Jane and the Wandering Eye (19 page)

“But are we not to work in oils?”

“Lady Desdemona,” Mr. Lawrence said, with an impression of great forbearance, “it is not my custom to take a likeness so immediately as you would wish. I am far too besieged with work. I have come to you from no less a personage than the Princess of Wales, whose portrait is drying even now in her salon at Blackheath; I must wait upon a gentleman of my acquaintance in London tomorrow, among four or five others; and there remains an endless supply of infants whom, I fear, are not likely to grow any younger before their likenesses are taken. The ledger in which I record my commissions is so long, I confess, that I wonder if any person in England is
not
upon it! You have paid your half-commission; I have
taken the underdrawing; and in due course we shall hit upon a suitable occasion for further application.”

“Of course, Mr. Lawrence. I am deeply grateful.”

The painter cast his gaze upon me, and scowled. “Your opinion of the work, Miss Austen? For you certainly stand in judgement of it.”

“No, indeed!” I replied, tearing my eyes from the easel in some confusion. “I am simply all amazement at the rapidity and skill of its execution.”

“But is it
like?”
Lady Desdemona moved to study her image. “I confess I cannot tell.”

“Be assured, my dear,” I said fondly, “that it is yourself as you look in dreams—and as you will revel in appearing, long years hence, when the bloom of eighteen has quite deserted you.”

A look of grateful surprise, from Lawrence and the lady both, served as my reward.

“H
E IS QUITE WICKEDLY HANDSOME, IS HE NOT?”
L
ADY DESDEMONA
said in a half-whisper, when Mr. Lawrence’s assistant had folded the easel with care, and followed his master to the street below. “I nearly swoon at the thought of spending hours under his stare.”

“He is very well-looking, indeed, my lady,” I replied, “but who are his parents? His connexions? His station in life?”

“His father kept an inn at Devizes—the Bear, you must know it—”

“Ye-es,” I said doubtfully.

“—but was many years ago declared a bankrupt, and died not long thereafter. Lawrence maintains his mother and sisters, I believe. He lives in some style in Piccadilly, and keeps a studio adjacent.”

“I see. A man of some means, then.”

“I should say! He will charge my father full two hundred
guineas for my portrait alone—and he must turn out dozens each year!”

A faintness overcame me. So much money, for a mere likeness in oils! He might be the late Mr. Reynolds himself! “But can you hope to progress upon the project while resident in Bath? Surely Mr. Lawrence cannot mean to attend you here for each of the sittings?”

“No,” she admitted, her brow crinkling. “If I am ever to wrestle the piece from his grasp, I must do so in London. Perhaps after the New Year, when I am spoiling for amusement. Mr. Thomas Lawrence should do nicely for a heartless flirtation.”

I must have registered my dismay, for Lady Desdemona burst out laughing and took my hand between her own. “I have quite excited your anxiety, my dear Miss Austen, and to no very great purpose altogether. Be assured that I have no intention of making a fool of myself over Mr. Lawrence—though I could not blame any young lady who did. He is far too fond of ordering people about, for my taste; and I should not last a fortnight under such management.”

“No, indeed.”

“But even the most cautious sentiment cannot make him any less charming to look upon—nor less respectable in the Dowager’s drawing-room. He was present, you know, at my grandmother’s unfortunate rout.”

“The masquerade?”

“Yes. He came as Harlequin—though in a costume of red and black, unlike poor Mr. Portal. I believe he slipped away before the constables arrived.”

“I
did
espy Mr. Lawrence,” I said slowly, “now I come to consider of it—he was in conversation with my very dear friend, Madam Lefroy. Are you acquainted with the lady?”

“I have not had the pleasure. She is one of
Grandmère’s intimates, no doubt. Is she resident in Bath, like yourself?”

“In Hampshire, to my great misfortune. I can account the loss of Madam Lefroy’s society as one of the chief miseries of having quitted that part of the country.” I said this with feeling.

“And has she sat to Mr. Lawrence, then?”

“I cannot think it likely! She is not a lady of fashion—that is to say, she lacks a considerable estate, such as must be necessary for the meeting of that gentleman’s fees. But she cultivates all manner of artists and literary figures—or did, in the years before her marriage. Her brother is Mr. Egerton Brydges, the novelist.”

“The author of
Fitz-Albini?”

“The same—although I cannot think it the wisest piece he has ever done. It was intended as a cleverly-disguised portrait of his early trials and disappointments—though both the cleverness and the disguise were sadly lacking. He managed to abuse several of his dearest acquaintances, and outrage the remainder. I may declare it the only work of which his family is entirely ashamed.”
³

“I thought it to offer very little in the way of story,” Lady Desdemona observed, “and that, told in a strange, unconnected way.”

“Then let us not waste upon Mr. Brydges another thought. I mentioned him only as an exemplar of Madam’s connexions. She may, perhaps, be acquainted with Mr. Lawrence through her brother.”

Any reply Lady Desdemona might have made was forestalled by the drawing-room door’s being thrust open with considerable violence. The Earl of Swithin strode into the room, his fair brows knit and his blue eyes snapping.

“Lady Desdemona,” he declared, with a click of his heels. “You are well? No—never mind—do not trouble yourself to answer. I observe you are well enough. In such excellent spirits, in fact—despite the deprivation of your only brother—as to have been entertaining the despicable Mr. Lawrence.”

Lady Desdemona’s curtsey was as chill as her countenance. “Lord Swithin. I am all amazement to find you are thus come upon me unannounced. What possible business could bring you to Laura Place?”

“Convenience,” he retorted. “Had you spared a thought from your own concerns, Mona, you should have observed the carters and waggons opposite.”

She studied him with calculation, then crossed swiftly to a window whose prospect gave out on the square. The curtains twitched wide, and we were treated to a vision of her figure outlined against the glass. Then she wheeled to face the Earl.

“And so you have taken the lodgings opposite, for the express purpose of spying upon me?”

“No other house could be hired, for all the money in the kingdom; and I am not in a temper to suffer the abominable accommodations of the White Hart even a single day longer.”

“I cannot believe you are utterly without acquaintance in Bath, sir, that you must hire a palace for the
accommodation
of your needs! Surely some lady—Miss Maria Conyngham, perhaps?—should be willing to find you room.”

A smile flickered over the Earl’s set features, but there was little of benevolence in it. “Tit for tat, my dear. Miss Conyngham for Mr. Portal. Or should I say:—Mr. Lawrence?
You are exceedingly fine for so early in the morning.”

“I shall dress in any manner I please, and see whomever I choose, in Laura Place, my lord—though you
do
overlook my drawing-room. You will be gratified to learn that Colonel Easton has also called upon me this morning. He is recovering slowly from the effects of your pistols. I was happy to observe that though served with shocking brutality by yourself, the unfortunate Colonel remains the soul of gallantry.” She eyed Lord Swithin with a gleam of amusement. “Easton has also got rid of his whiskers somewhere, and looks remarkably well.”

The Earl dismissed the unfortunate Colonel with a wave of the hand. “Clean-shaven or no, it matters nothing. I know you too well, my dear Mona, to regard such a pitiful pup as a rival. But I would counsel you to beware of Mr. Thomas Lawrence. He is a charming rogue, I will allow, and not ill-favoured—but he has a taste for married women, and the ruin of young ladies not yet out. You will have heard of Lady Caroline Upton, I presume?”

“If you refer to Mrs. James Singleton—then yes, my lord, I have had the pleasure.”

“‘And when no more thy victim can endure/But raging, supplicates thy soul for cure/Then, act the timid unsuspecting maid/ And wonder at the mischief thou hast play’d,’”
Swithin declaimed. “That is from ‘The Cold Coquette.’ A chastening verse, is it not? Particularly for young ladies too fond of flirtation.”

“I am unacquainted with the poet, sir—but I must hope him better suited to his chosen profession, than he appears to be to verse.”

“Unacquainted with Mr. Lawrence? But he was dancing attendance upon you only a few moments ago! That is your painter’s doggerel, my lady, intended as a rebuke
to Lady Caroline Upton—who refused his presumption in seeking to elope with her some two years past.”
⁴

“That must be the grossest falsehood!” Lady Desdemona cried, her countenance reddening.

“Forgive me—but it is not. I had it on authority from Templetown himself—the young lady’s brother—while he was decidedly in wine. I see that Lawrence has quite recovered from the affair; and from the daughter of an earl, has progressed to the daughter of a duke.”

“He merely takes my likeness for a portrait, Lord Swithin, at His Grace’s commission. It is, after all, Mr. Lawrence’s path in life.”

The Earl laughed harshly and threw himself into a chair near the fire. “Would that he followed his path with greater fidelity. But instead Mr. Lawrence has chosen to play the man of fashion—adopted all manner of intrigue and display—and is sadly embarrassed for funds. He must very soon contract an advantageous marriage, Mona, if he is to survive. Old Coutts—his banker in Town—has pled his case these three years at least, to little purpose. The man’s creditors are at his throat. He will presume upon the acquaintance, do you allow him.”

“I believe, Lord Swithin, that it is
you
who presume upon acquaintance,” Lady Desdemona replied evenly. Two spots of colour burned in her cheeks, and her eyes were dark with rage. “It is a presumption familiar now these many months; but hardly one I wish to prolong.”

I reached for my reticule hastily. “I have trespassed already upon your kindness, Lady Desdemona. I hope—”

“—that Lord Swithin’s unexpected arrival will not deter me from our plans of walking out?” she hurriedly
supplied. “Not at all, Miss Austen. I shall attend you directly. Only stay for the exchange of my gown, and we shall pursue our scheme as planned. My apologies, Lord Swithin, but it is quite beyond my power to—”

“Don’t be such a fool, Mona,” the gentleman replied wearily. “We have a great deal to discuss. I have been to your brother’s inquest.”

Lady Desdemona sat down abruptly upon a settee, the wind quite gone from her sails. Though propriety instructed I should take myself off, I lingered for Lord Swithin’s intelligence.

“Why is not my uncle come?” Lady Desdemona said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I have been expecting him this half-hour. Well, Swithin? What was the verdict?”

“The jury returned a charge of wilful murder against Lord Kinsfell. He is to be conveyed to Ilchester in a few days’ time.”

She uttered a cry, and covered her face with her hands; and silently abusing the Earl for an oaf and a fool, I hastened to her side.

“The jury could hardly do else,” Lord Swithin added brutally. “Death by misadventure—or wilful murder by persons unknown—just aren’t in it. But nothing more shall happen to Kinny until the Assizes, my dear—and they cannot sit until the middle of January at the earliest. That gives your brother several weeks.”

Unbidden, the portrait of a smouldering grey eye revolved in memory. “Was any new evidence presented, my lord?” I enquired.

His cold blue gaze rested pensively upon me. “I cannot undertake to say, having been absent from the rout myself, and thus ignorant of what passed that evening. Lord Kinsfell was called, and questioned about his discovery of the body; and then a Dr. Gibbs, a physician in Milsom Street, who attended the deceased; two of Her Grace’s guests, who seized poor Kinsfell as he attempted
to revive Mr. Portal—and one of the chairmen, dragged in off the street by your uncle, Mona, and quite put out at the interruption of his commerce.”

“A chairman!” Her head came up, and surprise warred with hope upon her countenance. “Whatever can Uncle have been thinking?”

The Earl shrugged with exquisite grace. “He thought to show that a murderer
might
have dropped from the Dowager’s window to an open carriage—which was then driven out of Bath. The chairman professed to have seen a like equipage in Laura Place that night—but could not swear to the time, nor vow that a man had entered it by any other means than the carriage door; could tell us nothing of the occupants, and was indeed of so little credit in his appearance and expressions, that he rather weakened Lord Kinsfell’s case than improved it. I am afraid the intelligence was all but dismissed.”

“Poor Kinny,” Lady Desdemona murmured. “And had he nothing to add in his own defence?”

“The coroner
did
enquire rather narrowly regarding the nature of his dispute with Mr. Portal,” the Earl said, his regard fixed steadily on Lady Desdemona, “and could get nothing from him but a disquisition on his sacred honour.”

“Kinny?
Honour?”
Lady Desdemona started from her place and began to turn before the fire, in a manner so like her uncle, Lord Harold, that I half-expected to hear that gentleman’s voice. “Then there must be a lady in the case.”

Swithin smiled; but the expression was quite devoid of good humour. “The lady would not, perhaps,
be yourself
, my dear?”

Lady Desdemona’s head came up magnificently, and she stared him down in turn. “You are despicable, Swithin. Do you think that if I might aid my brother with
any intelligence in my power, that I should hesitate to do so? Your ill nature cannot do you credit. It leads you into folly.”