Chapter 10
“Finally,” she sighed.
Thalia glanced behind her at the empty windows as she slipped out of the house.
Fortunately, her father was out, as usual. These days, it was rare for him to remain at home, which made sneaking out all the easier for her.
Unfortunately, she could not be certain of all the servants’ loyalties; some were loyal to her, like her lady’s maid, but some would tattle to her father if they knew she was sneaking out.
Thus, she had crept downstairs through the servants’ halls, a cloak over her jewel gown, her lady’s maid having left the side door unlocked.
With barely a sound, she slipped through.
There were a few servants still awake; the valet polishing her father’s shoes, and the butler counting the wine; she could hear him uncorking the decanters and pouring.
No one heard her pass, and then she was on the street.
With one hand, she hailed a passing hackney, the driver looking at her suspiciously until she held up a bag of coins. Most men would do almost anything for the right sum, she had discovered, and her sculptures ensured that she almost always had the right sum to hand.
The cab was small and smelled like stale sweat. She wrinkled her nose as she gave the address: a rather exclusive venue in Mayfair where a gentleman was hosting a party for the arts. Alessandro Rossi had been invited, of course, but she was going in his stead to beg forgiveness.
Or that was the plan. She had the invitation in her reticule, and she would stay just long enough for her presence to be noted—then she would have to hurry back to be in bed for when her father returned home.
He didn’t usually check in on her, but she preferred to leave nothing to chance when it came to her father. Once, he had caught her returning home from the studio in the late afternoon, and he had hurled a vase at the wall in anger.
They arrived all too soon, and after giving the driver a generous tip, Thalia descended the carriage and approached the open door, handing the invitation to the doorman and tossing back the hood of her cloak. From there, she pulled a mask from her pocket and attached it to her head.
It was very unlikely that anyone in attendance here would also be attending places such as Almack’s, but she could never be too careful.
With the mask in place, she walked through the large rooms. In one, a mostly naked woman posed elegantly, sitting on the very edge of a chair with a maroon blanket wrapped loosely around her. Several young men avidly drew her, with varying degrees of accuracy and artistic talent.
Something stirred in Thalia as she watched. If the lady could have just tilted her chin a little—not demure but rather as though she owned the entire place—then that would bring the entire vision together. That way, her nudity became a kind of strength rather than a vulnerability.
I would draw her in the Roman style, she thought. Commit her to marble, as one of the more durable mediums.
The air stirred behind her, and a man leaned in. “Delicious, isn’t she?” His voice was unfamiliar, and his breath smelled heavily of wine. “Would you like to go next?”
“I would rather draw than pose, sir,” she said honestly.
“Is that so?” He turned her to face him. “And are you an aspiring artist, little lady?”
She reached for her invitation, holding it between two fingers. “My name is Madam Goode, sir, and I am here on behalf of Signore Rossi, who sends his apologies.”
The man plucked the invitation from her fingers and read it dismissively. “Rossi is never able to make it, but he always sends such delicious ladies in his stead. Are you as delectable as the ladies he sculps, Madam Goode?” He reached for her mask, and she took a step back.
“Who are you, sir?”
“Why, my name is Sir Thomas, although you may call me Master if you wish.”
When she looked around again, she saw the tastefully draped model slap at a wandering gentleman’s hands. The entire party appeared to her now in a different light.
Seedy. Insalubrious. The sort of place where gentlemen who could not get a lady’s attention any other way might go.
Suddenly, she wished she had never accepted the invitation. This was not some meeting of great minds as she had hoped it might be. It was the birthchild of some disgusting, handsy man who no doubt merely wanted an opportunity to grope barely clothed women.
And Sir Thomas thought she would be next to reveal herself.
“I do not wish to call you anything but your name, sir,” she said stiffly. “And as it appears my presence here has been received in poor taste, I will now take my leave. Goodbye, Sir Thomas.”
Sir Thomas caught her arm, dragging her further into the party. “Now then,” he said, his grip like a vice on her upper arm. “It would be rude to just take off like that. What would Master Rossi say?”
“Master Rossi has the utmost respect for women,” she managed, just as he shoved her into a room showcasing one of her most recent works: a man and a woman in a passionate embrace.
It was, secretly, the sort of embrace she dreamed about in those darkest moments just before sleep, when she acknowledged to herself there was something missing from her life.
Elliot had called it her magnum opus, but really it was just the desperate wish of her heart preserved for the world to see.
Of course, Elliot had sold it almost immediately, but she hadn’t known the buyer would be Sir Thomas—a man on whom the concept of romance, and perhaps even consent, was thoroughly lost.
She wanted to cry at the thought.
“It’s on auction,” Sir Thomas said into her ear. “I purchased it for a pretty penny off your master, and now I will make a profit off it. Look at the exquisite detail, Madam Goode.”
Thalia looked, though she could have recalled every inch of the man’s strong face with her eyes closed.
And, indeed, the way his hands pressed into the soft flesh of her sides.
The urgency with which the woman gripped him to her, their legs intertwined.
Her face was pressed into his neck, and he had a hand in her hair, cupping her against him in a motion both possessive and tender.
Love was what Thalia had privately called it.
But for the public, she had named it Passione.
“Will Rossi be pleased with the way I am making his work well known to the world?” Sir Thomas mused.
“I invited everyone who is anyone here tonight, and they will all bid on his splendid work, and then no doubt commission more. There will be plenty of disappointed members of the ton. So, you see, I am doing Master Rossi a favor; he ought to have come here and thanked me himself.”
Thalia bit back the words on the tip of her tongue that she had no intention of thanking him for anything.
This was not the sort of place she had imagined her beautiful sculpture residing.
It ought not to have gone to the man with the deepest pockets, but the person who might love it the way she had.
Art was not there to be flaunted, but to be felt.
Furious tears sprang to her eyes.
“I beg you would let me go, sir,” she said as icily as she could manage.
“Fie, then how could you report back to Rossi?” Sir Thomas smiled genially down at her, but his eyes were hard and hot with something other than lust.
Something about her insistence on leaving had angered him.
She shivered suddenly.
If she fought back too hard, this was the sort of man who would protest and do so in a public and dangerous way.
All the anger in the world couldn’t protect her in a sea of people determined not to see.
Most were gentlemen, with the occasional veiled lady in attendance—none would speak up for her.
Even now, in the clear way she was being held, everyone averted their eyes.
No one, she realized with a rush, would risk offending their host when there was such a prize to be won.
Nausea squirmed in her stomach. This was not the sort of place she ought to be. She should have stayed home, but she had always—more fool her—been afraid that the world would forget about Rossi if she did not at least make some move to acknowledge he existed.
Elliot should have been the one to do this. But he had another engagement that evening, and besides, Rossi was her invention. She had felt responsible.
Now she felt the stirrings of panic.
There were no exits. The room was still filling as more guests arrived for the bidding war.
Some gentlemen had their hands on the naked models, practically dragging them into the room.
No one batted an eye. If this was not regular behavior, then certainly they did not believe it was worth commenting on.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sir Thomas announced, stepping forward and dragging Thalia with him. Faces blurred before her eyes; she considered stamping on his foot and running off. “I have with me someone very special today: an ambassador of Alessandro Rossi himself. Please welcome Madam Goode.”
The crowd clapped politely. Thalia looked desperately around—and froze when she spied a familiar face, staring at her with more fury than Sir Thomas could ever have summoned.
And behind that, concern.
The Duke of Marrowhurst was here.
And he recognized her.
It took everything in Maxwell not to stride over to where that bastard held her by the arm and start a brawl. This entire business was sleezy; he had not known precisely how it would be when he received the invitation, but until he had seen Lady Thalia, he had regretted attending at all.
Now he seethed at the other end of the room.
Was she Rossi’s ambassador? That seemed unlikely. The paleness of her face and the way she was very obviously hunting for an escape told him that she had not come here for this purpose.
He wasn’t surprised she had put herself in another dangerous position.
That was just part of the woman he was coming to know.
And this was not the sort of party that she ought to be attending, but he doubted she had known beforehand.
After all, he did not. He had merely attended so he could glimpse the sculpture.
It was a beautiful thing; he could appreciate that. Before, he had criticized Rossi because he hadn’t fully noted the level of detail, or the subtle elegance, of the work.
Thalia held his gaze, and he could practically feel her begging him not to reveal her. What did she take him for?
No, he would not reveal her true identity; if she wanted to be Madam Goode here—an irony he could not help but acknowledge—then he would let her.
But he would be getting her out of there before anything worse happened.
“Let the bidding begin,” Sir Thomas called, a smarmy smile on his lips as he looked down at Thalia. The look of a man who already thought he had won for the evening.
He would soon find that was not the case.
The crowd parted before him as he strode closer, both to Sir Thomas and the sculpture.
Passione, it was called. Fitting, he supposed.
There was almost an innocence to the pose, as though it was less about the natural lust that might arise from a naked embrace and more about the gentler feelings a man might have for a woman.
“I will buy it,” he said in a voice that would carry throughout the room. “Everyone else will go home.”
Sir Thomas licked his lips. “Your Grace. The bidding has not yet taken place.”
“It doesn’t need to. I will buy the sculpture. Name your price.”
“I—” Sir Thomas glanced to one side, as though hoping someone might come and save him from the interaction.
Thalia raised her chin. “The piece is far more precious than you would appreciate, Your Grace.”
“Then name your price,” he said evenly.
“She gets to name nothing.” Sir Thomas shook her, and Maxwell saw red. Before he could stop himself, he took the other man’s arm and bent it back.
“Release her.”
Sir Thomas made a choking noise as Maxwell bent his arm still further. People were staring, but Maxwell didn’t care. There might be rumors, but not enough to damage his reputation entirely. Particularly when such rumors originated in a place such as this.
Finally, Sir Thomas released Thalia, who stepped back, rubbing her wrist. Maxwell glanced over at the gesture, his eyes narrowing. If this brute had bruised her, he would suffer far more than a twisted arm.
“Now apologize,” Maxwell said.
Sir Thomas gasped in outrage, but when Maxwell showed no signs of letting him go—and true to form, no one seemed eager to step in—he did as he was commanded.
“I’m sorry, Madam Goode.”
Thalia’s eyes flashed, but all she said was, “Name your price, sir.”
“What is the highest anyone is willing to bid on this item?” Sir Thomas called.
A variety of answers followed, ranging from fifty pounds to five hundred. Maxwell folded his arms. The price was immaterial; he would pay whatever was necessary to get Lady Thalia out of that house.
“One thousand pounds,” Sir Thomas said, turning back to Maxwell.
For such a relatively small piece, which was vastly overpriced, Maxwell should have been appalled, but he merely nodded instead. “The deal is done. I will send my steward around tomorrow to negotiate the details.”
He glanced around the room, noting everyone who had seen what occurred. They would be unlikely to stand up and support him publicly if he required it, but the social pressure would force Sir Thomas to uphold his word. If he did not, he would lose respect.
“I will take my leave,” Thalia said, straightening her back, and Maxwell had the absurd desire to crush her in a similar embrace to that sculpture. No matter what she faced, she never let fear get the better of her, and he found the sight unreasonably arousing.
“Allow me to accompany you,” he said, extending his arm. “I would want to show an ambassador of Signore Rossi every respect such an esteemed gentleman deserves.”
She sent him a surprised, gratified glance and accepted his arm.
One thousand pounds lighter—yet all the richer—he left the establishment with Lady Thalia, and no one dared stop them.