The Painted Lady

Chapter Three

Christopher Redmayne liked to keep a close eye on any project in which he was involved. Even at the earliest stage, he visited a site regularly to watch work in progress. More illustrious architects would not have deigned to spend so much time amid the dirt and dust of construction, preferring to dispatch their assistants to take care of such matters, but Christopher worked alone and would not, in any case, have delegated such a task to another. He loved to see the foundations being laid and to watch a building rise slowly from the ground and take on the shape he had envisaged when bent over his preliminary drawings.

The important work of designing churches, livery halls and public buildings in the wake of the Great Fire went to more famous members of his profession, but Christopher had no objection to that. There was still plenty for him to do. The blaze had destroyed over thirteen thousand houses, wiping them from the face of the city and leaving only charred remains in their stead. Architects and builders were therefore in great demand so there was no shortage of work for able men. All over London, Christopher had made his small, personal contribution to the rebuilding of a great city that he loved.

‘No disrespect to you, Mr Redmayne,’ said Samuel Littlejohn as he washed down his food with a swig of beer, ‘but, when my father was a builder, he never worked with architects. The client would tell him what he wanted, show him an example of it in a drawing then leave him to it. My father did the rest.’

‘That’s because he was a master builder, Sam,’ said Christopher with a smile, ‘part of a tradition that went back for centuries. It was a big mistake to let people like me take over some aspects of his work.’

Littlejohn chortled. ‘We’ve learned to respect you, sir.’

‘That’s all we ask.’

Having inspected the site that morning, Christopher was dining at a nearby tavern with Littlejohn, a man whose bulk belied his name. He was a brawny man of middle years with a capacity for hard work and a jovial manner. His weather-beaten face and rubicund complexion gave him the appearance of a farmer but he was essentially an urban creature, having begun with, then inherited, the building firm that his father had started. Christopher was very fond of him though the partnership between them had got off to a difficult start because the client whose house they were building was murdered when only the cellars had been constructed. Their contract with him was promptly declared null and void.

There had been an additional problem for Christopher in that the builder’s daughter, Margaret Littlejohn, had become infatuated with him and caused him considerable embarrassment by stalking him. He had deemed it sensible to work with other builders for a time. As soon as the girl had been safely married to someone else, however, Christopher resumed his work with Littlejohn and they proved to be an effective team. The builder was a rough and ready man whose table manners were less than refined, but who was nevertheless an amiable dinner companion. What Christopher liked about him was that he always spoke his mind. After chuckling over an incident that had occurred during the last house on which they had worked together, Littlejohn became solemn.

‘We could have one problem,’ he warned.

‘I know what you’re going to tell me,’ said Christopher, trying to anticipate him. ‘That facade is too elaborate. We’ll need the very best stonemasons to work on it, Sam.’

‘I’m not worried about the facade, sir.’

‘Then it must be that staircase Monsieur Villemot insists upon having. I’ve never seen anything so grand outside a French chateau.’

‘Let him have his staircase, Mr Redmayne. Let him have anything and everything he wants. If, that is,’ he said, darkly, ‘he’ll occupy the house when it’s built.’

‘Why else would he commission it?’

‘Because he needs more room.’

‘Then where is the problem?’

‘He’s an artist.’

‘So? Artists need somewhere to live just as much as anyone else. Architects, too, oddly enough. We all need a roof over our heads.’

‘Mr Villemot is a French artist.’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘Only this, sir — he could be unreliable.’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘I built a house for a Frenchman once before,’ said Littlejohn, taking another sip of beer, ‘and, before it was finished, he sailed back to France without a word. We never saw him again. He owed us a lot of money. We were left with a half-built house and no client. I’d hate to be in that position again.’

‘Was the client an artist?’

‘In a manner of speaking — he was a dancing master.’

‘Well, I can assure you that Jean-Paul Villemot is not going to dance off to Paris. He prefers to work in London, where he’s the toast of his profession. He won’t let us down, Sam,’ said Christopher, airily. ‘He intends to stay and see the project through.’

‘What about his fits?’

‘I didn’t know he was subject to them.’

‘Not those kind of fits, sir,’ said Littlejohn. ‘I was talking about the other kind — the sort that all foreigners seem to have, but especially the French. They have these fits of temper, funny moods, silly ideas, sudden changes of mind. The dancing master was like that. He made our lives a misery with his fits. You never knew where you stood with him from day to day.’

‘What you’re saying is that he was capricious.’

The builder nodded. ‘That’s the word I was trying to think of.’

‘Well, you’ve no need to apply it to Monsieur Villemot.’

‘I wish I could believe that, sir.’

‘He seems to have a most equable temperament and he’s promised not to interfere in our work in any way. He’s far too busy, painting portraits of the rich and famous. Take heart, Sam,’ said Christopher, ‘nothing can possibly happen to stop this house being built and paid for in full. If it did,’ he added with a carefree laugh, ‘then I’ll be the one having a fit.’

When she had changed her dress and her shoes, and had her hair brushed by her maid, Araminta Culthorpe took a last critical look in the bedroom mirror before deciding that she was ready.

‘Shall I find Sir Martin?’ volunteered Eleanor Ryle.

‘No, thank you,’ said Araminta. ‘I’ll find him myself.’

‘Will you talk about the painting with him?’

‘In a while, Eleanor.’

‘I’d so like to wear that blue dress, Lady Culthorpe.’

‘I know.’

‘It would be wonderful to work as Mr Villemot’s model.’

‘We shall see.’

Leaving the maid with reason to hope, Araminta went out of the room and down the stairs. She walked across the hall and along a passageway that led to the garden. When she let herself out of the house, she could see no sign of her husband so she assumed that he was sitting on a bench in one of his favoured places. She went off to explore the garden, looking for the telltale sign of tobacco smoke rising over a hedge or curling up into the sky behind some statuary.

Araminta was so glad that she had elected to say nothing about her occasional moments of disquiet at the studio. Now that she was back in her lovely house, wearing a different dress and taking on the role of a doting wife once more, she could forget all about Jean-Paul Villemot. Memories of their exchanges could not reach her there. She felt safe and secure in a marriage that had changed her life for the better in every way. To most people, Sir Martin Culthorpe would have seemed an unlikely choice for someone who could have had the pick of society but she knew that she had accepted the right husband. He gave her love, protection and social standing. His greater age did not deter her in the least because it brought with it wisdom and experience. Sharing his religious conviction and having the same charitable disposition, she looked forward to helping him in his work and developing a true partnership with him. Meanwhile, Araminta needed to find her husband and take him in to dinner.

‘Martin!’ she called. ‘Where are you?’

When there was no reply, she walked as far as the fountain at the very heart of the garden then raised her voice above the noise of the falling water.

‘Martin — I’m back!’

Still, there was no response. Araminta followed the main path between the avenue of maple trees, looking to left and right as she did so in case he had turned down one of the side paths. There was no trace of him. Quickening her step, she walked on until she reached the end of the little avenue. She went around the angle of the rhododendrons and into the secret grotto beyond. Araminta let out a sigh of relief. Her search was finally over.

Apparently asleep, Sir Martin Culthorpe was seated on a bench with the sun slanting across his face. He looked somehow older but that did not worry his wife. Feeling an upsurge of love, she ran across to him, intending to wake him up by kissing him on the forehead, but she felt something hard beneath her foot. She looked down to see that it was his clay pipe, broken in two and lying on the path.

Araminta was suddenly apprehensive. Now that she looked at him more closely, she could see that her husband was sitting in a most unnatural position. She felt alarmed. Wanting to reach out to him, she was somehow held back from doing so. Instead, in trepidation, she took an involuntary step backwards. Mouth dry and heart pounding, she stared at him with growing anxiety.

‘Are you unwell, Martin?’ she whispered.

As if in response to her question, he suddenly pitched forward and landed headfirst on the path. It was only then that she saw the huge bloodstain from the wound in his back.

Christopher Redmayne had promised to call at the studio that afternoon to discuss with Jean-Paul Villemot the schedule of payments during the building of the new house, and to retrieve the model made by Jonathan Bale. As his horse trotted along the road, he smiled at the memory of his encounter with Samuel Littlejohn. The builder clearly had a jaundiced view of foreigners, suspecting them of being universally difficult, volatile and unpredictable. That had not been Christopher’s experience. He had designed houses for a Frenchman, a Dutchman, two Germans and a Swede. None of them had given him the slightest trouble. The only clients of his who had been obstinate and argumentative were native-born Englishmen. Chief among them, he was forced to admit, was Sir Julius Cheever, Member of Parliament and father of the woman he loved. It was a sobering thought.

Jean-Paul Villemot had so far been the perfect employer, recognising, in Christopher, a fellow-artist and trusting his instincts. Whatever advice the architect gave had been readily accepted. Once the general principles of the design had been agreed upon, Christopher had been allowed a free hand. Littlejohn might fear the tantrums of an excitable foreigner but Christopher did not share his unease. He firmly believed that there would be no problems of that nature ahead.

Arriving at the house, he dismounted, tethered his horse and rang the bell. The door was soon opened by a maid who showed him upstairs to the suite of rooms rented by Villemot. In response to his knock, it was Emile who invited him into the studio, explaining that his master was out but that he would soon return.

‘Voulez-vous l’attendre?’ he asked.

‘Oui,’ replied Christopher.

‘Asseyez-vous, s’il vous plait.’

‘Merci, Emile.’

When Christopher sat down, the Frenchman excused himself and left the room. Evidently, he was much more than a valet. Emile was also Villemot’s cook, butler, book keeper, companion and general assistant, performing all his functions with quiet efficiency. His English was not yet as fluent as that of his master but Christopher guessed that it would be in due course. Emile struck him as the kind of man who could do anything to which he addressed his mind.

Glancing around, Christopher decided to take a closer look at the studio. When he got to his feet, however, he realised that he was not alone. Clemence was regarding him with a degree of suspicion through one open eye. Like the valet, the black cat exuded a deep sense of loyalty to her master. When Villemot left the studio, Clemence remained on guard. Christopher did not know what test he was being subjected to but he seemed to pass it because the cat eventually closed her eye, curled up and went back to sleep.

Christopher felt at home. The studio had the same amiable clutter as his study in Fetter Lane and the same accumulation of recent projects, either abandoned or awaiting completion. What drew his attention was the easel on which the portrait of Lady Araminta Culthorpe was resting. It was covered by a piece of cloth and he could not resist lifting it up so that he could take a peep at the painting. What he saw astounded him.

Aware of Villemot’s reputation for speed, Christopher could not believe the artist had done so much in such a short period of time. The background still needed to be sketched in, and the dress required a lot more work on it, but the head and shoulders of his subject were almost finished. The verisimilitude was amazing. Villemot had not merely caught her beauty and her serenity, he had brought out Araminta’s character in the portrait. She looked exactly like the quiet, serious, thoughtful, intelligent young woman that Christopher had met in that very studio. On the canvas before him was an image of pure contentment and he was duly moved.

It pained him to recall that his brother posed a threat to her, and he knew that Henry was not discouraged by the fact that she was now married. Some of his other conquests had had husbands. Henry regarded holy matrimony as nothing more than a further hurdle to be cleared before he seized his prize. Looking at Araminta’s face and reminded of her rare qualities, Christopher promised himself that he would do everything in his power to keep his brother away from her. Nothing would be permitted to spoil her radiant happiness.

Unable to take his eyes off her, he stood there for several minutes in admiration of her unequivocal loveliness and of the artist’s skill in capturing it. It was only when he heard the front door open below that he came to his senses. Pulling the cloth back over the portrait, Christopher resumed his seat. Feet pounded audibly up the stairs then the door was flung open and Jean-Paul Villemot burst in. When he saw the visitor, he came to a halt and pointed an accusatory finger at him.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

‘We arranged to meet, Monsieur Villemot,’ said Christopher, rising to his feet. ‘If it’s inconvenient, I can come again another time.’

The artist glared at him. He seemed to be angry, confused and upset. Christopher noticed that the sleeve of his coat was torn. Turning to the door of the adjoining room, Villemot barked a name.

‘Emile!’

The valet materialised at his elbow. ‘Oui, Monsieur?’

Villemot was brusque. ‘I’ve told you before, Emile,’ he chided. ‘When we have the guest, you must always talk in English. You understand, no?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Emile, apologetically.

‘Did I say I would meet Mr Redmayne this afternoon?’

‘You did.’

Breathing heavily through his nose, Villemot stood there for a few seconds as if only half-believing his valet. At length, he took off his hat and tossed it carelessly on to the chair where Clemence was fast asleep. With a squeal of protest, the cat awoke, leapt from the chair, shedding the hat as she did so, and fled to a corner of the room. Emile went across to comfort her by stroking her fur.

‘Leave her alone,’ snapped Villemot. ‘Away!’

It was an abrupt dismissal but Emile seemed accustomed to it. Without hesitation, he went off into the next room and closed the door behind him. Villemot made an effort to be hospitable.

‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I forget.’

‘No apology is needed,’ Christopher assured him.

‘We were going to talk about the payment?’

‘Only if you wish to do so, Monsieur Villemot,’ said the other. ‘I have the feeling that this is not the ideal time for you.’

‘Why not?’

‘You seem distressed.’

‘No, no, that is not true. There is nothing wrong with me.’

Christopher had already made an alternative diagnosis. The artist was flushed and perspiration was trickling down his face. He was unsteady on his feet yet, judging by sound of his voice, had not been drinking. Christopher had never seen his client in such a state before. Villemot resented his scrutiny.

‘What are you looking at?’ he asked, truculently.

‘I wondered if you were altogether well, Monsieur.’

‘I am as well as any man, Mr Redmayne.’

‘Well, I’m bound to say that you do not look it.’

‘How I look is nothing to do with you,’ said Villemot, pushing past him to walk to the other end of the room. ‘You are not the doctor. I do not ask for your opinion.’

‘Then I withdraw it at once,’ said Christopher, raising both hands in a calming gesture. ‘I did not intend to annoy you. I simply came here to talk business.’

‘You came for money, Mr Redmyane.’

‘That’s why you invited me.’

‘You English are all the same. Money must always come first. You think of nothing else.’

‘On the contrary, Monsieur Villemot,’ said Christopher, eager to correct a misapprehension. ‘I’m always more interested in a project itself than in any payment. It’s the initial design that preoccupies me and I provided that without asking for a penny from you. It was your idea to include a schedule of payments in the contract.’

‘It was yours,’ insisted the artist.

‘I beg to differ.’

‘You have chased me for money from the start.’

‘All that I’ve received to date is the small advance that you gave me and most of that went to Jonathan Bale for building that model. The person who now needs money is Mr Littlejohn because he has to buy building materials and pay wages to his men. I don’t think that’s unreasonable.’

‘No,’ said Villemot, thinking it through. ‘It is not.’

‘Then we need to put the details in writing.’

The Frenchman bridled. ‘Why — don’t you trust me?’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s because I am the foreigner. You think I will not pay. You believe that we are not like you but we always honour our debts.’ He became more agitated. ‘It is an insult for you to come here like this and ask for money when we already have the contract.’ He walked across to confront Christopher. ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Yes, Monsieur.’

‘Do you now what I am?’

‘Everyone knows that.’

‘I am the best portrait painter in the whole country,’ said the artist, tapping his chest with pride. ‘I am rich enough to buy ten houses and still have money left over, so you do not need to have the worries about Jean-Paul Villemot. He is a man of his word. I hoped that you knew that,’ he continued, his voice rising in fury. ‘I cannot work with someone who does not respect me.’

The tirade continued for a couple of minutes and Christopher was unable to say a word. He stood in silence as Villemot lost his temper and delivered a series of stinging and undeserved rebukes. At the peak of his attack, he stopped, looked around in dismay, realised what he had been saying and produced a smile of appeasement.

‘Christopher,’ he said, embracing him. ‘Do not listen to me. I do not know what I am talking about.’ He kissed the architect on both cheeks. ‘We are still the good friends — no?’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher without conviction. ‘We are still friends.’

‘Thank you, mon ami.’

‘But I suggest that we postpone this discussion.’

‘We will talk about it now. You must hear me.’

But the voice he heard in his ear was not that of Jean-Paul Villemot. It belonged to Samuel Littlejohn and it gave him a timely reminder. The French artist could be a problem, after all.

It took time for her to accept the truth. As she stared down at the motionless figure of her husband, Araminta kept expecting him to stir, to regain consciousness, to display visible signs of life. But he did not. He lay in a heap at her feet, exhibiting the bloodstained coat as an explanation of what had happened. Sir Martin Culthorpe had been stabbed in the back and there was an ugly slit in the material where the dagger had gone in. It held a hideous fascination for her. Araminta could not turn her head away from it.

Then, finally, when every last shred of hope had been wrung from her, when she could no longer deceive herself, when the fervent prayers she had been sending up to heaven met with no answering reassurance, she accepted that her husband had been murdered. The moment she did that, she sought oblivion and went down in a faint. For some while, Araminta lay side by side with her husband, like marble statues of a married couple on a tomb, except that he was on his front while she rested on her back.

Several minutes passed. When her eyelids flickered open, she looked up to see the foliage of the grotto arching over her like a fretwork to shade her from the sun. She needed time to work out her bearings. Moving her hand, she touched another then drew it back in horror when she saw that she had just slipped her fingers into the palm of a dead man. Overcome with grief and convulsed with fear, she dragged herself to her feet and staggered back down the garden towards the house.

Araminta opened her mouth to scream for help but no words came out. Instead, she blundered on until she reached the door, opened it wide and stumbled through it. She met Eleanor Ryle in the hall. The maid was frightened at the state her mistress was in. Araminta’s hair was dishevelled, her dress was scuffed and there was a trickle of blood from her temple where it had struck the ground. Eleanor reached forward to grab her before Araminta collapsed.

‘’What’s the matter?’ she cried.

‘It’s my husband,’ gasped Araminta. ‘He’s been attacked.’

The alarm was raised and the butler took command. After ordering a servant to help the maid take the distraught wife upstairs, he rushed into the garden to search for his master.

When he saw that Sir Martin had been stabbed to death, he sent one servant to fetch a surgeon and another to bring a constable. He also called the rest of the domestic staff together to break the appalling news to them.

Araminta, meanwhile, was lying on her bed, sobbing quietly and dabbing at her tears with a lace handkerchief. She gave her maid a halting account of what she had seen. Eleanor sat beside her, grieving over the loss of Sir Martin while trying to offer succour to his widow. The maid was utterly bewildered.

‘Who could have done such a thing?’ she said.

‘I’ve lost him, Eleanor. I’ve lost my dear husband forever.’

‘How could anyone get into the garden?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did you see anyone else there?’

‘No.’

‘Was the garden gate open?’

‘I didn’t look, Eleanor.’

‘This is terrible,’ said the other, vainly trying to discern all the implications of the crime. ‘You were so happy together and married for such a short time. It’s cruel, m’lady. That’s what it is — it’s downright cruel.’

‘He didn’t deserve this,’ said Araminta breathily, chest heaving as she spoke. ‘My husband was a kind, gentle, considerate man. He never did anyone any harm — yet this happens.’

‘It’s so unfair.’

They heard voices from the garden. Araminta sat up in bed.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

Eleanor went to the window to look out. ‘There are some men walking down the garden,’ she said. ‘One of them is a constable.’

‘Will he take the body away? Don’t let him do that.’

‘He won’t do anything you don’t want, m’lady.’

‘I need to see him again before…’

‘Maybe that’s not such a good idea,’ said the maid, coming back to her and taking her hand. ‘You’ve already seen more than you can bear. You should not have to look at him again.’

‘I don’t want him taken.’

‘Sir Martin can hardly stay in the garden.’

‘I’m not ready for him to go yet.’

Eleanor nodded sympathetically. ‘I’ll tell them,’ she said, moving to the door. On the way she passed the wardrobe and cast a wistful glance at it. ‘Does this mean I won’t get a chance to wear that blue dress, m’lady?’

‘What?’

‘I was thinking about that portrait of you.’

‘Nothing is further from my mind, Eleanor.’

‘You might want it finished,’ suggested the other hopefully. ‘In memory of Sir Martin, I mean.’ She saw Araminta’s pained reaction and repented. ‘That was a silly idea. I’ll go and speak to them.’

She left the room quickly. Alone at last, the young widow of Sir Martin Culthorpe was able to give full vent to her anguish. Pulling back her head, she emitted a long, loud, high-pitched cry of agony.

The news spread like wildfire. By evening, hundreds of people had somehow got hold of the information that Sir Martin had been killed in the quiet of his garden. Henry Redmayne was among them. He immediately spotted an opportunity for personal gain. When his horse had been saddled, he rode swiftly to Fetter Lane to call on his brother. Christopher was stunned by what he was told.

‘Sir Martin is dead?’

‘According to all reports,’ said Henry.

‘What of his wife?’

‘She was unhurt — thank God!’

‘But how is she? The poor woman must be heart-broken.’

‘It seems that she actually found the body in the garden.’

‘That’s dreadful,’ said Christopher, wondering how Araminta could possibly cope with such an ordeal. ‘It’s something she’ll never forget. It will prey on her mind forever.’

‘She’ll need comfort,’ said Henry, composing his features into an expression that fell well short of true compassion. ‘I mourn Sir Martin deeply. He was a good man.’

‘I never heard you say a kind word about him.’

‘In death, I appreciate his many virtues.’

‘What use is that?’

‘I grieve with his wife, Christopher,’ said Henry. ‘She’s too young and fragile to be a widow. My heart goes out to her.’

‘Your heart is always going out to one woman or another.’

‘This one is different.’

‘That could be your motto,’ said Christopher harshly. ‘Have it translated into Latin and set beneath a coat of arms. On second thoughts, let the motto be in French for that’s more suited to blighted romance.’

‘You mock me unjustly.’

‘Then do not lay yourself open to mockery. You are ever your worst enemy, Henry. Father pointed out the cure. You should have married and settled down years ago.’

‘I never listen to sermons from the old gentleman, whether delivered from the pulpit or from directly beside me. The simple fact is,’ said Henry, soulfully, ‘that I’ve never met a woman who could make me repent of my sins longer than a few short weeks. Until now, that is. Until I first set eyes on Araminta Jewell.’

‘Her name is Lady Culthorpe.’

‘But she lacks the husband who gave it to her.’

‘You surely do not imagine you could take his place, do you?’ said Christopher, shaken by the thought. ‘Heavens above, man — Sir Martin’s body is not yet cold and you are already trying to devise a way to get at his widow.’

‘I love her, Christopher.’

‘Well, I can assure you that your love is not requited. When I was introduced to the lady myself, she baulked at the very name of Redmayne because of the way you’d hounded her. You are the last person in the world to whom she would turn.’

‘At the moment, perhaps,’ Henry agreed, ‘but time heals all wounds. Araminta will come to see me in a new light. With your help, I will gradually get closer to my angel.’

Christopher was acerbic. ‘Count on no assistance from me,’ he said, looking his brother in the eye. ‘I’d sooner see her carried off by a tribe of cannibals than fall into your clutches. The woman is suffering, Henry. Do you know what that means? Common decency alone should be enough to make you stay your hand.’

‘I’ll keep my distance from her yet nourish my hopes.’

‘You have no hopes.’

‘I do if you intercede on my behalf.’

‘I’ll oppose you every inch of the way, Henry.’

‘But you’ve not heard my request yet.’

‘I’ll not listen to any request made across the dead body of Sir Martin Culthorpe,’ said Christopher. ‘When he was alive, he could defend his wife’s honour. That duty falls to people like me now.’

‘You sound more and more like Father every day. Hear me out,’ said Henry, silencing his brother with a gesture. ‘Araminta deserves a decent interval in which she can bury her husband and mourn his passing. I accept that and undertake to stay well clear from her.’

‘That’s the first civilised thing you’ve said.’

‘Meanwhile, however, there remains the question of the portrait.’

‘What of it?’

‘Only that Villemot is known for the speed and excellence of his work. The chances are that her portrait has already taken on enough shape for her to be recognised.’

‘It has,’ conceded Christopher. ‘I saw it this very afternoon.’

‘And?’

‘It’s a truly astonishing likeness.’

‘I knew it!’ exclaimed Henry. ‘Buy it for me.’

His brother gaped. ‘Buy it?’

‘Yes, Christopher — make an offer. Araminta will have no need of it now and she will certainly not want it finished. I will buy it in its present state and give it pride of place in my bedchamber. Buy it for me,’ he urged. ‘Villemot would never sell it to me but he would part with it to a friend like you. Purchase it on my behalf.’

‘That’s a disgusting idea, Henry.’

‘Do you not want to make me the happiest of men?’

‘I prefer to save Lady Culthorpe from being ogled by my brother. How could you even think of such a thing?’

‘It’s an important first step in getting closer to Araminta.’

‘Then I’ll advise Monsieur Villemot to destroy the portrait. It must never be in your possession,’ said Christopher, thinking of the powerful effect that it had had on him when he had peeped at it. ‘By rights, the decision about its future lies with Lady Culthorpe. My feeling is that she may well want it burned.’

‘I’ll not see Araminta go up in flames,’ wailed Henry. ‘Let the portrait go to someone who will cherish it. Let me feast my eyes on her day after wonderful day.’

‘No, Henry — that would only feed your lust. Apart from anything else, you have no money to buy such a painting. Even in its present form, it would be expensive. How would you raise the capital?’

‘I was hoping that you might help me there, Christopher.’

‘Me?’

‘Never forget that it was I who introduced you to your first client and set you off on your glittering career.’

‘I accept that and have repeatedly expressed my gratitude.’

‘Do so in a more pecuniary way.’

‘I’ve loaned you money time and again, Henry.’

‘And I mean to repay it,’ said the other, indignantly. ‘You know that you can rely on your brother. One good night at the card table and I can discharge all my debts to you — including the money you lend me to buy that portrait.’ Henry brightened. ‘I’d be able to refund that when I win the wager.’

‘What wager?’

‘The one that I’ve made with three like-minded friends of mine.’

His brother was sickened. ‘If they are like-minded, they must be seasoned voluptuaries in the mould of Henry Redmayne. That being the case,’ he said with repugnance, ‘this wager will doubtless pertain to the very person whom we’ve been discussing. True or false?’

‘True, Christopher.’

‘Then you are even more mired in corruption than I feared. Not content with harbouring designs on the lady’s virtue, you place bets upon the outcome with your fellow rakehells.’ Crossing to the door, he pulled it wide open. ‘I’d like you to leave now, please.’

Henry was wounded. ‘There’ll be no loan?’

‘Not a brass farthing.’

‘What about the portrait?’

‘To keep it away from you,’ said Christopher with determination in his eyes, ‘I’d be prepared to stand guard over it day and night with a loaded musket.’

‘A regiment of soldiers would not be able to ensure its safety,’ boasted Henry, taking up the challenge. ‘I spurn you, Christopher Redmayne. Instead of a brother, I have a mealy mouthed parson.’

‘I only seek to save you from your own wickedness.’

‘Here endeth the lesson!’ taunted Henry.

‘You would do well to mark it.’

‘I prefer to enjoy my time on this earth.’

‘Yes,’ said Christopher, sadly. ‘I’ve seen the trail of victims you leave behind you after you’ve enjoyed them and I’m resolved that Lady Culthorpe will not be the next one.’

Henry was outraged. ‘Araminta is not my victim!’ he roared. ‘She is my salvation. Until I can make her mine, I’ll have that portrait of her on my wall. Mark this lesson, if you will,’ he continued, arm aloft. ‘The portrait belongs to me. It’s destined to hang in my house and woe betide anyone who tries to stop me from getting it.’

Storming out, he left the air charged with his passion.

Word of the crime provoked a varied response among members of the Society. When three of them met at a tavern that evening, it was only Elkannah Prout who showed any real compassion.

‘The wager must be cancelled,’ he said. ‘It’s unsporting — like hunting an animal that is already badly wounded.’

‘I concur,’ said Sir Willard Grail. ‘She needs time a long time to recover — months, at the very least.’

‘I think we should call off the chase altogether.’

‘Oh, I don’t agree with that, Elkannah.’

‘We should forget all about our wager.’

‘You were the one who advocated the creation of the Society for the Capture of Araminta’s Maidenhood. You cannot back out now.’

‘Her maidenhood has been surrendered, Sir Willard.’

‘A mere detail.’

‘And so has our raison d’etre.’ Prout was decisive. ‘The game is not worth the candle,’ he said. ‘We had the excitement of pursuing the lady hotfoot but we must now let her go free. I’m sure that Jocelyn agrees with me.’

Jocelyn Kidbrooke had made no contribution to the debate thus far but he had not missed a single word of it. Toying with his wine glass, he gave his opinion.

‘I do not agree with either of you,’ he said, bluntly.

‘You must take one side or the other,’ argued Prout.

‘No, Elkannah. You call for the whole project to be abandoned. Have we come so far and invested so much to back out now? That would be madness and I’ll not hear of it.’

‘Then you must take my part,’ said Sir Willard.

‘Hold off our assault for months on end? That’s ludicrous.’

‘It’s seemly, Jocelyn.’

‘And that’s precisely what I have against it,’ said Kidbrooke, slapping the table with a flabby hand for emphasis. ‘Since when have we espoused seemliness and respectability? They are the sworn enemies of real pleasure. You may have been converted to propriety, Sir Willard, but I have not — nor, I dare venture, has Henry. He and I will think alike. The race is still on.’

Prout blenched. ‘You’d allow Araminta no period of grace?’

‘A week is more than adequate. That will give her time to bury her husband and embrace the notion of widowhood.’

‘She needs to mourn, Jocelyn.’

‘What she needs is solace,’ Kidbrooke declared, ‘and I intend to offer it to her. If the two of you prefer to stand aside out of a false sense of sympathy, you leave the field clear for Henry and me.’

‘So be it,’ said Prout. ‘I resign from the Society. I’ll happily forfeit my stake in the enterprise.’

‘Well, I’ll not do so,’ said Sir Willard, forcefully. ‘I’ve put in too much money to quit the contest now. Jocelyn is right. What place has morality in the deflowering of a virgin? We do but follow the natural impulse of our sex.’

‘Araminta is no longer what she was when I devised the Society and you would do well to bear it in mind, Sir Willard. A virgin cannot be deflowered twice. Sir Martin Culthorpe has already performed the office that we all aspired to.’

‘We do not know that,’ said Kidbrooke.

‘Of course, we do. They were married for weeks.’

‘Some wives have been married for years before they discovered the delights of the flesh. Some husbands simply do not know what they are about in the bedchamber. Culthorpe may be one of them.’

‘Who could possibly resist Araminta?’ asked Prout.

‘A husband who respected her too much,’ said Kidbrooke. ‘A man who led a celibate and God-fearing life for over forty years before he even thought about marriage — in short, Sir Martin Culthorpe. I doubt if they even shared a bed on their wedding night and, if they did, it was surely occupied by two virgins. That’s what irks me most,’ he added through gritted teeth. ‘Culthorpe had that jewel of womanhood in his grasp yet he had no idea what to do with her.’

‘Jocelyn makes a telling point,’ said Sir Willard, his interest renewed. ‘Araminta may still be untouched.’

‘I’m certain of it. She still has that wondrous bloom on her.’

‘You’ve seen her?’

‘Only from a distance.’

‘When?’

‘Recently.’

‘Where?’

‘That’s my business,’ said Kidbrooke, evasively. ‘The point is this. One of us may still be able to fulfil the original aim of the Society. Now that good fortune has removed her odious husband, Araminta is there for the taking, gentlemen.’

‘Not by me,’ said Prout.

‘What about you, Sir Willard?’

‘All my senses have been revived,’ said the other with a wolfish grin. ‘So beautiful yet still a maid? No husband left to safeguard her? The lure is irresistible. I’m with you, Jocelyn. I begin to drool already. Araminta is fair game.’

Jean-Paul Villemot had worked on the portrait until fading light made him stop. He had never been so inspired by any woman who had sat for him before. Araminta Culthorpe was a positive gift to an artist. He set up candles around his easel so that she remained in view as the paint slowly dried. Long into the evening, he kept returning to look at her, relishing her beauty afresh on each occasion as if seeing it for the first time. As he watched, he drank wine and it made him increasingly maudlin. When he had emptied one bottle, he opened another. He went back to the portrait again and lifted his glass in honour to Lady Culthorpe before taking another sip of wine.

Villemot set the glass aside. Taking hold of the painting with both hands, he brought it gently towards him until it was only inches from his face. His face was aglow, his eyes moist.

‘Ma cherie!’ he sighed.