Thirty #3
“Is that so? I’m her fiancé.”
The storm in Peter’s ears drowned out the music for a moment. Had she actually accepted him? He wasn’t sure he could believe it. “Are you indeed?”
“She wears my ring, pal.”
“I don’t wish to quibble, but I saw her most recently. She wore a ring from her mother, nothing more.”
“She wears it on a chain around her neck. Has for a while. Listen, you’re starting to annoy me.”
Peter knew he was getting dangerously close to getting tossed out, and now that he’d made it here, he didn’t want to go.
“For that, I am sorry. Your fiancée and I have friends in common—in London. She gave me her card and told me to stop by the next time I was in town. I arrived at her office, and her assistant, Jeanne, graciously brought me here and let me in.” He relaxed his face into something he hoped would pass for a smile. “Jeanne should arrive momentarily.”
The ridiculously named Jacket grunted. “Well, Cam’s out with a donor. We’re not likely to see her for a while.”
Convenient for an early evening idyll, Peter thought. It was nothing short of villainous, especially conducted on the lady’s own doorstep. He would have scarcely believed it possible, but the mores of the twenty-first century had sunk lower than those of the seventeenth.
“I was told otherwise.” Peter held the man’s gaze. “Has Miss Stratford seen this portrait? I am of the understanding she has a particular appreciation for painting, and I’m certain this one would interest her.”
“No.” Jacket shifted uncomfortably. “It was begun this evening.”
“Ah.”
The dark-haired woman called out, “Can I get a wine for you?”
“A beer, please,” Jacket said. “And a second for our friend here.”
The woman returned with two bottles and a glass of wine. She handed out the bottles and gave Peter a predatory look. “I’m the model, by the way.” She held out her hand.
Peter took it and bowed. “A remarkable likeness. ’Tis not an easy job.”
After an uneasy silence, Jacket lifted his bottle. “To Budweiser.”
“To Budweiser,” Peter repeated. “King of beers.”
“L’chaim,” the woman said, and they drank.
Jacket wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I think,” he said carefully to the woman, “you had better get dressed. Cam’s on her way.”
The woman pulled the glass from her lips, coughing. “She is?”
“So it seems. She asked Peter to meet her here. You might want to use the other door.”
She scurried into the room she’d come out of, snatching up a pile of clothes from the floor as she went.
When the door closed, Peter said, “I should like to buy it.” He pointed to the canvas.
Jacket raised a brow. He drew his eyes over Peter’s clothes and returned to his work. “It’s not finished,” he said dismissively.
“I don’t care. Name your price.”
“You can’t afford it.”
“My means are extensive.”
“A million,” Jacket said, and Peter swayed a little. “A million and four weeks.”
“I want it now.” Peter pulled off the emerald and thrust out his hand. When Jacket took the ring, Peter felt as if a great weight had been removed.
“How do I know it’s real?” Jacket said, examining it closely. “Besides, it’s got something engraved on it.”
“It’s my mark.”
Jacket tossed it back. “Nothing personal, man, but I’ll stick with cash.”
Peter’s heart sunk. “I don’t have any coins with me,” he said, though he knew where he could get them.
“Coins?” Jacket laughed, and Peter’s vision darkened. “Come back when ya got ’em, pal.”
A voice—Jeanne’s voice—called, “Hello? Is anybody here?”
Peter stepped directly into Jacket’s line of vision, close enough for him to feel Peter’s breath on his face.
“Sir, you have misjudged me. Let me make myself plain. I want the painting now, and I will pay you for it.” He lowered his voice as the model emerged, hopping in one shoe as she slipped the other onto her foot.
“It is as clear to me as it will be to your fiancée what has transpired here. One of us is going to take that painting now, break it in two, and destroy it. Which of us shall it be?”
Jacket’s eyes flashed, and for a long moment he said nothing.
The model grabbed her coat off the bed. “What are you two whispering about?”
“Nothing,” Jacket said without breaking Peter’s gaze. “Go.”
Jeanne called, “Hello? Hello? I’m sorry it took so long. The meter maid and I were having a little disagreement over how close I was parked to the hydrant.”
Anastasia shrugged. “Okay, then. Bye.” She ducked out of a door in the back.
“It’s me,” Jeanne called as her footsteps drew closer. “Is anybody here?”
Jacket stepped around Peter, pulled the painting off the easel, and snapped it with his foot. He dropped it into a large, barrel-like contrivance and wiped his hands on his breeks. “Fuck you,” he said.
Jeanne stuck her head in the door. “Peter? Oh, Christ! Jacket, hi. I, uh, see you’ve met Peter.”
“Oh yes,” Jacket said. “We’ve just been chatting over pints.”
“Ah, you Brits,” she said, laughing nervously. “It’s all pint this and perambulator that. Peter, can I see you in the other room, please?”
Peter nodded and bowed to Jacket. “Many thanks.”
Jeanne pulled him into the main room. “What did you say to him?” she demanded. “Please tell me you didn’t say anything.”
But before Peter had time to answer, the door through which he had entered the apartment opened and Campbell Stratford stepped through.
“…really isn’t necessary,” she said to an older man holding the door open. “Really, Mr. Ball, even without a doorman, the building is quite—” She stopped when she saw Peter.
He hadn’t seen her for more than a month, and he had never seen her dressed in the clothes of her time.
The effect took his breath away. She wore closely tailored men’s breeks of a dark, heathered brown that brought her hips and legs into stunning perspective, and an equally formfitting shirt.
Her hair was loose and fell in streaming ringlets of crimson sunlight over her shoulders.
He’d never seen a woman look like this, not even in the salacious tableaux of the king’s private parties, and while part of him felt the old wound reopen, another, less estimable part was titillated by the shameless rejection of propriety.
Still another, keenly aware of the eyes of the other men upon her—for Jacket had entered the room as well—nearly drove him to madness with the desire to roll up his sleeves and scrap.
“Peter,” she said.
His heart soared. Would this woman who had just said his name in that hauntingly sweet voice, who gazed upon him with tremulous uncertainty, destroy everything he loved with a tawdry exposé? They had shared something that night. Surely she had felt it too.
“Peter,” she said softly, “I think we should talk.”
Aye, this was a woman who could be reasonable.