Thirteen
When the door closed, Cam collapsed on the chaise in relief.
A Spanish countess?! Jeez, what next? A Sri Lankan snake charmer?
Her accent was bad enough. Anything beyond that obviously required more than her occasional Masterpiece Theatre watching would provide.
Thank God for Natalie and her Latin temper.
Cam hadn’t understood anything else, but that cono had been as clear as a bell.
Nell poked her head out of the adjoining room. “All clear?”
“Ugh.”
“You smoked ’er!”
“I don’t think she was entirely persuaded. Though I suspect the newspaper across the snout will keep her from trying that a second time. At least, it always did with my dog.”
Cam could hear the sounds of the royal entourage dispelling into the street. Sex, betrayal, the capricious powers of a king. It was a tale that would fit with ease into any book, and she wondered if she could reasonably refashion it for hers on Van Dyck.
The door cracked. Peter stuck his head in, looked from Cam to Nell, who was doing little twirls in Cam’s gown, gave Cam a hurried but grateful smile, and closed the door again.
Cam eyed her bag, tucked carefully under the chaise. There was no way she was going to be checking the phone with company around.
“You are not the first to pursue him, you know.” Nell grabbed a handful of the gray silk, admiring the drape.
“I am not pursuing him.”
“Many before Ursula and many after.”
Typical artist, Cam thought, though with a pang. He probably keeps a little black quarto somewhere.
“But none so much as Ursula,” Nell said. “Your hair is just like hers. Has Peter unpinned it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you haven’t posed for Peter, I recommend it heartily.” She dimpled again. “There’s something about the way he looks at you when you’re lying there, swimming in silk. There’s simply no word for it.”
“Ogling?”
“What? Oh no. Not Peter. Peter would no more be moved by a pip than a sailor by water. He’s like a medico, he is. No, it’s what you see when he’s looking at your face. You just feel so…so…”
Panty-free? she thought fliply, but wondered if the real answer was “scared.”
“Exalted.”
“Exalted, eh?” Cam worked the image around in her head like a piece of mental bubble gum, but when it came to painters, she had seen too many women abandon their common sense and then their clothes to find this pronouncement credible.
Bewitched, perhaps. Exalted? Unlikely. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever posed for Van Dyck… ?”
“Davey Van Dyck, the theater manager at the Drury Lane?”
“Never mind.” This was getting her nowhere.
She’d irritated a minor painter, crossed wits with Nell Gwyn, pandered her dignity in order to mollify a king one mustache twirl shy of being a Central Casting lech, and smacked a duchess.
Unless she was planning to write the Restoration version of Fawlty Towers, she’d done nothing that would take her closer to sexing up the Van Dyck biography.
Cam sighed and stood. “I guess we ought to exchange gowns.”
“Are you sure?” Nell gave her a mischievous smile. “’Twill be far easier for Peter to get you out of that one.”