by Joan Smith
“That we know of,” Prance added with a questioning look. Then he shook his head. “What a ready tongue suspicion has.”
“And your tongue don’t need any help. Let us go have a look at this house they was looking at. It’ll give us a notion how highly he regards the comtesse.”
“It is smallish, but a good address.”
While they waited for the carriage, Prance said, “I discovered an odd thing today at Hatchard’s, Pattle.” Coffen rolled up his eyes, fearing another lecture on the dux bellorum. “Someone has bought one hundred copies of my Rondeaux. I was chatting to a clerk, and he said several boxes were delivered somewhere, but he didn’t know who the purchaser was. Odd, is it not? Now, who could this rabid fan be?”
“Dashed odd,” Coffen said, truly mystified, for Luten had not told Coffen of his stunt. “Might have something to do with Oxford or Cambridge. A bookstore there buying them up to make lads study them.”
Prance preened. “Oh Lord! I hope not!” he said, but he was secretly thrilled to death. “It happens I did send a copy to my old tutor at Cambridge, Sir Vance Dean. He thanked me most graciously and said he looked forward to reading it. I always take that for a sign the recipient has, in fact, read the work and can think of nothing complimentary to say, but perhaps I am too cynical. Cambridge does give a course on medieval literature. The fate of dull literary outpourings, forcing the youth to read them under pain of withholding a degree. It was Cambridge that gave me such an unutterable dread of poor Milton, who is actually very good in his own dry way.”
“No, really, Prance, you’re going too far, comparing yourself to Milton. You ain’t that bad. I could understand quite a bit of your poem.”
“I am flattered, Pattle. I do feel that, despite the Rondeaux’ glaring faults, the poems were at least lucid to the meanest intelligence.”
“Very likely,” Coffen said, frowning. He reamed out his ear with his finger and said, “Did I just hear you say faults? And dull—a while back you said dull. Have you been reading the thing yourself, then?”
“Strangely, the answer is yes. I took the Rondeaux to bed last night and fell sound asleep at the end of Rondeau Seven, and there are, you recall, an even hundred rondeaux.”
“Then you have another couple of weeks easy sleep to look forward to.”
“The point I was endeavoring to make is that the Rondeaux lacked esprit. Next I had planned to write an epic poem on the French Revolution, featuring a young noble lady.”
“With them dashed stern eyes, I suppose?”
“No, paradisiacal eyes.”
“If you’re going to use that kind of language, you’ll have another clinker on your hands.”
“No, no, I shall couch it in metaphors.”
“I pity the poor lads at Cambridge. You haven’t learned a dashed thing from your failure, Reg. And for God’s sake, leave off them little notes at the bottom of the page that are so hard to read.”
“One can hardly call a poem a failure when Cambridge has put it on the curriculum as required reading! I must write dear Sir Vance a note and thank him. This is his doing. This does not mean I plan to disregard your advice, Pattle. You have a point. I shall couch the French poem in a manner more pleasing to the common man. They like to feel their literature, rather than think it. Smells, sounds, sights, the haptic sense of touch, and of course, it must virtually wallow in emotion!”
“That’s the ticket,” Coffen said, nodding his approbation. “I do like a good wallow.”
“Yes, you are everyman. I shall use you as my sounding board. Now tell me what you think of this.”
Coffen looked around like a baited animal. “Ah, there’s the carriage!” he exclaimed, and darted to the door before Pattle could bethump him with any more discussion of poetry.
They drove to Grosvenor Square, just as the To Be Sold sign was being removed.
“We’re too late!” Coffen said in a voice of doom. “He’s already bought it for her. Didn’t waste any time, did he?”
“Let us speak to the fellow removing the sign. He’s no common laborer. Those kersey small clothes and crimson waistcoat bespeak a man of business. The estate agent, likely.”
He dismounted and went forward, lifting his curled beaver and smiling. He was back within two minutes.
“Well, was it Luten that bought it?” Coffen demanded.
“No, it was a company, but the fellow hinted that it was bought for a lady.”
“What company—and what lady?”
“An aunt lady. Need I say more? A gentleman always claims his chère amie is a close relative when his aim is to make her respectable. The company is one of those anonymous outfits MPs use to hide their business dealings. Luten has a couple of them to my knowledge. The agent hinted it is owned by a melord.”
“Luten, the bounder!”
Prance sat, dejected. He felt his enthusiasm for the French poem seeping away. In fact, he felt as jaded as Lord Byron and wondered if he shouldn’t turn his hand to a cynical love poem on the fallibility of ladies in general, and French courtesans in particular.
“We shall beard the lion in his den,” he said.
“I don’t know about that, but I’ll dashed well have a word with Luten,” Coffen said, and gave the draw cord an angry jerk.
Chapter Twelve
“I shall certainly not want to come here to have my portrait done,” Corinne said, peering from the carriage window out to a mean, narrow alley. Dust eddies rose from under the wheels as they lumbered over the uncobbled ground. Clapboard buildings, once a jaunty red but now faded to brick color, leaned against each other for support like drunken derelicts. Journals and discarded playbills weathered to papier-mâché by time and the elements clung like barnacles to the base of the buildings. “Why does Boisvert not remove to a better part of town, if he is successful?”
“Perhaps he will, when his fame spreads as a result of doing your picture,” Luten replied.
She peered at him from the side of her eyes. “I always suspect you are up to something when you pour on the butter at this rate, Luten. And why, pray, do I have the honor of driving in your hunting carriage?”
“We are traveling incognito. You were always curious about this rig. Now that we are about to wed, I plan to be rid of it. I thought you might like to see what it’s like. No concealed mattress, you see. No mirrors installed on the ceiling. Really a very boring carriage.”
“I didn’t ask you to be rid of it! It might come in useful after we are married.”
“That is very lenient of you, my dear.”
“For spying on villains, I mean, not its former use!” She stopped, blinked twice, and said, “What do you mean, we are traveling incognito?”
“It means, hopefully, we shall not be recognized.”
“I know that! But why?”
“I don’t want Boisvert boasting to all his sitters that he is painting Lady deCoventry. After he removes his studio to some more polite address and becomes respectable, but for the meanwhile...”
Corinne snorted genteelly. “What a whisker. When did you ever care about such things?”
“When I became an engaged man. I am turning over a new leaf, Mrs. Grundy.”
The carriage drew to a stop at the end of the alley, in front of a door bearing a shingle sign: Atelier, M. Boisvert. Through the window they caught a glimpse of the signs of Boisvert’s profession. Canvases stacked against walls, a worktable holding oils and pigments, soiled rags and bottles of brushes, a few easels with canvases propped on them. The shop was empty of clients. Only one head was visible through the window.
Luten tapped on the door and stepped into a modest room that reeked of turpentine and linseed oil, and beneath the sharp smell, the heavier aroma of boiled cabbage and gammon. Obviously Boisvert lived on the premises.
He was a stocky, muscular man in his mid-thirties with blue eyes and crinkly hair the tawny golden orange color of a cocker spaniel. He wore the customary artist’s smock, liberally spotted with p
igments of all hues. Were it not for his outfit, he would never have been taken for an artist. He lacked the dreamy quality. His sharp, ruddy face suggested a farmer. He did not look French either, despite his name, but when he spoke, his voice held the trace of an accent. His blue eyes were open wide in surprise at the elegance of his clients.
“Can I help you, sir, ma’am?” he asked, bowing to them both.
Luten preferred his hand. “Mr. Lucas, and my wife. We are visiting London for a few days. I would like to have my bride’s portrait taken before we return to Devonshire.” His drawling accent had turned to a clipped, provincial curtness.
As Corinne smiled and performed an abbreviated curtsy, she made a mental note not to remove her gloves. While Luten chatted to Boisvert, she had a moment to consider this visit.
Luten would not care a fig about having her portrait taken by an unstylish artist in an out-of-the-way place. In fact, he would delight in it. A small part of the Berkeley Brigade’s reputation was based on being outrageous. So why had Luten driven his hunting carriage? He wasn’t here because he wanted her portrait. He thought Boisvert was involved in the business of Coffen’s Poussin!
“I am very busy at the moment,” Boisvert said, wrinkling up his brow. “You see the many works in progress.” His sweeping arm indicated three easels with canvases propped on them. “I regret— How long are you in town?”
“A week,” Luten replied. “Money is no object,” he added, with an ingratiating smile that sat ill on his haughty face. “You come highly recommended.”
“That is very kind. Who did you say recommended me?”
“Who was that lady we met at the party the other night, dear?” Luten asked Corinne.
“Oh la,” she said, tossing up her hands. “There were so many people there I never met before. The lady in the green gown with the funny red hair, was it not?”
Luten didn’t volunteer a name. “We had the devil of a time finding your place,” he said, strolling in and peering all about.
“I plan to move soon. You must forgive...” Again Boisvert swept his arm about vaguely.
“It was only a head-and-shoulders picture we wanted,” Luten said. “That wouldn’t take long, would it? We would really appreciate it. There is no decent artist near Tiverton.”
“Lord knows when we shall get to London again,” Corinne added, with a beseeching smile at the artist.
It was not often that Boisvert had such a pretty model. His usual customers were merchants with heavy jowls and lined faces, and often their matronly wives.
“Perhaps I could squeeze you in,” he said.
Luten clapped his shoulder. “There’s a good fellow,” he said in that hearty, country voice. He turned to Corinne. “You set up the details with Boisvert, dear. I’ll just take a peek about at what work he is doing. You don’t mind, Boisvert? Can’t buy a pig in a poke, eh? Oh, this is dandy! Look at this church, dear. Didn’t we see it yesterday?”
Corinne sensed that Luten was looking for something, presumably the copy of the Poussin, and after glancing at the painting of a church, she made an effort to distract Boisvert. But why would Luten think the copy was here? Surely Chamaude would have it.
“Do you always paint here, Mr. Boisvert?” she asked, looking about doubtfully. “Or could you come to—to our hotel? The Clarendon,” she suggested, and immediately wondered if a country couple would put up at such a stylish hotel.
“I prefer to work here, where I have all my equipment handy, and the light is good. I have had the window enlarged. I have a selection of curtains I use for a backdrop.” He led her to a corner, where various rich stuffs were hung on rods. She thumbed through them, holding each up to her face, looking for his opinion.
“Do you think this green one might do? My eyes are green,” she added, fluttering her long lashes.
“It is a little dark. I thought something lighter, to contrast with your black hair.”
“This one?” she suggested, fingering a yellow velvet.
“I was thinking of red, if you don’t think it too gaudy. And a white gown to recall your recent marriage. The red curtain would cast rose highlights on the white. With perhaps some jewelry ...” His eyes, bright with anticipation, darted over his model. He wanted to do more than a head-and-shoulders portrait. That figure deserved immortalizing.
“My diamonds!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Mr. Lucas gave them to me as a wedding gift,” she said, and went on with a few other artless remarks.
While she entertained Boisvert, Luten quickly glanced at the works on the easels. They were all partially finished portraits, two of aging merchants, one of a severe lady with a scowl that would challenge da Vinci’s genius to make her look anything but an antidote. The Watteau was not there.
He peered over his shoulder to see that Boisvert was enjoying his flirtation with Corinne, then turned to the other side of the room, where canvases were stacked against the wall, two or three deep. Behind a stretched canvas primed for paint, he saw the edge of a painting protruding. He lifted the canvas in front; peering behind it, he found himself staring at the Watteau. It was still in its frame. He had brought a grease pencil for the purpose of marking it. He leaned over and drew a small black dot in the upper right corner, put the stretched canvas back in place, and turned around to join the others.
“All set, dear?” he asked. “You know we were to visit my aunt for tea.” He turned aside to Boisvert. “Rich as a nabob, and no children. Must do the pretty.”
“Mr. Boisvert has agreed to come to the hotel to do my picture,” she said. “Is that not kind of him, Mr. Lucas? We thought tomorrow afternoon, around three. You have that business meeting, you recall. My dresser will be with us,” she added with a shy smile to appease her groom’s proprietorial instincts.
“Three it is. The Clarendon. What suite are we in, dear?”
“The Primrose suite,” she said without blinking.
The gentlemen settled on a fee, then Luten took Corinne’s elbow and they went out to the waiting carriage.
Before they had gone two paces, she turned on Luten. “Don’t think you have conned me, Luten. You didn’t want a portrait of me.”
“I do!”
“But not by Boisvert. I know that charade had to do with Coffen’s Poussin. Why do you think Boisvert has it?”
“It has to be somewhere. I felt you were not eager for me to visit Yvonne again.”
“Was the Poussin there?”
“No.”
Corinne felt a little guilty. Was her jealousy preventing Luten from proving Chamaude a thief? She still disliked his calling on Chamaude, however.
She gave a little sniff and said in an injured tone, “Well, you didn’t want an informal picture of me for your own sole enjoyment, as you claimed.”
“Beauty should be shared—to a point.”
“Rubbish. You just wanted an excuse to prowl about Boisvert’s atelier. I assume he is the fellow making Chamaude’s copies for her. How did you find out?”
“I had Winkle watch her house,” he said. “She sent a footman there with a picture this morning. It was the Watteau. I saw it hidden behind another canvas in the studio.”
“The painting you told her you were interested in! She said it wasn’t for sale when I admired it. Or actually I believe it was Yarrow who said it.”
“She probably felt she could wring a higher price out of me. I marked it so I could identify the original if she tries to palm off a copy on me.”
“You plan to buy it, then?” she asked, stiffening. How should he buy it without calling on Chamaude again?
“I’ll wait and see if she contacts me. It will take Boisvert a few days to make the copy and age it to make it look older than brand-new.”
“I doubt she’d try to sell you a forgery.” Luten could not reveal how he had overcome this difficulty without admitting he had called on Chamaude, so he said nothing. “So why is she having a copy made?” she asked.
“To keep for herself,
perhaps, as she is so fond of it.”
“Let me know if she contacts you. Another point occurs to me. Why didn’t you tell me I was to be Mrs. Lucas, from Tiverton?”
“I only thought of it after we were in the shop. I was sure you could carry it off—as you did, admirably.”
“I’m not wearing a wedding ring—or even an engagement ring,” she added. It rankled a little that Luten was in no rush to put a ring on her finger. “If I hadn’t thought to leave my gloves on, it would have given away the charade.”
“I’ll send to the abbey for the family engagement ring. It was this inheritance in Somerset that put it out of my mind.”
Corinne considered this a moment, not quite pleased at his forgetting to do it sooner. “What are we to do about Boisvert’s visit to the Clarendon? Are we actually to hire a suite there as Mr. and Mrs. Lucas? He’ll smell a rat if we aren’t there when he calls.”
“I’ll drop him a line canceling the sitting. Tell him we were called back to Devonshire in a great hurry. Although actually I wouldn’t mind another visit to just check and see that he is making a copy of the Watteau. He might just be cleaning it.”
“I think we can assume he’s going to make a copy,” she said, always ready to suspect the worst of Chamaude, “but I doubt she’ll try to palm it off on you. When both you and I expressed interest in it, she realized it has a broad appeal and plans to put it up for sale.”
A glinting smile peeped out. “You’re probably right. It would be fun to visit the Clarendon incognito as a married couple, though.”
“We would be recognized in a minute. So you will let Boisvert know we have changed our minds?”
“I’ll leave word for him at the hotel. That will ensure that the studio is empty tomorrow at three. A good chance to slip in and investigate. The back door will probably yield to my passe-partout. As he claimed to be busy, I assume he plans to get to work on the Watteau at once.”
“We’ll keep our ears on the stretch to discover who buys it. Boisvert seems like such a nice little man,” she said, rather sadly. “Of course, he might be perfectly innocent. Chamaude need not tell him why she wants her pictures copied. He is obviously not sharing the profits. His studio is bleak.”
