Chapter 12
Seeing each other again came far sooner than Thalia could have imagined. Just two days later, after a day wandering around an art gallery with a group of singularly disinterested young ladies, she found a note in her bedchamber written in unfamiliar masculine handwriting.
Her stomach jumped, and her heart pounded in her chest. Before she so much as opened the note, she knew who it would be from. No one else she knew wrote her name like that, as though the letters only existed in slashes—yet, for all that, the hand was still an elegant one.
When she unfolded the paper, her suspicions were realized.
Thalia, if I might be so bold,
I have a proposition: an outing tonight, similar to those you have been undertaking as Rossi’s ambassador. Fear not, you will be safe with me and will not be discovered.
If you agree, be ready at midnight. If not, send your maid to inform me at your earliest convenience.
M
Maxwell. It had to be. The Duke.
She hugged the fragile note against her chest, doing her best to keep her excitement at a minimum. So, he had something planned for her, did he?
This felt like an assignation, and she might have suspected he had amorous intentions were it not for the line similar to those you have been undertaking as Rossi’s ambassador.
He had promised her secret was safe with him, and she had believed him; she thought it unlikely he would betray her now.
A knock came at the door, and her maid entered, shutting the door carefully behind her.
“I see you got the letter, ma’am,” she said.
Of course, Jane must have left it here—no one else would have helped the Duke, and certainly no one would help her escape the house. All the other servants were loyal to her father.
But she had told Maxwell that her maid could be trusted, and so he had believed her.
“When did this arrive?” Thalia asked.
“Earlier today, ma’am, but I couldn’t leave it for you until the maids were done making the fire and changing the bed.
I left it here just now.” Jane glanced up at her.
She had perhaps a decade on Thalia, but they had always been close, and Thalia knew she would do whatever she asked. “What are you going to do?”
There had never really been a choice.
“I’m going to attend, of course,” Thalia said, already plotting how they might achieve this.
As she had attended a function during the day, she had originally intended to have an early night, but she could alter her plans.
Her father would never know. The Duke had chosen his day carefully.
“Dress me well,” she said, still thinking. “And draw a beauty spot on my cheek.” Debutantes did not usually affect such makeup, and although Maxwell had assured her no one would recognize her, she was determined to leave nothing to chance. “We’ll do this the usual way.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Midnight. She had three hours in which to prepare herself for the surprise visit. Her stomach squeezed in excitement and nervous anticipation. If she were lucky, he might kiss her again.
And if he did, she would welcome it with open arms.
As a distant clock tolled twelve, Thalia crept from the house in a large fur-lined pelisse, protecting against the chill of the night.
And, as promised, a coach rolled up the cobbled street, coming to a stop nearby.
It was stationed not directly outside her door, and she thanked her lucky stars that the Duke and his driver had such a sense of secrecy.
Then again, it made sense he did if he was hiding his boxing from his nearest and dearest.
The door swung open as she approached, and a gloved hand extended toward her. For an instant, she wondered if she was doing the right thing, the most sensible thing, but then she shook herself and accepted the hand.
Maxwell pulled her into the carriage.
“How mysterious this is,” she said on a laugh as a coachman shut the door behind her and they rattled into the night.
“Is that a bad thing?” he asked, settling back into the seat. Perhaps as a bid for privacy, there was no light in the carriage, and she couldn’t make out his expression. “I was under the impression you were the kind of woman who thrives on mystery. And…” he added, a wry note in his voice, “danger.”
Thalia sucked in a breath. Part of the reason she had come here was that she didn’t know where she was going.
That made her stupid, probably.
She wasn’t sure she cared.
“I can tell you now, if you’d like,” he said. “Or you could wait until we get there. Which would you prefer, Thalia?”
She knew she was confirming his suspicions as she said, “I’d prefer to wait.”
“As I thought.”
She played nervously with her skirts as they moved through London.
The city never slept, and despite the hour, there were other coaches and horses and people on the roads.
Taverns spilled drunken men onto the pavement; late carriages lined outside grand houses waiting for their turn to be admitted.
But they passed all these before rolling outside of London entirely.
“Trust me,” the Duke said, putting a hand briefly on her knee as though to steady her. “It’s not far now.”
They had been traveling for nearly forty minutes by the time they saw lights in the distance. Behind them, London sat like a sunrise, so close she could almost touch it.
“This is it,” Maxwell said with satisfaction. “And now, Thalia, you will have the opportunity to experience an artist’s party the way it ought to be done.”
Thalia gaped, staring at him as though doing so might reveal a lie. After the disaster of the last ‘artist’s party’ she had attended, she had discounted them entirely.
But this… in the company of the Duke…
“I will introduce you as Miss Partridge,” he said, offering her his hand to help her out of the carriage. “No one here will recognize you, and no one will be looking to. Here, it is not someone’s identity that matters.”
Thalia stared up at the lights gleaming from the windows. As she watched, a woman in a plain white robe moved against the curtains, briefly illuminated. The image burned against her eyes like a flare.
“How did you get an invitation?” she whispered.
She’d heard rumors of these kinds of events, but they were highly exclusive. Not everyone got an invitation, and as far as she knew, Maxwell was hardly a closet painter.
He chuckled, his hand curling around her elbow. “Believe it or not, Thalia, I have friends.”
“Artist friends?”
“Sponsors of the arts,” he said. “Does it matter? I knew this would be something you would appreciate. They meet monthly, I believe. But”—his fingers tightened on her elbow— “you must not be too shocked by what you see.”
The final vestiges of surprise dissolved, and she grinned up at him. “Now then, Your Grace. When have I ever been shocked by the things I subject myself to?”
Maxwell couldn’t stop himself from keeping a hand at the bottom of her back as he ushered her into the manor house.
This was the first time he had attended, but the moment they stepped inside, his old friend Gregory Plainchett approached, holding out a hand.
Plainchett hosted these events, largely because he wanted a place for artists to feel as though they had a safe place to practice.
And, of course, because Plainchett was somewhat of a voyeur, he wanted to see the process at every step, and bringing the artists to him was a means for him to do so.
“Marrow,” Plainchett said, extending a hand. He wore nothing more than a shirt and breeches, his forearms bare and covered in plaster dust. “You made it.”
“I said I would,” Maxwell said, turning his attention to Thalia, who was looking around in wonder.
Little surprise there, Plainchett’s manor was a collection of what he considered to be the greatest works in the world. If one wanted, he offered private tours.
For a price, of course. The man never failed to pass up on an opportunity to profit from his ventures.
“This is my friend, Miss Campbell,” he said.
Thalia glanced back at Plainchett, her smile switching back on her face like the sun emerging from clouds. She never did know the effect she had on men; Plainchett blinked several times, and although he had done nothing untoward, Maxwell had to fight the urge to punch his friend.
“Thank you so much for extending the invitation to me,” she said, coming forward and offering her hand. “It’s such a pleasure and a privilege to be here.”
“Do you paint, miss?” Plainchett said, taking her hand and bowing over it, but not kissing her knuckles, to Maxwell’s relief.
“Not paint, but I do dabble in the world of sculpture.”
“Sculpture! Well then, are you familiar with the great Catherine Andras? I have, by some miracle, persuaded her to attend today’s modest gathering.”
Maxwell had only heard Andras’s name in passing—she had done several wax effigies for prominent members of the ton, including Princess Charlotte of Wales—but he knew little enough about her.
Thalia’s eyes, however, lit up. “Catherine Andras? Here?”
“As I live and breathe. Come, she is holding court upstairs.” He beckoned them both forward, and Maxwell found himself content to follow Thalia as she moved through the rooms toward the grand staircase.
The place was just as bohemian as he had imagined, with different art forms taking place in different rooms. Just as Sir Thomas had attempted to recreate, only his ‘artists’ had been insolent young men, and the subjects, unfortunate women, paid and brought in for the purpose of exposing themselves for ‘art.’
Here, women were as often the artists as the subjects. An older gentleman was midway through an animated discussion on the merits of landscaping versus still life with an elderly lady wrapped in a shawl.
A man and a woman intertwined themselves in the middle of another room, posing sensually as a young woman, spectacles sliding down her nose, sketched frantically.
Maxwell glanced at Thalia to see how she was taking all this, but she barely seemed to notice the near nudity. She did, however, glance at him and say, “Passione feels accurate after all, don’t you think?”
“Did you not have a life study?”
“Whom could I ask? Anna and Simon? It might be harder to explain to Simon why I need him, and I doubt Anna would appreciate me using her husband as inspiration. At least not for a public piece.”
Maxwell had the sudden and urgent desire to ask if she would object to another muse, one who might not mind committing him to whatever medium best suited her. He would not mind posing. If anything, he would enjoy it.
But there was no opportunity for him to ask before they entered the room with Catherine Andras.
The woman was in her forties or thereabouts, with lines around her eyes, and when she spoke, it was with a gentle Irish burr.
Time living in London, and holding court with the Queen, had given her a sense of gravitas and elegance, but Maxwell could see at a glance that she had not been born to it.
She sat in the middle of the room, demonstrating something with a fine set of instruments in her hands.
“I prefer to add those small details which distinguish a piece,” she said to her avid listeners.
Unlike many of the other members of this gathering, she wore a conservative dress, looking as though she had been invited out for tea rather than an exclusive party for artists.
Thalia’s hand found his. “She is my inspiration,” she whispered. “She has found distinction in a man’s world and has been recognized across England and beyond for her skill. One day, I should very much like to be like her.”
“Are you not already?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“Oh, my works are fads. I have not had anyone especially notable take notice of me, and I will soon die out, I’m sure.”
“I have taken notice of you,” he said dryly. “How notable were you aspiring to be, pray?”
She sent him a pretty, dimpled smile. “Oh, royalty at least.”
“You have high aspirations.”
“Almost impossible for a lady to achieve and still retain her reputation! And yet I find I do aspire toward it.” She leaned a little into him. “I am glad you like my sculptures, however.”
“How gratifying.”
She laughed, and when Plainchett ushered her forward and introduced her, Maxwell hung back, content to see her interacting with the people she evidently considered her kin.
Catherine greeted her warmly, and the two immediately began talking, with Catherine gesturing at her wax models, evidently explaining something about them.
A strange sense of pride lit in Maxwell at the sight of Thalia holding her own in this room of established artists. He had never aspired to the arts—that was not one of the skills he possessed—but he had an appreciation for the talent it required.
He found it hard to believe that Thalia, so young and keeping her ability a secret from her father, was already so very good.
Plainchett came to stand beside him. “When you wrote to me and asked for a favor, I thought she would be another of your mistresses.”
Maxwell spared Plainchett a single disparaging glance. “I don’t bring my mistresses to events with me. That’s hardly their purpose.”
“Ah, so she isn’t.” He nodded. “The question then is what is she to you?”
“An acquaintance.” The words sounded like a lie even to him. If she were a mere acquaintance, he would never have gotten invested enough to bring her here. “There is nothing going on between us.”
As he said it, another gentleman approached Thalia, a smile already on his mouth, leaning in to address her far more intimately than Maxwell would ever have permitted.
He also wore a shirt, no cravat, and lightweight buckskins, and Maxwell caught Thalia noting his attire with something more than disgust.
Irritation flared in Maxwell’s chest, and before Plainchett could say anything else, he strode back to where Thalia stood. Catherine’s attention had been distracted elsewhere, and Thalia was directing the full force of her pretty smile on the hopeful gentleman.
Maxwell only had to spare the man a single glance before he left with his metaphorical tail between his legs. Thalia turned to him, a frown already growing in her eyes. Her lips gathered.
“What was that for?” she demanded in a whisper, moving to one side.
Jealous anger burned in Maxwell’s veins. This was a far more prestigious event than the one she had attended before, but men were still men, and in a soft peach gown, the silk gleaming in the light, she looked like a fruit plenty would like to take a bite of.
“I’m doing what I promised I would,” he said, his voice low.
“We were merely exchanging pleasantries!”
“It wasn’t so much the things he said but the way he looked at you. I know precisely what he wanted, Thalia.”
Her chin rose defiantly. “And what was that?”
Maxwell felt his hold on control slipping. “The same thing I do,” he growled, and her eyes went round. “Only half as intensely.”