Sixteen #2
Miss Quinn of Sir David and the canceled portrait. Oh dear, Cam thought, this is going to be awkward. Had Miss Quinn not been sent to Sir David’s place of business for the brush-off from his secretary?
Cam had been the recipient of more than one undeservedly harsh brush-off in her time—what woman of thirty-four hadn’t?
—and none had been quite so crushing as finding Jacket and the ring designer settling their creative differences in her bed.
Her heart went out to Miss Quinn, but she had to admit it amused her to imagine the squirming Lely would have to do.
“Miss Quinn,” she heard him say, “I am most sorry. Did Stephen—my clerk—not explain to you about the portrait?”
Stephen, Cam thought, had only been instructed to provide her with the address.
“No,” Miss Quinn said. “I have been waiting since you moved me.”
“Come. Step up to the landing, where we shall be a little more private.”
“Why?” Her voice quavered. “What have you to tell me?”
He cleared his throat and said in a tone Cam had to strain to hear, “I understand you and Sir David have ended your acquaintance?”
“Aye.”
Cam heard the hitch in the woman’s voice. Lely would soon have tears on his hands.
“And the painting was to be a final gift to you?”
“Aye. I am not a bitter woman, Mr. Lely, but I would like to leave this friendship with something.”
“I see. Well, I’m afraid I must inform you of a change in plans.”
Oh, Peter, don’t…
“Sir David made it clear to me today—”
Cam wanted to yell “Fire!” or “Man overboard!” or “Justin Timberlake!” or something—anything—so that Peter would not finish the sentence.
“—that he cannot part with such a value, that he wants you to pose, and that he begs that you will consider sending it to him when it is complete.”
“He did?” The woman’s voice filled with joy.
Cam collapsed against the wardrobe, amazed. Jake Ryan lives.
“He did,” Peter said, “though he did not want to impose by asking you himself.”
“Oh. No, I understand. His wife—” The woman caught herself. “His circumstances make it difficult.”
“Ah.”
“But how can he…? Mr. Lely, where would he put it?”
“You ask an important question. Have you heard of a private gallery?”
“No.”
“Sometimes it is no more than a secret panel upon which a painting sits behind a false front. Sometimes it is an entirely hidden room. The king himself has one.”
“He does?”
“Aye, to mark the friendships whose remembrance would bring the queen pain.”
“And Sir David has such a thing?”
“If he is the recipient of such great joy, he said, he would build one. Now, make arrangements with Stephen downstairs. I apologize for abandoning you. The events of this afternoon seem to have gotten away from us. You will return tomorrow, though, aye? It will take five or six sittings.”
“Five sittings?”
Miss Quinn’s words were filled with concern, and Cam heard the sound of a purse snapping open.
“I suppose I can secure a room for the week at my laundress’s house,” she said uncertainly.
“Oh, Miss Quinn! How can you forgive me? I have forgotten the most important part of the message. Sir David left an envelope for you, a token of his affection. I cannot be certain, and you will pardon my coarseness, but he gave me to believe it contained money.”
“Money?” Miss Quinn was crying now.
“Aye, and no little amount. Desire Stephen to fetch it for you. Tell him that if he does not remember where we put it, he is to come to me and I will remind him. Do you have that? If he does not remember, he is to come to me.”
“I have it. Thank you, Mr. Lely.”
“’Tis nothing, nothing at all. I am glad of it. I would hate to see a friendship end on an unhappy note.”
He started up the stairs, and Cam flung herself at the wardrobe, trying to digest the discovery of such surprising generosity in a man she had taken for an egocentric painter.
She stole a glance at his profile as he rounded the top of the stairs, and wondered what other of her assumptions might be incorrect.
“Who was it?” she asked casually.
“What? Oh. The cook. Something about tomorrow’s menu and a leg of lamb. I told her I can’t concern myself in such matters. I do wonder sometimes at the want of initiative in the servant ranks. Did you find a gown?”
Cam hadn’t even looked. With reluctance, she pulled her eyes away from Peter, opened the wardrobe door, and gasped. Another treasure trove of dresses. This man liked to dress women. Which, of course, probably meant the reverse was true as well.
A dozen gowns hung here, each of thick, raw silk and each in a color more brilliant than the one before—ruby, emerald, sapphire, aquamarine, topaz, amethyst. But Cam had no eyes for jewel tones.
She pulled out a burnished olive green that flattered the pink of her skin and the cinnamon-blond streaks in her hair.
“There are undergowns there as well,” he said.
In the drawers below, laid out like the petals of a pressed ivory rose, were linen and muslin shifts, as intricately detailed as wedding gowns, with falls of ruffles and lace and beading.
“Choose something ethereal,” he said. “I like the Flemish lace. ’Tis the one with the lilies.”
She dug until she found it. A beautiful pattern of interlocked flowers ran around the skirt and throughout the lace at the sleeves.
She stole a look at Peter, who was busy laying different colors of velvet on the chaise, pulled the undergown out, and let it drop.
Ethereal, eh?