The Painted Lady

Chapter One

‘A plague on it!’ cried Henry Redmayne, smacking the arm of the sofa with a petulant hand. ‘This is the worst news I ever heard in my entire life. It’s left me prostrate with grief.’

‘I feel betrayed,’ said Elkannah Prout, morosely.

‘We’ve all been betrayed, Elkannah. Every red-blooded man in London has been betrayed. Not to put too fine a point on it, our whole sex has been betrayed. And the sorriest victims of this betrayal are here in this room — you, me and poor Jocelyn.’

Henry indicated Jocelyn Kidbrooke, a portly man in his thirties who sat in a complete daze, still trying to absorb the grim intelligence. Kidbrooke’s podgy face was a study in dejection. Had his own wife been violently snatched from him, he could not have looked more melancholy. Prout, by contrast, thin, angular and still passably handsome, was seething with rage, barely able to contain himself as he perched on the edge of his chair. He kept bunching his fists pugnaciously and swearing under his breath.

Drawn together by disaster, the three of them were in the drawing room of Henry’s house in Bedford Street. Though they passed themselves off as gentlemen, they were confirmed rakes, pursuing lives of ceaseless pleasure in the capital city of dissipation. Prout was the oldest of them, a well-dressed bird of prey on the verge of forty. Henry Redmayne was younger but his wayward existence had robbed him of his good looks and given him in return a pale, drawn, pinched countenance that was deeply etched by years of corruption. All three friends were fashionably dressed but it was Henry who wore the most ostentatious apparel and had the most flamboyant periwig.

‘I would never have believed it of her,’ he declared.

‘Nor I,’ said Prout. ‘It’s shameful.’

‘It’s nothing short of indecent, Elkannah. When a woman guards her maidenhood like the Crown Jewels, then she should, in all honesty, only yield it up to someone who truly deserves it. In short,’ said Henry, slapping his knee before rising to his feet, ‘to one of us. Damn it all — we’ve earned it.’

‘We spent time and money on the jilting baggage.’

‘I offered her my undying love.’

‘So did I, Henry — and so did Jocelyn.’

He gestured towards Kidbrooke but the latter was too absorbed in his thoughts to hear a single word that was being said. The others might talk of a shared feeling of betrayal. All that concerned Jocelyn Kidbrooke was his own misery. He did not hear the distant ring of the doorbell and he did not even look up when a servant showed a visitor into the room. Beaming happily, Sir Willard Grail made straight for Henry and shook his hand warmly.

‘Henry, my darling-sin, how is’t with you?’

‘Very ill,’ replied the other.

‘Such sadness among friends?’ He looked at the other two men. ‘What ails you? Why these long faces? Why this dreadful whiff of despair in my nostrils? Have I come to a house or a hospital?’

‘I can see that you have not yet heard, Sir Willard,’ said Prout.

‘Heard what?’

‘The hideous truth about Araminta Jewell.’

‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Sir Willard, bringing both hands up to his throat. ‘Do not tell me that the dear creature is dead.’

‘It’s worse than that.’

‘Worse?’

‘The little traitor is married,’ said Henry.

Sir Willard Grail was dumbfounded. He was an affable man in his late twenties with an almost permanent smile on his lips. Tall, fair, lean and immaculately dressed, he cut an imposing figure. He did not look so imposing now. Reeling from the impact of the news, he seemed to shrink in size and lose all vitality. The characteristic smile was replaced by a grimace.

‘Araminta is married?’ he croaked.

‘In secret,’ said Henry. ‘Behind our backs.’

‘Married to whom? What sorcerer has bewitched her and stolen her away from us? Name the villain.’

‘My tongue will turn black when I do so.’

‘Why — who is the fellow?’

‘Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

‘Culthorpe?’ Sir Willard spat out the name like a foul poison that he had inadvertently tasted. ‘That angel of delight has sacrificed her virginity to Sir Martin Culthorpe? It’s unspeakable.’

‘But nevertheless true,’ admitted Prout. ‘It’s an insult to all of us. Culthorpe is a sanctimonious nonentity.’

‘Araminta does not think so,’ said Henry, ruefully.

‘What conceivable attraction can Culthorpe have for her?’

‘Extreme wealth and a title.’

‘I, too, have money,’ said Prout, thrusting out his chest.

‘But no title.’

‘I have a title,’ argued Sir Willard.

‘Yet you lack the affluence to go with it,’ noted Henry. ‘And without wishing to be overly pedantic, I have to point out that you, Sir Willard — like Jocelyn here — are already married. Elkannah and I were the only bachelors in the hunt.’

‘Apart from Culthorpe, that is.’

‘A vile thief who stole the richest jewel in Christendom.’ Henry flopped into a chair and stared vacantly at a painting of rampant satyrs in pursuit of a trio of naked nymphs. ‘It’s an ignominy that must not be borne, gentlemen. We are victims of a heinous crime.’

With a nod of agreement, Sir Willard lowered himself on to a chair. All four of them brooded in silence. Araminta Jewell was, by common consent, the most beautiful young woman in London and the fact that she kept her many suitors at arm’s length only added to her allure. She was everything that the four men sought in a mistress and they had been so beguiled by her charms that they formed a Society for the Capture of Araminta’s Maidenhood. The person fortunate enough to win his way into her bed was also destined to collect the large reward to which they had all generously contributed.

A disturbing thought made Henry sit up with a start.

‘Hell and damnation!’ he howled. ‘Does this mean that we have to forfeit the contents of our fund to Sir Martin Culthorpe?’

‘Never!’ said Prout, defiantly.

‘He achieved what four of us signally failed to do.’

‘All that I lacked was time, Henry. Give me another month and she would have wilted under the pressure of my blandishments.’

‘I looked to have seduced her within a fortnight,’ said Henry.

‘Away with these fond imaginings!’ said Sir Willard, testily.

‘You do but cry over spilt milk and that’s ever a foolish exercise. As for Culthorpe, he’ll not get a penny from us because he was not party to the wager, and I’ll not pay any man to bed his wife.’

‘Had I wed Araminta,’ said Henry, ‘you’d have had to pay me.’

‘There was no mention of marriage in the articles we drew up.’

‘Nor was it excluded, Sir Willard. I was always impelled more by love than by lust. For her sake,’ he went on, dramatically, ‘I’d have endured all the restrictions of holy matrimony.”

Sir Willard smiled urbanely. ‘Choose the right wife and there are no restrictions,’ he observed.

‘The matter is settled, then,’ said Prout. ‘Culthorpe gets no reward from us and the Society is hereby disbanded. My vote is for raiding the purse and spending it in a night of uninhibited abandon.’

‘A capital notion, Elkannah.’

‘But one too hastily conceived.’ Henry was thoughtful. ‘Why disband our Society when it can simply be re-christened? Why squander the money when it can be won afresh?’

‘How?’ asked Sir Willard.

‘How else but by seeking our revenge? The milk may be spilt but it’s still sweet enough for us to lick. Since we cannot secure the lady’s maidenhood, we can at least cuckold the rogue who did.’

‘Two horns on the head of Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

‘With the man who puts them there taking the prize.’

‘I like the idea,’ said Prout with enthusiasm.

‘I love it,’ said Sir Willard. ‘What about you, Jocelyn?’

All three of them turned to Jocelyn Kidbrooke, still seated and still deep in thought. Eyes blazing, he gnashed his teeth audibly.

‘Did you hear my suggestion?’ prompted Henry. ‘The chase is still on and the winner takes all. What’s your view of Culthorpe?’

Kidbrooke looked up. ‘Something must be done about him.’

‘That’s why the Society must have a new objective.’

‘There can be only one objective with regard to Sir Martin Culthorpe,’ said Kidbrooke with quiet intensity. ‘Araminta is in need of salvation. We must get rid of her husband.’

‘How soon will you be ready to start?’ asked Sir Martin Culthorpe.

‘As soon as the lady is ready for me,’ said Villemot. ‘I hear so much about your wife’s beauty that I long to meet her.’

‘I want you to immortalise that beauty on canvas, Monsieur.’

‘Then you come to the right man.’

Jean-Paul Villemot struck a pose, chin held up and arms spread out with a dancer’s grace. He was a swarthy man in his late thirties with a neat black moustache and beard giving definition to a gaunt face. His command of English was good but it was filtered through a strong French accent. Like Van Dyke and Lely, he was a portrait painter who had built up such a reputation in England that he was constantly in demand there. They were in his studio, a large, low-ceilinged, untidy room filled with half-finished paintings, discarded sketches and the pungent smell of artist’s materials. A black cat nestled in a chair. An easel stood near the window to catch the light.

‘Araminta will come here tomorrow,’ said Sir Martin.

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Three weeks.’

‘Three weeks?’ echoed Villemot. ‘And you are ready to let a young wife out of your sight? I see you are no Frenchman.’

Sir Martin straightened his back. ‘I’m a true-born Englishman,’ he attested, ‘and proud to be so. That means I have the most profound respect for the fairer sex.’

‘So do I, mon ami. I love, honour and respect the ladies.’

The Frenchman’s raised eyebrow went unseen by his visitor. Sir Martin Culthorpe was clearly not a man for innuendo and he was patently lacking any sense of humour. His face was pleasantly ugly, his expression one of beetle-browed seriousness. Now in his forties, he was upright, well-built and of medium height. While the artist wore colourful attire in the French fashion, his client chose only the most sober garments. Sir Martin was a rich landowner, known for his piety and his charitable inclinations. During the rebuilding of London in the wake of the Great Fire, more than one church rising from the ashes was doing so with the help of Sir Martin Culthorpe, who saw it as his Christian duty to restore the spiritual fabric of the capital.

‘Now,’ said Villemot, rubbing his hands together, ‘we come to the very important point.’

‘Have no fears on that score, Monsieur. I’m a wealthy man. I know that you are expensive but I want only the best. I have heard your terms and accept them willingly.’

‘I do not talk of money, Sir Martin.’

‘Oh?’

‘I talk only of clothing. I think, maybe, that you would prefer that your wife, she is painted in a dress.’

‘Of course,’ said Sir Martin, stiffly. ‘Isn’t that always the case?’

‘No, no,’ replied the artist with a broad smile. ‘Some husbands, they like to see their wives or lovers deshabille. Look, I show you.’ Moving to his easel, he drew back the cloth that covered the portrait on which he was working. ‘Voila!’

Sir Martin gasped in horror. Pretending to be a Greek goddess was the nude figure of a gorgeous young woman, carrying a quiver of arrows that hid nothing of her ample curves. What stunned him was that Sir Martin believed he recognised the face as belonging to Lady Hester Lingoe and he recalled, with dismay, that she had always shown a keen interest in the Classical world. It had never occurred to him that she might take it to such lengths. Ashamed of what he had just seen, he turned away in disgust. Jean-Paul Villemot quickly drew the cloth over the painting.

‘It is not to your taste, I think,’ he remarked.

‘It most certainly is not,’ said Sir Martin, righteously. ‘I came in search of a portrait — not of an obscenity like that.’

The Frenchman shrugged. ‘What I am asked, I paint.’

‘Then I’ll ask for something very different, Monsieur.’

‘We come back to the lady’s wardrobe, then.’

‘My wife has already chosen what to wear.’

‘But she may not have chosen well,’ said Villemot, wagging a finger. ‘Lady Culthorpe only sees what is in the looking-glass. Jean-Paul Villemot, he has the eyes of the artist.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I will pick out the colour to enhance your wife’s beauty and the fashion to display her at her best. Let her bring three or four dresses and try them on for me.’

‘That’s far too unseemly,’ protested Sir Martin. ‘My wife is no doll to be dressed and undressed at another man’s pleasure. If you must give advice about what Araminta should wear, you will have to visit our home and explore her wardrobe.’

‘Tres bien! I will come this very afternoon.’

‘We’ll be ready for you, Monsieur.’

‘And the portrait, it is of your wife only?’

‘Who else?’

‘Many husbands, they like to celebrate their marriage with a painting of themselves and their bride. This is not for you?’

‘No,’ said Sir Martin, firmly. ‘My face does not belong inside a gilt frame. It’s too unsightly. I would only spoil the picture.’

‘As you wish.’

‘That brings us to the question of your fee, Monsieur Villemot. I know that you do not ask for money until the portrait is finished but I insist on paying in advance.’

‘Thank you,’ said the artist, taking the fee from him, ‘though it was not necessary. I never want the money before I start. The only thing I want from my clients is that they keep to one simple rule.’

‘Rule?’

‘When someone sits for me, he or she must be alone.’

‘But I was hoping to accompany my wife.’

‘Then you need to find another artist to paint her portrait,’ said Villemot, folding his arms with a flash of temperament. ‘While I work, I do not allow anyone to look over the shoulder. It holds me back. I must have — what do you call it? — the freedom of expression.’

‘Araminta is very shy,’ argued Sir Martin. ‘She needs me there. I swear that I’ll keep out of your way.’

‘You will keep out of my studio or I am not for you.’

‘This is an unfair condition to lay upon me.’

Villemot was adamant. ‘I do not break the rule for anyone.’

There was a silent battle of wills. As the client, Sir Martin had expected to be there during the early sittings but that was evidently not the case. He was worried. He did not relish the thought of leaving his young wife alone with the Frenchman. Glancing at the easel, he was reminded that Villemot had painted his last subject as a nude and that the lady in question had disported herself naked on the very couch on which Sir Martin was sitting. That made him very uneasy. Another fact had to be considered. Apart from his natural prejudice against foreigners, Sir Martin felt certain that Villemot would be a Roman Catholic and he feared that Araminta might somehow be tainted if the man had uncontrolled access to her.

He was in a quandary. Eager for his wife to be painted by the leading artist of the day, he yet wanted to supervise their contact. The problem was that, while he was ready to place complete trust in Villemot’s artistic abilities, he did not have equal confidence in his moral standards. In appearance and manner, he was altogether too effusive and unconstrained for Sir Martin’s liking. If he let his wife alone with the man, she would be subjected to his practised charm. The anxious husband searched for a compromise.

‘Let me stay in the next room,’ he suggested.

‘Impossible!’ exclaimed Villemot. ‘I sleep in that room and I allow no strangers in there. Until my new house, it is built, I rent only three rooms. In any one of them, Sir Martin, you would be in the way.’ He clapped his visitor on the shoulder. ‘I know what you think — that I am alone with Lady Culthorpe — but is not true.’

‘No?’

Emile, he is always with me.’

‘Emile?’

‘Mon valet.’ He raised his voice. ‘Emile!’

The door opened at once and a figure scurried into the room. Short, slim, excessively well-groomed, Emile was a dapper individual in his forties with an air of studied deference. He wore a white shirt, a long, black waistcoat and black breeches. His shoes gleamed. When he was introduced to the visitor, he gave a bow. Sir Martin was immediately reassured. With the valet at hand, his wife would never be wholly alone with the artist.

‘You see?’ asked Villemot. ‘If Lady Culthorpe, she wishes for the rest or for something to drink, she has only to call for Emile.’

‘Mon plaisir,’ said Emile with another bow. Villemot clicked his fingers to dismiss him. ‘Excusez-moi, Sir Martin.’

The valet withdrew as speedily as he had come. Sir Martin’s fears were allayed. He recalled something that Villemot had said earlier.

‘You are having a house built in London, you say?’

‘Yes,’ replied Villemot. ‘My life, it is here now. When I have a proper place to live, my wife, she will join me from Paris.’

Sir Martin was relieved. ‘You are married, then?’

‘Oh, yes. But I could not ask my wife to share three rooms in someone else’s house. She would never accept that. Monique deserves a place of our own. That is why I want the house to be built tout de suite.’

‘Who is the architect?’

‘A very clever man — Christopher Redmayne.’

Christopher Redmayne examined the model with great care, looking at it from every angle. Jonathan Bale, the man who had made it, watched him nervously, desperate for approval and fearful of rebuke. Bale was a big, solid man in his late thirties with the kind of facial features that only a loving wife could find appealing. When working as a parish constable, he knew exactly what to do. As the maker of a scale model, however, he was in uncharted territory.

Christopher let out a sigh of admiration. ‘It’s good, Jonathan.’

‘Thank you, Mr Redmayne.’

‘In fact, it’s very good.’

‘I did my best.’

‘It far exceeds my own mean abilities,’ confessed the architect. ‘I can see a building in my mind’s eye, and I can draw it to perfection, but I’m all fingers and thumbs when it comes to making a model. You have a real talent.’

‘I was a shipwright for many years,’ said Bale, nostalgically. ‘You never lose the knack of working with wood.’

‘Building a galleon is very different from creating a model of a new house, yet you adapted your skills with ease.’ He reached for his purse. ‘Let me pay you.’

‘No, no, Mr Redmayne — not a penny.’

‘A labourer is worthy of his hire.’

‘It was a joy to work on.’

‘Designing the house was also a joy,’ said Christopher, ‘but I expect Monsieur Villemot to pay me for it. Come now,’ he went on, extracting a handful of coins from his purse. ‘Let’s have no more of this nonsense. Take what you’ve rightly earned.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Bale, holding out a reluctant palm.

Christopher paid him the agreed amount and added some extra money by way of a bonus. Bale had done exactly what had been asked of him in half the time allowed. The constable looked at the coins.

‘You’ve given me too much.’

‘It will help to pay for all the midnight oil you burned.’

‘Sarah will chide me for taking more than I deserve.’

‘Your wife has far too much common sense to do that. There are scant rewards from being a parish constable,’ said Christopher, ‘and only someone as public-spirited as you would take on the work. When you’re employed by me, you’ll get a decent wage.’

‘Thank you,’ said Bale, touched. ‘You’re very generous.’

‘Strictly speaking, it’s Jean-Paul Villemot’s generosity so you should be grateful to him. Every penny I’ve given you comes from my client.’ He pointed to the model. ‘He’ll be overjoyed with this.’

‘Good.’

They were in Christopher’s house in Fetter Lane, a place that was so much larger and better furnished than Bale’s humbler abode that he always felt vaguely uncomfortable there. Holding his hat in both hands, he stood beside the table as the architect subjected the model to an even closer scrutiny. Tall, lithe and dashing, Christopher had long reddish hair that curled at the ends. Even in repose, he seemed animated. He and Bale were unlikely companions, divided by religion, social standing and every other measurement against which they could be set. Yet they had been drawn together over the years and each had come to value the friendship highly.

Christopher had first met the dour constable when the client for whom he had designed a house had been murdered. Since the crime had taken place in Bale’s own ward of Baynard’s Castle, he dedicated himself to solving it with the aid of the architect. In the course of their partnership, a mutual respect had developed and it had slowly increased with the passage of time. It was gratifying to both of them that they could at last work together on something that was quite unrelated to crime.

‘What do you think of the house?’ enquired Christopher.

‘Too grand for the likes of me, Mr Redmayne.’

‘More suitable for Paris than for London?’

‘Yes,’ said Bale, wrinkling his nose, ‘it is a bit Frenchified.’

‘A man is entitled to reside in a house that reminds him of his native country,’ said Christopher. ‘And there are aspects of French architecture that I find very endearing. When I was studying my trade, I learned a lot on the other side of the English Channel.’

‘I prefer a plain house with none of this decoration.’

‘Engage me as your architect and I’ll design it for you.’

Bale smiled. ‘I’m happy with the house I’ve got, sir.’

‘And with the wife and children you share it with, Jonathan.’

‘I’d not change them for the world.’

Christopher felt a pang of envy. Whenever Bale returned to his home in Addle Hill, his family were invariably there to welcome him. Though he shared it with two servants, Christopher’s house always seemed rather empty by comparison, even more so since Susan Cheever had returned to Northampton for a while with her father. Shorn of his beloved, Christopher felt desperately lonely and could only keep sadness at bay by throwing himself into his work. He longed for the day when he and Susan could share a home and have children of their own. Until then, he reflected, the only family he had in London was his brother, Henry, whose sybaritic existence appalled him and whose proximity was often an embarrassment.

It was uncanny. Even as he popped into Christopher’s mind, his brother came calling. The bell rang insistently, Jacob, the ancient servant, went to open the front door, and, seconds later, a grinning Henry Redmayne was shown into the room.

‘Christopher!’ he said, doffing his hat and embracing his brother affectionately. ‘How good to see you looking so well.’

‘I wish that I could say the same of you,’ said Christopher.

‘My doctor tells me I’m in the best of health.’

‘Then you must change your doctor. Your eyes are bloodshot, your cheeks are sallow and you look as if you’ve not slept for a week.’ He indicated his other visitor. ‘You know Jonathan, of course.’

‘Oh!’ said Henry, seeing Bale for the first time and frowning with candid dislike. ‘Yes, I’ve met your tame Puritan once too often.’

‘Learn from his example and lead a cleaner life.’

‘I’d die of boredom!’

‘There’s nothing boring about my life, Mr Redmayne,’ said Bale, staunchly. ‘It’s full of interest. Unlike some, I do an honest job.’

‘Why, so do I,’ retorted Henry, stung by the insinuation, ‘so you can take that note of criticism out of your voice. I work at the Navy Office and serve my country accordingly. I venture to suggest that I contribute more to the safety of the nation than someone who merely arrests a few drunkards and stops an occasional tavern brawl.’

‘You forget something, Henry,’ said his brother. ‘There was a time when you and Jonathan were colleagues. You might victual the ships but he helped to build them, and that’s a much more difficult proposition. See here,’ he continued, standing back to reveal the model on the table behind him, ‘this is an example of his work. Jonathan is still a master carpenter.’

Henry was impressed. ‘You made this, Bale?’

‘At your brother’s instruction,’ said the other.

‘Then I congratulate you. That house is fit to stand in any street in Paris. If I’m not mistaken,’ he said, excitedly, ‘what you have brought to life is the London residence commissioned by none other than that greasy Frenchman, Jean-Paul Villemot.’ He leaned over the model to inspect it. ‘Is that not so?’

‘I believe it is, Mr Redmayne.’

‘Then this is a happy coincidence because it’s the very matter I came to discuss with Christopher.’ He turned to bestow a meaningful smile on the constable. ‘Good day to you, Bale.’

‘And to you, sir.’

After a round of farewells, Bale took his leave, even though he was pressed by Christopher to stay. When he had seen his friend out, the architect came back into his study. Henry had crouched down so that he could peer through the front door of the model.

‘You had no right to put Jonathan to flight like that,’ said Christopher, sharply. ‘He was here as my guest.’

‘That gloomy face of his makes me shiver.’

‘He’s a friend of mine.’

Henry stood up to face him. ‘Since when has a friend taken precedence over your own flesh and blood?’ he said, irritably. ‘I’m your brother, Christopher.’

‘I have regretted the fact many times.’

‘Do not jest with me.’

‘I speak in earnest, Henry, as you well know.’

‘Put my past mistakes aside,’ said the other. ‘I’m aware of my faults and I’ve done everything in my power to address them. What you see before you is a new, reformed, reclaimed, utterly responsible Henry Redmayne.’ He spread his arms. ‘What think you of him?’

‘That he looks horribly like the same old reprobate.’

‘The change is within me, Christopher. It’s not yet visible to the naked eye. But it will be, it will be. I have renounced sin.’

‘You’ll tell me next that the Thames has renounced water.’

Henry laughed. ‘You are right to be cynical,’ he conceded. ‘I have wandered too readily from the straight and narrow until now. I own it and I condemn it. Henceforth, I’ll mend my ways.’

‘How many times have I heard you say that?’

‘This time, I mean it, Christopher.’

His brother was sceptical. ‘To what do we owe this miraculous transformation?’ he asked, wearily.

‘To the only thing that matters in this world — to love, a love so deep and all-embracing that it’s brought me to my senses. I’ve met her at last. I’ve seen the woman I wish to marry, the divine creature I intend to worship for the rest of my days. And you, my dear brother,’ he added, waving a hand at the model, ‘are in a position to help me win her love. Who commissioned this house?’

‘You guessed aright — Jean-Paul Villemot, the artist.’

‘So you will be in constant discussion with him.’

‘Naturally,’ said Christopher. ‘I intend to take this model across to him tomorrow morning.’

Henry quivered all over. ‘Then she will be there.’

‘Who?’

‘The lady I adore, my wife-to-be.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘Destiny.’

‘Ah,’ said Christopher with growing suspicion. ‘I’ve heard you talk of destiny before and it always brings disaster in its wake.’

‘Not this time,’ insisted Henry. ‘All I need is a little assistance from my brother and my destiny will be fulfilled. Play Cupid for me, I beg you. Bear letters to the lady and contrive a moment when I may speak to her alone.’ He tapped the miniature house. ‘Distract the artist with one model and leave the other one — namely her — to me. Chance has contrived more than I could have dared hope. You are my bridge to Paradise. Help me now and you will one day welcome Araminta as your dear sister-in-law.’

‘Araminta?’

‘Araminta Jewell. Villemot is engaged to paint her portrait.’

‘I do not know the lady.’

‘Then you have never looked upon perfection.’

‘Indeed, I have,’ said Christopher, thinking of Susan Cheever.

‘Araminta is a Jewell by name, and a jewel by nature. I’m consumed with passion for her. She must be mine.’

‘Then find someone else to be your pander for I’ll not take on the office. My only business with Monsieur Villemot concerns the new house he asked me to design.’

‘Could you not oblige your brother in the process?’

‘No, Henry, I could not. Let’s hear no more of Araminta Jewell.’

‘Culthorpe,’ corrected the other.

‘What?’

‘She was tricked into marriage by Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

Christopher was aghast. ‘You want me to ease you into the bedchamber of someone else’s wife?’ he demanded. ‘Even by your low standards, that’s a revolting suggestion. How could you even ask such a thing of me?’

‘Her marriage was a grotesque error.’

‘If it took her out of your reach, I’d say that it was a tactical triumph. What can you be thinking about, Henry? Do you really mean to pin your hopes of happiness on such a patent impossibility?’

‘Amor vincit omnia,’ declaimed Henry, groping for the only Latin tag he could remember. ‘Love conquers all. Araminta wants me, needs me and yearns for me. The fact that she is at present encumbered with a husband is but a disagreeable irrelevance. She’s mine, Christopher,’ he asserted, a hand to his heart, ‘and I call upon you, as a brother, to smooth the path of true love.’

‘The lady and her husband have already found it.’

‘You refuse my request?’

‘It would be ignoble of me even to consider it,’ said Christopher with vehemence. ‘She is protected by the bonds of holy matrimony. You meddle with those at your peril.’

Henry crossed to the door. ‘Then I’ll do so alone,’ he said, huffily. ‘Since you have failed me, I’ll achieve my ends without your help. Come what may, I’m determined to have her — and a dozen husbands will not stand in my way.’

Sweeping out with a theatrical flourish, he slammed the door.

Christopher groaned. There was trouble ahead.