Deadly Affair: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance) (6 page)

Those members of the aristocracy who considered themselves of the artistic demi-monde had turned out in their best silks and powder; the ladies in wide hooped petticoats moving side-ways through the crush of bodies, and the gentlemen in outrageously tall toupees powdered blue and threaded with ribbons. Most had not even bothered to venture into the next room to view the pictures. That chore was left to the critical eye of the newssheet hacks who were expected to provide a succinct review for their readership before the exhibition covering the four walls was formally opened to the public the following day.

Into this frothy soiree sauntered His Grace the Duke of Cleveley escorting the beautiful widow Mrs. Jamison-Lewis, her long fingers resting in the crook of the Duke’s satin sleeve and dressed in a low-cut, pearl seeded bodice that left little to the imagination. More than one strategically placed mouche quivered with surprise to see the Duke of Cleveley at such a function. It was difficult to imagine
the great man
having an interest in the patronage of new artistic talent. He was too much of the old school. Raphael, Titian and, at a stretch, Lely were more his style. Even more eyebrow raising was his choice of partner.

The whisper circulating many an elegant drawing room said the apricot-blonde widow had left the bed of a Parisian lover to fall immediately into the waiting arms of Cleveley. That Mrs. Jamison-Lewis and the Duke were exchanging witticisms at an art exhibition seemed to bear this out. It changed the entire focus of the evening. Where now was the interest in a collection of pictures by local artists of no reputation when there was gossip to report? Gossip made all the more tantalizing because it involved the Duke of Cleveley, chief architect of the country’s foreign policy. That he, a widower himself chose to have on his arm a woman in the last months of her mourning sent the reporters into a frenzy of scribbles, backs turned on the art world.

Talgarth Vesey, one of the painters of the moment, did not seem at all concerned by this scene stealing. Whereas several of his colleagues, who had spent the evening mingling with guests or answering questions about their work put to them by the journalists, were infuriated to be so easily abandoned because a politician had arrived with his latest whore, Talgarth Vesey was content to sit in a corner of the room, broodingly chewing the quick of a ragged fingernail. His gaze was on a canvas draped in black cloth and set on an easel. The cloth was the idea of his majordomo Nico. As his master’s finest work at the exhibition, Nico said the painting deserved to be unveiled with ceremony, when all the guests were assembled and hushed. It would set the work apart from that of the other painters. Talgarth wondered if the Duke of Cleveley would condescend to perform the unveiling. Now that would be a coup!

The painter did not immediately rise when approached by the exhibition’s most illustrious guest. A tall gentleman in somber frockcoat with no powder in his coal-black curls had diverted his attention. The stranger hovered on the edge of the pastel shaded crowd and stood so close to the works of art that it was obvious he needed spectacles. Talgarth decided there and then that he must paint this gentleman and was about to cross the room when he was stopped by a beloved voice before he had taken a step.

“The least you could do is appear as if you’re enjoying the evening,” Selina quipped. “It might get you one or two lucrative commissions.”

With a frown of preoccupation, the painter looked away from the dark haired gentleman. Seeing his sister, he jumped to his feet, smiling broadly and pulled her to him to kiss her cheek. “Lina! You came! I can’t wait for all this fuss to be over with, can you?”

Selina smiled reassuringly, pressed her brother’s hand, and made the necessary introductions; pleased Talgarth had the good sense to bow respectfully. But when he stared hard at the Duke she wanted to kick him for his lack of manners; the urge became a necessity when he addressed the Duke with one of his blunt questions.

“Where have we met, your Grace?” he enquired, his mind’s eye wondering how the Duke appeared without his magnificent powdered wig that served only to accentuate a prominent beaked nose.

The Duke took snuff and stared straight ahead. “We have never been introduced before today.”

“Are you sure? Venice? Florence? Bath, perhaps?”

“The Duchess frequently took the waters at Bath.”

“Not the Italian States. Bath,” Talgarth Vesey stated, adding without apology, “You see, I never forget a face. Do I, Lina?”

“Or perhaps it was somewhere close to Ellick Farm? It’s on the Duke’s estate, Tal. Remember?” Selina said with a smile at her brother’s continuing frown, a wary eye on the Duke who was not pleased at having questions put to him, least of all in so blunt a fashion. She drew the Duke’s arm around her own. “Come, let me show you what I consider Talgarth’s best work, your Grace,” and walked off with him, blowing her brother a kiss over her bare shoulder. “You must forgive Talgarth,” she said at her chatty best. “He is young and quite the eccentric for a Vesey. We are all rather staid creatures except for Talgarth. Cobham inherited the title but no imagination; I am useless at most things except I have a mathematical brain; Talgarth is a major artistic talent, although devoid of all the social graces. Needless to say Cobham has filled the ancestral pile with hideous works of art while Talgarth is forced to compromise his great talent by painting yappy little dogs and their hideous fat female owners. So, your Grace, I am relying on you to provide my little brother with the respectability he deserves,” and she directed the Duke’s attention to the nearest canvas.

It was Alec whom Talgarth Vesey had spotted in the crowd and whose likeness he decided he must paint. Alec had arrived behind the Duke. In the commotion that followed that nobleman’s entrance he was able to slip away to the second room to look at the pictures in relative peace. He had almost come full circle uninterrupted when he was rudely tapped on the shoulder.

A glass of champagne was pressed into his hand.

It was Lord George Stanton who recklessly flung out an arm toward the four walls covered with pictures from floor to ceiling. “What do you think of this lot by these new fellows?”

Alec pocketed his eyeglasses. “I like them. Less formal than Reynolds and Lely.” He motioned to the picture to his right. It was one of Talgarth Vesey’s works. “Take this picture here. The style is particularly refreshing. The expanse of sky, threatening a thunderstorm, and the sun, filtering muted light onto the valley floor below, is in direct contrast to the child’s innocence. She seems oblivious to the storm at her back; her future is all before her…”

Lord George gave him a nudge, eyes sweeping over Alec from toe to wavy black hair pulled into a long plait. He hadn’t heard a word. “The black velvet suits. So does the lack of powder. A magpie amongst peacocks,” he said and stifled a belch. “But don’t get me wrong. It won’t see you rise to ambassadorial rank. Father says you can’t have an ambassador who don’t look the part.”

Alec decided Lord George was drunk, very drunk. And by the way he was throwing back the champagne, had every intention of staying that way. And it explained why he was talking to Alec. Sober, he doubted Cleveley’s stepson would have come within ten feet of him. That had been proven at Weir’s dinner party.

“This hardly seems your sort of gathering, my lord,” Alec said conversationally, turning his back on the painting of the beautiful child.

Lord George pulled a face. “It ain’t.” He leaned closer. It didn’t stop him talking loudly. “Can’t stand any of ’em. Painters. Pah! Good-for-nothin’ bunch of bird-witted parasites. Take this Vesey character for instance. You tell me why the son of our most decorated General is eeking a living from paints when he could’ve made a respectable career following in his father’s footsteps. Mad. Has to be. No other explanation. Pictures and letters and such nonsense won’t see the kingdom rise to greatness. How can it? Who will care in a hundred years whether Mr. Reynolds or that fellow Gainsborough is the better painter? Who cares
now
?”

“But a far more palatable and enduring legacy of what our great nation is capable than say—a society built on the ill-gotten gains of slavery…?”

Alec said this with such a nice smile that Lord George didn’t know whether to be angered by his insolence or consider it a quip and laugh. He decided the latter and gave Alec a friendly push with his elbow.

“You’re not so bad, Halsey. Not so bad at all. Thought you a bit queer in the attic. What with that iffy business over your brother’s death, and keeping to yourself. Not one of the lads, if you know what I mean. But I was wrong. You’re quite a Trusty Trojan underneath.”

Alec gave him a wry smile. “Thank you, my lord. I’m much gratified by your reappraisal. I may now hold my head up in society knowing I have your approval.”

The heavy sarcasm by-passed Lord George. “That’s the spirit,” he slurred and loudly called out to a passing waiter to bring a bottle and be quick about it. “Do you like pictures? Not this pap; the Italian school and all that?”

Alec was saved a reply when Lady Cobham swept up and claimed Lord George, who showed little resistance at being dragged away and introduced to a group of giggling dilettantes lounging in front of a full-length portrait of an admiral with four faithful hounds at his boot heels. Relieved to be left alone, Alec took out his eyeglasses only to find himself confronted by a tall, slightly emaciated and lanky young gentleman with dark circles under his eyes who wore an overlarge flowered frockcoat and disheveled neckcloth. He was stared at from head to foot, the gaze lingering a little longer than was polite on his face. He sighed. Another drunkard…

“I must paint you,” the young man announced.

Alec moved off to look at a portrait of a little girl seated on a swing. She was no more than three or four years of age and at her bare feet was an overturned basket of strawberries. He was surprised to discover it was the same beautiful child as that in the thunderstorm picture. Talgarth followed him. With great reluctance Alec put away his spectacles. “Thank you for the offer—”

Talgarth Vesey shook his head. “No. No. It’s not an
offer
. I
must
paint you. I have an unfinished work, an allegory, which must be completed by Christmastime or I won’t receive the balance of my commission. You’re precisely the Apollo I’ve been looking for.” He stuck out his thin, white hand. “Talgarth Vesey.”

Alec’s self-conscious frown was instantly replaced with a white smile, realizing he was being accosted by Selina’s favorite brother. “Forgive me. I should’ve known. You have your sister’s eyes.”

They shook hands.

Talgarth Vesey grinned. “Not your fault. Mine. Put down my lack of manners to eagerness. It’s not every day I meet someone I want to paint. You will sit to me, won’t you?”

Despite a natural embarrassment at the calculated scrutiny of his person, Alec liked the painter’s straight-forwardness. “I’ve never—”

“You must come and see me tomorrow. I’ll do a few preliminary sketches. I’m staying with Lina.” When Alec looked puzzled he apologized. “We—the family—have always called her Lina. My sister Selina, Mrs. Jamison-Lewis.”

“Sorry to disoblige but I’m going out of town tomorrow afternoon; into Kent and then on to Bath,” Alec said without disappointment.

“Come in the morning then. Even better you’ll be in Bath. My studio’s in Milsom Street.” The painter smiled self-consciously. “I make a living from portraiture mainly: ambitious mammas with lovely daughters, and stout, little old ladies with ugly pooches.”

“I can’t promise I’ll sit to you, but I will look you up.”

Talgarth Vesey nodded, handed Alec a card engraved with his name and Bath studio direction and disappeared into the crowd to be accosted by an over-enthusiastic mamma with her tall daughter in tow.

Not a moment after the painter’s departure Alec found himself nudged in the ribs. Lord George had sidled up to him again.

“Looks right at home beside the Duke, don’t she?” he sneered. “Thinks she’s in with a chance now Mamma’s dead. Ha! Not if I have any say in the matter. Father can open her legs as wide as he pleases but as to marriage—
never
.”

Alec hid his complete surprise at such crude speech and followed the direction of Lord George’s sneer to where the Duke of Cleveley and Selina Jamison-Lewis stood talking with Talgarth Vesey and Lady Cobham. Alec’s gaze held on Selina. He had resisted the temptation to go to her since sliding into the room and disappearing behind a wall of silks and perfume. More than once he had glanced over at her and wished he had not. She was completely at ease with the Duke, and the way she occasionally touched his silk sleeve with a smile and he responded in kind indicated they were old friends. She looked for all the world as if she belonged at
the great man’s
side. Less than a month ago she had belonged to Alec.

“There is the small problem of the Viscountess’s husband,” Alec pointed out, finally tearing his gaze from the object of his love and desire to look up at a canvas, its subject an inconsequential blur of color and light.

“Not Caro, man!” Lord George said with a snort of laughter, thinking Alec’s mistake a great joke. He nudged Alec again (who wished he would stop doing that), and said with another snort, “The widow. I’m talking about the
widow
: Mrs. J-L.” He lowered his voice and breathed stale wine in Alec’s ear. “Rumor has it she’s opened her legs more times in the months since her husband’s death than in all her six years of marriage. But if she thinks lettin’ the Duke spread ’em wide will end in a proposal of marriage she’s got feathers in her pretty head.” He slurped at the wine in his glass saying as a drop dribbled down his fleshy chin, glazed eyes riveted to Selina’s narrow back, “That bitch’d be worth a dose of the pox.”

Before Alec could demand that Lord George step outside to repeat such outrageous slander he was ruthlessly pulled backwards into a windowless alcove and a glass of claret forced between his fingers.

“Sorry. Couldn’t allow you to strike him,” Sir Charles Weir said on a quick breath, a glance over his shoulder to ensure Lady Cobham had Lord George in hand. She was coaxing him into the next room. Satisfied, Sir Charles turned to Alec with a deprecating smile. “Don’t want to see an old friend end up in Green Park at dawn. Besides,” he said with a nervous laugh, “you’d have killed him.”