and reclined against the chair, taking his time to consider the woman. “You’re asking me?” He swirled the wine in his glass and sniffed. The Bourgogne was very fine but the drink only kept his interest until it passed the back of his throat.
“But you would like to know?” Sutherland asked.
“I think the young woman—” He hesitated. “Prefers her anonymity.”
“The painting ought to sell for a tidy sum. If not for DuChamp’s name, certainly for the subject matter.”
He nodded. Yes, it should. To be displayed in some pervert’s private domain. Ah well, better the painting than knowing she was bought and sold like a possession.
She was no bored, highborn lady. Such a creature was usually full of pride and would not have minded being on display. It would have been a lark. A dare.
But the creature upon the couch was a lady still. A reluctant participant, perhaps?
An improvised gentleman’s daughter, most likely. This was probably the next step in a progression of desperate attempts to care for herself and her family. And if this didn’t provide enough money, what next? Selling herself and her honor?
He held up his glass and a servant filled it a second time.
After an hour, a few of the other gentlemen departed. All nodded to him as they left as if they shared a secret. Joshua wasn’t new to illicit behaviors. He was unused to his proclivities being shared amongst acquaintances.
When the artist called for tea, the young lady reached for the silken robe, slipped into it and stood on the other side of the couch. Her movements were quick and practiced. Had she done this before? So many questions.
He’d stared at her for nearly two hours. Was there any feature he might recognize if he saw her in public? No. Not the color of her eyes nor the shape of her body.
Once she disappeared from the painting room, Joshua stood, grimacing a bit at the pain in his side, and approached the artist, Paul DuChamp, a pear-shaped man of middling height in his fifties. He could understand why DuChamp painted beautiful, naked women.
Joshua greeted the painter in French, polished from his years of tedious study followed by years of fascinating travel.
“May I?” Joshua nodded toward the work in progress.
“Stunning, no?” DuChamp said. He rubbed a paint-splotched cloth over his fingers.
“She’s a beauty. Um, the shading and strokes are brilliant.”
“Observe the skin tone.”
DuChamp was obviously proud of his work, though the painting was not nearly complete. The model’s thigh was graceful and beautifully proportioned with a smooth, silky finish. Joshua just wanted to know the model’s name.
“How do you find the women who pose for you?”
The Frenchman waved his hand in dismissal. “I do not know. When I need models, they appear. Many want to be immortalized beneath my brush.”
Joshua ignored DuChamp’s subtle implication.
“How long will it take to complete this particular portrayal?”
“Hmpf.” DuChamp lifted a shoulder. “I will not be doing her face, so perhaps three more weeks. Maybe less.”
“Will the salon be open for each session?”
“Oh, no. This was Enzo’s idea. One needs a patron, oui? In lieu of that, a reliable source of funds so that I may continue my passion.”
“Certainly.” Joshua shoved his hand. “This Enzo? Might he be available?”
DuChamp was mixing pigments, a cobalt blue, readying himself for the second session. The group of voyeurs was not invited to attend. The painter’s demand? Or the subject’s?
“He will be back in a few days,” DuChamp said offhandedly.
So will I, Joshua thought.
*
“Mama, I’m sorry I missed Christmastide again.” Joshua kissed his mother’s cheek, the Dowager Duchess of Sterling.
“I got your note. So what is this infirmity that kept you from seeing me the moment you returned to London?”
He laughed at her not-so-subtle reproof.
He’d been home for a week, settling in at his residence on Jermyn Street before all of London knew of his return. The extra time also allowed him to recover from the unfortunate incident in Paris. A saber cut nearly a foot long decorated his side and upper thigh. The physician who had stitched him up had done a damn fine job and there’d been little infection. “Snail’s pace” was the terminology the doctor had used in describing Joshua’s prognosis for the next several weeks. He might as well be in London recuperating as any other place.
At least he could move now without anyone suspecting he’d been in a brawl over a woman.