Chapter Six
Whoever had said ignorance was bliss was an infamous liar.
Eleanor cocked her head to the left, then to the right, but it was no use. Try as she might, she couldn’t think of one insipid comment to make about the painting. After three days of pretending to be a half-wit, her brain had at last rebelled. It refused to produce a single inane observation.
Ignorance, as it happened, was dreadfully hard work.
Camden West studied her, waiting for her to say something about Benjamin West’s painting Cupid Stung by a Bee.
But she had nothing to say. Her fountain of foolishness had run dry.
Blast it. She’d been looking forward to the Royal Academy’s exhibit. She’d planned to view the selection of paintings and drawings at her leisure, but now her visit was spoiled by Camden West, who’d insisted on escorting her here today.
Three days. Three endless days, during which time he’d called on her three times, taken her on three afternoon drives in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour, escorted her to Lady Davenport’s musical evening, and monopolized her dance card at Lord and Lady Henslow’s masque ball. All of London was gossiping about them, and her mother had given her a speculative look at breakfast this morning.
Three days, and he’d not yet tired of his pursuit. She couldn’t account for it. She’d been so staggeringly silly she could hardly stand herself anymore. Since their arrival at the Royal Academy she’d confused a Raeburn portrait with one of Mr. Wilkie’s landscapes, and referred to Mr. Beechey’s portrait of the Duke of Cambridge as “lopsided.”
Camden West hadn’t so much as twitched an eye.
“Well? What do you think of the painting, Lady Eleanor?”
Ellie bit her lip with annoyance. How condescending he sounded! No doubt he was smirking at her, his full, handsome lips lifted at the corners.
She stole a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. Infuriating man. He was smirking. Oh, how she’d love to put him in his place. She longed to say that though she preferred Reynolds’ work to West’s, she thought West’s portrayal of Venus, with her cold, detached profile, was a fine example of the Neo-classical school.
“The poor child,” she said instead. “He’s rather pretty, isn’t he? Whatever is the matter with him?”
“He’s been stung by a bee. If you look here, my lady,” he pointed to the brass plaque displayed underneath the painting, “you’ll see the work is titled Cupid Stung by a Bee.”
Eleanor hadn’t thought it possible for him to become more condescending, but she hadn’t given him enough credit. She gritted her teeth to bite back a sharp retort, and squinted at the plaque. “Ah, so it does. But I don’t see a bee in this painting. Where do you suppose the bee is?”
He made a noise that sounded like a hastily smothered snort.
“I believe we’re meant to imagine the bee has come and gone already. See how Venus is holding Cupid’s hand? It looks as if she’s inspecting the sting.”
“Venus?” Eleanor moved so close to the painting her nose nearly brushed the canvas. “Where?”
Mr. West cleared his throat. “Cupid’s mother, Lady Eleanor. Venus. Perhaps if you back up a bit you’ll gain a better understanding of the composition in its entirety.”
“Who, the half-dressed lady reclining on the couch?” Eleanor sniffed. “She looks like a scold.”
He appeared not to know what to say to this, and Eleanor felt a surge of hope. Surely speechlessness was a good sign? “Mr. Thompson’s Eurydice is in questionable taste,” she said, determined to press her advantage. “Her pose is vulgar, and I don’t think the infernal regions an appropriate subject for ladies. Don’t you agree, Mr. West?”
Mr. West did not appear to agree. In fact, if she could judge from the irritated flush on his cheeks, he wished someone would drag her to the infernal regions, right along with Eurydice.
Ah, wonderful—a crack in his façade. “As for William Westall’s view of Richmond—”
“Denny! Over here!”
Eleanor didn’t recognize the high-pitched voice, or the name Denny, and she wouldn’t have paid the shout any mind at all, except Mr. West’s gaze jerked from her face over her shoulder and fixed there with such an odd expression, such a surprising combination of exasperation and affection, Eleanor turned at once to locate the source of the voice.
Julian West was walking toward them from the other end of the hall. He held a fair-haired young girl, who looked to be no more than eleven or twelve years old, by the hand. “Ah, here you are, Cam. Amelia wouldn’t rest until we found you. Good afternoon, Lady Eleanor,” he added, with a polite bow.
Eleanor gave him a nod, her face as stiff and cold as Venus’s. He might act the gentleman if he pleased, but she hadn’t forgotten his infamous behavior toward her sister. Charlotte still hadn’t told her the whole story, but she knew enough.
Julian West was as guilty as the bee that stung Cupid.
She half-turned away from him to indicate her displeasure, but she couldn’t resist a peek at him from the corner of her eye, just to see if he . . .
Yes, blast it. Unbearably handsome, much as his cousin was. Tall, with dark, tousled hair and a wide, infectious smile. Goodness. She didn’t approve of Charlotte’s behavior in the least, but even Eleanor could understand how a man such as this could tempt a lady into an indiscretion.
She swept a resentful gaze over Camden and Julian West. How maddening the two of them should look so absurdly handsome standing there together, as if they were a painting themselves, rendered in vibrant colors and loving detail by a besotted artist’s brush. Zeus and Apollo, perhaps?
Eleanor curled her lip. Zeus and Apollo, indeed. More like Lucifer and his mirror image.
“Uncle Julian said we might see the pictures today, Denny.”
Eleanor peered down at the girl, who appeared to be speaking to Camden West.
Denny?
Mr. West held out his hand to her. “It’s odd, Julian, but I don’t recall you saying you intended to visit the Royal Academy’s exhibition today. Whatever could have tempted you here, I wonder?”
Julian shrugged. “Nothing less than a love of art, cousin, and a concern for Amelia’s classical education.”
The girl, Amelia, took Mr. West’s hand. In her other hand she held an artist’s box. She looked up at Eleanor with a shy smile, then turned her attention back to Camden West. “I’ve brought my box with me. Mightn’t I stay, and copy some pictures?”
Amelia looked from one adult to the next, her dark eyes pleading, and Eleanor had the strangest urge to sink to her knees, take the child in her arms and reassure her that yes, of course she might stay. She hadn’t the vaguest notion who this child might be, but she pled so prettily, and she was so positively cherubic, with her cloud of blonde hair and her dark, intelligent eyes.
Eleanor couldn’t imagine how anyone could refuse her anything.
Except perhaps Camden West, who, like Lucifer, must hate cherubs, and would no doubt send this one back from where she’d come—
“Well, I suppose we can’t send you away without a sketch or two.” He ruffled her hair. “Can we, minx?”
Eleanor gaped at him, dumbfounded. He’d sounded almost . . . human. No, more than that. Worse than that. His soft, teasing voice made her skin prickle with awareness, as if someone had slipped a finger inside her gown to stroke her neck.
He looked as if he couldn’t bear to disappoint the child, either. He chucked her under the chin, then placed a gentle hand on her head and turned her toward Eleanor. “Since you will stay, Amelia, you must make your curtsy to Lady Eleanor Sutherland. My lady, this is my sister, Miss Amelia West.”
His sister? How odd. Lucifer didn’t have a sister, did he?
She hadn’t any time to sort it out, however, for Amelia West sank into a dainty curtsy before her. “How do you do, Lady Eleanor?”
For the first time since Mr. West arrived in Mayfair to collect her this morning, the steel stiffening Eleanor’s spine began to melt. She held out her hand to the little girl. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss West.”
Amelia wrapped her small fingers around Eleanor’s. “Are you a real lady?”
“Amelia,” Julian West began, but Eleanor shook her head at him. She leaned down so she could look into the child’s face. “Yes. My father was an earl.”
Amelia hesitated for a moment, then said in a rush, “What does it feel like, to be a real lady?”
“Hmmm.” Eleanor closed her eyes and kept her face grave as she pretended to give this question the utmost consideration. After a moment she opened them. “I think,” she said, smiling at Amelia, “it feels quite the same as not being one.”
Amelia’s eyes opened wide in surprise, then she laughed. “How silly. It doesn’t really!”
Eleanor, charmed by the girl’s reaction, couldn’t help but return the laugh. “Oh, yes. Really.”
Her smile faded, however, as soon as she straightened and caught the look of pleased surprise on Camden West’s face. Eleanor’s heart lurched in her chest. She’d forgotten herself for a moment, and she couldn’t afford to do so again. She’d managed to annoy him with her chatter today, and she didn’t intend to lose the ground she’d gained.
Mr. West offered his arm. “Shall we go view Mr. Lawrence’s work? His portrait of the Duke of York is said to be a good likeness.”
Eleanor took the proffered arm with an inward sigh. Thomas Lawrence was one of her favorite painters, and she’d particularly wanted to see his portraits, but now instead of rational artistic observations, she’d be compelled to feign ignorance. Whatever would she find say about the Duke of York’s portrait? Perhaps she could pretend to mistake him for Prinny . . .
A small hand cupped her elbow. Startled, Eleanor looked down to find Amelia grinning up at her. “Is Mr. Lawrence a fine artist, Lady Eleanor?”
Eleanor gave Camden West a sidelong glance. “He’s said to be by those who know such things, yes.”
“Oh.” Amelia nodded, but before Eleanor could congratulate herself on her vague answer, the child spoke again. “Do you think he’s a fine artist?”
Eleanor looked down into Amelia’s trusting face. For pity’s sake. Was she to be made to lie to this sweet child now? Or, worse, fill her head with ridiculous untruths about Mr. Lawrence’s paintings? She hated to mislead a young artist, yet at the same time she was aware of Mr. West to her left, listening to her every word.
She pressed her lips together. Very well. She’d find a way to get rid of Camden West for long enough to give Amelia an abbreviated lesson on Thomas Lawrence. “Shall we see what we think when we view his paintings?”
Amelia, satisfied with this answer, nodded and walked along at Eleanor’s side. When they arrived at the part of the exhibit featuring Mr. Lawrence’s work, Eleanor kept hold of Amelia, but released Mr. West’s arm. “There’s the Duke.” She nodded at the Duke of York’s portrait. “I believe you wished to see it?”
Mr. West raised an eyebrow. “You don’t wish to see it?”
“I did see it. It’s just there.”
Before he could reply, she turned back to Amelia. “Shall we go to the other end of the hall to see the portrait of Lady Leicester? Look, Mr. Lawrence has painted her as Hope, and her gown is a lovely shade of russet.”
She led the child down to the other end of the hall, careful to natter on about the gown until she was out of earshot of both Mr. Wests, who stayed where they were to admire the Duke.
“You know, Miss West,” she said, as soon as they were alone, “now we’ve had a chance to see his work, I believe I do think Mr. Lawrence a very fine artist. Do you like this picture of Lady Leicester?”
Amelia gazed at the painting for a moment. “Yes. Her face is peaceful, and she looks as if she’s floating, rather like an angel.”
“She does, indeed. Now, won’t you open your box and see if you can sketch Lady Leicester’s likeness from her portrait? Mr. Lawrence learned to paint by copying other artist’s portraits when he was young, too.”
“He did?” Amelia looked impressed with this information. She opened her box and pulled out a sketching pencil and some blank sheets of paper.
Eleanor nodded. “Oh, yes. He practiced and practiced, and when he was a young man he painted a portrait of Queen Charlotte, and it was such a true likeness he became quite famous for it, and now he’s considered one of England’s finest Romantic painters. Do you know what it means to be a Romantic painter?”
Amelia turned back to Lady Leicester. “Well, the word romantic has to do with love, but with painting it doesn’t mean the same thing, does it?”
“Not quite, no. It means an artist like Mr. Lawrence is skilled at expressing emotion through his paintings. What kind of feeling do you get when you look at the portrait of Lady Leicester?”
Amelia cocked her head to the side and considered the painting. “Not a happy one, exactly, but something like it. Perhaps it’s more like the feeling I get right before I fall asleep.”
“Yes, I know just what you mean. My, you’re clever. It feels peaceful, doesn’t it? The way the light shines on the white part of her dress makes me feel as if I would have sweet dreams once I did fall asleep. Do you think you can copy it?”
“I’m not sure, but I’d like to try.” Amelia made some tentative lines on her sketchpad while Eleanor watched over her shoulder, flushed with success. Oh, she didn’t expect a child to be able to sketch Lady Leicester with much accuracy, but an aspiring artist had to start somewhere. An interest in art was a good place to begin, and she could see by the intent look on Amelia’s face she was interested.
She leaned over Amelia’s shoulder and traced a line on the sketchpad with her finger. “Is this her hand, holding the branch?”
“Yes. Does it look right, do you think? Perhaps it needs to be a bit longer.” Amelia looked over her shoulder at Eleanor, then they both looked up at Lady Leicester.
Eleanor smiled. “It looks perfect.”
* * *
“Well, how do you and Lady Frost get on?” Julian abandoned his study of Lawrence’s Duke of York to sweep a critical eye over Cam. “I don’t see any gaping wounds, so she hasn’t resorted to the letter opener yet.”
Cam glanced toward Amelia and Lady Eleanor, drew in a long, deep breath, held it for a moment, and then let it out in a pained sigh. “No, but at this point I’d prefer a stabbing. At least it would be quick.”
Julian chuckled. “Means to kill you slowly, does she?”
“Slowly and tortuously, with ceaseless, inane chatter.”
“Oh, come now, it can’t be that bad.”
“Is that so? Why don’t you go find out for yourself? At one point I think my ears began to bleed.”
Julian didn’t look in the least sympathetic. “You know I’d love nothing more than to assist you, cousin, but the lady won’t speak to me. You saw the welcome she gave me when Amelia and I arrived. I almost mistook her for a piece of sculpture, she was so cold and stiff.”
“She has the wit of a piece of sculpture,” Cam muttered. “I thought she had a least a passable intelligence, but I was wrong.”
He hadn’t expected a great deal of wit from a spoiled ton belle, but he’d begun to wonder how Lady Eleanor managed to get her slippers on the correct feet.
“I can’t understand why she’s accounted so clever.” Julian glanced toward the other end of the hallway, where Lady Eleanor was bent over Amelia’s shoulder, watching her sketch. “She looks animated enough now.”
Cam gave an indifferent shrug. “She must be blathering on about Lady Leicester’s gown. She’s done nothing but babble incoherently about the paintings, but she did manage to go on at tedious length about the trim on some lady’s bonnet.”
He followed Julian’s gaze without interest and saw Lady Eleanor standing in front of Lady Leicester’s portrait with Amelia. He swept a disparaging eye over her, and as quickly dismissed her to return to his study of the Duke.
“Quite animated, in fact,” Julian said in a surprised tone.
“She’s only going on about—” Cam began, turning to glance at her again, but he fell silent, watching her. Something about her expression, the liveliness in her face, caught his attention.
Julian was right. She did look animated. Her cheeks were flushed, and even from this distance he could see her eyes were bright and alert. She leaned over Amelia’s shoulder to point to something on the page, then they both looked up at the painting of Lady Leicester. Cam couldn’t hear what she said, but he could see by the movement of her lips her words were rapid and earnest. Amelia nodded, as if in understanding.
Cam’s eyes narrowed to slits. It didn’t look as if they were talking about Lady Leicester’s gown. He abandoned his study of the Duke of York and started toward them. “They look as thick as two pickpockets. What the devil do you suppose they’re discussing?”
Julian didn’t move. “Lady Charlotte.”
Cam turned back to him impatiently. “Lady Charlotte? Why would Lady Eleanor discuss her sister with Amelia?”
Julian seemed to be rooted to the floor, but he jerked his chin toward the other end of the hall. “No. Lady Charlotte is here.”
Cam looked over his shoulder. By God, she was, and Lady Carlisle with her. “Come on, then.” He tugged on Julian in an attempt to break the hold the floor seemed to have on his cousin’s feet.
“Lady Charlotte,” Cam said with a polite bow as he joined them.
She ignored him entirely. At first he thought she intended to give him the cut direct, but then he realized she was so focused on Julian, who stood beside him, she hadn’t even noticed he was there.
“Lady Charlotte,” Julian murmured, a trifle hoarsely.
His tone and his bow were as polite as Cam’s, but Lady Charlotte must have heard the husky note in his voice, for she turned scarlet, her expression both defiant and mortified at once.
Lady Eleanor rushed forward and hastened to smooth over the moment. “Ah, this is my sister-in-law, Lady Carlisle. This,” she added, with a touch to Amelia’s shoulder, “is Miss Amelia West. I believe you know Mr. Julian West, Lady Carlisle. This gentleman is his cousin, Mr. Camden West.”
Lady Carlisle couldn’t help but notice Lady Eleanor’s cool tone when she introduced him, but she was far too well bred to reveal any surprise. “How do you do?” She curtsied to the gentlemen, then held out her hand to Amelia. “It’s a particular pleasure to meet such an enthusiastic young artist, Miss West.”
Amelia curtsied. “Thank you, Lady Carlisle. Lady Eleanor has been telling me all about Mr. L—”
“You must promise to show me your sketch next time we meet, Amelia,” Lady Eleanor interrupted, with an anxious glance at Cam. “Especially her gown.”
“Next time we meet?” Cam asked. “Are you leaving?”
She nodded. “I thought to save you the trouble of escorting me home. I’m already fatigued, and you’ve hardly had a look at the paintings yet. I’ll only slow you down, and my sisters are just leaving.”
Cam frowned. For a half-wit, she was quick to take advantage of an escape route. He couldn’t protest without appearing rude, however. “Very well. I’ll see you this afternoon at five, for our drive.”
Her mouth tightened, as if she’d tasted something sour. “Our drive. Of course. Lovely.” She gave Amelia one last smile, and then, before he could say another word, she walked away.
High-handed chit.
Cam turned to say as much to Julian, but closed his mouth without bothering when he saw his cousin gawking after Lady Charlotte, like a famished dog denied a juicy bit of meat.
Cam turned to Amelia with a sigh instead. “Well, minx, what did you think of Lady Eleanor?”
Amelia dimpled. “Oh, I like her very much. She’s clever, especially about art. She knows a lot about Mr. Lawrence’s paintings.”
Cam stared at his sister. Clever? Knows about paintings? Perhaps Amelia had misunderstood. “I—what? What does she know?”
“Oh, all kinds of things, but she mostly told me about Mr. Lawrence, and why he’s considered a Romantic.”
Julian, who’d snapped out of his trance, asked, “You mean she said he was a Romantic painter?”
Amelia nodded. “Yes, that’s it. She said it means he’s talented at expressing emotions in his paintings. He painted Queen Charlotte, you know. Lady Eleanor said if I want to learn I should copy the great paintings, like Mr. Lawrence did when he was a child, and—what’s so funny, Uncle Julian?”
Julian made a series of choking noises, but he couldn’t quite smother his glee. “Well, well, not so dim-witted after all, is she?”
Cam glared at the archway through which Lady Eleanor had disappeared moments before, and his hands curled into fists.
No. Not so dim-witted, after all.