A Thief in the Nude

by Olivia Waite

  Slowly, Hecuba’s form took shape in an attitude he recalled from the night before. She lay completely nude and lounging on her right side, languid and sated, eyes mostly but not entirely closed—just a hint of flutter on the lowered lids as though she were going to awake in the very next moment. Her skin was warm, flushed, her hair a tangle of paler golds and oranges than he’d used in Circe or for the water nymph.

  John curled her left arm at her waist and stretched the other out in a graceful line, the portion near the shoulder pillowing her head, her hand hanging off the bed with fingers drowsily arched. Aurora, he would call it, after the goddess of rosy-fingered dawn. He’d always thought her friendlier than the other Olympians—more willing to take mortal lovers, more free to enjoy the physical pleasures they brought her. Not all her paramours had stories that ended happily, but she seemed to treat them with more warmth and affection than did Apollo or Venus or the perpetually callous Zeus.

  At length he stood back and surveyed his own work. It was nearly finished, but not quite. The curve of Hecuba’s hip, the length of her leg, the delicate expression on her face, these were all just as he pictured them. But something was missing...

  His brush moved almost without conscious volition, gathering zinc white and just a hint of Indian yellow for contrast. A few strokes, a few shadows and there it was: his cravat, draped around her wrist, the linen’s creased ends falling pale against the warmer color of the bedclothes.

  There. The rightness of it, the solidity of that detail anchored the whole idea. The initial figure was a sleeping goddess, ethereal and untouchable, but that cravat was tied around the arm of a living, breathing woman of mortal flesh and blood. A woman bringing light and passion, a woman who lit him up like a bonfire.

  This was no casual love affair for him, not anymore.

  And this painting was the closest he’d come to an honest portrait in five years.

  He’d always loved doing portraits but he’d stopped when his past efforts had been made the butt of family jokes and constant teasing. Little things, perhaps, no different than the much-repeated stories about his brother’s school pranks or how his sister had learned to curse by eavesdropping on the stableboys. John’s family, in short, treated his painting as something he would eventually outgrow and put aside as childish and frivolous. It seemed like a hobby to them, a quirk, rather than the calling John knew it to be.

  This constant disregard had wormed its way beneath John’s skin and bitten deep. It had clumsied his fingers and filled his heart with a creeping, deathless anxiety. How dare he think he was creating anything like art? Wasn’t it all just a vain and expensive form of self-gratification? Simon’s insinuations about nude models and prurient painters had insulted him not because they were vulgar—though they certainly were—but because they assumed that he could have no motive other than sexual for being interested in painting people. In reality John was often transfixed by the way light fell on someone’s hair or the angle at which another person held their head or the movement of hands or the moment right before someone smiled, when you could see it in their eyes but not yet in their mouth. There were entire gestural languages there to be deciphered—masters had tried for centuries past, and John yearned to be counted among their number.

  How appalling it was to think he’d let whole years pass in quiet despair, a prisoner of fear and habit, when he could have been trying and failing and learning. His time was not endless, and he’d wasted quite enough of it.

  He wanted painting in his life again.

  And he wanted Hecuba Jones. All of her. He was more than willing to give all of himself in return—though he doubted the exchange was a fair one. She’d already given him more than he could ever hope to repay.

  His eye wandered over to a painting leaning against the wall. It was the third C. F. Jones, he realized—Hecuba had forgotten to take it with her this morning in her rush to escape.

  There was certainly no way he could take it to her now. They’d been formally introduced, certainly, but one did not go handing out expensive paintings to ladies one had only publicly talked to once. It would be a scandal, though probably not a ruinous one.

  But, he realized with a grin, one could offer a lady a bouquet. Even a debutante. Even a debutante one had only just met.

  With no time to waste, John began promptly to work.

  It was afternoon and Hecuba was staring at the wallpaper. This was because the wallpaper, old and familiar though it was, was significantly more interesting than Mr. Bertram Egley, who was sitting beside Hecuba staring with puzzlement into his teacup.

  “Do you think I’ve added enough lemon, Miss Jones?” he inquired.

  How many lemons do idiots usually take in their tea? “I couldn’t say,” Hecuba replied.

  “I’m just not sure one slice is enough,” he went on, sniffing at the rapidly cooling surface of the tea. “But two may be too many and upset the balance of flavors.”

  Hecuba regretted the fact that lemons were the sharpest thing on the tea tray. “Mmm,” she murmured, as uninterested a sound she could manage without being actually rude.

  Mr. Egley’s philosophical inquisition continued, unfortunately. “Some people might add sugar to counteract the acidity of the fruit, but I find that too much of that makes the beverage cloying and equally unappetizing.” He sniffed again at the tea.

  Hecuba drank from her own cup and wished it were deep enough to drown in.

  On the other side of the room, Mr. Egley’s elder brother Harold was smiling at Evangeline, whose eyes were lowered demurely. Hecuba knew her Aunt Pym hoped they would make a match of it, though tongues would wag if Evangeline was betrothed before her elder sister. Anne was sitting beside her mother, her eyes slightly glazed over, though her politely attentive expression remained perfectly starched and unspoiled.

  Mr. Bertram Egley began to critique the crumpets.

  Hecuba’s knuckles went white as she folded her hands in her lap. Teatime visits were the bane of her existence. Hour upon hour of rote conversation, false smiles and tiny advances made toward mediocre ends. Hecuba would have nothing to show for her time at the end of the day. And yet the world expected her to flatter and please and ensnare some stiff-necked, stiff-brained gentleman just so this endless cycle of tedium could swallow all her remaining hours like the largest and laziest of monsters.

  The sooner she was on her own, the better. She had half the paintings she needed and an arrangement that would gain her the others. Once she had collected all four, her real life could begin.

  She had been in such a hurry this morning to leave Rushmore’s house that she’d forgotten about the painting. But then she hadn’t actually posed for a portrait last night, either—it was entirely possible that Rushmore would insist on lengthening the whole affair by at least another night so he might have the full four paintings he’d demanded. Hecuba allowed that an additional night with Rushmore was an enticing prospect. But it could go no further than that.

  She allowed as well that her dread of their separation was getting stronger. She could feel its cold fingers wrapped around her beating heart, squeezing and stifling the strength of that muscle. To tear herself free of that grip would leave scars behind, scars that might never fully heal.

  But much as she loathed the thought of the pain to come, Hecuba could not regret the choices she’d made that had led her to Rushmore’s bed. He’d opened up her world in a very significant way. The physical pleasures had been illuminating, of course, but what she would miss most was the feeling that there were no masks or barriers between herself and another person. The sheer intimacy of sharing one’s mind and—yes, she would admit it—one’s heart with a passionate, intelligent partner, who could appreciate her opinions even if he didn’t always agree.

  Hecuba pulled her thoughts away from such a road lest they tempt her to weep— though she suspected that many before her had wept upon being forced into conversation with Mr. Bertram Egley. That gentleman was now mercifully si
lent and looking at the door, which was swinging open for the butler to announce and admit a new guest.

  “The Honorable John Rushmore.”

  Hecuba’s every muscle tightened in shock.

  It was indeed Rushmore, decently clothed for once and grinning at her while Anne made the introductions to the other guests. Hecuba realized she’d never seen him in daylight before—but a more minute examination of the changes this made to his appearance would have to wait, as the gentleman had now pulled out from behind his back the most hideously large bouquet Hecuba had ever seen in her life. It looked like a small shrubbery, improbably studded with an overabundance of flowers, assembled apparently at random and with no regard for sense or symmetry.

  “Dear Lord,” Mr. Bertram Egley whispered in horror, “the fuchsias.”

  For the first time in all their acquaintance, Hecuba was inclined to agree with him. She pushed herself up from her chair as Rushmore approached, brandishing the floral monstrosity like the weapon it was.

  “My dear Miss Jones,” he said and now he was close enough for her to see the light of mischief in his eyes, “I have brought you something rather special.”

  He presented her with the monster, tilting it slightly forward so she was looking right down into the heart of the beast. She let her eyes roam in horror from the roses to the lilies to the inexplicable large-bladed leaves of grass—and that was when she noticed that all those eye-searing blooms had been woven around a thick, rolled core of canvas.

  Her eyes darted back up to his and he nodded very slightly.

  The madman had brought her the third painting hidden in plain sight. In that moment, Hecuba tumbled into love with John Rushmore.

  It was the worst possible discovery at the worst possible time.

  Everyone was watching; she had to say something. She dredged up a smile from some deep inner reserve and took the massive bouquet from Rushmore’s hands. “Why thank you, Mr. Rushmore, for such an exuberant gift—and so impressively sized, too.”

  He nearly choked on a laugh and bowed to cover it. Mr. Egley coughed and Aunt Pym hastily cleared her throat. “Hecuba,” she said, “please put Mr. Rushmore’s bouquet somewhere...appropriate.”

  There was no appropriate place for something so ghastly inappropriate—gracious, were those pine boughs in there?—but Hecuba took advantage of the opportunity to get the painting into a safe place. Five minutes’ quick work left leaves and petals scattered all over the coverlet on her bed, but she was able to unroll the painting at last.

  The canvas was small, only a few handspans in width. What it depicted was Artemisia, Hecuba’s mother’s sly self-portrait as the famous female painter of centuries past. A slim, dark-haired woman in modern dress faced the viewer, palette and paintbrush in her hand. A nearby easel showed a perfect copy in miniature of Judith Slaying Holofernes—two women in antique robes holding down a bare-chested man, while the steelier-eyed of the two sawed at his neck with a sword. The arresting forms and vivid gore of the miniature were contrasted with the pale sunlight and peaceful scene of the dark-haired painter—yet her eyes, too, were steely as they looked back at the viewer, one corner of her mouth lifted at a joke known only to herself. The brushwork was restrained and meticulous, shadows created by the merest hint of a line, clear forms appearing out of minute suggestions of color.

  It was impossible to say whether the picture’s title referred to the dark-haired woman or to the fact that the painting within a painting was a copy of one of the historical Artemisia’s most famous works. Cynthia Jones had died before her daughter had been able to ask the question.

  Hecuba’s fingers traced briefly over her mother’s painted face, careful not to press too hard and crack the delicate surface. This was the only self-portrait C. F. Jones had ever allowed herself. Even there she had to hide within layers of history and veiled allusion, lest her identity be revealed to the embarrassment of her well-born family. Hecuba could only imagine the strength and dedication it had taken to keep working around and against such strictures. Her Aunt Pym had found it incomprehensible.

  John Rushmore would have understood completely.

  No wonder she loved him. But what on earth could she do about it?

  Perhaps—it was the tiniest seedling of hope, but for the first time Hecuba allowed it to take root—perhaps he would understand her plans for her future as well. He couldn’t be part of them, not officially, as where Hecuba was going no gentleman could follow without destroying his own social standing. But then they weren’t really officially connected now, were they? Why shouldn’t they preserve an affair that was so rewarding and pleasurable for them both? As long as it was kept a secret, they would have nothing to worry about.

  Perhaps she didn’t have to lose him after all.

  The idea made her breathless, so she took a few moments to compose herself before heading back downstairs. When she returned to the parlor, she immediately noticed a new geography. Evangeline was still seated beside Harold Egley, but Bertram Egley was now being plied with cake by Aunt Pym while Rushmore lounged in Mr. Egley’s abandoned seat.

  Anne—a smiling, blushing Anne leaning forward with enthusiasm—had taken Hecuba’s chair.

  Hecuba could spot the hand of her matrimony-minded aunt in this. It was only natural that the social ivy should yearn to cling to the wealthy and well-featured younger brother of an earl. But did Anne have to look so very becoming in that particular shade of pink? And did she have to have so charming a laugh?

  Jealously curled like a serpent in the belly. Hecuba narrowed her eyes.

  Ignoring her Aunt Pym’s meaningful glances, she strode over and sat on a sofa to Rushmore’s left. He turned at once to face her, which Hecuba was forced to admit soothed the serpent’s sting a little. “Your cousin was just telling me, Miss Jones, that you are in the habit of distilling your own pigments.”

  Hecuba had been mustering a tart something or other for Rushmore’s benefit, but this simple statement set her off course.

  Anne, behind Rushmore, grinned encouragingly. “She’s taken over half of the conservatory,” said her cousin, while Hecuba gaped. “Mother scolds her sometimes when the chemical smell leaks into other areas of the house.”

  “If she wouldn’t keep closing the windows, she wouldn’t have to worry so much,” Hecuba retorted while Rushmore chuckled. “I made a batch of vermillion last week and it took hours for the fumes to dissipate. Closing the windows was more than a little dangerous—and it’s not as though she does any gardening there herself.”

  “I should like to see these colors of yours sometime,” Rushmore said. “You may not know it, Miss Jones, but I am something of a painter myself.”

  “Only something, Mr. Rushmore?” Hecuba shook her head in mock disapproval. “You will have to be a complete painter if you hope to impress me.”

  “Give me the right pigments, Miss Jones, and I promise I shall.” He leaned forward, conspiracy on his lips and challenge in his eyes. “The vermillion, perhaps?”

  Anne interrupted, leaping to her feet. “I know where it’s kept—I’ll fetch it.” Her mother sent her a stern glance, intended no doubt to intimidate the girl back into her seat beside the eligible gentleman. Anne ignored this entirely and breezed from the room.

  Aunt Pym’s vengeance for this was swift and cruel: she sent Mr. Bertram Egley over with a cup of tea for Rushmore. “Lemon or cream, sir?” he inquired. “I’d recommend one slice of lemon, though it still isn’t a perfect balance of flavors.”

  Rushmore thanked him and put two slices of lemon in his tea. “I’ve always appreciated a little extra tartness,” he replied, smiling sidelong at Hecuba.

  This man had seen and touched every inch of her, had caused her to curse and beg and berate him for who knows how many things—yet even a slantwise compliment from him could make her blush with pleasure. Oh, she was a sorry case indeed.

  “Besides,” Rushmore went on to the oblivious Egley, “you must know that the longer the tea steeps,
the more robust the brew and the more lemon you can add without fear.”

  Mr. Egley’s face lit up. “Of course, you are right!” he exclaimed and hurried back to where Aunt Pym was supervising Evangeline’s pouring of the new pot of tea. Soon he returned with two more cups—one for himself and one for Hecuba, which he presented with a not-ungraceful flourish.

  She took a sip just to be polite. Lemon and the barest hint of sugar twined around the richer flavors like cats around a well-loved ankle. It was easily the most delicious cup of anything she’d ever tasted in her life. She blinked in surprise. “Why, Mr. Egley, this is wonderful!”

  He reddened and dropped his eyes. “I do so like to get these things right,” he said. “Your cousin has an instinct for a well-brewed pot as well.” With a slight bow, he crossed the room and took a seat beside Evangeline, who brightened visibly and began chatting with rather more than her usual animation.

  His elder brother frowned before being distracted by Aunt Pym.

  Hecuba took another sip of tea. Divine. “I should have more patience with Mr. Egley in future.”

  Rushmore considered the man, who had absorbed Evangeline in a debate on the merits of various cakes. “I’d like to get his opinion on port someday,” he said. “A palate like his is a rare thing indeed.”

  “And yet you observed it after a minute’s acquaintance,” Hecuba said. “I’ve known the man for months and it never crossed my mind to take him seriously.”

  “Oh, he shouldn’t be taken entirely seriously,” Rushmore admitted. “But I like to think that everyone has some element of genius in them. The trick is to find it. Mr. Egley’s was far more apparent than most.”

  Hecuba considered this for a long moment. “What’s mine?”

  His smile was full of awareness, the knowing look he usually wore in the nights they shared, and it took her breath away. “I can think of a few things you do exceptionally well,” he teased, but then the glint in his eyes became a steadier light. “But I think the base and bedrock of your genius is this, Miss Jones—you have a great talent for remaking the world around you.”