Chapter 30
Thirty
James walked east, towards the location he remembered as Siddons’ studio. He found the shabby building and knocked on the right door.
Siddons answered, wearing only a paint-spattered shirt. Barelegged, barefooted. He sneered.
“James Cavendish.”
James did not wait for an invitation to step inside. A young woman stood naked on the far side of the studio. She made no move to cover herself when he entered. James averted his eyes.
“Pru!” Siddons barked, and the girl started as if she had been asleep. “Put something on. You’re embarrassing Lord Daventry.”
James saw no reason to correct Siddons with his new title.
The girl Pru moved slowly, dreamily, as if she were wading in deep water, and picked up a drape from the floor and began wrapping herself in it.
“I was expecting someone at some point, but I thought it would be a solicitor. I didn’t know it would be you, Daventry.
” Siddons picked at the paint flecking his hands.
“Perhaps I should have. You always seem to be bursting in where you’re not wanted, trying to save the day, but only making things worse for everybody. ”
“I want to buy the painting.”
Siddons look surprised by James’ directness. But, of course. the man would expect him to be drunk, mocking, unable to approach a subject head-on. Well, too late now.
Siddons recovered and laughed. “Of course, you do. So many people do. The painting is not for sale.”
“Name your price.”
Siddons smiled. “The painting is not for sale.”
“A thousand pounds.”
Pru squawked, “Lawks!” and almost dropped her drape.
Siddons felt the bump on the bridge of his nose. “The painting is not for sale.”
Had there been some hesitation there? “Five thousand pounds.”
“The painting is not for sale.”
“Ten thousand pounds.”
“You think you can buy anything.” Another sneer. “The painting. Is. Not. For. Sale.”
“Is it here?”
“If it were, do you think I would have opened the door? It’s gone to the Exhibition. It’s too late.”
“I see.” James went to the door.
“Farewell, Marquess, and thanks for the laughs.”
James stopped and turned around. “It’s Duke, actually. The Duke of Middlewich.”
“Oh, it’s Your Grace, now, is it? Well, Your Grace.” Siddons leaned forward as if to tell James something in confidence. “The painting is not for sale.”
James stared at Siddons. Siddons took a step backwards.
“What are you looking at, Cavendish?”
“Ten thousand pounds is a lot to lose just for the opportunity to hurt someone.”
“Yes, well, I was never very clever about money, was I? Otherwise, I wouldn’t live like this.” Siddons gestured to the squalid studio.
“No, I suppose not. You are driven by other things. Things even more ignoble. How wretched you must be.”
James turned on his heel and left. He walked south towards the river. Eventually, he found a hack and rode the rest of the way to Somerset House.
James paid the driver, and the hack pulled back out into the busy traffic of the Strand. He turned to face the building. The part of Somerset House facing the street, this section, housed the Royal Academy.
He noted five uniformed and armed Royal Marines standing at attention outside the building.
He walked through one of the three arches and into the vestibule and out into the large courtyard.
Across the courtyard, at the South Wing, the building that faced the Thames, he saw more Royal Marines. Ah, yes, the Navy Board was there.
When he had first taken up his work for Mr. Bulverton, James thought he might someday report to an admiral or some person of importance at Somerset House.
But it had never come to pass. Perhaps because only his very first piece of intelligence, the one that had led to the rout of the French at San Sebastian, had been related to foreign affairs.
Since then, all of his endeavors had been domestic concerns.
And, if he were honest with himself, rather trifling domestic concerns.
Carrying a coded message from one place to another, reporting the gossip of the ton, informing on those who voiced sympathies with the Americans or Bonaparte or the Irish.
And, yes, stealing jewelry and love tokens and indiscreet letters that should never have been sent by important men with too much time on their hands.
Well, that part of his life was over. He must tell Bulverton. He was a duke now. He had responsibilities to his sisters and mother, to the people on his estate and in his duchy.
And to Catherine. He must find this painting quickly.
In the offices of the Royal Academy, James seemed to be the only visitor whose hands were not covered in paint.
Several clerks and functionaries tried to placate a seething mob of artists, all expostulating loudly about the positioning of their paintings in the Exhibition. James elbowed his way to the front.
“I am the new Duke of Middlewich,” he roared over the clamor. “And I demand to see the man in charge of this madhouse!”
For pity’s sake. He was turning into his father now.
The artists murmured and withdrew, leaving several empty feet of space around him. In a matter of moments, James was ushered into the private office of the secretary to the President of the Royal Academy of Arts.
The secretary stood, bowed. “Your Grace.” He looked harried.
“I wish to procure a painting.”
“Yes, Your Grace, the Exhibition will begin in four days, and, at that time, you may purchase a painting at your leisure.”
“Yes,” James said. “May I sit?”
The secretary frowned. “Certainly.” James sensed the man was under a great deal of pressure and wanted him out of the office with as much haste as possible so he could get back to the stack of papers on his desk.
“Have all the paintings been delivered to the Academy?” James asked.
“Yes, they’re being hung at this moment by the Hanging Committee. The Varnishing Days start tomorrow and will go for three days. Then the Exhibition will open.”
“The painting I want, well, I would rather it was never hung. I would like to buy it and take it with me now.”
“That would be most irregular, Your Grace.”
James leaned forward. “But would it be impossible?”
The man thought. “Yes. It would. There are over thirteen hundred paintings to be hung. We cannot interrupt our work to go looking for one painting, in particular. And then, of course, you would have to apply to the artist for the purchase. My advice to you, Your Grace, is to come back very early on the first day of the Exhibition and buy the painting then.”
James stood. “Very well. I will do so.”
Blast. Hellfire. Damnation. He was going to have to steal the painting.
He walked back out into the courtyard and looked around. There were so many armed marines about. Of course, they were not there to protect the Royal Academy, but he wondered how they might react to a duke slipping out of a window, carrying a large painting.
James came back that night. Royal Marines at the Strand entrance. He could see beyond them into the courtyard where torches were lit. Still more uniformed Royal Marines.
Tricky.
He had no idea what to do next.
He went back to his rooms, sent Enfield to bed, and paced.
What a sham he was. For almost six years he had considered himself a covert operative and had delighted in fooling those around him and having secret meetings with Bulverton.
And now, when he needed to do something of import for the woman he loved, something that actually mattered to him, he was useless.
But he still had one tool at his disposal.
One he had never used.
Catalog and ticket in hand, accompanied by Mr. Deedles, his father’s longtime London agent, James pushed to the front and was among the first to enter the Great Room on opening day of the Exhibition.
There, on the far end. Eye level. Siddons’ painting.
And what luck. The secretary he had met four days ago was in the Great Room, surveying the press of people.
“Sir!” he accosted the secretary.
The man bowed. “Your Grace, you’re here. Very good. I hope you find your painting.”
“I’ve found it. I’m ready to buy it. This is Mr. Deedles. He is ready with payment.”
The secretary stammered. “B-b-but you must make application to the artist, Your Grace. The Academy has nothing to do with the purchase of paintings.”
“Come with me.” James put his arm around the man’s shoulders and walked him across the Great Room to Catherine’s portrait. Most of the viewers were still on the other side of the room, looking at the pictures near the entrance. Mr. Deedles trailed behind, carrying a small metal box.
“What is your name?” James asked, keeping his arm around the secretary’s shoulders, keeping him facing towards the picture.
“Harris. Mr. Elias Harris, Your Grace.”
They stood in front of the painting, and James released him.
“Oh,” Mr. Harris said. “Oh, this is the painting you meant. I see.”
“My sole aim, Mr. Harris, is to remove this picture from public view and save a lady from embarrassment.”
Mr. Harris fidgeted.
James went on, “I think you would agree there would be no great loss to the world of fine art if this painting disappeared.”
Mr. Harris nodded. “I seem to remember this painting was chosen by the selection panel almost purely,” he lowered his voice, “to provoke offense and bring in curiosity seekers. Not what I would wish for.”
“No, certainly not. It is immediately apparent you are a man of taste and the highest aesthetic values. Now. The artist is not willing to sell to me, personally. Not at any price. Have you ever been in love, Mr. Harris?”
“Your Grace, I . . . yes.”
“There is a Mrs. Harris, then?”
“No.” The man blushed. “But I have hopes.”
“Well, I sense you are a man of enormous sympathy, and if I told you, in confidence, I love this lady in the painting and I would do anything to spare her even the smallest bit of pain, you might think of some way I could obtain the picture. Legally. Without involving the artist.”
“Well, there is a rule . . .”
Thank God. “A rule?”
“The Academy has the right of first refusal on any painting displayed during the Exhibition. But we have very little room for storage and almost never buy anything. Let’s see.
” Mr. Harris leaned forward to examine the card next to the painting of Catherine.
“For its size, the price would be ten pounds. Not too dear. I suppose the Academy could buy the painting and sell it to you?”
“Excellent. And the painting can be removed immediately from public view?”
“It’s most irregular,” Mr. Harris dithered.
James snapped his fingers, and Mr. Deedles approached.
“I think five hundred pounds would be a good price for the painting. And a letter of praise from the Duke of Middlewich regarding your good work here and the need for your advancement. Or barring that, perhaps a new career as a curator of a personal collection, a position that would surely pay enough to allow for a wife and a family.”
It was done.
James took the painting off the wall immediately and covered it with the drape Mr. Deedles had carried under his arm.
Of course, money had smoothed the way and the promise of a letter or a position. But James couldn’t help feeling, for the first time in his life, he had solved a problem by telling the truth.
It felt decidedly pure. And right.