The Painted Lady

Chapter Two

Traffic was heavy in the Strand that morning but the carriage rumbled along at a steady speed. Inside the vehicle, Sir Martin Culthorpe was too busy giving instructions to his wife to notice the endless series of coaches, carts, barrows, riders and pedestrians that went past. Lady Culthorpe sat beside her husband and listened patiently.

‘Be polite but not too forward,’ he told her.

‘No, husband.’

‘Do not, on any account, discuss any domestic matters.’

‘It would never cross my mind to do so.’

‘Touch on nothing of a personal nature.’

‘You have my word.’

‘Above all else, Araminta,’ he stressed, ‘guard against Monsieur Villemot’s charm. He is a ladies’ man with all the faults of the breed.’

‘You do him wrong,’ she said, earnestly. ‘He talks of nobody but his wife and he does so with great tenderness.’

‘In the company of a Frenchman, a young woman can never be wholly secure.’ She bit back a giggle. ‘I’m serious, Araminta.’

‘I know you are.’

‘As your husband, it behoves me to think of such things.’

‘You’ve dwelt on nothing else these past few days and your fears have proved groundless. Monsieur Villemot has shown me the utmost respect. Emile, his valet, has been kind and attentive to me. I have also got to know Clemence.’

‘Clemence?’

‘The cat,’ she said. ‘She is adorable. When I sit in that studio,’ said Araminta, ‘I feel that I am among friends.’

She squeezed his hand and looked lovingly up at him. The new Lady Culthorpe was short and shapely with the kind of arresting beauty that would turn anyone’s head. She wore a blue dress whose delicate hue matched her eyes. Exposing her shoulders, it was back-laced and had puffed elbow sleeves slashed to reveal a darker material beneath. The looped skirt was tied back by bows at the rear to show the lining. Decorated with neat embroidery, the petticoat was also prominently displayed. Her high-heeled shoes were of blue satin with a bow at the instep.

Jean-Paul Villemot had selected the clothing to complement her features and her complexion. Her oval face had an unforced loveliness and was surmounted by silken fair hair puffed above the ears and held away from her cheeks by wires. Since she was almost half his age, she looked more like Sir Martin’s daughter than his wife. But there was no doubting her devotion to him. For his part, he took the most inordinate pride in being with her, glancing at her time and again as if not quite believing that she had actually married him.

‘You must learn to trust me,’ she said.

‘I do so implicitly, my dear.’

‘Beauty is as much a curse as a blessing. It is pleasing to look at in a mirror but it does, alas, attract all sorts of unwanted admirers. Dealing with them requires tact and firmness, Martin.’ She pulled a face. ‘Against my wishes, I have perforce had a lot of practice in fending off amorous gentleman.’

‘I thank God that I was not one of them.’

‘You would never be listed among such unprincipled rascals and nor,’ she added, ‘would Monsieur Villemot. Where others tempted me with momentary pleasures, you offered your heart, your hand and all that you possessed. Rash impulse has no appeal for me. I chose the sweetness and commitment that can only come from true love.’

‘Thank you, Araminta!’

‘Having made that election, I’ll never go astray from it.’

Sir Martin smiled fondly. ‘I am rightly censored,’ he said. ‘Why should I try to lay all this advice upon you when you are well able to take care of yourself? The truth is that I hate to have you out of my sight for a single minute.’

‘Then let me find the way to be constantly in view.’

‘I do not follow.’

‘The portrait,’ she explained with a laugh. ‘When that is done, you can gaze upon me every hour of the day. In releasing me for the sittings, you are ensuring that I will always be there with you.’

‘I need to see you in person as well as in paint.’

‘You shall see both.’ The carriage turned a corner and rattled along a winding street before slowing to a halt. ‘Here we are at last.’

‘One more thing…’

‘I’ll not hear it,’ she said, putting a hand to his lips. ‘I’m yours and yours alone. The only reason I agree to spend time alone with another man is so that I can forever be in my husband’s company.’

‘So be it.’

Sir Martin was content. Using an index finger to lift her chin, he kissed her softly on the mouth. All of his anxieties had been stilled. He could leave her in a room full of French artists and be certain that her virtue would be untarnished. He reproached himself in silence for raising imaginary fears. When the door was opened for Araminta and she alighted from the carriage, he let her go without a tremor.

Jean-Paul Villemot was so delighted that he clapped his hands.

‘They have begun work already?’ he said. ‘Merveilleux!’

‘I’ve just come from the site,’ said Christopher Redmayne. ‘They have started to dig the foundations.’

‘And the builder?’

‘Samuel Littlejohn — a man I’ve worked with many times before, Monsieur. He employs skilled men and knows how to get the best out of them. It’s a pleasant change for him to work on a house in the French style.’

‘Designed by a genius of his profession.’

‘I merely followed where you led, Monsieur.’

‘Every idea you give me, it is very good.’

Christopher was grateful for the compliment but felt that it was undeserved. He had not so much designed the house as copied it from a set of prints that his client had brought from France, incorporating features from a number of them, into a unified whole. What had needed skill was the problem of adjusting the dimensions of the various elements to the available land. Since the site was not large, the house would have a narrower facade than he would have liked but he compensated for the lack of width by introducing additional height. Occupying a position between houses with Dutch gables, the Villemot residence would certainly stand out.

‘I love the wooden model you show me,’ said the artist.

‘Good. An immense amount of work went into it.’

‘I cannot wait to show it to my wife, Monique.’

‘The model or the house?’

‘Both, mon ami!’

‘Sam Littlejohn will not keep you waiting,’ Christopher promised him. ‘He builds fast and he builds well. Now that spring is here, he can count on better weather. He does not dally.’

‘Then he is the man after my own heart. Some artists, they take an age before they even begin a painting. Not me. At a first sitting,’ said Villemot, with a gesture towards the easel near the window, ‘I draw all the sketches I need. At the second, I am putting paint on the canvas. My rivals, they say that I rush things.’

‘They are simply jealous of you.’

‘None of my clients complain.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Christopher, looking around the studio. ‘I’ve seen some of your portraits and they are exceptional.’

‘Does that mean you wish me to paint you, Christopher?’

‘No, no! I’m not a suitable subject.’ He smiled as an image of Susan Cheever came into his mind. ‘But I may know someone who is.’

The Frenchman winked at him. ‘A lady?’

‘A very special lady.’

There was a tap on the door and it opened to admit Emile, who escorted Araminta Culthorpe into the studio. Taken aback by her poise and beauty, Christopher blinked in astonishment. The whole room seem to fill with her fragrance. After dismissing Emile with a nod, Villemot moved forward to greet her.

‘And here is another very special lady,’ he said, bestowing a kiss on the back of her hand. ‘Delighted to see you again, Lady Culthorpe.’

‘Thank you, Monsieur Villemot.’

The artist stood back to introduce her to Christopher. When she heard his surname, the smile froze on her lips and she became wary.

‘You are not related to Henry Redmayne, I hope,’ she said.

‘My brother,’ confessed Christopher.

‘I see no resemblance at all between you.’

‘I think you’ll find none, Lady Culthorpe. We do not look alike, think alike, or act alike. Henry and I have chosen very different paths through life. While he works at the Navy Office, I toil away as an architect.’

‘Christopher has designed the house for me,’ explained Villemot.

‘Oh,’ said Araminta with interest.

‘I showed you the model yesterday.’

‘It was very striking. Did you build it, Mr Redmayne?’

‘No, Lady Culthorpe,’ he replied. ‘I drew up the plan but someone else did the carpentry. Actually, it was his first venture.’

‘Then you must retain his services. I’ve never seen anything so intricately done. It was like a magnificent doll’s house.’

‘Wait until it’s built. Then you’ll see it in its full glory.’

‘I look forward to doing so, Mr Redmayne.’

While she had been speaking, Araminta had been appraising him and she was clearly impressed by what she saw. She decided that it was unjust to take a dislike to him because he bore a surname that she had come to detest. For his part, Christopher was both stirred and alarmed. He could see only too well why Henry had come under her spell. Lady Culthorpe was a remarkable young lady.

But she was quite unlike any of the women that his brother had pursued in the past and that disturbed him. There was something almost ethereal about her, an other-worldly quality, compounded of beauty, innocence and shining integrity. Instead of furthering his brother’s lecherous designs, Christopher vowed to do everything in his power to shield her from him.

He became conscious that he was holding the two of them up.

‘I do apologise,’ he said, eyes never leaving her. ‘I am obviously in the way so I will bid you both farewell.’

‘Wait!’ said Villemot, intercepting him before he could leave. ‘You have not told me how Lady Culthorpe comes to know your brother.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Well?’

Christopher was discreet. ‘That’s immaterial,’ he said. ‘Henry belongs to Lady Culthorpe’s past and is best left there.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ she said.

‘Goodbye, Lady Culthorpe.’

‘Goodbye.’

He gave her a polite bow before letting himself out of the room.

‘I think, maybe, there is an interesting story here,’ said Villemot with a conspiratorial smile. ‘About you and Christopher’s brother.’

Araminta would not be drawn. ‘You heard what Mr Redmayne told you,’ she said, briskly. ‘It belongs in my past.’

‘Of course.’

‘So I’d be grateful if you did not raise the subject again.’

‘My lips, they are sealed.’ His exaggerated pout made her laugh and she relaxed. ‘Is there any drink Emile can bring for you before we start, Lady Culthorpe?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Sitting in one position, it is thirsty work.’

‘I’ll be fine, Monsieur Villemot.’

‘Then let us begin.’

He conducted her across to the couch, waited for her to sit then arranged her skirts so that its folds fell in the correct way. Going across to his easel, he removed the cloth that covered the painting and checked the position that Araminta had been in earlier. Villemot came back to her to make a few adjustments, turning her head slightly to the left and asking her to hold her hands in her lap. Clemence, the black cat, watched it all from the comfort of her chair. It took some time before the artist was completely satisfied with the angle at which Araminta was sitting. Losing interest, Clemence yawned lazily and went back to sleep.

‘How much longer must I do this?’ asked Araminta, taking care to hold her position.

‘You are tired already?’

‘No, Monsieur Villemot.’

He was hurt. ‘You do not like it here?’

‘I like it very much.’

‘Then where is the problem?’

She gave a slight shrug. ‘I suppose the truth is that I’m not used to being looked at so intently.’

‘But you were born to be looked at, Lady Culthorpe,’ he said with an admiring smile. ‘Such beauty should not be hidden away. It should be seen and enjoyed. Jean-Paul Villemot, he is the artist who will capture that beauty for all time.’

‘You flatter me, sir.’

‘No man could do that.’

There was a glint in his eye that she had not seen before and a note of esteem in his voice that bordered on veneration. It was the first time that he had ever expressed his affection for her so openly and it unsettled her. Araminta was worried what he might be thinking as he gazed at her for hours on end.

‘You did not answer my question, Monsieur,’ she said.

‘What question?’

‘How many more sittings will there be?’

‘One,’ he said, picking up his palette and starting to mix the oil paint. ‘Two, at most.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes, Lady Culthorpe. I have been working on your head and shoulders and, for that, I need you here in person. No other woman could have such a lovely face, such skin, such hair, such a neck. Is like painting a Venus.’ Arminta’s discomfort increased. ‘When I work on the dress, someone else can wear it for me.’

‘Someone else?’

‘Why should you have to sit there when someone can do it in your place? I have a couple of models to call on or I could even use that pretty maid of yours.’

‘Eleanor?’

‘She is the same height and shape as you — the same age, too. I think you would like to lend the dress to someone you know.’

‘I’d certainly not allow a stranger to wear it.’

‘What about the pretty Eleanor, then?’

She pondered. ‘It’s a possibility,’ she said at length.

‘Then let her be your double.’

Araminta was not at all sure that she liked the idea. Eleanor was familiar with her mistress’s wardrobe and had handled its contents of it many times, but she was still only a maid. She lacked the bearing to wear such an exquisite dress. Araminta had another reason to feel disquiet. Visiting her London home, Villemot had only met Eleanor for a fleeting moment yet he had noticed how young, petite and shapely she was. Her elfin prettiness had not escaped him either. The readiness with which he suggested using her as a model for Araminta showed that he had taken an interest in her. Eleanor was a capable and self-possessed young woman, but she would be more susceptible to the artist’s flattery than her mistress was.

While he painted, Villemot liked to hold a conversation, believing that it helped his sitters feel more at ease, rescuing them from having to hold a pose in silence for lengthy periods. To dispel her faint uneasiness, Araminta initiated the discussion, moving it to what she considered to be the safe topic of Villemot’s married life.

‘Has your wife ever been to England before?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he replied, ‘not yet.’

‘What will she think of London?’

‘Monique will love it. The English, they are friendly. I first came here to paint a portrait of Lady Bellstock and her husband was kind enough to help me meet many people.’ He applied the first paint to the canvas. ‘Do you know Lord Bellstock?’

‘My husband does,’ she said. ‘In fact, when Sir Martin first decided that he wanted a portrait painted of me, he asked Lord Bellstock for advice about a suitable artist. He recommended you.’

‘Then I owe him my thanks.’

‘He was obviously pleased with what you did for him.’

‘I like to give my clients exactly what they want,’ he said, easily. ‘You must make sure that I do so for you, Lady Culthorpe. At least, with you, I do not have to cheat on the canvas.’

‘Cheat?’

‘I can paint you exactly as you are — not a blemish in sight. With Lady Bellstock, it was different. Her husband, he wanted me to make her younger and thinner than she was. The portrait was a disguise.’

‘Well, I don’t wish you to disguise me, Monsieur Villemot.’

‘That would be — we have the same word in French — sacrilege.’

The glint returned to his eye and it troubled her once again.

‘What is Paris like?’ she said, trying to find a neutral subject.

‘Very beautiful?’

‘More beautiful than London?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he replied, proudly. ‘It does not smell any sweeter and it is just as noisy with all those people, but Paris, it was not destroyed by a fire like London. When I first come here, the city was still in ruins. It looked so ugly. Slowly, it is getting better.’

‘Will it ever rival Paris?’

He shrugged expressively. ‘I am French. To me, no city in the world will ever be as good as Paris.’ He beamed at her. ‘I’ll take you there one day. Would you like that, Lady Culthorpe?’

The directness of his question shocked her and she was lost for words as she considered its implications. A faint blush came to her cheeks. Noticing it at once, he gave her an emollient smile.

‘With your husband, of course,’ he added.

‘I’m still not sure if I should have taken the money,’ said Bale, guiltily.

‘Then I’d have taken it for you,’ said his wife.

‘All I did was to help a friend, Sarah.’

‘There was more to it than that.’

‘No, there wasn’t.’

‘Mr Redmayne employed you, Jonathan. He told you at the very beginning that he’d pay you for your work.’

‘But that’s the strange thing,’ said Bale, scratching head. ‘It did not really feel like work.’

‘Well, it felt like work to me, I know that. You laboured for hours every evening. We hardly saw anything of you.’

‘Mr Redmayne wanted it finished as soon as possible.’

‘And you did exactly what he asked of you,’ she pointed out, ‘so you ought be rewarded for your pains.’

‘What pains?’

Sarah was forthright. ‘You may not have felt any, but I did. So did the children. We missed you, Jonathan. It’s not enough for you to spend the whole day walking the streets in all weathers. When you get back home, you have to find something else to keep you away from us. I want to see my husband,’ she said, giving him an affectionate dig in the ribs. ‘The children want to see their father.’

‘I read to them every night.’

‘Yes — then you went straight back to that model.’

They were in the kitchen of their house in Addle Hill and Sarah Bale was tiring of her husband’s inability to accept the wage that he had earned. She was a stout woman of medium height with an energy that never seemed to flag and a love of her husband that was never found wanting. However, it did not mean that she was blind to Bale’s faults or slow to remind him of them. Above all else, she was a supremely practical woman and she knew how crucial the extra money was to the family. She gave him an impulsive hug.

‘It’s good to have you back again, Jonathan,’ she said.

‘You were the one who told me to accept Mr Redmayne’s offer,’ he remembered, ‘so it’s unfair to blame me for what happened.’

‘I’m not blaming you.’

‘I was so pleased to be asked, Sarah.’

‘So you should be. It was an honour.’

‘Mr Redmayne has done us so many favours in the past.’

‘And you’ve done favours for him. Don’t forget that.’

‘I wasn’t sure if I could do it at first,’ he admitted, ‘but, as soon as I picked up my tools, I felt as if I was back in the shipyard again. There’s something about the smell and feel of wood.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It keeps you away from your family.’

It was only mild criticism. Sarah was very fond of Christopher Redmayne and always delighted to see him. When he had last called at the house, she expected him to ask her husband to help him solve another crime. Instead, it was Bale’s skill as a carpenter that was in demand. She was thrilled by the thought that a rising young architect should entrust such an important task to her husband, and, during his moments of self-doubt, had urged him on.

‘Mr Redmayne obviously liked what you did for him,’ she said.

‘He seemed very happy with my work.

‘What were his exact words?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘You must do, Jonathan. Tell me what he said.’

‘He didn’t have time to say very much at all,’ recalled Bale. ‘His brother arrived and I felt that I was in the way.’

Sarah scowled. ‘Is that the infamous Henry Redmayne?’

‘Yes, my love — it is.’

‘How can such a fine gentleman as Mr Christopher Redmayne have such a disgraceful brother?’

‘It’s a mystery to me, Sarah. I’ve never met two siblings so unlike each other. Their father is the Dean of Gloucester Cathedral, as you know. A true Christian gentleman. He must be so proud of one son and so disappointed in the other.’

‘What exactly is Henry Redmayne like?’ she pressed.

Bale took a deep breath. ‘I will tell you…’

Henry Redmayne was the first member of the Society to arrive at Locket’s, the celebrated ordinary near Charing Cross, where excellent meals were served at fixed prices and regular hours. Frequented by the gentry, Locket’s was a babble of excited voices as Henry took his seat at the table. Sir Willard Grail soon joined him, sweeping off his hat before giving his friend a cordial greeting. Sitting beside Henry, he imparted his news.

‘Some devilish intelligence has come to my ears, Henry.’

‘Of what nature?’

‘It seems that we may have a competitor.’

‘What do you mean, Sir Willard?’

‘Araminta — I simply refuse to call her Lady Culthorpe — our own, dear, matchless Araminta is having her portrait painted.’

‘Really?’ said Henry, concealing the fact that he already knew. ‘What artist has been given the privilege of gazing upon her until he swoons with her beauty?’

‘That confounded Frenchman — Jean-Paul Villemot.’

‘This news is worrying.’

‘So it should be,’ said Sir Willard. ‘He has the advantage over us. While we can only approach her by letter or by sending her gifts, he is left alone with her in his studio. It’s monstrously unfair. In such a situation, Villemot may achieve what the four of us seek.’

‘Surely not,’ said Henry, confidently. ‘Culthorpe would not entrust his young wife to the man if he had the slightest doubt about him and Villemot has to beware of scandal. He would not dare to lay a finger upon Araminta.’

‘Yet women account him irresistibly handsome.’

‘Frenchwomen, perhaps — the English have more taste.’

‘That is not the case, Henry. More than one English rose has praised Villemot in my presence — Lady Hester Lingoe, for instance. She said that sitting for him was one of the most exhilarating experiences of her life.’

‘Everything is a most exhilarating experience to Lady Hester,’ said Henry, tartly. ‘Her emotions have the consistency of gunpowder. Apply the smallest amount of heat and she explodes into exaggeration. I remember her telling me once that reading Catullus in the original Latin had uplifted her soul to a new eminence. What nonsense! Besides, he went on, ‘we are not comparing like with like here, Sir Willard. The gorgeous Araminta is a species of saint. No woman with Lady Hester’s history could ever aspire to canonisation.’

‘I still have qualms about Villemot.’

‘Set them aside.’

‘I’ll not be bested by a foreigner.’

‘No,’ said Henry, boldly, ‘you’ll be bested by me, Sir Willard.’

Before the other man could reply, the waiter came up to their table and they ordered a bottle of wine. No sooner had the waiter gone than Elkannah Prout took his place, exchanging greetings with his friends before taking the empty chair at the table. The newcomer’s eyes were darting. His wig was so full and luxuriant that he looked like a ferret peering through a bush.

‘I bear tidings,’ he announced.

‘We have already heard them, Elkannah,’ said Sir Willard.

‘I think not.’

‘Henry has just been apprised of the information. Araminta’s portrait is being painted by that creeping Frenchmen, Villemot.’

‘Is that the sum of your intelligence?’ asked Prout.

‘Yes.’

‘Then you know only half the news.’

‘There’s more to add?’

‘Much more — though I suspect that Henry already knows it.’

‘Not I,’ said Henry, feigning ignorance.

‘Your brother must surely have told you.’

‘Christopher and I rarely speak, Elkannah.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Prout. ‘You are always trying to borrow money off him to settle your gambling debts. Something as important as this would hardly go unmentioned.’

‘Something as important as what?’ asked Sir Willard. ‘I am still in the dark here. Pray, shed some light, one of you.’

‘Jean-Paul Villemot is having a house built in London.’

‘He’s rich enough to afford it.’

‘He’s also astute enough to choose a talented architect. The fellow goes by the name of Christopher Redmayne.’

Sir Willard goggled. ‘Henry’s brother?’ he said, understanding the situation at once. ‘But that means he will have an excuse to call on Villemot at any time. He could devise a way to meet Araminta.’

‘It would never cross his mind,’ said Henry.

‘It would cross your mind.’

‘That’s a gross slander, Sir Willard. I abide by the rules of the Society. The four of us fight on equal terms. I would never stoop to subterfuge in any way,’ he lied, bristling with righteous indignation. ‘I had no knowledge of the fact that Christopher had been engaged by the artist and would never use him to further my ends. Were I to attempt such a thing, he would reject the notion outright. My brother is no puritan but neither does he take any delight in the chase. The mere whisper of what our Society was about would discountenance Christopher. He believes in love and marriage.’

‘So do I,’ said Sir Willard, ‘when occasion serves. But I still fear that you may have stolen a march on us, Henry. If your brother calls on Villemot while that Jewell among women is there, he will be able to bring back gossip about her that only you will hear.’

‘Christopher is not given to passing on gossip.’

‘I agree,’ said Prout. ‘I’ve met him. Henry’s brother is a decent, honest, conscientious young man and, unless I am mistaken, he has another glaring defect — he is a devout Christian.’

‘That’s true, Elkannah. Our father is forever holding Christopher up as an example to me. My brother leads a good life while I prefer to lead an adventurous one.’

‘If you want someone to worry about, Sir Willard, it is not him. The real danger comes from within the Society.’

Sir Willard was puzzled. ‘How can that be?’

‘The person to watch is Jocelyn.’

‘Why — what has he been up to?’

‘Telling the truth,’ said Prout, ‘and it unnerved me. When we heard that Araminta had been married, all of us were shaken to the core but we three have at least accepted the situation and determined to make the best of it. Jocelyn will not accept it.’

‘He must,’ said Henry.

‘Facts are facts,’ added Sir Willard. ‘Araminta will not divorce her husband for our benefit.’

‘More’s the pity!’

‘Jocelyn wants to effect his own divorce,’ said Prout. ‘We spent last night together and I saw him in his cups. I’ve never known him so roused and belligerent.’

‘What did he tell you?’

‘That he’ll not let anyone stand between him and Araminta. He’s set his heart on winning her love. Jocelyn told me that his mind is made up. If he cannot enjoy her favours by fair means, he’ll not scruple to resort to foul ones. His meaning was clear,’ warned Prout. ‘To achieve his ambition, he’s even prepared to murder Sir Martin Culthorpe.’

When she was finally released from the long morning session in the studio, Araminta Culthorpe was grateful. She was not merely spared the discomfort of sitting in the same position for an hour at a time, she was liberated from the searching gaze of Jean-Paul Villemot. The artist did not upset her again with any suggestive remarks but she no longer felt completely safe in his presence. Their relationship had subtly changed and Araminta needed to get away in order to examine the changes from a distance. As the carriage bore her back home to Westminster, she reflected on what had happened and speculated on what might come at a future meeting.

The problem confronting her was simple. Should she or should she not confide in her husband? And if so, what exactly should she tell him? Araminta could hardly say that she felt threatened in the artist’s company because that was not true. In essence, all that had happened was that he had made some inappropriate comments. Other ladies would no doubt have accepted them as compliments but, as a young woman newly married, she had been somehow unable to do so. She had felt vulnerable. Jean-Paul Villemot, in her opinion, had overstepped the bounds of propriety.

What she had to calculate, she decided, was her husband’s reaction. If she told him that she had been offended by the artist’s behaviour, he would cancel the portrait at once and engage someone else to paint it, and Araminta did not believe that anyone in London could rival Villemot. If, on the other hand, she made only a minor complaint, Sir Martin would feel obliged to challenge the artist and that, too, could result in the abandonment of the project.

However she presented it to him, Sir Martin would be hurt and she wanted to spare him any pain. For that reason, she resolved to sort out the matter herself without involving him in any way. After all, Araminta consoled herself, there would be no more sittings to endure. Unless he called her back, she and Villemot might never be alone in the same room again.

Having reached her decision, she felt much better. Her only concern now was to change out of the dress she had worn at the studio, ideal for the painting but not entirely suitable for a warm day in May. It was something she was more likely to wear to a formal event than put on at home for the day. When the carriage delivered her to her front door, she rang the doorbell. It never occurred to her that she was being watched by someone who stood on the opposite side of the road, partly concealed behind a tree.

Let into the house, Araminta went straight upstairs to change with her maid on her heels. Eleanor Ryle was pleased to see her mistress return. A bright, open-faced, inquisitive young woman with a mop of brown hair, Eleanor helped her out of her dress.

‘Monsieur Villemot chose well,’ she said, stroking the material. ‘This has always been my favourite.’

‘Then you may get a chance to wear it, Eleanor.’

‘Me, m’lady?’

‘Monsieur Villemot does not need to keep me sitting there for hours while he paints the dress,’ said Araminta. ‘Someone else can wear it in my stead and he suggested you.’

‘But he doesn’t even know that I exist.’

‘Yes, he does. He noticed you when he called here.’

Eleanor giggled. ‘Really?’

‘He thought that the dress would fit you perfectly.’

‘Oh, I could never wear it as you do, m’lady. It becomes you. On me, it would not look the same at all.’

‘I wonder,’ said Araminta, weighing her up. ‘Let me see. Hold it against you, Eleanor.’

‘Yes, m’lady.’

Taking a step back, the maid held the dress up against her, grinning happily as she did so, as if a private dream was just being fulfilled. Eleanor was short enough and slim enough to wear it even though the dress was not the ideal colour for her. Araminta studied her for a full minute.

‘I believe that it will do,’ she said.

Eleanor was overjoyed. ‘Then I am to wear it?’ she cried.

‘We’ll see. I need to discuss the matter with my husband.’

‘Of course.’

‘Where is he, by the way?’

‘Smoking a pipe in the garden,’ replied Eleanor. ‘He asked me to call him as soon as you returned.’

‘Well, let me dress quickly,’ said Araminta, crossing to the wardrobe. ‘I don’t want to keep him waiting.’

Sir Martin Culthorpe was a creature of habit. Twice a day, he always liked to smoke a pipe and the garden was the place in which he preferred to smoke it. Even on cold days, or when it was raining, he would venture outdoors and shelter in the arbour while he puffed away. Only heavy snow or a violent thunderstorm could confine his pipe to the house. It was not merely the pleasure of inhaling the tobacco that he savoured. Sir Martin was a contemplative man and a stroll in his garden was the perfect time to reflect on the issues that preoccupied him.

By comparison with the garden on his country estate, the one in Westminster was quite small but it was still large enough for him to promenade for five minutes or so without retracing his steps. Formal in design, it had endless trees and neat rows of bushes dividing it up and creating private corners where he could sit without being visible from the house. At the centre of the garden was a large pond with a fountain in the shape of Neptune, and there was a great deal of other statuary dotted here and there.

Pulling on his pipe, he strode along between an avenue of mulberry trees, wondering how his wife had fared at her latest sitting. Sir Martin still could not believe his good fortune in having married Araminta Jewell and he vowed to devote the rest of his life to her. What he did not realise, as he turned leisurely into a shaded grotto, was that his life was just about to come to an end.